Wilma Derksen
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Second Floor – Conversational Pit

3/10/2023

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Sometimes we need to climb a mountain to master the forgiveness process.
​
I glance out side. I see the sun reflecting off of the Canadian Museum for Human Rights. I remember climbing to the top of the Museum - experiencing that glass finger pointing upward, a dramatic symbol of hope.
 
It’s a elegant mountain encased in glass. 
 
Perfect. If I had 100 billion dollars, I’d borrow me some of the design ideas from the Museum and build me a Healing Forgiveness Centre close to the Winnipeg airport on the way to Stony Mountain.

Here, I'm going to dream a bit. What would an ideal Forgiveness/Healing Centre look like remembering that the sensitive  heart- the holding tank for all relational and emotional communications- needs to feel completely safe in order to forgive.

To begin with the second floor --- the heart floor -- would be filled with conversational pits – chairs, coffee tables, sofas, pillows and throw blankets - all arranged to fit every conversational need. Off to one side there would be little conference rooms for support meetings - some with picture windows some with mood lighting.

And then off to other side there would be a "sand tray" room lined with shelves of little "life symbol" ornaments galore. Hovering close by there would be therapists skilled in the art of sand trays – a magical story telling method that digs deep into the unconscious levels of life’s plots and needs.

There would be rooms for circles - another form of telling story. These would be facilitated by another group of  people "circle holders"– people skilled in shaping circle conversations and versed in the role of talking sticks or talking stones to keep the conversations safe and equalized.

Then perhaps on a balcony betwixt – there would be recording booths, state of the art technology – an introduction to the StoryVault Reunion Registry. I’m presuming this would be a huge computer system but I think it would also need to have a symbolic presence – to help give the feeling of secure safe keeping. Perhaps the balcony would look much like a bank with tellers and protocol – passwords - to keep the process safe and neutral.

For the prisoners from Stony Mountain, there might need to be an underground safe passage in and out for the criminally defined to also have access to the StoryVault. There would be no one too fragile or too violent to have access to the StoryVault.
 
To feel the  love as communicated through the five love languages there would need to be a gift shop with enticing little symbols of all that pertains to love. Everyone would be given a free bracelet of love beads or any other seasonal party favors.

The walls – all walls from the hallways to bathroom stalls - would need to be decorated with scripted words and quotes -  promising encouragement and inspiration and validation of love.

This entire floor would need to be hosted by sanguine conversationalists as greeters at the door who would be trained to touch discreetly – the quick hug, the pat on the shoulder – all with good warning and permission.

There would be waiter types that would serve coffee and doughnuts to whoever would need a refreshment -  for those who need to be served in order to feel special.

There would be tour guides for those who need quality time - to go on a pilgrimage. Since our climate isn't conducive to year round outdoor activities - a pilgrimage experience could be captured by walking on treadmills in a panoramic movie theatre with soft music accompanied by  scenes of the Camino de Santiago  - the ultimate pilgrimage of broken hearts.

There would would need to be another theatre that would play only classic forgiveness stories. 

Oh yes, and every emotion -  70 in total if not more -  would be identified, explored and expressed with gentleness. There would be kleenex boxes everywhere and sound proof booths for the screamers.

This would be the perfect  place to showcase my daughter's 490 crocheted tears installation art piece, that could be surrounded with little studio tables for people  to create their own artistic tears - giving them permission to cry and cry and cry some more. 

This floor would be a place where the power of storytelling , like streams of living water, would surge or trickle.. As reminders, this floor would be decorated with white ribbons symbolic of the victim/trauma bond being recycled to healing connections of love. White bows, ribbons of white would be the theme - worn by the participants and flowing like streamers from one room to the next. 

There would also need to be also those who police the boundaries of apologies and confessions – those in tune to the ultimate forgiveness moments when the "heart meets heart " These moment of connection would need to be celebrated. For this there would need to be a story wall - much like a wailing wall - decorated with stickies documenting the personal  forgiveness journeys.

