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Anthony Paul Apr 2018
“In their greatest hour of need, the world failed the people of Rwanda.”
- Kofi Annan

I have never desired to step  inside  
a mass grave, but the  white marble top  
covering  a  piece  of  the ground like
a  band-aid  on  a     wound    silently
invites me in with an open  staircase.  
The    closer    I    move     toward the
entrance, the more  I am reminded of
hate. The  hate lingers on the  ground
around the grave, humming  a  ballad  
reserved  for  attempted  extinction.  
Machetes,  guns,  and  a­xes  were the  
instruments   in   the    orchestra  that
played the tune of death on this piece
of land.  The screams   of children,    
gunshots      piercing      flesh,    ­bone
breaking    under   blunt force. I enter  
the grave not  knowing what  to  feel.    
My  heart  beats      consciously as  
I control the  flow  of air   in  and  
out of my body,      trying to play    life’s
song   amid the   loud lingering  hum 
 of    hate   that  has   seeped from  the 
 ground above.  The  light   that enters
does   not     brighten    my   feelings;   
 it     only    reveals   the  moments  of
death on the walls which  are shelved
with  skulls,  some with bullet  holes,  
some   with fractures from machetes. 
I    move  through the   thin   corridor    
fearful     of    making   eye    contact 
with the    skulls     for  I do not want to    
stare    into    the     empty     eye  sockets  
to see     individual     death.   Femurs  and  
humeri    lay like  *****  clothes    thrown
into the  corner of a room.  No longer do
they represent one  human. Outside the
light  warms   my   skin   and   directs     my    heart    to    beat  unconsciously,  
my   breath   to   rise  and  fall   in unison
with  my steps. It   shines  upon   a   new  
tune   being     played.   Children  laughing,  
mothers yelling,  hymns being  sung. It  
spotlights   a  beauty of humanity:
Reconciliation.
Spacing a little different than original.
Irkar Beljaars Mar 2018
How many of us have to to die, go missing, be ***** before justice listens? The blood our people have spilled have wet the ground for centuries. Our children have been stolen, our families shattered and our land taken all due to the arrogance of white men.

To this day our people have been made to live in fear, a fear that has been driven, beaten, shot, stabbed and ***** into our very bodies. In the last 500 years our identities have been bombarded by men who are called pillars of our history. Their statues litter the land, a reminder of the atrocities they committed and fawned over by their ancestors.

The schools tried to erase us, the men with white collars, callous hearts and empty souls, the sting of their violations like ripples in a pool lasting generations. They taught hate in schools, they created Gerald Stanley and Raymond Cormier and thousands like them. They created ignorance that we feel even today.

Our two faced politicians who shed tears, kiss babies and at the same time deny our children basic human rights. Their tears buying our votes with empty promises and back room deals, selling away our children, our land and our souls.

We never forgot, the generations of genocide would not let us. “A good Indian is a dead Indian” the man on the radio says, his words are like the stones thrown at women, children and elders during the Crisis. The violence we experienced that day was just another chapter in the long history of massacres, land theft, stolen children and degradation.

The change that our two faced politicians talk about is the trickle down economics of social change, I say trickle down because like every other promise it doesn’t exist. I grow tired of the fight but I know that we must continue. We are the symbol of the voice yet to be born. The words of our elders continue to lead us, guide us like they always have on the path towards growth.

We must continue to educate and fight the ignorance that permeates every corner of our society. It’s the idea that must be destroyed, the idea of white supremacy which has plagued our land for centuries. Growth cannot happen without truth and that cannot happen without honesty. To have true honesty our society will have to look in the mirror and acknowledge that of which most of them cannot, that hate exists.

We must acknowledge that white supremacy helped Gerald Stanley and Raymond Cormier commit and get away with their horrific crimes. Change will only happen when we no longer allow fear to hold us back, to keep our mouths shut. Change will happen when we look at each other as equals and help one another to heal, to grow and to teach.

We are not defined by a stereotype, we are not the alcoholic, the drug addict, the *** worker, or the homeless person. We are teachers, doctors, social workers, lawyers and Chiefs. We are actors, writers, poets, singers and Djs. But most importantly we are nations of people, people that have been the stewards of this land for a millennia.

We are people who refuse to be victims, we refuse to have child services take our children away from their mother’s breast. We refuse to be silent when our sisters go missing and are murdered and we refuse to believe that the police are doing everything they can.

We will not stay silent when the media places blame on the Coltons and Tina’s over the world, this victim blaming must stop. The white patriarchy cannot continue to own our future. We as Indigenous peoples will take back our story and we will be the ones to write the next chapter.

A chapter where our sisters do not go missing, where our youth have a future, and a chapter where our communities are thriving. I refuse to accept despair and pain, I’d rather believe in hope, growth and love. That is how we create change. When remembering the words of my late mother, a closed fist is a closed mind, while an open hand reveals an open heart.

Change is a beautiful thing, we are the masters of our own future. We will bring down the walls that divide us and together bring the change this land sorely needs.
Diego Morales Mar 2018
A single life so worthless, that poor fly,
Sooner than its timely moment to die,
As commanded by my unnerving will,
Its incompetent life I chose to ****.

Put more simply, for disturbing my peace,
Its feeble and destitute life I ceased.
Yet my bloodstained hands always remained clean,
Once crimeful killing had become routine.

What almighty and sinful God am I
For unsparingly judging who must die
By my sword, without remorse or regret,
The slaughtered fly under my gavel, I forget.

An evil power from no source or spring
Springs power in me like a maddened King.
A poem portraying the inhuman and the inhumane,
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