First of all, I would like to say meegwetch to the standing committee for giving me this opportunity to speak. This is my mother. I dedicate this presentation to her.
My name is Bridget Tolley, and I am a proud Algonquin woman and grandmother from the Kitigan Zibi Anishinabeg reserve. Some of you may know me or know of me, as I have fought for justice in the death of my mother Gladys Tolley for the past nine and a half years. This fight for justice in many ways has become part of who I am, but it is the many experiences in my life that have led to me finding my voice and standing up for justice. I am on this journey for justice for my grandchildren, my great-grandchildren, my great-great-grandchildren, and for the next seven generations.
You may be familiar with some of the statistics about violence in aboriginal communities. The numbers reported by various governments and government departments reveal too many common experiences of violence, especially violence against aboriginal women and girls. However, I'm not here today to talk about numbers, because it seems as though people, communities, and community leaders have become numb when they hear numbers.
What does it mean to you when you hear a number related to family violence, physical and sexual abuse, incest, or addiction? As a survivor, I can tell you what it means to me.
Some of my earliest memories are of the fighting that went on in my home. My parents separated when I was only a couple of years old, but their fighting will always be a defining feature of their relationship and of what echoes in my mind when I think of them together. After the separation, my father would not let my mother take me or my siblings, so I grew up with my father and grandmother. It was not a safe and secure home, but a home where I learned to be afraid.
I was a small girl when the sexual abuse began. Looking back, I realize I really didn't know what was going on. It was my uncle who took away the innocence of my childhood, someone who is a part of the family, and someone I didn't dare tell these stories about. Like many children, I suffered the abuse in silence, until my uncle went to the spirit world. He was an old man when he died. I remember how good it felt when he was gone, but my life would never be the same.
The trauma of my childhood, however, didn't end there. A few years later, when I was 11 years old, my dad committed suicide by shooting himself in the heart one day when we were not home. I don't think I can explain to you what these experiences do to a child. I had no way to cope with the emotions, the fear, the feeling of complete chaos at the time when I needed to feel safe and have guidance to understand that this is not how life should be.
After my father died, my mom came back into our lives, but we continued to live with my grandmother until she passed away in 1980. I was about 20 years old at the time, and struggling to understand who I was while raising a family as a young mom.
The sad reality was that I couldn't cope. Partying was a way to escape, numb myself, and not have to confront all the memories, emotions, experiences, and pain. Running away from my thoughts and my mind was the only way I knew to keep going.
This came to a tragic halt the day my mother was killed, on October 5, 2001. Not only had I lost my mother once as a child; this time I would lose her forever. What was worse was that her life was stolen from her when she was struck and killed by a Sûreté du Québec cruiser as she was walking home one night.
The pain and anger of losing my mom is what turned my life around. I have lived much of my life caught up in the system. The system was then, and remains today, plagued by failures and by racism. It has also taught our people lateral violence against one another.
With strength from the Creator and perseverance, and after nearly 40 years, my outrage with this injustice is how I keep going. I have been through a lot in my life, but I've realized the strength that comes when you begin to speak out and share your story.
What I realize now is I'm not alone. When you look at the statistics, each number tells a story, and sometimes more than one. I am one person, but I carry with me a lifetime of pain.
What I ask of you is this: when you walk out of this room today, I hope that you begin to picture a face, a person, each time you hear a number related to violence, abuse, and survival. I also challenge you to take my story and every other story seriously by committing to aboriginal women, men, children, families, and communities that you will make a change.
As elected officials, you have the power to say ending violence in aboriginal communities must be a priority of your party and your leadership. Please don't let another generation suffer as I have. Invest in programs for community healing, places for survivors and families to come together to find their strength and their voice, and resources to ensure communities have health and mental health services to serve the ongoing needs of individuals throughout their life cycle. Finally, please give us a place to honour all those who are no longer here with us today to tell their stories.
While I am extremely grateful for the existence of this committee, I can't help but be skeptical. I also have many concerns and questions about these proceedings, as do many other family members of the missing and murdered aboriginal women.
These are just a few of my questions. Why weren't family members notified when this committee came to Kitigan Zibi in June? Why were the minutes of these meetings not posted online, as they were for other locations? Why did the committee choose to go to Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, but not to Regina and Saskatoon, where the numbers of missing and murdered aboriginal women are higher? Why haven't families been notified of this committee process? Why haven't we been invited to provide our input into how the process unfolds? Why have we not been consulted about what we need in terms of funding? Why were these decisions made by people who are not living our reality?
Many of us remain wary, even if Sisters in Spirit does have its funding renewed, that there will be all kinds of compromises that will have to be made by the Native Women's Association of Canada in order to get this money. What happens if these compromises are not in the best interests of these families? What is our recourse? I hope that some of these questions will be answered.
As I have done for the past five years, I will continue to stand alongside the Native Women's Association of Canada to provide vigils across Canada to honour my mother and the lives of the missing and murdered aboriginal women and girls. In the past five years, Sisters in Spirit has become a genuine national movement, with vigils in more than 84 cities and communities, including international ones.
The momentum is very strong. It gives me great motivation and strength to see the community standing up for itself and finding its voice, so I will continue to fight on behalf of the family members who often feel ignored and silenced. I will never end my fight for justice and an end to violence.
Thank you. Meegwetch.