To enable the flow of seekers traveling from one floor to the next, there would need to be a glass elevator between the floors.
​
To forgive another person from the heart is an act of liberation. We set that person free from the negative bonds that exist between us. We say, “I no longer hold your offense against you” But there is more. We also free ourselves from the burden of being the “offended one.” As long as we do not forgive those who have wounded us, we carry them with us or, worse, pull them as a heavy load. The great temptation is to cling in anger to our enemies and then define ourselves as being offended and wounded by them. Forgiveness, therefore, liberates not only the other but also ourselves. It is the way to the freedom of the children of God.- Henry Nouen
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Broken Dialogue

3/9/2023

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And then it crashed.

From the very beginning, the authors and program directors of restorative justice had always assured me the goal of restorative justice was to provide an equal platform for both victim and offender. 

And here I had delivered exactly what everyone had been asking for – a program that assured a platform for victims that now matched the platform of the offenders. I had thought restorative justice was all about equal opportunity of victim and offender – trying to be perfectly balanced. Apparently my program now put the offender at a disadvantage.

The Restorative Justice organizers could not endorse my program and admitted that if an encounter was offender-initiated and offender-directed, it was restorative justice and within the mandate of Correctional Service Canada. However, if it was victim-initiated and victim-oriented, it was victim services and not within their mandate.

My victim friends had been right – the existing programs had been offender-driven program from the beginning. Rene got the gymnasium; I got the classroom. Offenders had all kinds of para-corrections, non-profit organizations – charities that helped with rehabilitation programs; victims had only customer service desks in various offender-driven organizations.
​
No one had any idea of how one-sided the world of justice appeared to victims.

I became quite vocal about all of this  -  and eventually did more harm than good.

Then I had an idea - and it still is just an idea. It is a dream and nothing more.

What if we could design a neutral encounter program much like an adoption reunion registry which is a formal mechanism where adoptees and their birth family members can be reunited? These registries exist in countries  which practice closed adoption,  i.e. adoption in which the full identities of the birth parents, birth family members and the adopting family are not readily disclosed. These Reunion Registries are based on mutual consent and do matches from the information provided by the registrants.

What if the same model were used for victim and offender stories? Where either victim or offender can submit a story that would only be released if there were a match. The possibilities of something like this could be endless....

It wouldn't only attract victim and offender stories of serious crime but that of anyone who has lost their voice. It could be used by parents who have lost the ability to communicate their story to their children. It could be used by someone falsely accused -- or siblings from dysfunctional families. 

I still believe in the old fashioned Canadian simple "I'm sorry" that covers a multitude of sins like stepping on another persons toes, but there are times when that isn't enough. 

I believe that there are times when a story that is drowned out by fierce opposition needs a safe place to be seeded, stored and then held  until it can be safely matched with the intended recipient.  We need a StoryVault Reunion Registry.   

At this point, this StoryVault Reunion Registry would need to be researched, piloted and evaluated to ensure safety for anyone who would like to participate.

But I think it would be worth it. Once the StoryVault would be in place -  we would then need to find a neutral - equal opportunity  - program that will facilitate the safe exchange of matched forgiveness embedded stories.

For this we would need the Forgiveness Center. It is such fun to dream....

It was such fun to envision this Forgiveness Center with Cliff.  I miss him. He loved the idea of a StoryVault Reunion Registry. It was something we would have used....

When you have a conflict, that means that there are truths that have to be addressed on each side of the conflict. And when you have a conflict, then it's an educational process to try to resolve the conflict. And to resolve that, you have to get people on both sides of the conflict involved so that they can dialogue. - Dolores Huerta



 

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Safe Justice Conversations

3/8/2023

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As you can tell, I believe in the power of storytelling and the healing of forgiveness.

After seeing the father of a murdered daughter shake hands with the Kingpin in prison and witnessing his ongoing transformation. And, after having experienced my own healing conversations with Rene, I was eager to promote “encounter” opportunities for every victim of serious crime.

Actually Rene and I became the "dog and pony show"  – often finding ourselves on the same platform as I had at one time feared.

This created a natural demand for our services and we began to organize these “encounter” programs, witnessing the miracle over and over again.

These were helpful but then I began to notice that there was an inherent imbalance. Victims telling their stories were able to resolve their anger issues - which was enough for them. But offenders - were not only able to resolve their anger issues -  they would stand to gain concrete brownie points that would go on their record and aid in early release, etc.

When the victims found out about these 'brownie points' they were horrified and felt that they had been manipulated. I began to sense the imbalance more and more and decided that these encounters were offender driven and focused and not as victim friendly as I thought.

