Article published Aug 24, 2002
Special Report
Telegraph Journal, NB

A nation divided 
Despite outward signs of peace, Burnt Church 
still facing internal turmoil

In a community defined so often by rage, the small white coffin projects
nothing but sorrow.

Scattered in a solemn tableau outside the century-old Catholic church,
dozens of residents have come to bury a three-month-old child.

Adversity lives here. It was here nearly 250 years ago with the flames
of English invaders, who torched the original Jesuit parish that once stood just a few hundred
metres away. Shaped by decades-old stereotypes, it fed the fury behind masked faces. It
portrayed to the country this inglorious patch of New Brunswick coast as some fortress of an imposing
foe. It dogs those who wield power here and those who strain against them.

It hovers over a dead child, like so many questions. And it blows off
the waters of Miramichi Bay, breezing through the open doors that seem to swing from every scarred
house in this stifling summer heat.

A sweet-grass solace wafts through the spare, morning-lit church as Fr.
John Grattan offers his own attempt at comfort in the face of senseless death.

"We know," he assures those lining the wooden pews, "that Cameron is an angel now."

The words appear barely to sustain a short, cross-led procession from
St. Ann's Parish to the modest cemetery just across the road. There, silent grief swells into
heaving sobs as the baby is lowered into the ground.

This is Esgenoopetitj, "the people who are looking out for those who are
coming" and the notorious home to conflict - both inside and out. Burnt Church. Amid signs of
peace, a bigger battle is still rumbling here.

At 73, Harry Narvey is among the oldest people living on the Burnt
Church reserve. According to 2001 census data, only 25 of its 1,002 residents are between the ages of
65 and 74. Just 10 are between the ages of 75 and 84, and none are older than 85.

But if age brings wisdom, it doesn't guarantee influence. And as native
lobster fishermen take to the water this fall under a new deal with the federal government, Harry can
only watch his divided community and wonder.

"It breaks your heart," he says. "They're not hurting the older people.
They're hurting the people growing up."

Describing what he calls widespread discontent here, he says the
conflict over a federal fisheries agreement is only a symptom of what Burnt Church has become.

"You wanna talk to an old . . like me?" he laughs. Harry's paused below
the shoreline dunes where he's digging clams - well on his way, he says, to a $50 haul on the day.
"Most just like me to talk about old times, what I know about old times.

"I tell you, three-quarters of the people you ask will always tell you
they didn't come in here for the politics or to change anything. They came for the almighty buck," Harry
says. "They came in here and knew these damn treaty rights and all this bull were going to be signed
away. They knew that long before we did.

"It wasn't because they were going to boost the reserve up - no God damn
way. It was (about) whatever they're going to get. And who's going to get it? Not me. If you
were living here, not you. They are.

"But this is my home. Where would I go? I've got no other place to go."

Roger Augustine admits it's difficult to stay focused on the small
reserve situated 25 minutes east of Miramichi, knowing how critical the situation is in so many other parts
of the country. The former Eel Ground First Nation chief believes, after all, there's still a
productive community structure here - strong community leaders who are trying to make life better.

"Burnt Church is not the worst," says Mr. Augustine, who with retired
justice Guy Richard was appointed by the federal government to examine an exhaustive range of
issues confronting the reserve.

Burnt Church may not be the worst. But he warns it would be a grave
mistake to consider the band's recent multimillion-dollar fisheries truce with Ottawa anything more
than one step in an arduous journey of renewal.

"I think too many times the government has moved in with piecemeal
operations in the community," he says.
"Anyone who thinks DFO (Department of Fisheries and Oceans) monies could
be the answer for Burnt Church or any First Nations is certainly living a false dream.

"I fail to see how this money is going to be able to stabilize a whole
community when it's only a small portion of what all communities need and want at this time."

What Mr. Augustine and Mr. Richard discovered in Burnt Church was a
people with nothing to lose.

They found the stark realities of life are fuelled, in large part, by
idleness and despair. A dearth of self-respect sees too many seek an escape in substance abuse. Conditions
on the reserve, according to their report released earlier this year, pollute the minds of a
people facing subtle and systemic discrimination in virtually all aspects of their daily lives.

