Ben Pratt is squeezing a dirty old baseball cap between his beefy fingers. We are seated in a small room in the sparkling new administrative building on the Gordon Indian Reserve in Punnichy, Sask., about 150 kilometres north of Regina. Our interview has been intense, but so far without incident. …
“Beginning when he was seven, Pratt was repeatedly raped by William Starr, a layperson who worked as the director of the student residence and was eventually made the administrator of the Anglican-run school. Starr was convicted in 1993 on criminal charges of sexually assaulting 10 boys between the ages of seven and 14, in incidents that took place from 1968 to 1984. Pratt later won a civil suit for the horrible abuse he suffered.
“… Memories of the abuse he suffered and the time he spent in prison bring Pratt to the edge of fury. ‘If the federal government was an individual and you were that person, I’d kill you right now. Honest to God I would. I’d kill you.’ These words make me suddenly and acutely aware of exactly how small the room is, and how slight the possibility that I would escape unharmed should this burly ex-boxer choose to wring my neck like he’s wringing out his ball cap. I rise and slowly open the door. The banter from the hallway is reassuring for me and has a calming effect on Pratt.
“By the time I return to my chair, Pratt’s eyes are downcast again. He seems embarrassed by his outburst. But before long he is speaking again, quietly telling me that as a student at residential school, he was known by a number rather than his Christian or surname. ‘I wasn’t called Ben or even Pratt. I was “38.” I’ll never forget that number.'”
Until that story, written by freelance journalist David Napier, was published in the Anglican Journal 15 years ago, few Canadians had any idea of the tragic events that took place in the Indian Residential Schools. And although I’ve read it many times, I still choke at the thought that someone about my age grew up in this country reduced to a number.
In 1999, I was editor of the Journal. The issue of residential schools was coming to the fore through lawsuits alleging terrible abuse being filed against the federal government and the churches. That summer, when I asked Mr. Napier to travel across the country over the coming months to record stories of what happened, neither he nor I had any real idea what he would find.
The stories he collected were published in May, 2000, in a 16-page special section, illustrated by archival photographs. They were heartrending.
Today, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission recently concluded its work. And, like the 1996 Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, which made some 440 recommendations, the TRC has 94 of its own.
So now what? In fact, so what? I’m not sure that many Canadians even feel guilty enough to wallow in it, not that wallowing does any good. Some degree of shame, however, is needed.
Until we feel enough shame to make us feel vulnerable, I’m not sure we can move ahead. But moving ahead is where we need to aim. We need to come to our aboriginal brothers and sisters with the same vulnerability we come before God: asking forgiveness and then asking what we can do now.
Much healing is still required.