Eventually we found the funding to pilot our own Safe Justice Encounters in which the victim was in control.
It was set up to partner with the John Howard Society and Mediation Services. I felt that we had finally developed the perfect victim-focused, victim-driven, and victim-initiated restorative justice program.

In this program, victims were in control of the entire encounter process. They were front and center. They could outline their needs, their expectations, and then we would take their custom-made plan and set up a meeting with the offender.

We were so excited. One of the first encounters met every one of our expectations. The victim was able to lay out her plan carefully, concisely and descriptively.

She bravely met the offender who was at times disgusting. Through out the session he was still trying to control her. I was glad for Rene who managed the offender, while I managed to keep the victim safe.
  
There can be no vulnerability without risk; there can be no community without vulnerability; there can be no peace, and ultimately no life, without community. ​ M. Scott Peck

Both Rene and I have documented our work together. You can find them on Amazon “Most Wanted,” by Rene Durocher: “Dispelling the Clouds,” by Wilma Derksen.
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White Ribboned Forgiveness

3/7/2023

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Forgiveness needs to be embedded in storytelling.

Stories rooted in forgiveness remove the flags of red hot trauma by floating white ribbons of peace - reconnecting  broken relationships.

Stories, because of their imaginative power, have much greater impact than simple facts. A simple apology has more power when it is embedded in story.  Increased brain engagement leads not only to increased thought on the engaging topic, but increased memory as well. When that engagement and memory are controlled and focused in a positive way, the brain’s love for storytelling can be the key to healing and happiness found in forgiveness.

When a person can identify the role  of forgiveness in their own story as well as the individual elements of their story, they can then begin to understand their lives and their world  in a new integrated and healing way.

Stories embedded in forgiveness are a bonding tool. They unite people in their quests to overcome turmoil because everyone can identify with and relate to a story.

Hearing someone else’s forgiveness story can provide hope to the broken. Often, the only thing that can comfort someone who has lived through great tragedy or tough circumstances is the account of someone else who went through something similar and made it through. They will feel less alone.

A forgiveness story can heal the wounds of the past and focus on the challenges and joys of the present.

Remorse, confessions, apologies, forgiveness and promises of change, become even more powerful when embedded in vulnerable storytelling.

The most amazing thing for me is that every single person who sees a movie, not necessarily one of my movies, brings a whole set of unique experiences. Now, through careful manipulation and good storytelling, you can get everybody to clap at the same time, to hopefully laugh at the same time, and to be afraid at the same time.- Steven Spielberg


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Importance of storytelling

3/6/2023

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Sharing our story is heart work.  Storytelling is where we feel it, live it, tell it. Telling our story is the most important thing we will ever do.

The aftermath of murder changed our world and it was through the art of storytelling that we kept found our way through it.

It was by telling our story that we motivated people to look for Candace when she went missing. Then after her body was found, it was through storytelling that we could find meaning in her death and our own healing.

It was through storytelling that we were able to connect with the other side- those who could be considered our enemies. It was storytelling that helped us cross impossible boundaries and free ourselves from the victim and offender trauma bond that threatened to hold us hostage.
 
Story telling is truth-telling: letting others see what’s in our heart. Ultimately we share our stories of suffering in the hopes that others will find comfort and guidance in the shared story while they continue their own journey.

The science backs up this belief.

According to the neuroscience of storytelling, one reason the brain falls in love with a good story is because hearing stories encourages the release of the hormones oxytocin and cortisol. Oxytocin is a hormone that controls things like empathy and social interaction. Cortisol is connected to the stress response - and helps regulate it.

We can become healthier as we share our stories.

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” — Maya Angelou
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Kingpin

3/3/2023

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The conversation broadened and became even more intense.

Because of my position in the support group for parents of murdered children, I was able to persuade other members of the group to come and join me in a 'face-to-face' program that was just starting and needed volunteers- victims of serious crime to tell their stories.  I was thrilled. They were stuck in their grief and I was looking for anything that might help them move on. 

We drove to Stony Mountain Institution. At the security gate of the penitentiary, we met with the Justice Program organizers. Nervously we locked our purses and wallets away, and walked down a long corridor that twisted and turned just enough to lose our entire orientation. We landed up in a gymnasium that had been carefully set up according to the diagrams we had exchanged.