"After generations of being stigmatized as a people needing to be 'taken
care of' on their reserves, it is not surprising, in fact it is predictable, that people would start
exhibiting the behaviours that the dominant group expects of them," the report states. "A major community
renewal effort is urgently needed in Burnt Church."

One plan for renewal will emerge within days when a group of residents
plans to issue a "declaration in the community on treaty rights and what the chief and council did to
our people," says Clifford Larry, a known opponent of the current administration.

Mr. Larry says it's been left to women and elders to spearhead efforts
to preserve traditional rights and the quality of life at Burnt Church. Their targets include the chief
and council who "were given no mandate" to deal with Ottawa, and a plague of substance abuse, drawing
on "a large-scale distribution of cocaine" in the community.

"The chief and council really are not contributing to building a strong,
healthy community," says Mr. Larry.

"This is very weak leadership. "Our people want to see a healthy community, they want to see a
prosperous community. We have to move forward and we still have to preserve our treaty rights," he says.

"There will be fishing, there will be advocacy, there will be people
coming together to uphold our treaty rights."

The only thing more elusive than consensus on the native fishery is,
perhaps, accessibility to Chief Wilbur Dedam. Numerous calls to Mr. Dedam weren't returned. Indeed, the
community relations panel achieved only slightly better success. Repeated efforts to meet
with the chief and his Burnt Church band council were "acquiesced with a perfunctory meeting" toward
the end of the panel's mandate. Even then, "there was an openly expressed cynicism concerning
the potential value of the panel."

What is clear, however, is an extreme and mounting scrutiny of the chief
and other council members. It has been simmering for months, if not years.

And it reached a new level on Aug. 1, when Mr. Dedam joined federal
Fisheries Minister Robert Thibault in Moncton to announce a deal had been signed.

"It's been a long time," Mr. Dedam said that afternoon, just hours after
he and other councillors faced angry community members in Burnt Church. "Today we begin the process of
making sure future generations from Burnt Church have a brighter future.

"This action is part of the healing process."

It's part of a process that is tearing the community apart, Mr. Larry
insists. The chief and council have lost the confidence of many on the reserve to manage the band's affairs,
never mind its treaty rights. The community relations panel cited hearsay evidence that other motives
may be driving the governance situation in Burnt Church. Although it has never been able to
substantiate the claims. Talk of corruption still lingers.

"The reserve is like a Mafia," one individual confides. "It's really a
Mafia; that's the reality." Compounded by band leaders' silence, a true appreciation for what's
really happening at Burnt Church has been reduced, in many cases, to conjecture.

Mr. Augustine offers only a faint nod in response to the rampant speculation.

"There are 669 chiefs in this country, all with the same power and influence," he says 
matter-of-factly. "They have their own way of running a community and they do exactly what they want to."

A search for solutions "cannot rely on the current system of band
council," he says. Rather, it must focus on an emerging wave of new native leadership and band governance
reform Mr. Augustine senses across the country.

"Burnt Church is going to wait it out. They'll wait it out for a new and
better chief," he adds. "I wouldn't be surprised if the present chief is doing just that.

"I'm sure he's tired. He's just a man."
Ordained in the Catholic Church nearly 40 years ago, Fr. Grattan says he
was immediately drawn to native communities, called to minister to them, "to be with them in
their journey." From Douglastown, now part of Miramichi, he took his first parishes in northern Alberta
and the Northwest Territories. When he arrived in Burnt Church 18 years ago, he says, the entire
atmosphere was one of apathy.

"They were going along from day to day. They were getting help from the
government. That was just the way of life."

In 1976 only four teens from the reserve were attending high school in
nearby Newcastle. Just one was attending university. However, within that first year, he began to
see a greater awareness of capability in the community. Now, about 75 young people attend high
school, producing an average six to eight graduates each year. Close to 70 are pursuing a
post-secondary education, with two or three graduating annually.

"All these people have added to the positive dimensions of the community
because they've brought back the awareness about education and social life - all those things of
the (human) spirit," Fr. Grattan says. "I think the thing that's come to light is that the key is education.

"I think a vast majority of people have a . . . very hopeful attitude toward the future."

That's despite a widespread "dire poverty" that, in a lot of cases, he
says, points to a system of inequality within the band itself.

