The following is part of the editors comments in Victim's Voice.. newsletter for survivors of homicide..reprinted by permission of the author. It was written by Wilma Derkson, who's daughter Candace was murdered 14 yr. ago. and who is my dear friend.

"Recently many readers have come up to me and asked me how I can keep writing the feature stories of Pathways which, because of their topic, carry such sadness and pathos. And I don't see it that way at all. I'm just talking about friends. Some of them are new friends, many of them are old friends. Deborah is an old friend. We've known each other at least nine years, and it's truly a pleasure to introduce her to you. She is a rare gem. IN all that we've been through, I've never seen her be anything but honest, upbeat and gracious.

Thank you Deborah, for sharing your story with us. Your skill of words, your understanding of trauma and the importance of time is such a gift to us at this moment. We have also glimpsed your powerful healing spirit and it has helped to guide our own spirits. Your wisdom lights the way for many people and we continue to wish you courage and strength in your important work. Thank you especially for sharing the memorial poem of your son with us. It is truly timeless and universal.

Article Text:

To be with Deborah KiiskeeN'tum for any length of time is to experience a kind of cross cultural immersion. On the 11 floor of the Woodsworth Building, kitty corner from the parliament buildings, where she embraces technology with a fervor. She surfs the net, has designed her own Web page and writes training curriculums. Then driving to her acreage a few miles east of Dugald, Manitoba, she looks equally at home organizing a Sweat in her back yard, hugging her appaloosa horse or building a play structure for her children and grandchildren. She comes by all of it naturally.

Sitting in Tim Hortons' with the three o'clock coffee crowd swirling around us, she explains to me, "I'm of mixed Mohawk, Cree and Dutch background." she says. Her blond hair is Dutch; her soul is aboriginal. "I was primarily raised by my Mohawk grandmother, who was a Traditional Healer and I was given to do healing work in a specific way around grieving." Her healing work began thirteen years ago, not with a glorious doctorate, but from her own pain.

She tells the story as she has told it many times. "My son's name was Joseph Paul Dennis Samson. He would have been 20 on his birthday, May 12, but he was murdered on May 8, in Grand Prairie, AB. by two non-aboriginal boys who took exception to his relationship with a white girl. My son was treaty Indian and the boys who killed him were the sons of a judge and a police officer. They stabbed him 28 times, then threw him over a ten foot fence into the local water reservoir. His body was found six weeks later."

The six weeks of waiting were traumatic. "I knew the night he was killed that he had died. I woke up in the middle of the night and I heard him calling me. I woke his father up and said: 'Joe's dead' and he just said, 'You're crazy'. I got several calls during the next few days telling us that Joe had been killed, and all along the police said that there had been no crime. The police were really not good in dealing with things."

She says that the media were like vultures. "Every time I stepped out of my house, there was someone shoving a camera into my face wanting an interview. And I wasn't in the space to do anything." Her guilt was the worst. "My son and I had this big, awful fight the last time I saw him. I kept saying to him, 'You know you have to stop drinking and you have to stop drugging and you have to get your life back on track.' Those were the last words we spoke to each other. They were angry words. So I carried a lot of guilt for a long time. Did he know how much we loved him?"

She then recounts the good times. Joseph had a special relationship with his other siblings. "We had nine children at home at the time. The water fights were the big recreation because it didn't cost any money. IT was before the days of those wonderful big water pistols that they have now. This one time, I ran into my bedroom because I thought it was safe in there. I went over to the window and looked out, a bucket of water came right through the screen and I was drenched." she laughs at the memory and then sobers quickly.

"There were a lot of people saying 'If you'd been a better mother, this wouldn't have happened to Joseph.' So I carried that guilt for a long time. It's taken me a long time to make peace with the fact that God controls these things. I believe that when you are born there are a certain number of days and the only person who knows that is God. And whatever days you have is what you have. And wether I say God or Creator, it's all the same to me. It makes no difference. My faith says that there was a purpose to my son's life..and to his death." She didn't see the purpose back then. Her recovery process was long and hard.

"I remember crying at the funeral and just being inconsolable. And then I remember our minister getting up and saying, 'Well, Joe lived his life and he made his choices and where ever he is, he's happier there than here.' And I wanted to get up and punch him." She laughs now at the thought.

"Like.. how dare he use such worn out platitudes around the loss of someone's life. I just remember being so consumed with anger at the funeral. I carried that anger for a long time."

She decided to change the system that had failed her son and her family. "I was relentless and took on the Minister of Social Services and the Minister of Community Health. It was worth it. A year after the murder, I saw changes to the laws, changes to the way they conducted mental health assessments and changes to police policies and procedures. There were a lot of positive changes that came from that rage."

