A few weeks ago, I encountered a family of crows who were all busying themselves within the lower branches of a tall White Oak tree.
Like a marionette dance troupe, they seemed to glide in and out of the branches as they interchanged their place all without making a lot of commotion. It was a perplexing sight as I am used to having them call out loudly to one another as I pass this field on my evening walk through the forest trails.
Their attention was diverted onto the ground beneath the tall White Oak. Every once in awhile I would hear a gentle scratch of a call and flapping of wings as they continued their synchronized tree dance.
I decided to investigate further, and the crows dispersed quickly as I approached but flew high atop nearby trees to observe my intent.
As I approached the tree, I could see a black figure nestled in the lush green grass beneath it. It was one of their own. A family member had met their demise below that tall White Oak.
The crows had been engaged in a ritual before I happened along. They were grieving the loss of their loved one.
The atmosphere had suddenly transformed at the scene once I realized what I was witnessing. I felt their loss. It seemed now to be everywhere at that moment once I understood.
As is the Anishinaabe custom, I placed a tobacco bundle down near the deceased crow and said a silent prayer for it and their family. I stepped away and respectfully left the family to mourn the loss of their loved one and hoped that I had not interfered too badly during my clumsy intervention of their ceremony as they sought closure.
The crows cawed angrily at me until I was safely away from the scene. Then they returned to the tall White Oak and silently resumed the grieving process. I left them then, as I should.
Most people never see such a thing. Society carries on as within its periphery a whole other world exists with no one ever seeming to take notice or acknowledge its existence.
I absolutely understood the plight of these crows as they grieved the loss of their loved one. I come from a small village on Christian Island and during the past five months we have lost seven of our community members. Some of which are family, but we are all closely stitched together as a community. So, we feel the loss of each one just the same.
The past few months have been difficult. In grief I am not myself. In grief I forget things and miss deadlines at work. In grief I am an Island, surrounded in thick fog. In grief I plod through my days and attend public events in the outside world while trying to appear normal. In grief I am like the crows, I am easily angered and agitated.
Added to those personal losses is a story making national headlines. The suspicion that there may be indigenous women buried at a landfill in Winnipeg, Manitoba.
The Brady landfill first made headlines in June 2022 when an indigenous women’s remains were excavated there. Since that time Indigenous families who have missing loved ones have asked for a further search of the landfill but both federal and provincial governments have refused to do so citing costs as being the main obstacle to being able to carry out a search for missing women.
This has angered the local Native community and they have since blockaded the Brady landfill demanding that it be searched.
I can see this situation as being relatable to the family of mourning crows that I encountered.
As indigenous people we carry personal grief. Personal grief from lost loved ones, lost childhoods through adoption and trauma. Lost culture. Lost languages. Lost dignity and well-being.
The collective grief is compounded by our personal losses, and it seems a never-ending cycle. Canada keeps the Indigenous Nations in a constant state of duress and grief.
So, we are the crows. Mourning. Alone, in our grief. Anger rises to the forefront when that grieving process in hindered or disallowed. We are the crows calling out for our right to closure.
With thousands of missing, murdered, Indigenous women, girls, (MMIW) across the country we wonder how does a country that commissions a Truth and Reconciliation process then fail to respond to the ongoing grief, trauma, duress, that it needlessly causes?
How does a society that prides itself on its human rights record reconcile with its inability to acknowledge and feel for what is manifesting on its periphery?
Why must cost be at the forefront when it comes to Indigenous people when here in Ontario a non-Native man was exhumed from a landfill site near London in 2021? This was done without question. Closure was granted to that man’s family within a very short time.
We shouldn’t have to say it... Search the landfill! Bring closure to the Indigenous nations and families that grieve those losses!
If crows can understand the importance of helping others through their grief, surely, we can too.
The following is a poem written about this time of grief:
In Grief
The grief,
heavy.
I am an island,
surrounded in thick fog.
So thick that the sun
cannot penetrate.
Sound echoes
from distant shores around me.
But none of it is you.
You are my quest.
You have always been.
The grief,
in waves,
comes ashore.
I awaken from dreams
that contain you.
Your essence.
Your spirit.
I close my eyes
once more
hoping to sleep
so that I may
rejoin that dream.
You are my quest.
I am an injured creature
wrapped beneath a comforting Cedar.
It’s medicine tries to
revive my soul.
The grief,
offers surrender.
But you are my quest.
In the morning
someone brings news
of a service.
It breaks through
the blanket of fog,
like sunlight.
We will celebrate you.
Your essence.
Your spirit.
Your life.
With that,
we struggle,
but manage
to rise.
In grief.
Jeff Monague is a former Chief of the Beausoleil First Nation on Christian Island, former Treaty Research Director with the Anishnabek (Union of Ontario Indians), and veteran of the Canadian Forces. Monague, who taught the Ojibwe language with the Simcoe County District School Board and Georgian College, is currently the manager of Springwater Provincial Park. His column appears every other week.
