On May 27, 2021 it came to light that the remains had been detected of 215 children, some as young as 3 years, at the former Kamloops Indian Residential School in B.C.’s southern interior. Investigators, using ground penetrating radar, unearthed evidence of what survivors had talked about for years: that many of the children taken away to these schools never returned nor were their whereabouts known.
Working with the provincial Coroners’ Office, the Tk’emlúps te Secwépemc First Nation, on whose land the former institution is located, has begun the painstaking tasks of identification and of contacting the students’ home communities. They’ve also been protecting the remaining gravesites and liaising with museums and church authorities to find records.
The Catholic Church operated the Kamloops Indian Residential School from 1890 to 1969 after which the Canadian government took over its administration as a day school. It was finally closed in 1978.
Many across the country, and around the world, expressed shock, grief and outrage at the news of these unmarked graves and yet, given the findings of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, why the surprise?
Generally speaking, I’m a proud Canadian; proud of our Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, of our welcome mat out for the world, of our cultural mosaic and our official bilingualism, but I’m increasingly unsettled, perplexed even by how little I know of Canadian history.
My family tree has its own mosaic qualities. I’m the daughter of a first-generation Irish immigrant and a 5th generation Huguenot. There’s rumour in my family of a Metis connection to the Riel Rebellion there too. I don’t know the details, but it is part of our family lore. My discomfort stems largely from the realization of the breadth of my ignorance of our collective history. I was raised on what I now know was the romanticized version of the Voyageurs, with their ceinture fléchée, running portages through the woods, carrying supplies from one body of water to another. And while I’m still attempting to fit all these fragments into the bigger picture, I acknowledge the many places I’ve yet to portage.
On Friday, June 4, as the sun descended, a small group gathered at our Cathedral and in a simple yet sobering gesture, set out 215 votive candles in silent vigil. The tiny flickering lights witnessed to the veritas: “there is nothing hidden that will not be disclosed, and nothing concealed that will not be known or brought out into the open”. (Luke 8:17)
Why silence? Why no audible prayers? Maybe because too many words, empty words have been spoken, empty promises made and then broken. There is a time for cursing the darkness, but there’s also a time for waiting, and for lighting candles in the dark, for hearing our accusers, for being admonished, and for lament.
A vigil, from the Latin vigilia, meaning “wakefulness”, is a period of purposeful sleeplessness, an occasion for devotional watching. There is a prayerful practice in keeping vigil. It cultivates a deeper sensitivity to what is most significant in life by creating space to process our grief and anger. But as we know from that old song from the 80’s, “tears are not enough”.
Thomas Merton, in an essay entitled “Fire Watch”, notes the connection between heightened sensory awareness and keeping vigil. He reminisces about being on night duty, guarding his monastery from fire. This task became for him “an examination of conscience in which your task of watchman suddenly appears in its true light: a pretext devised by God to isolate you, and to search your soul with lamps and questions, in the heart of darkness.”
Much like tears, keeping silent vigil is not nearly enough, but it can facilitate an encounter with the living God – and, if we are truly contrite, with our neighbour in a respectful act of reconciliation. Keeping vigil in this prayerful way sheds new light on what it means to “be woke”.
These revelations have triggered painful memories and exposed the worst in us. Surely the vast media coverage ensures we can no longer say, “but I never knew.” Reconciliation must be a collective pursuit. It requires of us more than tears, more than vigils, more than prayers, more than resolve. It summons the best in us.
Human relationships can be downright messy. There’s no “perfect union”. Mosaics are made with broken pieces, fit together, shaped by the overall vision of the artist. Jesus calls us to another way of praying – to that place of portage where we carry one another.