We had planned for this well. They had sent their agenda; I had sent ours – and we blended the two.

As we were entering, someone told us that it was going to be well attended. In fact, even the “Kingpin” – the most important inmate in the organization – was going to attend. When we asked what constituted a Kingpin, they said, “Oh – he is the one who has killed the most people in prison.”

We sat down at a long head table in the front with glasses of water. I had insisted on the table. There was a large picture hanging on the wall behind us – a winter scene of a riverbank – ironically, a picture of serenity.

By the time we were ready to start – there were  about 100 inmates in the room. Even though they looked very ordinary, we knew that every one of them was a law breaker.

We began – introductions of us, our program – and then into our stories. I was the one to start with my story – almost as an icebreaker. It was to be a simple version – basic facts.

As I was concluding, suddenly there was movement in the room – I had obviously triggered them and everyone was getting up to get coffee. The president suggested that we take a break.

When we came back, some men expressed a huge appreciation for my courage.

Then I asked our next storyteller to tell his story. The father of a murdered daughter got up. In the support group, he had always presented himself as a very conservative, soft-spoken, gracious man – with a bit of a chuckle – but now he was changed. He preached hellfire and brimstone – not literally – but that’s how it felt. His anger was palpable. His language colorful.

After his story, the first question from the audience was whether we believed in capital punishment. We avoided answering this…sensing that it was a challenge to us.

We broke again for coffee. They needed it. The air was so tense.

During this break, our next speaker, the next story teller, told me that she wasn’t going to tell her story.  I was surprised – she was usually so vocal. I was disappointed. She had this wonderfully deep voice – and colorful language – that would connect with this group – but I had no intention of pressuring her.

So, we opened up the next segment with an open floor discussion. I noticed that the Kingpin – who had started the evening by sitting in the back of the gym, was now sitting close to the front, it was as if he was inching forward… Was he warming or threatening?.

The first men to speak responded to the father’s story, and expressed their gratitude for his courage. They liked his honesty and colorful language.

Then an inmate, who had been scowling at us the entire time, stood up. “All of you victims appear to me as if you are monkeys carrying your dead on your backs.”

The room went very quiet.

Apparently, this is what Japanese macaque monkeys do. The mothers sometimes persist in carrying infant corpses until they are covered with flies and completely decayed. “Occasionally, a corpse may be carried until it is mummified.”

This was not a pretty image. Not a pretty image of us.

Then the mother of a murdered son, who had told me she wasn't going to tell her story,  suddenly stood up. She seemed to grow in size. “I don’t care what we look like to you – but I will never ever forgive the person who killed my son.”

Her anger was frightening. The whole room was electrified.

My heart stopped. There were 100 of them, three of us – six including the organizers and support staff. I was worried. I was the one responsible for this meeting I had recruited the storytellers. If it exploded, I would never forgive myself. That’s when I noticed that we didn’t have any correctional officers in the room and the organizers that were in the room weren’t the type that could have handled a prison revolt.

No one moved. You could have cut the tension with a knife – literally.

And then the Kingpin, – stood up. “I can’t forgive either,” he said.

He turned to the crowd of inmates. “Face it – that’s why we are all in here. It’s because we can’t forgive.”

There it was – the word forgiveness. 

It gave her permission and she launched into her story.

She told it with gusto and the men loved her – identified with her.

In the end, we broke into discussion groups again. Out of the corner of my eye – I saw the father walk over to the Kingpin – and shake his hand. They were greeting each other as friends. The father was no longer full of dark despair - he was alive.
​
It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad. - C. S. Lewis

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Lifer's Lounge

3/2/2023

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After the breakfast, I trusted Rene.

We continued our conversation.

Since he had been in prison for so long, steeped in the criminal culture, he could answer questions about the nature of someone who would murder our daughter better than any one else had been able to so I persisted. Finally he said. "I know what you need. You need to meet my friends in the Lifer's lounge - people who are serving life sentences."

I agreed. The date was set. I drove to Stony Mountain Institution.
​ 
Rene was already at the security desk – waiting nervously, as I knew he would be. I was processed quickly – much more quickly than usual. Staff all seemed to be aware of Rene. He had a unique authority in prison.

Then I went down the hallway. My eyes were on Rene, following him. I had no idea where we were going…. I expected to enter into the dome that would lead us to the prison cell area. Instead, we took a side door, a nondescript door, down a flight of stairs that opened to a large room.

