Another Polite Murder in Port Alberni:

The Death of my Friend and Ally, John Sargent,

                                     July 16, 2003

John, you beautiful man:

  It wasn't the cancer that killed you last night, even though it had eaten up most of your spine. I figure your death was ordained ten years ago, when you showed up in my Port Alberni church that Sunday morning and spoke your mind to that shocked and "proper" congregation of white people, and you began to learn what hatred is reserved for we who name the Beast for what it is.

 Did that hatred kill you, like it's killing me, my old buddy? It didn't seem to matter to you, ever. I remember you sitting down that morning in the very front pew, sporting a huge upside-down Cross and an even bigger smile as you watched the Sunday Christians fidget and look away from you.

"Another one of Kevin's street people! Ugh!" I could practically hear them all thinking, as they tried not to look at your ragged clothes, long hair and unashamed visage. But you proved them all wrong.

  "Why wear an upside-down Cross to church?" I asked you, later, during coffee time.

  "I'll put it rightside up again when these rich assholes who call themselves Christians start feeding

us poor people here in town" you replied so matter of factly. And from then on you began to change the way I thought, and lived.

  You helped me open our food bank, Loaves and Fishes, and showed me what the hungry really hunger for. You poked fun at the comfortable God-talkers. You stood outside their churches sometimes bearing your home-made placards that ripped into their complacency with shouts of prophecy like "Jesus was no Christian" and "Torch a Church for Jesus".

  Maybe none of that put you on their hit list. After all, every town has its token prophet, the eccentric jester who says what we all know but fear to utter, and thereby releases the guilt of the herd. You could have been tolerated as such, if only you'd stopped. But you never did. You remained John Sargent to the very end.

  You marched with us all the way to Victoria in our Walk Against Poverty that named the local lumber baron, MacMillan-Bloedel, as an enemy of the poor. You made even longer journies each week carrying food to hungry families in Port Alberni's ghetto: all of them native, as ignored and abhorred as you were by "polite" society.

  You stood up one day in my church and held a little Indian girl in your arms, showing her to the resisting gaze of the white folks, and you said out loud to the worshippers,  "This is her body, broken for you; or don't you get it yet?".

 They came to hate you after that, John, just like they hated me for allowing you in to their comfy club. You were the first person to be thrown out of St. Andrew's United Church after I was fired from there, your heart broken, our food bank closed. But still we battled on, didn't we?

  I was unemployed then, suddenly, my dreams all smashed, but it was you who came to my door and announced, so delightedly, "You've just become one of us now, Kev, right where God wants you to be."

  And so once again you helped me to see the way past the madness, as we opened our Peoples' Inquiry into the Residential Schools right there in the face of the dragon. It was you who made it happen, with the help of another "victim".

 Cecilia Joseph had just died, Indian style: murdered in a slum apartment fire by a landlord named Gus

Frigstad who hated Indians but gouged them every month for what little they had. No church in the Alberni valley would let us bury Cecilia, for Frigstad was a good church-goer, and had friends on city council. But you found a hall for the funeral, John, and there we heard of the residential school murders for the first time, and we knew we had to act. Out of that seed, that day, came our Truth Commission into Genocide in Canada. Thanks to you, John.

 You were always with me like that, brother, through every hopeless battle, making it seem a bit less hopeless with your awful jokes and big, bleeding heart. That's why you're still with me, more than

anyone else, really, including those who like to call themselves "the living".

 And that's what made you a target in their sights, it seems. Your courage made you the object of their spiritual death squads, a nuisance to be blotted out. And I feel responsible for what they did to you For I made you think that we could win against the lies, the Gus Frigstads, the nice church ladies who carry razors in their minds.

 They really went after you and the others once I left the valley, and our little guerilla band was scattered. I died and diminished as I watched, helpless, what they did to all of you, to punish you for naming their crimes and defending their victims. And you were first in their crosshairs, for you were not afraid.

  No, it wasn't the cancer that killed you, or the poverty they thrust you in, or the evictions you

survived. It wasn't the arrests you faced when you continued your picketing and one man protests, against my advice, outside their churches: the "throne of their iniquities" as you called them.

  You finally lost hope, John, just like they planned. They made your life a living hell, right to the end:

the medical benefits denied you, the arrogant nurses and welfare workers who humiliated you, the slanders and lies they said about you. But it wasn't even those arrows that finished you off.

