And now:Ish <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> writes:
Date: Tue, 21 Sep 1999 19:50:37 -0400
From: Lynne Moss-Sharman <[EMAIL PROTECTED]>
Subject: Canada 9/21/99
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The B.C. land-claims talks are heading for a crackup
GORDON GIBSON Globe and Mail
Tuesday, September 21, 1999
VANCOUVER -- This is a report card on the emerging crisis
in aboriginal affairs in British Columbia. The summary: Parties at the
treaty table get a "D," and the Supreme Court of Canada
gets an "F." For the government version, tune in to Pocahontas on the
Disney Channel. The wheels are falling off the band-by-band set of treaty
negotiations begun in 1993. The idea was to reconcile
the past, resolve native land claims and bring legal certainty to B.C.'s
resource base. All was proceeding well until, in December of 1997, the
Supreme Court brought down its now-famous Delgamuukw decision. The judgment
was a breathtakingly irresponsible piece of invented law and amateur social
engineering. The court found for the first time in
130 years of jurisprudence that aboriginal title exists, but it declined
to say how much, or where. This is a wee bit important, given that 104% of
the province is under
overlapping land claims.
The court said compensation is owed for past infringement of title, but
declined to say how or where to calculate this. This question too is of
mild interest, since all of downtown Vancouver has doubtless been used by
aboriginals from time immemorial. Then, without even deciding who owned the
land at issue in Delgamuukw, the court sent the case back for retrial. The
judges airily observed (as they moved on to wreak destruction in other
fragile parts of the
CANADIAN CHINA SHOP?????)that while the judgment raised "difficult economic
considerations," these "obviously cannot be solved here." Just caused here.
It was immediately obvious that this ruling
would seriously destabilize B.C. treaty negotiations.
When you go into a bargaining session and hand a sledgehammer to the people
on one side, their behaviour is predictable. They will stare at the thing,
check the heft, and then start to use it on the other side. Which leads us
to the news stories of today. The public has a small inkling of what is in
store in the continuing unauthorized (I will not call it illegal, because
no one knows) cutting of trees by
the Westbank band in south-central B.C. Other bands have said they will
follow. A new blockade was announced yesterday.Victoria has no idea how to
respond to dozens of such actions all over the
province. A native security force is on standby, suggesting a veiled threat
of violence if the government clamps down. Third-party commercial
operations are being pressured. A coalition of bands in the Okanagan region
is calling for an international boycott of B.C. lumber taken unjustly from
aboriginal lands. If you thought the environmentalists had clout with the
Home Depots of the world, watch this one.
Why these actions now? Behind the scenes, bargaining is at an impasse. The
native side of the table wants to talk, reasonably enough, about its new
Delgamuukw rights: title and compensation. Ottawa and the provinces
adamantly refuse to discuss either. We will
talk only about the future, they say; this may include land and cash for
treaties, but tying it to the past is too complicated. Those are fine
words, but the governments know and the natives know that we're
talking about big money. Before the Nisga'a treaty settlement, the rule of
thumb (always denied by governments) for the cost of settlement was $70,000
per B.C. status Indian, or a total of about
$10-billion. Based on Nisga'a, that went to $15-billion. Now go to the full
Delgamuukw and we are talking $30-billion to $50-billion, and conceivably
more.
Add two other elements to this: a concern by the natives for their mounting
legal costs (though a cynic would be sure that the
taxpayer will end up looking after these) and a demand for "interim
measures," to stop the Crown from stripping land of timber and other
resources while negotiations over that land proceed. Since those measures
would shut down the province, the natives' saw-off demand is an interim
transfer of some land and some cash. Governments naturally see this
concession as lessening the pressure to settle, and
resist. Meanwhile, the log trucks roar down the highway and the natives get
angrier at the taking of what they consider
their trees. So the wheels are falling off. The B.C. government is
paralyzed by leadership questions. The federal government has
never cared much about B.C. except as a lucrative source of taxes; those
trees aren't being cut in downtown Ottawa, after all.
And in the band-by-band negotiations, the Indian side of the table often
lacks a clear mandate. However, there is no uncertainty at the
"summit" level -- the name given to the umbrella native bargaining group. A
July statement reiterated the chiefs' intention to
"re-establish our communities, our economies and our laws [emphasis added]
on our Aboriginal title lands." Occupations and other actions to assert
title will continue and expand.
There are no easy solutions, or even moderately difficult ones, because
expectations are so far apart. Governments are trapped politically by their
deceit in concealing the true gravity of the situation from the public, and
are terrified of the reaction once the truth becomes known. But an honest
admission of the problem
would be the best new start.
E-mail: [EMAIL PROTECTED]
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Soldiers of the salmon wars
They've been called criminals, terrorists and thugs,
but these native warriors go by names such
as Dogfish, Zig Zag, Keeway and Beans. They're young,
hip and ready to fight.