It felt like a lounge – minus a well-supplied bar. There was a counter for coffee and refreshments in a room of chairs and sofas. Through the one door, I could see a pool table and through other, weights for training.

I was invited to sit on a chair as the lifers sat down on the sofas and chairs around me.

That’s when I noticed the escort guards leave through a side door. I felt alone – very alone. 

Rene sat directly opposite – positioned himself so that he could see both my face and all the faces of the lifers. He introduced me and reassured me that I was safe in that lifers’ room – probably safer than I had ever been. Then he gave a short description of why the meeting had been planned. 

Rene then turned to me. “This is the one rule. You can ask any question you want from any one of the guys - and they have promised me they will answer."

I was ready with my answers but I stalled, there were two men sitting behind me. “I hope you don’t mind,” I said, “but I would really like these two gentlemen sitting behind me to join the circle – so they will be included.” 

Slowly – very slowly – they got up and moved their chairs into the circle. It was a big African American and his rather quiet sidekick.

Rene smiled. “Thank you, guys! And I want to congratulate you, Wilma – not just anyone can move those guys.”

The group broke into nervous laughter.

My first question was: What did you do? In other words, I was asking them for their prison ID. What were they in for? 

They said that it was generally against their code of anonymity in prison to respond, but they would do it for me.

The Lifers' president started. “Believe it or not, I am falsely accused. I didn’t kill the man I was accused of killing.”

“Then you aren’t a lifer?” I asked. Thinking – this is great. Here I am with these convicted lifers, and they are all going to deny that they killed someone. It’s going to be one huge denial – and what is the purpose of that?

“No, I’m not a lifer. But I am a member here because I was convicted of murder – and I have often wanted to kill someone. I understand killing.”

The next to speak was a young Indigenous man who said he had killed his common-law wife. He explained that he had come from a violent background, and thought he needed a gun to protect himself, and was surprised that he had used it in a rage.

Next to him was a man who said that when his companion abused and hurt his two-month-old daughter, he flew into a rage. He didn’t know why – but in therapy realized that he had been abused as a child and was really killing all of those who had abused him. He couldn’t make it out in the world – he was institutionalized. He deliberately drank so he could come back to prison to be in his comfort zone. He had been in prison for 25 years.

Next was a good-looking, young, Romeo-type man who said he had killed his wife in broad daylight – a brutal killing on a prominent street in Winnipeg – because he felt that his wife was making out with a friend.

Then there was an Asian man, with glasses, who said he had been suffering depression because his marriage of 13 years had failed, and he had set fire to his in-law’s house, badly burning the family – and killing one. He had been picked up by the police the very next day. Everyone knew….

Then there was an exceptionally friendly man with a small frame. He said that he was a survivor who had lived on the street and had fallen in with drug dealers to survive. He had entered into prison because of drugs. But once inside, he had fought to belong. When someone called him a goon, his honor was at stake and he killed the man. His second killing was in keeping with the first. He didn’t know that he had options. He didn’t know that he could walk away from an insult.

The next was a balding, American soldier-type. He said that he had killed his best friend when they had fought over a woman in a bar. There had never been any intention to kill, but the anger had escalated so that when his friend pulled out a weapon, he killed his friend in self-defense. It probably could have been a tossup as to who would have been killed – he had just been the better fighter because of his training in the army.

Then there was an African American man – the one who had not wanted to sit in the circle. He said that he couldn’t look at himself for six months after he had killed a man – except to wash his face. He was in because of a drug-related killing. He said that he was too proud to commit suicide so he hurt and killed others instead.

Then there was a studious-looking man who said that his entire family were teachers, and he had never fit in. It was a strong, patriarchal family where everyone was assumed to be strong. Keep the family happy and never show anger. He hadn’t been strong. He had never shown any anger – and then he had, in a fit of rage, killed his wife.
 
I counted them - there were ten men in the room, including Rene. These were men who had killed, men who had wanted to kill, and men who had tried but failed. 

A long time ago – eleven years before – I had admitted to wanting to avenge Candace’s death and kill ten murderers – now I had met them. I had sat with ten violent men, and I had not wanted to kill any of them.
​
In fact, I felt something akin to compassion.