 No. You looked out over a battlefield of strewn and fallen comrades, and saw the Lie's banner flying

triumphant over the Alberni Valley and its hidden graves, and your battered soul just turned away.

  Where have you gone, my brother? To fight on,

somewhere else? My hope. To wage God's battle of light through my life, in the days left to me before I, too, am claimed by their hatred? My hope.

  They think they've won again, John. They think you're dead. But they don't see what I see: the unconquerable spirit of a man standing with nothing but the truth to proclaim, outside the throne of their Lie each Sunday morning.

  They don't see what you and I see, John.

  So thank you, buddy. Go with God, and be happy, and pray for me.

By Kevin Annett

"what has happened to him is outrageous"

     Dr. Noam Chomsky, speaking of Kevin Annett,

         Order "Love and Death in the Valley" by Kevin Annett through First Books at:

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Name-calling?

  There is some concern over a term used to describe the police, in an article that ran in the last issue of the Carnegie Newsletter. I'm not going to use the precise term, but I am going to mention a couple of incidents which I think point out the complete lack of respect that many police officers hold for this community and its residents.

  On an on-going basis, Carnegie staff try to work with the police for a more community-orientated policing approach. Early in July, the Director of Carnegie met with the current Chief of Police to do just that. One of the issues Carnegie put forward was a desire to have better, more consistent and supportive policing in Oppenheimer Park. This is especially needed since the police action on Hastings Street has moved the street activity elsewhere. Carnegie staff received a warm and strong response to this request from the Chief.

  Hours alter the meeting, however, while I was sitting in another meeting in Oppenheimer Park, we all looked up to watch a motorcycle cop in full gear, helmet, boots, etc. come roaring through the park.As I watched this machine come down off the hill by the children's area and make its way through at least a couple of hundred people, I wondered out loud, what other park in this city would this happen in on a sunny summer afternoon?

  A short time before this incident, another meeting was held in the Strathcona Community Police Office with Oppenheimer Staff and Community members and a police officer. This was to discuss policing at the up-and-coming Powell Street Festival to be held on the first weekend in August. This is a long-time yearly event, but last year the police had taken it upon themselves to round up and take out of Oppenheimer Park many of the regular park users. They were moved to Pigeon Park and told to stay there for the weekend as "decent" people were going use Oppenheimer.

  It was in an attempt to ward off this type of police action that the meeting at the Strathcona police office was held. After a community member had described what had happened last year, the police officer in attendance just got up and walked out.

  I guess I could go on and on with items, but most people out there can fill in their own experience. My observations from over the years is that Carnegie meets with the higher-up members of the police department, who are supposed to be managing the officers in the neighbourhood, and often get good cooperation and intentions from them. However, this does not consistently transfer to the police on the ground.

  Most cops do what they feel like. If they are frustrated with a lack of plan or whatever, their frustration can translate into actions that are harmful to our community. After all, the police are only here because they get a nice salary to be here, and are assigned to this neighbourhood.

  Over all, there is much contempt for this community from the police; just listen to the terms they use to describe our community and its residents. They consistently refer the area as the skids or skid row. When they are "detaining" people on the street, they use many derogatory terms I don't feel like listing in print. Name-calling is something the police do only too well.

     By Muggs Sigurgeirson

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Steward

My doctor suggested before they find me hanging

I should do something(anything) to get out of my room

so I dialed the right # ..talked to a faceless woman

and became steward for the totem and his pals

in a park off the Drive

Keeper of the Totem; quite impressive my new title

I work on my knees in the hot hot sun

separating the good weeds from the bad weeds

cleaning the Medicine Wheel it was planned after

It's a holy chore and I'm a lucky man

to pull  patches of sod and clean the rocks

this testament to what used to be holy around here

the Totem stands as a reminder

of what once was, and is now forever gone.

             R. Loewen

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Beyond Belief

Something to be told of the Glories, yet untold, hidden, magnificent; Turn the pages, tune in the ages, submitting reckless dreams of yore; Move a mountain, transfixed, keep counting on reeking havoc; Foretell my fortune within the stars, parameters holding affirmed' Dig in, entrenched, then advance facing lock, stock and  barrel; Rolling, tumbling, shaked/baked/fried - you'll not be denied, decrying tranquility, perchance to touch, to feel and to see as easy as can be; Earth-tossed endlessly, churning into a jagged descent, free-falling disrespect dissected and rejected, debate denied to soar no more.