RICK COLLINS
Special to The Globe and Mail
Saturday, September 18, 1999
The Cheam Reserve, B.C. -- After hours of anxious waiting, the call to arms
comes from an expected place. A handheld radio sparks a warning cry. An air
horn brings everyone to their feet, breaking the silence of a sunny Friday
morning on the beach. "There!" a man screams, pointing west. Then all hell
breaks loose. Men and women scramble out of tents and trucks and from
tables set for lunch and fly down the steep sand toward the boats. Jackets
are buttoned, equipment checked. Masks are in place. Radios crackle as the
water fills with the noise and smoke of screaming engines. Children run.
Babies cry. The wait is over, the "enemy" is finally here.
This reserve on the banks of the Fraser River, 100 kilometres east of
Vancouver, is the home of the Cheam -- native Indians who've been coming to
this tiny spit of sand for more than 5,000 years. For centuries, the
children have cooled themselves here while the men, women and older boys
ply the shallow eddies on both sides of the
river for salmon, which made up 85% of their diet.
And even though Fisheries and Oceans Canada has closed the river to fishing
(commercial, recreational or native) this summer because of conservation
concerns for spawning fish returning from the Pacific
Ocean, the Cheam band members do what they have always done -- fish. They
have fished illegally seven weekends in a row. On this weekday in early
September, fishermen have placed nets offshore, others
driftnet the middle from small aluminium boats in an illegal 24-hour
fishery that will end at noon. Sto:lo Nation, the governing body of 19
native bands in the eastern Fraser Valley, is respecting the conservation
ban. Eighteen bands are not fishing. But the Cheam,
known for aggressive behaviour on the water (last winter, they mined gravel
off the sandbars dotting the river despite a ban), have taken the law into
their own hands. "We feel there are enough fish out here for natives and
the conservation of the stocks," says Cheam Chief June Quipp. "If they
really wanted to conserve the stocks, they would stop the commercial
[fishery] until the stock is back up."
But Fisheries officials, using data compiled from a series of test
fisheries and counts, say there is a "serious and significant
reduction in salmon stocks." "We recognize their rights to the food and
ceremonial fishery, but conservation must take priority," says Athana
Mentzelopoulos, a Fisheries spokesperson in Vancouver. "Those fish must get
through. We will do everything in our power to stop
them if they are fishing." Fisheries officers have the power to seize nets,
boats, vehicles and fish caught illegally. They issue court-appearance
notices as well as make arrests. While most
people caught on the river say they don't know about the ban and are easily
ticketed or warned, the Cheam openly defy the law, making seizure a
difficult and dangerous game. In 1985, a Fisheries officer had his arm
broken by a Cheam fishermen while enforcing a ban. At that time, while
government officials sat down to talks with
leaders of the band on a sandbar near the Agassiz-Rosedale Bridge, Cheam
fishermen openly fought Fisheries officers. The two sides stood in their
boats swinging oars at each other.
To avoid confrontation and possible bloodshed on the river,????? Fisheries
has adopted tactics that include drifting down the river under darkness
using stealth equipment to find unattended nets. These men and women are
trained at the RCMP academy in Regina, and go through the same program as
police. They wear bullet-proof flak jackets, carry tear-gas canisters and
semi-automatic handguns. They act as high-tech private investigators for
the government, using a variety of surveillance techniques to collect
evidence from afar on boats, planes, helicopters and on land.
The Cheam have responded by staying awake at their nets for the duration of
the ban. This summer, however, they have a new plan. The band has decided
to beef up its protection of the nets with a security force drawn from the
Native Youth Movement. Ranging in age from 14 to 29, they have come from
all corners of British Columbia,
and as far away as Alberta. Dressed in camouflage, they talk the talk of a
seasoned military force. They are well equipped with radios, night-vision
goggles, maps, flashlights, air horns, whistles and hand-drawn plans. They
are armed with police-issue batons,
handcuffs and army knives. Firearms, they say, are not permitted. "Guns?
They're not our style," says one member through a
handkerchief pulled up over his face. Their heroes have names such as Crazy
Horse and Leonard Peltier. And they trade stories of their people's
struggles at Wounded Knee, Ipperwash and Oka. They've been called
criminals, terrorists and thugs, but these ideological warriors go by names
such as Dogfish, Zig Zag, G. I., Keeway and Beans. They wear black Nike and
Adidas shoes, chew bubble gum and
listen to top-40 hip hop between pulls on the ubiquitous cigarettes.
Mercenaries, and proud of it, they are educated (most are still in school),
highly trained (in a variety of military techniques)
aboriginals who see themselves as freedom fighters for their people.
"This is not a weekend hobby," says G. I., a girl in her 20s with flashing
brown eyes peeking out from behind a mask. "It's not
like a light turning on, it's what's in your heart." To the children in
small native bands such as the Cheam, the security force is a bright light.
In a world where disaffected youths grapple with alcohol and drug abuse,
crime and one of the highest suicide rates in the world, these men and
women are seen as a symbol of empowerment. To others in Western Canada, the
Native Youth Movement is an escalating threat. It was founded in 1990 in
Winnipeg in
response to the high percentage of native youths involved in gang violence.