“Compassion asks us to go where it hurts, to enter into the places of pain, to share in brokenness, fear, confusion, and anguish. Compassion challenges us to cry out with those in misery, to mourn with those who are lonely, to weep with those in tears. Compassion requires us to be weak with the weak, vulnerable with the vulnerable, and powerless with the powerless. Compassion means full immersion in the condition of being human.”- Henri J.M. Nouwen 
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Second Breakfast Conversation

3/1/2023

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When I got back to my office, I realized I still wasn't satisfied. 

I called the "most wanted" again. I needed another conversation.

He was already sitting in the same place as last time.

I slid into the booth opposite him.

For a moment, he just watched me. I watched him. There was no smile. This was all business.

“Thank you for meeting me again,” I said.

“I will answer any question you want to ask. I will try to answer them as honestly as I can,” he said sincerely, but unsmiling, just as he had been before.

This time, I went back to his childhood. His name....

“Actually, I was named after my brother, who died as a baby just before I came along.
Why she did that – I’ll never know. It didn’t make things easy for me – to feel like a replacement baby. She also named me after my father whom she hated.”

“Hated her husband?” I asked.

“Yes – she hated him. I wondered why anyone would name their seventh child after the man they hated. And then if I did anything, she was unhappy with, she would say, ‘You are just like your father!’ She reminded me of how she felt about her husband – and me – constantly.”

“What was your father like? Why did she hate him?” I asked. I was probably being a bit obvious the way I was looking for a troubled relationship. I assumed all offenders would have trouble with their fathers. Even average-functioning, healthy males seemed to have trouble with their fathers. I remembered when my husband, who was studying masculinity at the time, would ask all the men we met if they had a good relationship with their father. Many of them burst into tears….

His mother hated his father because she had left him for another woman... he said.

I glanced at my watch. I needed to get back to the office....

I searched for the right question – that definitive question that would reveal his heart to me. I needed to know his heart before I'd be able to trust  him.

“Would you ever rob another bank?” I asked.

He paused – weighing his words carefully. He showed a new vulnerability. “I can’t say I would never rob another bank. There are no guarantees in life. I don’t know what I’ll do ten years from now – even next week.” He paused again – his gaze steady. “But I can tell you that I don’t want to rob another bank in my life. I can also tell you that I won’t rob a bank today. I can only answer for the day. Today is all I have.”

I stared at him. He had just admitted that he wasn’t the normal, victimized convict. He was driven by money. He was addicted to the good life. His inclination to steal – to break the law –  was like an addiction. He was driven....

I continued questioning. There were no excuses, no promises, no denial, none.... His words matched the reality of who he was. His guard was down. We were finally having a heart to heart.

I felt that I could finally trust him. He had integrity – at least at that moment - he had integrity. It was all that he would/could promise.
​
“Earth provides enough to satisfy every man's needs, but not every man's greed.”
― Mahatma Gandhi

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First Breakfast Conversation

2/28/2023

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It's all about the conversation.
​
After listening to the full story, I slipped out of the building and drove slowly back to my office - pondering. 
 
I had one question. Does someone change from once being the “Most Wanted Criminal in Canada,”  a dangerous, gun-carrying, violent bank robber – into a good, good father - as he was claiming? 

If he hadn’t changed and if I didn’t say anything – I would be enabling a violent man to continue to influence young vulnerable teens. Not only that, what if the Restorative Leaders were interested in using our stories together? What if we were going to be their next dog and pony show - sharing the same platform as we had done today.. and not even knowing about it before hand. 

By the time I got to my office, I was convinced I needed to confront the leaders of the Restorative Justice movement with my concerns. But before I did that I would need to know more. I was a journalist by trade....I would need to know the whole story. 

I found Durocher’s contact information.

I picked up the telephone.

Would he meet me for breakfast?

I would pay.

He accepted my invitation   - we set up a time the following week.

By the time the day rolled around, I was one hot mess of nerves when I walked into the restaurant that morning to meet him.

He was already sitting in the back, dark corner of the restaurant when I arrived – in exactly the place I would have chosen.