On the run, hide and seek, reading nothing benefits no one; Corroded brass ring of security and peace, another fallen angel; Compare anomalies, metaphors, 'convolution is secured by being secure' say cynics from time to time; Being extra careful and still growing weaker & weary yet inner strength and energy persists, like a proud, strong phoenix rising up; Droning motors, foul engines, gasoline fumes inspire pleasant dreams while aspersions are cast with altruistic lies, condemned as bunk.

Faking high emotions that are deep within you, your gold as distant as the searing, shining, warming, growing Sun rising high inside you, and yet (as of now) totally and utterly beyond belief.

Robyn

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  Tinnitus Forever

The Sound

I rose from my body the sweet silence to hear

It was good while it lasted...if only it lasted.

Is there anybody else in here, don't take me back

In my cell forever.

The sound, the sound,

If I could but like, but it doesn't like me

It will wear a mask but I know it well

Cut it off and it still remains

In my face forever.

The sound, the sound, the sound

Put your hand on me and feel my spirit fled

I feel that dread is still there

I here

In my soul forever.

                 Leonard F. Blomskog

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Follow the Saxophone

  It was Friday morning. When I awoke around 6, I still felt tired and not having any pressing engagements, I went back to sleep to finally get up around 11. I was expecting mail so I dragged my self out of bed. I get my mail at the church (1st United) and they close at noon on Friday. I was rushing around trying to move out of sleep and slip into high gear without a stop in 2nd or 3rd. It wasn't working so I gave up and just phoned the church to see if there was mail. Nope, I was S.O.L.so decided to have a good brunch (Cinnamon French Toast, they were good) and prepare for the afternoon trip to Lost Lagoon. I was looking forward to being near the place that I had been reading about as part of my participation in the Main & Hastings Bookclub. (We meet every Thursday around noon in the Learning Centre to discuss the Timothy Taylor novel called Stanley Park. If you enjoy good company and would like to compare notes on a good read then you should join us. There are prizes being awarded by the Vancouver Public Library) 

  I was walking up to Carnegie around 2:15 when I met Rika, our trip organizer and driver. She asked me to pick up some treats from the kitchen that she had ordered for our outing. I was happy to help so I said ok. I got the stuff and went down to wait by the front desk. I sat next to a couple of people and one of them started to joke with me about buying the stuff that I was watching. I played his silly game and we had a laugh or two. About a minute or two later one of the security guys came over to see what I was selling. Someone had taken us seriously and had reported to the security guard about the criminal activity taking place in the corner. He came over and had a laugh too. I'm happy to see that the security isn't as silly as some of the people who profess to be open-minded. I guess it's not only the people passing thru our community who are prejudiced against people in this neighbourhood.

  Rika showed up right after that and we prepared to depart. We arrived at the park a bit early for the show. I went for a walk along the seawall. Got about 10 minutes up the seawall and I spotted a white haired man down on the beach, actually in the rocks on the shore. I watched him for a moment as he slowly made a sculpture out of rocks. It was fascinating to watch as he balanced those rocks. There were 5 or 6 sculptures of 3 or 4 rocks high. As I continued on my stroll I noticed there were more sculptures up ahead. Big rocks on top of small ones, pointed rocks balanced on their point and there were about a hundred or so sculptures. All at least 3 to 5 rocks high and some of the top ones looked very heavy. This man had a passion for art and he was sharing it with the seawall world of passers-by. I think most or all of the artwork was below the high tide level so they would be gone when the tide came in. A community made out of rock figures that would be gone in a matter of hours. Ironic, EH?

  I wonder if he returned to rebuild his city of stone figures at the coming of each day-light low tide.

  The show was about ready to start so I had to leave and didn't have time to further enjoy his artwork. As I walked back towards the show area I stopped and complimented him on his work. He said, "It passes the time." I hadn't noticed before because his back was to me but he also had a sparkling white beard. For some reason I felt connected to this Santa Claus of sculptures. He wasn't very huge but was friendly. Maybe he was one of the elves on summer hiatus. I was in too much of a rush to spend more than a few minutes with him. Later I was to think, "Silly me and shame on me too for not taking the time to spend a few more minutes with this unique individual. These opportunities are few and sometimes far between."

