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Encountering silence(s) : mitigating the negative social impacts of construction camps with Lake Babine… Quinn, Hannah Elizabeth 2017

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      ENCOUNTERING  SILENCE(S):  MITIGATING  THE  NEGATIVE  SOCIAL  IMPACTS  OF  CONSTRUCTION  CAMPS  WITH  LAKE  BABINE  NATION    By    HANNAH  ELIZABETH  QUINN      B.A.,  McGill  University,  2014    A  THESIS  SUBMITTED  IN  PARTIAL  FULFILLMENT  OF  THE  REQUIREMENTS  FOR  THE  DEGREE  OF  MASTER  OF  ARTS  in  THE  FACULTY  OF  GRADUATE  AND  POSTDOCTORAL  STUDIES  (Anthropology)    THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  BRITISH  COLUMBIA    (Vancouver)      April  2017    ©  Hannah  Elizabeth  Quinn,  2017    	   ii	  Abstract    Lake  Babine  Nation  is  currently  in  negotiations  with  the  Prince  Rupert  Gas  Transmission  Pipeline  Project  regarding  the  construction  of  a  950km  liquid  natural  gas  pipeline  through  their  traditional  territory.  While  the  project  has  been  approved,  Nation  members  continue  to  express  their  concerns  regarding  construction  camps,  facilities  designed  to  accommodate  up  to  1000  temporary  workers.  Increased  rates  of  sexual  violence,  sexually  transmitted  infections,  and  domestic  abuse  are  some  of  the  impacts  they  are  most  concerned  about.  While  the  initial  goal  of  my  research  was  to  voice  the  concerns  of  Babine  women,  I  was  frequently  confronted  by  prolonged  silences,  long  pauses,  refusals,  and  hesitations  in  my  research  encounters.  This  thesis  reflects  my  critical  engagement  with  silence  as  it  emerged  in  interviews,  negotiations,  public  discourse,  and  in  the  lived  experience  of  Indigenous  women  in  Lake  Babine  Nation.  The  questions  that  motivated  this  analysis  attend  to  silence  as  a  concept,  experience,  and  method.  What  follows  is  the  genealogy  of  the  silences  encountered:  the  silences  incited  by  colonialism,  the  silences  mobilized  by  marginalized  people  to  negotiate  institutions  that  seek  to  silence  them,  and  the  embodied  silences  of  those  who  live  with  the  embodied  consequences  of  sexual  violence.      The  purpose  of  my  focus  on  silence  has  not  been  to  impose  a  grand  theory  of  silence  on  my  research  participants.  Rather,  the  goal  has  been  to  attend  to  the  pauses  and  gaps  as  they  emerged  in  the  research  process,  in  a  non-­binary  way.  By  extending  silence,  Babine  women  invited  me  to  reflect  on  my  positionality,  the  structures  of  domination  in  which  we  are  implicated,  and  on  their  embodied  and  affective  realities.  What  I  find  myself  left  with  is  silence  as  invitation—an  invitation  to  learn,  to  unsettle  colonial  and  racial  relationships,  to  refuse,  to  resist,  and  to  listen.  Through  a  concerted  focus  on  silences  that  surround  sexual  violence  against  Indigenous  women,  we  may  begin  to  see  how  anti-­violence  work  can  contribute  to  processes  of  decolonization  and  self-­determination.  This  research  establishes  silence  as  a  legitimate  focus  of  investigation  in  qualitative  research  that  may  be  approached  with  the  same  rigor  with  which  we  approach  that  which  is  spoken.        	   iii	  Preface    This  thesis  is  an  original  intellectual  product  of  the  author,  Hannah  Elizabeth  Quinn.  The  fieldwork  reported  throughout  this  thesis  was  covered  by  UBC  Ethics  Certificate  number  H16-­00591.                      	   iv	  Table  of  Contents  Abstract  .......................................................................................................................................  ii  Preface  .......................................................................................................................................  iii  Table  of  Contents  ......................................................................................................................  