A B.C.chapter was formed in Vancouver's Eastside in 1996. Soon after, NYM
began speaking out against the lengthy treaty
process. In April of 1997, NYM members occupied the B.C. Treaty Commission
offices in Vancouver for 40 hours. In 1998, the NYM said it was the
"official opposition" to the B.C. Treaty process,
then occupied the commission offices again, this time for five days.
Fourteen were arrested, but charges were later dropped.
Months later, the NYM occupied a Westbank band office for two days near
Kelowna, B.C. Twenty-one members were arrested, but again charges were
dropped. Twenty members of the security force are
on hand for today's Cheam fishery. Most have been here on successive
weekends all summer. Although they acknowledge that their military-style
dress is intimidating, they say their role is defensive only.
"We have been invited here to show a political and physical presence," says
a tall, square-faced warrior named Shrubs,wearing green and black
facepaint. But these are action men, ready to show force and protect the
fishermen from what is routinely referred to as "the enemy."
They have a simple plan. They will set up watch posts at all
perimeters of the fishery, answering to a single command for 24 hours
straight. The plan calls for the native security force to
intercept, interfere and physically come between any Fisheries officers,
the nets and the fishermen."We will match them [Fisheries officers] pound
for pound," Shrubs says. "The DFO have been intimidating our people here
for years, and it's about time somebody fought back." When pressed as to
what that means, they reply: "By any means necessary."
The roar of a train crashes through the silent darkness at 5 a.m. Friday.
Tracks butt up against the southern shore of the Fraser River, cutting into
the heart of Cheam territory. The Cheam have been fishing for 17 hours now.
Hundreds of pounds of pink and sockeye salmon have been cleaned, iced and
hauled away. Seven hours to go. The quiet of the river valley is again
interrupted, this time by the scream of a great blue heron taking flight
after his own
feed of salmon. Children sleep. Most of the Cheam expect Fisheries to hit
in darkness. On into the late morning, close to the
self-imposed noon deadline, the waiting continues. Still no sign of the
"enemy." Then three specks of white foam are spotted to
the west on the river. "There!" Three of the five native boats head east
toward the unguarded nets. The remaining two, loaded with warriors, driven
by fishermen, head toward the Fisheries boats
at full speed. What follows is a desperate game of chicken.
"Repeat, we have confirmed three," drifts over the radio as the boats rise
up, then crash down against the fast approaching water.
Identifying them as "the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria," the radios fall
silent just as they look like they'll collide. Veering
sharply, the Fisheries boats, carrying a total of 12 men, head toward the
beach and an unattended net. One officer jumps into the
water, grabs the net with one hand and cuts its line with a knife.
Just then, a fisherman who ran the 300-metre length of the beach launches
himself into the air, knocks over the officer and lands on the net. He rips
the rope from the officer's hand, telling him to "get the hell off my land."
The officer turns and jumps back into his boat. Other officers, hands on
their sidearms with safety straps still over their
holsters, scream back at the fishermen. "You are obstructing a Fisheries
officer. Do you understand? You are obstructing a
Fisheries officer." Fishermen in the boats and on shore throw
a steady stream of obscenities. Fisheries officers respond with warnings
and threats of arrest. The warriors keep a close eye on
everything but say relatively nothing, beyond telling everyone to calm
down, using slow, steady hand gestures. Both sides are filming with
cameras: on one side, evidence for the prosecution; on the
other, for the defence. The Fisheries boats move east toward
other nets. Another high-speed chase ensues. This time, there are three
Fisheries boats and only one native boat that can keep up. But the game is
the same. Intimidation and power.
The boats veer in and out while travelling at speeds of as much as 90
kilometres an hour, each threatening to cut the other off
but always pulling back at the last second. Again, the officers try to grab
a net, but a warrior is there first with one hand on it and
the other on his baton still in its holster on his back. The Cheam
fishermen continue their verbal assault behind the protection of the
warriors as the boats jockey for position. The officers have come up empty
again and, after collecting more videotaped evidence, race west, back
toward the original net.The fastest native boat follows and pulls
alongside, then quickly drops back with an engine problem. The Fisheries
boats move in on the net at the beach, surrounding a
fisherman protecting it with his boat. A warrior in the boat holds onto the
net. Again, there is bumping, swearing and chest-pounding machismo. The
fisherman reaches for his paddle, the Fisheries officers place their hands
on their weapons. "What are you going to do?" the fisherman yells. "Kill me?"
There is no answer, only stares. The Fisheries boats have collected enough
evidence. They have confiscated one net and a few fish. Later, when asked
what the security force would do if a Fisheries
officer drew his firearm, Shrubs says: "We would have to disarm him now,
wouldn't we?"
Epilogue: Many of the incidents on the river this summer are still under
investigation. A 52-year-old native fisherman was charged last week with
uttering a death threat after Fisheries officers tried to seize fish and a
net from the man's wife, son and sister. Most members of the Native Youth
Movement have headed east into the
Okanagan area to help the Westbank band, which is asserting aboriginal
rights to log on Crown lands without government
approval.
Rick Collins is a writer and
photographer in Chilliwack, B.C.