  But for now, even if whatever else happened this day wasn't that good, this little walk had made me feel great. I was in a good mood to see whatever it was we came to see. Something called "Lagoon of Lost Tales". As I approached the show area I could hear the deep tones of a saxophone drifting thru the air, calling people to come to the show. The story teller told us as the show developed we would be moving to different locations and our clue to move would be the saxophone starting to play. He would lead us to the next venue. The tale was about the adventures of a boy named Seymour. His mom runs away with a past love. Dad quits talking and leaves too. Seymour has a many small adventures as he searches for his parents. The story entices us on a walk around the lagoon to about 12-15 different locations. Each stop enhances the story a bit until the climax, which takes place in the middle of the lagoon. I guess this is something like the Perils of Pauline. It was 'a really good shoe' as Ed Sullivan would say and it was a fascinating way to spend a summer afternoon around the Lagoon in one of the greatest parks in the world..

   Thanks Rika.            

                                  -hal

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  Dearest friends,

  As you probably know, this week George Bush is visiting Africa. Starting with Senegal, he arrived this morning at 7.20 AM and left at 1.30 PM. This visit has been such an ordeal that a petition is being circulated for this Tuesday July 8th to be named Dependency Day.

  Let me share with you what we have been through since last week.

  1- Arrests : more than 1,500 persons have been arrested and put in jail between Thursday and Monday. Hopefully they will be released now that the Big Man is gone.

  2- The US Army's planes flying day and night over Dakar. The noise they make is so loud that one hardly sleeps at night.

  3- About 700 security people from the US for Bush's security in Senegal, with their dogs, and their cars. Senegalese security forces were not allowed to come near the US president.

  4- All trees in places where Bush will pass have been cut. Some of them have (sic) more than 100 years.

  5- All roads going down town (where hospitals, businesses, schools are located) were closed from Monday night to Tuesday at 3 PM. This means that we could not go to our offices or schools. Sick people were also obliged to stay at home.

  6- National exams for high schools that started on Monday are postponed until Wednesday.

  Bush's visit to the Goree Island is another story. As you may know Goree is a small island facing Dakar where from the 15th to the 19th century, African slaves to be shipped to America were parked in special houses called slave houses. One of these houses has become a Museum to remind humanity about this dark period and has been visited by kings, queens, presidents.

  Bill, Hillary and Chelsea Clinton, and before them, Nelson Mandela, the Pope, and many other distinguished guests or ordinary tourists visited it without bothering the islanders. But for "security reasons" this time, the local population was chased out of their houses from 5 to 12 AM. They were forced by the American security to leave their houses and leave everything open, including their wardrobes, to be searched by special dogs brought from the US.

  The ferry that links the island to Dakar was stopped and offices and businesses closed for the day.

  According to an economist who was interviewed by a private radio, Senegal, which is a very poor country, has lost huge amount of money in this visit because workers have been prevented from walking out of their homes. In addition to us being prevented from going out, other humiliating things happened also. Not only did Bush not want to be with Senegalese but he did not want to use our things. He brought his own armchairs, and of course his own cars, and meals and drinks. He came with his own journalists and ours were forbidden inside the airport and in any place he was visiting.

  Our president was not allowed to make a speech. Only Bush spoke when he was in Goree. He spoke about slavery. It seems that he needs the vote of the African American to be elected in the next elections, and wanted to please them. That's why he visited Goree.

  Several protest marches against American politics have been organized for before he arrived  and even when Bush was here, but we think he does not care. We have the feeling that everything has been done to convince us that we are nothing, and that America can behave the way it wants, everywhere, even in our country.

  Believe me friends, it is a terrible feeling. But according to a Ugandan friend of mine, I should not complain because in Uganda, one of the countries he is going to visit, Bush does not intend to go out of the airport. He will receive the Ugandan President in the airport lounge. Nevertheless, I think I am lucky, because I have such wonderful American friends. But there are now thousands of Senegalese who believe that, for all Americans, the world is their territory.

                 Love to you all

  Codou

  Regional Programme Manager (Europe)

  ABANTU for Development

  1 Winchester House, 11 Cranmer Road,

  London, SW9 6EJ

  diana@abantu.org / roe@abantu.org

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Why Veterans Should Support Homeless People

  More than one million veterans returned to Canada after the Second World War.  Many of them remembered the misery of the Great Depression of the 1930's, for the First Canadian Division was made up of men who went directly from unemployment to war. They had experienced the indignity of relief procedures; they had been beaten up by the police, and they had worked in slave labour camps for twenty cents a day.