We were probably the two most unlikely people ever to meet and have a breakfast conversation. He was French, a Catholic born in Montreal, Quebec. I was British, a Mennonite born in Chilliwack, British Columbia. He was a bank robber, a well-known criminal, violent and ruthless. I was a parent of a murdered child, law-abiding,  a bit of a pacifist, and conscientious. I had been sheltered – he was street smart. He had grown up breaking the law to survive. I was pious to the extreme. I hadn’t even smoked a cigarette behind a barn – much less stolen anything.  He had robbed a bank – driven by greed. I was from a modest, frugal family that felt money was the “root of all evil.”

 I slid into the booth opposite him.

We just looked at each other. His eyes were dark.

How does one open this kind of conversation? It didn’t seem appropriate to talk about the weather.

I plunged in. I began asking him questions about his arrest, his crimes, his time in prison ,,,,,  I'll admit that it was more of an interrogation.  He endured it well. 

Mainly I asked about his decision to change. It was for his children, his wife....., he said.

He answered every question I asked...at least I thought he did....

I went back to the office to ponder some more.

The search for justice and security, the struggle for equality of opportunity, the quest for tolerance and harmony, the pursuit of human dignity - these are moral imperatives which we must work towards and think about on a daily basis. -  Aga Khan IV
​



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Starting the Conversation!

2/27/2023

1 Comment

 
It's all about the conversation.

I was immune to the trauma bond - or so I thought. We didn't know who had murdered our daughter so I wasn't bonded with anyone - or so I thought.
 
As first I had almost been envious of other parents of murdered children who knew who had killed their children. But then as I watched them, I began to see how all-absorbing this knowledge could be. There seemed to be an invisible bond – later identified as a trauma bond -  between them and the murderer. 
 
They were obsessed. Most of our support meetings were spent talking about the perpetrators and the ongoing conflict in the media, in the courtrooms and eventually with Corrections. It seemed as if the perpetrator was in control of their lives. One father described it as being tied to the murderer with a rope and being jerked around with every one of his movements.
 
Even though the case remained unsolved, I had come to my own conclusions. There were some suicides reported in our area of town so I had decided the murderer – a stranger to us had not been able to live with himself and suicided. We would never know what had happened: he was no longer a threat. I felt free of all of that. We were able to freely tell our story without including anyone else. We were able to freely “forgive” without any responsibility as to what that meant in the real world. There was a freedom in not knowing.  
 
However, without really realizing it, I was being slowly drawn into the world of Restorative Justice, a growing movement of the time which was exploring this trauma bond.  I was being positioned as the forgiving victim in dialogue with the repentant offender. It began as a hypothetical dialogue….
 
And then the dialogue became rea when I was asked to tell my story at a Restorative Justice day being held in a local high school. I was sharing the "story telling" day with an offender I had never met him. I told my story to a class room of students in the morning and was invited to hear "his" story that afternoon.

The school gymnasium was filled with squirming high school adolescents – a collective audience of hormones – a challenge for any speaker even at the best of times. And this was the most challenging time of all – right after lunch.

They wiggled, they talked, and they threw things at each other – until he walked on to the stage.

He placed his hands on the podium, and immediately a hush fell over the gym. There was something about him. He embodied the indescribable power of someone who is exceptionally confident, composed, and ready to take on anything the world wants to throw at him. We all felt it – we all knew it.

“I am René Durocher,” he said in a thick French-Canadian accent. He paused and scanned the audience.

“When I was a young boy, a priest came to our house. He told my mother that I had great potential. He said that I would become a great person someday. He just wasn’t sure whether it would be a great prime minister – or a great criminal.”

No one was talking, throwing things, or punching anyone anymore. You could have heard a pin drop in that full gymnasium.

“I chose to become a criminal.”

He paused to let his words sink in. Then he added quietly, “And I became one of the best.”

No one moved after that – he had the students in the palm of his hand as he began to tell his story - of how he had become the "most wanted" man in Canada.

The hypothetical victim/offender dialogue - had become a reality. He had been presented by the organizers of the event as a rehabilitated offender. On stage I saw him become a dangerous repeat offender glorifying his crimes and having access to the most vulnerable of audiences.

All my victim alarms went off, I wanted to escape... but I too was mesmerized. 
 
If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor. If an elephant has its foot on the tail of a mouse and you say that you are neutral, the mouse will not appreciate your neutrality. - Desmond Tutu
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    "W", stands for writing, walking, wondering, wandering, winning, wincing,  and for Wilma,  This is an invitation to come walk, write, wander with me!

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