iv  List  of  Abbreviations  ..................................................................................................................  v  Acknowledgements  ...................................................................................................................  vi  Introduction  .................................................................................................................................  1  Context  and  Background  ...........................................................................................................  6     Lake  Babine  Nation  ........................................................................................................  6     The  Prince  Rupert  Gas  Transmission  Pipeline  Project  (PRGT)  .................................  7  Section  I:  Silence  in  the  Boardroom  .......................................................................................  10  Section  II:  The  C3  Workshop  ...................................................................................................  22  Section  III:  In  Babine,  With  Babine  .........................................................................................  33  Conclusion  ................................................................................................................................  44  Bibliography  ..............................................................................................................................  48        	   v	  List  of  Abbreviations      BC      British  Columbia  BCEAO     British  Columbia  Environmental  Assessment  Office  LBN      Lake  Babine  Nation  NYSHN     Native  Youth  Sexual  Health  Network     PRGT      Prince  Rupert  Gas  Transmission  SEEMP     Socio-­Economic  Effects  Monitoring  Plan  STI      Sexually  Transmitted  Infection  UBC        The  University  of  British  Columbia  UNBC      University  of  Northern  British  Columbia           	   vi	  Acknowledgements      This  research  project  would  not  have  been  possible  without  the  support  and  guidance  of  Betty  Patrick  and  Verna  Power.  These  two  women  have  taught  me  more  about  perseverance,  commitment,  and  humility  in  the  past  two  years  than  I  could  ever  have  imagined.  I  am  so  grateful  for  their  generosity  and  passion  throughout  this  research  process.    To  the  women  of  Firelight,  Kathleen  Yung  and  Libby  Chisholm,  for  welcoming  me  to  their  team  and  providing  me  with  opportunities  to  learn  from  their  experiences.  In  particular,  I  owe  a  great  deal  of  thanks  to  Ginger  Gibson  for  introducing  me  to  this  project,  Lake  Babine  Nation,  and  the  world  of  research  with  communities.  Your  unwavering  commitment  to  this  work  continues  to  inspire  me.  Thank  you  for  trusting  me  and  for  mentoring  me  over  the  past  year  and  a  half.      I  am  so  grateful  for  my  supervisor  and  committee  for  their  challenging  and  insightful  feedback.  Early  on  in  this  process  I  asked  to  be  pushed  and  to  be  challenged,  and  they  delivered.  Thank  you  to  Sarah  Hunt  for  her  insights,  difficult  questions,  and  direction  towards  incredible  resources.  To  Leslie  Robertson—who  likely  does  not  know  how  much  her  writing  and  work  has  influenced  my  own—thank  you  for  the  coffees,  dog  walks,  and  office  chats.  Your  sense  of  humour,  endless  encouragement,  and  rebellious  spirit  inspires  me  constantly.    Finally,  to  my  loved  ones.  Mum  and  dad  (and  the  rest  of  you),  whether  you  have  been  on  the  other  end  of  the  telephone  or  at  the  dinner  table,  your  genuine  enthusiasm  for  this  research  and  constant  curiosity  in  the  process  kept  me  motivated.  To  my  partner  Jeff,  you  deserve  an  MA  of  your  own  (another  one)  for  the  amount  of  time  you  have  spent  engaged  in  and  absorbed  by  this  research.    Your  kindness  and  understanding  are  unparalleled  in  this  world.  To  Alicia  Florrick,  for  being  the  ‘Good  Wife’  I  needed  her  to  be.      Finally,  to  the  members  of  Lake  Babine  Nation,  thank  you  for  so  generously  sharing  your  stories  with  me.  