  Forty-three thousand Canadians were killed in the Second World War, and many thousands of others were wounded. These horrors, along with the Great Depression, caused ordinary citizens to think seriously about the kind of Canada they wanted to live in.  Their dreams were not so different from the dreams of many other people in the world, and were expressed in the United Nations' Universal Declaration of Human Rights in 1948. Article 25 of the Declaration said, "Everyone has the right to a standard of living adequate for the health and well-being of himself and of his family, including food, clothing, housing, medical care and necessary social services"

  In June, 1944, the Co-operative Commonwealth Federation (CCF), led by Tommy Douglas, was elected in Saskatchewan. In the same year the Conservative Party changed its name to Progressive Conservative, and John Diefenbaker reminded the House of Commons that Liberals had no monopoly on social welfare. Liberal Prime Minister Mackenzie King was also aware that when citizens fought for their country, they expected to be treated with more respect than as commodities in the market. He introduced the Family Allowance in 1944, and set up three new ministries to prepare for post-war Canada - the Ministry for returning soldiers, sailors and airmen, the Ministry of Reconstruction to plan for high and steady employment and the Ministry of National Health and Welfare to co-ordinate social programs.

  So successful was King in establishing the foundation for a responsible social contract for Canadians, that he won the federal election in June, 1945, and led the country into an era of prosperity.

  We Canadians were proud of ourselves in those days. We had seen what we could do in the national emergency of war. We thought of ourselves as a people with a common democratic purpose, and we even dreamed of having our own flag. We had a social contract for which men and women had died, and we believed industrial growth ought to be regulated by ethical priorities such as those expressed in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.

  In these days of food banks, high unemployment, homeless people, and a growing gap between rich and poor, we need to remember the hopes for which Canadian veterans fought.  They certainly did not fight for unemployment, malnutrition and homelessness.  Today homeless people rightly call on veterans for help, for the cenotaph in Victory Square is a monument to those who made the supreme sacrifice so that others might live with dignity and respect in a democracy. Canada is one of the richest countries in the world, and there is no reason, except greed, why all Canadians cannot have a decent income and a decent place to call home.

  If we lose our ability to govern ourselves as caring citizens with a strong sense of the common good, we will lose the right to call ourselves a democracy.

                    By Sandy Cameron

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Nike loses case over freedom of speech

  The US supreme court yesterday dismissed a claim by the footwear maker Nike that a publicity campaign to counter allegations that it uses sweatshops to make its products was protected by the right to free speech.

  The media, advertising and public relations industries had eagerly anticipated a ruling by the supreme court in what was viewed by many as a crucial case.

 A Californian anti-globalisation activist is suing the company for allegedly making false claims and the refusal to rule on Nike's rights under the US constitution means the case can now proceed.

  In the advertising and PR statements in question, Nike defended the wages and conditions at its plants in Asia where workers make trainers and other leisurewear. The company has issued various press releases and fact sheets about its use of overseas labour and said that the statements were protected by the First Amendment right to free speech. The supreme court did not make a judgment on the case but ruled that the claim had no place in the court.

 About 40 large media companies formed a coalition with conservative legal groups, the US Chamber of Commerce, the American Civil Liberties Union and other organisations to back Nike.

  They argued that corporations would become reluctant to discuss sensitive issues such as the safety of products, racial discrimination or environmental concerns if they feared that those comments could lead to a lawsuit. The Bush administration had also backed Nike in the case, arguing that defeat would give too much power to private corporate critics, turning them into de facto censors.

  Nike's critics said the company's defence hoodwinked consumers.

 The San Francisco-based activist Marc Kasky sued Nike in 1998, under a California consumer law aimed at eliminating unfair competition and false advertising. He said yesterday: "We now have the

opportunity to go to trial to determine if Nike's comments were true or not. It could have been resolved very quickly five years ago by just going to trial. Nike chose instead to seek protection under the First Amendment."

  In the mid-90s Nike became a poster-child for the anti-globalisation movement and faced a barrage of allegations that it was exploiting workers, especially women and children. The lawsuit claimed that Nike knew workers were subjected to physical punishment and sexual abuse, endured dangerous working conditions and were unable to earn a living wage, despite often working 14 hours a day. It further alleged that the company, based in Beaverton, Oregon, falsely portrayed itself as a "model of corporate responsibility" in an effort to boost sales. Nike said the suit should be dismissed because the statements cited were protected as free speech and were part of a debate in the media.

  By David Teather

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