"Wilbur's the chief, but there's a lot of turmoil. The reserves have
always had a history of this," he says. "Most of the people are just hoping they'll have some kind of
leadership that will be for everybody."

If it becomes frustrating at times, one must consider the small gains,
Fr. Grattan says. There seems a core of community leaders resolved to improve life at Burnt Church.
Success, he says, can be measured by an ancient Chinese proverb - one the Roman Catholic Church's
St. Christopher Society has adopted as its motto.

"It is better to light one candle than to curse the darkness," he
repeats. "Because, whatever you do, you know it's better than doing nothing."
When tensions exploded on Miramichi Bay in the fall of 1999, religion
ventured into the realm of Burnt Church politics, with the arrival of Christian Peacemaker Teams.
Touted as third-party observers, the Toronto-based branch of the international organization
soon established a presence at the centre of the conflict involving the Mi'kmaq, non-native fishermen,
the Department of Fisheries and Oceans and the RCMP.

Doug Pritchard, the peacemaker's Canadian co-ordinator, says the
organization had a team present on the reserve until last October and has remained on standby since.

"In a community like this, which has withstood this kind of controversy
for several years, it's been wearing on these people," Mr. Pritchard says. "The fear of violence was
always present . . . was palpable."

The fear isn't there this autumn. Neither are peacemaker members.
Whether their presence at Burnt Church in the past contributed to the climate of tomorrow, Mr. Pritchard
can't say. But their mandate, as they see it, appears to have been fulfilled.

"Certainly, the sense we have now is that there isn't a risk of violence
and our presence is not going to be needed," he says. "We don't really have an opinion about the
(fishing) agreement, itself, or about what the future holds - provided it doesn't hold any more violence."

It's telling, says Fr. Grattan, that interest in the reserve by outside
groups such as the peacemakers and the Mi'kmaq Warrior Society seems limited to times of violence. In
fact, he believes their presence during the height of conflict only exacerbated an already tense situation.

"I think instead of those people coming in and trying to bring a sense
of mediation, they further caused divisions," he says. "The people on the reserve by and large . .
. wanted mediation to take place but they were intimidated by these groups.

"They were parachuted in, then they left again. And the people are left
with the same issues. The people keep saying: 'we're not concerned about the fishing as such; it's
the alcohol and drug problems, and the poverty of our people.'

"But these factions . . . it became this war."

Sources suggest ongoing RCMP intelligence in the region hasn't ruled out
the return of militant opponents of regulated native fisheries on Miramichi Bay. Should that
occur, says DFO regional director Bob Allain, fisheries officers will exercise their obligations
and authority and take enforcement action where there is non-compliance.
"We're not going to let these individuals essentially capture the
spotlight and ruin what is a very good arrangement for the community," Mr. Allain says. "You ask the chief and
council . . . and they're moving ahead because they've got a strong mandate from the community to
do these kind of things."

Despite questions about a true mandate from the community, the Mi'kmaq
warriors who gained prominence in treaty clashes of past years have been isolated by
non-natives and, in a growing number of instances, fellow natives as radicals who oppose any attempt
at finding solutions at Burnt Church. Even Mr. Augustine and Mr. Richard found the refusal by some to
accept the authority of the Canadian government represents the "extreme" end of community opinion.

"Theirs is a revisionist approach to history," the Burnt Church panel
report states. While acknowledging the rights of individuals to hold such views, it says
"sympathy for the cause of the First Nations people cannot be expected to accommodate such a radical . . .
interpretation of history."

Mr. Augustine believes the warrior concept and its original mandate of
protection and defence is an important philosophy that has to be continued - in some sense.

"But they have to look after the residents instead of diminishing (the
native cause) and creating chaos," he says. The movement has to be centralized and work in concert
with a proactive band-level approach if it is to ever address the legion of issues at
play in aboriginal communities.

"They have to be able to articulate every aspect," he says.

"The government won this round . . ."
A fiery afternoon sun is already searing the mound of new earth that
covers baby Cameron's grave. Harry's a speck in the distance, still kicking his pitchfork into the
mud flats where the shoreline swoops gently to the east.

It casts a striking irony on this place: a child who'll never grasp his
native roots - and an old man who's still trying.

One angel, perhaps, and one candle.