#9005 - Oct 1990

Digital Archiving Completed by the Ethnography Lab, A University of Toronto Anthropology Initiative
and Produced in Collaboration with David Perlman/Wholenote Media Inc between July-December 2015.
Page 8, Kensington Market Drum, October, 1990
Survivors Aid
Mohawk ·survivors
Drum's Summer
SUNDAY JULY 15,2 pm
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
RAINED OUT KENSINGTON FESTIVAL FOOD
EN ROUTE TO KANESTAKE?
Festival of Survivors of Assault scheduled for Kensington Market
today was postponed due to rain. It will take place next Sunday; the
group orgqnizing the festival is at the last Temptation Restaurant { 12
Kensington Ave, Phone 599-2551 ). They have made a preliminary
decision to take the food prepared for participants in the festival
through the barricades at Kanestake.
A final decision is expected by 3.00pm.
PRESS RELEASE:
More than a dozen supporters of the Toronto Festival of Survivors
are taking a caravan of food to the Mohawks at Kanestake in Quebec
after today's festival was rained out. Three vehicles will be leaving
shortly after 8.00pm today {Sunday July 15).
'We are doing this as an act of solidarity with fellow survivors, and
in support of non-violent action," say festival organizers.
The food was donated by downtown merchants to feed hundreds
of participants in the first annual Festival of Survivors. The festival will
now be held from 1 O.OOam to 1 O.OOpm on Sunday, July 22, at '
Bellevue Park at Augusta and Wales, in the Kensington Market, and
more donations of food and money are needed.
'We are celebrating that we have survived all kinds of physical,
political, economic and social abuse and can still sing, dance, design,
paint, sculpt, photograph, fi_lm, write and tell our stories." ·
All women artists are invited to participate July 22. Anyone wishing
to display art work, perform or donate food or money can call ...
"We're a group of men and
women from Toronto with
food for the people atOka."
"You cannot go past," the
uniform said. Gun in hand-at
the ready-he indicated he
wanted us to make a U-turn.
"QK," says Mary, the driver
and organizer of the excursion
to Oka, and started to pull out
of line.
"Wait, wait, wait." It was
unclear why he had changed
his mind. "Let me see your
driver's licence."
Mary handed it over. Satisfied
with that, he asked for the
ownership. "I haven't got it,"
said Mary, pointing to Nancy,
"it's her car."
Nancy shrugs her shoulders.
She doesn't know where it is
either. Everyone is ordered out
of the car and onto a grassy
knoll between the road and
the cheese factory, until now
Oka's only claim to fame.
Still at the car, my camera up
to my face, a finger looms near
the focus button as an armed
policeman approaches me,
hand outthrust aiming for the
camera. I can't remember
whether or not I had a chance
to focus. I was able to hit the
main button, though, and a
picture was taken.
The officer demanded I give
him my camera. "But it isn't
mine," I pleaded.
"She's here for a paper," _
someone offered.
"Where's your I.D.?" I
shrugged my shoulders apologetically.
The officer took the
camera.
"PLEASE give me back the
camera, it doesn't belong to
me," I begged. Really begged.
I almost fell to my knees, but·
chose a less submissive, more
sedate posture, hands clasped
prayer -like, doing my very best
to convey sincerity.
The last word from David
had been, "Try to hang onto
the camera-I've promised
Chris the DRUM would be
responsible should his camera
end up in the hands of some
policeman."
"You can't do that!" one of
us stated, "what's your name
and number?"
"I'm Sergeant Le Blanc,
6555. I'm in charge here."
Then Graham was threatened
with arrest if he took a
picture. "You can't do that! If
you take pictures it will impede
us in our job. That's why
we'll arrest you."
i thought I detected a giimmer
of fun in his eyes. The
camera was returned in exchange
for a promise not to
use it.
Mary, Nancy, Graham,
Marlene and I sat on the grass
and watched the policemen
search the two vehicles. Someone
sniffed the air, and remarked,
"Ah, essence of BS."
The unmistakeable air of fresh
manure rose from we're not
sure where. Much talk of: "No
civil rights here," ... "How dare
they ... I can't beleieve it!" ...
"Is this Canada?" ... "What's
going -on?"
Watching, counting as best I
could, police cars passing.
None had less than four police
in it. Fifty or more police cars,
meaning 200 or more policemen.
At least one policewoman
in uniform, wearing
radio headgear.
It reminded me of that current
scary commercial, selling
an ultra high tech device that
enables you to listen to a conversation
you are probably not
privy to. I carefully said nothing
inciteful; had plenty on my
mind, though.
A Bell telephone truck came
on the scene. Someone climbed
up a pole to a large centnil
panel, where something or
other was done. It seemed
unlikely that Bell, under the
circumstances, would send a
linemanoutforsomethingtrivial.
Later we learned that most
of the phones in Oka were
tapped. -
Sitting watching the scene,
listening, looking for clues to
bring me to the truth of what
was going on. A sense of going
down endlessly on a gigantic
roller coaster. The adrenalin
rush of fear. Head tingling,
fingers fumbling. Time for
meditation.
Slowly, deliberately, I took
everything out of my big black
bag. Makeup, brush, combs,
bobby pins, books to read,
books to write in, the flotsam
and jetsam of women's purses.
!turned it upside down, shaking
at least a year's worth of
crumbs of a variety of things.
An officer watched my every
move. Did he expect me to
draw a gun?
Meanwhile they thoroughly
searched both vehicles. They
scrutinized each of the 21 watermelons.
The plastic bags
filled with sandwiches were
each opened and one or two of
the sandwiches were even
opened to inspect what was
inside.
An officer opened a little
cloth purse filled with a green
herb. It belonged to Nancy, ­
who giggled when she was told
she would be arrested if the
purse contained an illegal
·substance. It was sage, it turned
out, and the purse was returned.
When they were quite satisfied
that we were not doing
anything illegal, Mary was told
to drive back to the next road
where we could wait for the
other vehicle.
A telephone call to one of
the residents of Oka and we
were directed to the home of a
couple just outside the reserve.
For obvious reason I can't
identify them further, even
vaguely.
A letter to Mary later assured
us that the food was delivered
"to who it may concern".
Our impression was that
deliveries by water were possible.
Gracious hosts made
coffee for all and patiently
answered questions. They described
the day they were
stopped and their car thoroughly
searched three times as
they drove to some destination
and not once did they need
to go into the reserve. A couple
with two teenaged boys, they
defended passionately the actions
of the Moh~wks. "I grew
up with these guys. We went to
school together. They are good
people." Wherever we went
we heard "It's
about time ..."
The red van
transported ten
of us back to
Toronto that
night... five
women. Mary
our leader, Rial,
16. The vegan
Lorraine, one
lovingly called
The Dreaded
Old Nancy ...
(My feelings
and fond recollections
of
Nancy merit far
more space than
avallatiie here).
And me-- a 55
years old woman
who finds
herself a part of
the most significant
event in the
history of Canada.
The outside
observers were now back in
their countries and preparing
damning reports about the
treatment of natives by the
idiotbureaucracy. I have had
an opportunity to learn about
people who for all my life I
pictured as savages.
In a broadcast during the
first symbolic removing of the
barricades (we all cheered
thinking the standoff was
over) Steven Lewis suggested
_that Canada would never be
the same ...