But there were times when she could do nothing. "It's really a form of post traumatic stress as I understand it. Your body numbs out and you can only do so much and then your brain just--stops. I sat down at nine o'clock in the morning on a Saturday and thought I sat there for a few minutes but when I woke up it was five o'clock in the evening. I hadn't moved all day. I remember not being able to keep track of anything and having to write everything down. For example, kids' dental appointments--and I had eight kids still at home. Apparently on the surface I appeared as if I were doing all right, but I was just going through the motions. IT was like being a robot, not really being there in my mind or body." She can only remember what happened during those times because of her day book entries. "There's almost two years of my life that I don't remember. I just remember crying. Whether I was crying on the outside or crying on the inside, I don't even remember. I don't think there are enough tears in me to have cried that long. I just remember everything being so dim. The sun never shone. Even when it shone, I couldn't see it. It was like I had sunglasses on. The grief was just so intense."

One group of construction workers near the window are boisterous, but she pays no attention. "I remember the exact moment the intensity stopped. It was about two years after Joe died, about this time of year when I got up in the middle of the night, --wide awake-- and I went into the kitchen and sat down and wrote a poem called Last Times. I don't remember writing it, but I remember at the end, looking at it and realizing I was going to be okay. And it was like the sun came back. It was that distinct moment in my life where everything was brighter. It was like moving from black and white to Technicolor. That poem has become a monument or memorial to my son's life and his death and it made some meaning for me. It gave me a place to begin to live again, to honour my son and my other children and the rest of my life. To begin to live every moment that I have in case there is a last time--so that doesn't ever become that lost time again. Life is a gift."

The crowd has left now. It's quiet again. "A lot of my life since then has focused on helping people grieve. In my culture we grieve a lot of things in an aboriginal way. We grieve the loss of our land, the loss of our culture, the loss of our children and the loss of our families. We face murder more than any other group. Our children did more than any other group-4.4 times more often."

She then describes the cumulative effects of violence on her culture. They are hard to imagine. How does one cope? We both know of families who have not only experienced the murder of one person but two or three in their extended family and they still have to live with the constant threat of violence. "You never get a chance to completely come through the circle when you're re-victimized all over again. Every time you're traumatized, it adds on-like a snowball rolling down the hill. It might stop. When it gets going, it keeps the same momentum because of the size of the snowball. When you start at the top of the mountain, roll through a valley and then down another mountainside, it continues to pick up snow and grow. Each time a human being is violated, and if they don't get the resources they need to truly heal, they will keep carrying the weight of their pain with them. When times are normal, they will react out of context with the current situation. When they get hurt again, they react to everything. They react out of context to the current situation, but in context with the larger situation. That's why healing circles are so effective in our culture."

Healing circles are a ritual form of sharing according to the teachings and traditions of First Nations people. Even though each circle is different, each circle remains the same. There is always a circle, a place to share your name, your story and your pain. Deborah is currently working for Child Find Manitoba as and educational coordinator for the Ganawenimig Safety and Prevention Program which teaches children how to be safe and to have street safe skills. She incorporates the medicine wheel teachings into the program. The teaching of humility becomes "I can't always help myself. If I get hurt, I ask for help." She is currently writing the curriculum and putting it together to be tested in the classrooms. The hope is that it will eventually be part of the school curriculums. She believes it is critical to introduce it now since the numbers of missing aboriginal children is increasing yearly. In 1997, 3200 children went missing in Manitoba, 80 % were aboriginal.

Her private life is another story. Having been raised in a dysfunctional home with alcohol problems and being shuffled off into foster homes, she has always had a tender spot in her life for abandoned children. She has 6 birth children, 8 adopted children and some 50 foster children. She now has 17 grandchildren. She is currently going through a painful separation with her husband. After a photo session at her home in the country, we stand back watching her daughter play with the dogs.. carefree, happy. Deborah is making some hard decisions--whether she will be able to maintain the acreage or sell it because of the separation. She can't bear to live without her horses. It's one of those reflective moments. "But you know which was the most defining moment in my life?..she asks while I wait.. "the murder of my son. With all that's happened in my life, " she lists enough horrendous experiences to set most of us awhirl, "the most defining moment still remains the murder of my son. It all still pivots around that one experience."

How does one survive then?

"You know when you divide your sorrows with other people, you also multiply your joys. I've seen the majick happen so often. Grieving is something everyone has to do. The only thing certain in our lives is that we are some day going to die. Everybody has to face it-we need to teach people how. We need to give them the skills to deal with it. We need to support people who have been traumatized by murder. We need more outreach. We need to teach people how to talk to each other so that they can find the comfort and support they need. People need to stop being afraid of death and know that it's okay to talk about it. That's the real healing. That's where the real power lies. And that's where I think we'll begin to stop the violence--it's in that empowerment. When we are no longer afraid. When we are part of the circle of healing.