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http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/localnews/2002244620_candance18m.html

Indian Spirit Dance ritual sparks uproar

By Doug Struck
The Washington Post

BRENTWOOD BAY, B.C. — Marianne Edwards had received her song from the other
world, and now, up on Mount Newton, she stripped and backed into the black,
frigid pond to purify her body and cleanse the human odors that would
offend the spirits.

If the spirits were pleased, they would accept her as a Spirit Dancer,
which Edwards believed could ease her torment from arthritis and kidney and
liver problems, according to her family. She had heard the stories of
miraculous cures brought about by the ancient native ritual and begged to
become a dancer.

Once, twice, three times she immersed herself, witnesses recounted. The
razor chill of the February air cut at her skin. Fir trees soared above
her. She stepped heavily from the water onto a carpet of spongy green moss.
It muffled the sounds of the forest and cushioned her fall as she collapsed
to the ground.

Initiation

Edwards, 36, was not the first to die during initiation to the Indian
Spirit Dance on Vancouver Island. Nor was she the last. Her death in
February 2004 was followed by that of Clifford Sam, 18, who died in a
ceremonial longhouse just after Christmas while fasting during the
once-banned Spirit Dance rites.

The uproar over their deaths has worried some native elders. In the public
outcry from beyond their reservations, they hear an echo of the past, when
the secretive Spirit Dance was outlawed in a prolonged wave of anti-Indian
hysteria from 1884 to 1951.

"Every time the white man shows up, we lose something more," said an aunt
of Edwards', who like many people interviewed here spoke on condition of
not being named. "We keep this secret because we are afraid of losing
everything we have."

Outside critics — and even some within the Indian tribes, called "First
Nations" in Canada — are asking whether the closed ceremony fits the modern
age. It often begins with a kidnapping, followed by days of forced fasting
and other rigors designed to produce a trance, such as the ritual
wintertime purification that preceded Edwards's collapse.

"We have to adapt. We have to make changes to accommodate the modern
society in which we live when there are chances that there will be tragic
accidents," said Doug Kelly, one of the chiefs of the 54 bands of Coast
Salish Indians who practice the Spirit Dance.

Historical friction

The Royal Canadian Mounted Police say no crime was committed and both
deaths resulted from health complications. But the controversy has been
stoked by historical frictions and by what many First Nations people see as
a legacy of mistreatment that shuffled them onto reservations where they
are disproportionately poor and unemployed.

To them, a major symbol of discrimination was the Indian Act of 1884. The
law banned the Spirit Dance and the traditional "potlatch" gatherings where
it was practiced.

The Canadian ban was dropped in 1951, and the Spirit Dance has since surged
in popularity among the Coast Salish here and along the western fringes of
the Canadian mainland.

Supporters see the dance as a way to continue their traditions and
increasingly as a remedy for the modern evils of alcoholism, drug abuse and
poor health that have seized so many natives. But the deaths, Kelly
concedes, have created "a backlash of fear among people who wonder 'what
the hell those damned Indians are up to.' "

Witnesses

Participants are reluctant to discuss the ritual.

"You are prying. You are unwelcome here," said Wayne Morris, the chief of
the Tsartlip band, with whom Edwards came to dance.

But a few nonnative experts have been invited to witness the practice. One
was anthropologist Pamela Amoss, who described the practice in her 1978
book, "Coast Salish Spirit Dancing."

A potential dancer seeks a trance state, Amoss wrote, to receive a vision
from the supernatural. The dancer translates that vision into a chantlike
song and dance, accompanied by the tong-tong beat of native drums. The song
represents a virtue or power bestowed by the spirits that will help the
dancer through life.

"Everyone is born with at least one gift," Kelly said. "Your only job in
life is to learn about it, take care of it and practice it for the benefit
of others."

Some people seek that spiritual turning point voluntarily, but others are
forced into it. They are grabbed by men with black-painted faces and
carried to the longhouse at the behest of other dancers or family members
who feel the person needs reform.

Anger problem

Dave "Rocky" Thomas was one of the involuntary initiates. A laconic
part-time logger and admitted drinker, he emerged from a shower in February
1988 and found a group of men waiting for him. His girlfriend, Kim Johnny,
had arranged to have Thomas taken to the longhouse.

"Rocky had such an anger problem. ... I thought if Rocky could get rid of
what's inside him, we would be OK," Johnny, now Thomas' wife, said in their
apartment in the town of Duncan. "It was the biggest mistake of my life."

Thomas was carried to a waiting van and taken to the Cowichan longhouse, a
wooden building where 4-foot logs burned on constant fires, venting smoke
from a hole in the roof. There, he was placed inside a tent for four days
without food and with little water. He was doused with cold water and
restricted to talking to a helper.

If he struggled, he said, he was threatened with a kwitsman, a 4-foot pole
fastened with dried deer hooves made red hot in the fire.

Each morning and evening, eight men surrounded him and repeatedly lifted
him horizontally to their shoulders, digging their fingers and teeth into
his sides and abdomen, he said. The biting practice varies from one
longhouse to another. Some so-called "helpers" blow on an initiate to
transmit some of their spirit to his. Others try to cause pain, believing
that will hasten the spiritual experience. "They want you to scream,"
Thomas said.

He had an ulcer, and the dehydration took its toll. He passed blood,
vomited and then convinced his helpers to take him to the hospital. There,
he pleaded with the doctors not to send him back to the longhouse.

Once freed, he brought suit for assault and false imprisonment against
those involved. His wife testified for the defense, but the British
Columbia Supreme Court ruled in his favor in 1992 and ordered seven
defendants to pay him $12,000.

"It's never been the law of this province that any person had a right to
subject another person to assault, whether or not it is done under the
umbrella of some tradition of longstanding or an aboriginal right," Justice
Sherman Hood wrote.

Thomas, now 49, never got the money. For his breach of tribal loyalty, he
said, he was beaten, threatened and shunned by those in his band. He and
Johnny moved away for years and returned only recently to be closer to
their families.

"There are still people out there who hate me," Thomas said. Still, he
believes his challenge to the Spirit Dance abductions was right.

"It has to be changed," Johnny said. "People are dying."

Delicate spot

Cases like Thomas' have put Canadian authorities, who are wary of treading
on a minority's ancient traditions, in a delicate position.

The police have drawn up a form letter that natives can sign, stating they
do not wish to be abducted for the Spirit Dance ceremony, according to Cpl.
Nedge Drgastin. She said "a handful" of natives sign each winter at her
post in Sidney, which is near several reservations.

On the reservations, some natives acknowledge that the rites should be
under stricter medical watch.

"It's too bad about the deaths," Simon Charlie, 85, a renowned carver, said
in his shop near Duncan, cluttered with tools and paintbrushes, eagle
feathers and blocks of wood from which fearsome faces emerge for ceremonial
masks.

He remembered the Spirit Dance fondly from his early days, but he worries
that his tribesmen now are too unhealthy to stand it.

"They really should talk to a person's doctor before they do it."

Native News North
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