Your  experiences  and  knowledge  give  this  research  life.        	   1	  Introduction    In  1904,   fisheries  guardians   first  entered  Babine  territory   to  destroy   the  salmon  weirs  and  to  prohibit  their   use   for   all   time.   The   promise   of   nets   was   not   met   in   1905,   and,   in   the   summer   of   1906,   a  desperate  and  hungry  nation  re-­erected  the  barricades  and  swore  to  uphold  their  Aboriginal  resource  entitlements.  Fisheries  guardians,  officials  of  the  then  Ministry  of  Marine  and  Fisheries,  returned  to  the  barricades  and  attempted  to  destroy  them.  The  Babine  resisted  forcibly.  A  few  women,  led,  it  is  said,  by  Hazelcho,  wife  of  Tszak,   intimidated   the  guardians,  who   retreated   into  deeper  waters.  There   the  women  sat  on  them,  humiliating  them  until  they  left,  taking  with  them  tales  of  being  attacked  by  women  and  men  armed  with  clubs  (Jo-­Anne  Fiske  and  Betty  Patrick  2000:143-­144)    This   story  was  shared  with  me,  albeit  with  differing  emphasis  and  detail,  multiple   times  during  my  research  with  Lake  Babine  Nation.  The  version  cited  above   is   from  Cis  Dideen  Kat   (2000),   a  book  co-­authored   by   Jo-­Anne   Fiske   and   Betty   Patrick.   The   story   was   recounted   to   me   by   an   elder,   a   band  councilor,  two  hereditary  chiefs,  and  a  number  of  community  members.  I  share  this  story  to  set  the  tone  and  pace  of  this  thesis  project;;  to  position  what  follows  within  a  long  history  of  resistance,  negotiation,  and  world-­building   (Million   2016)   by   Indigenous   women   in   Lake   Babine   Nation.   This   piece   of   oral   history  sheds   light   on   a   community   bent   on   upholding   their   traditional   rights   and   territorial   responsibilities,  propelled  by  the  actions  and  teachings  of  strong  Indigenous  women  since  colonial  contact  in  the  1820s.    Today,  Lake  Babine  Nation   remains  entangled   in  negotiations  and  confrontations  with  both   federal  and  provincial  governments,  as  well  as  industry  regarding  their   land,  their   livelihoods,  and  their  people’s  well-­being.   Betty   Patrick,   a   hereditary   chief   and   former   band   council   chief,   leads   many   of   these  negotiations.   Betty   currently   holds   the   Natural   Resource   portfolio   for   Lake   Babine   Nation   and   works  closely  with  her  friend  and  colleague  Verna  Power.  As  the  council  representative  for  Old  Fort,  Verna  has  taken  on  the  role  as  Natural  Resource  Liaison  to  the  band  council.  As  mothers,  grandmothers,  knowledge  holders,  politicians,  and  charismatic   Indigenous  women,   they  have  dedicated   their  physical,   intellectual,  and  emotional  labour  to  the  health  and  prosperity  of  their  Nation.  What  follows  in  this  thesis  is  a  reflection  on  the  work  that  they  have  done  to  fight  for  the  safety  of  women  and  children  in  their  communities.      Betty   and   Verna   have   been   enmeshed   in   dialogue   and   negotiation   with   Prince   Rupert   Gas  Transmission  Pipeline   Project   (PRGT)   since   2012.   I   was   invited   in   to   these   proceedings   by   Betty   and  Verna  via  their  research  consultant,  Ginger  Gibson.  At  the  time  of  our  first  meeting,  Lake  Babine  Nation  was   in   the  process  of   reviewing  PRGTs  Socio-­Economic  Effects  Monitoring  Plan   (SEEMP)   required  by  the  British  Columbia  Environmental   Assessment  Office   (BCEAO)   as   a   condition   of   their   environmental  	   2	  assessment   certificate.  The  SEEMP   is   a   plan   to   communicate   and   report   how  PRGT  will  manage  and  monitor   project-­related   socio-­economic   impacts   and   opportunities   associated  with   the  Project   including  the   impacts   of   ancillary   sites   such   as   construction   camps,1   on   nearby   communities.   In   this   case,   the  communities  are  Fort  Babine  and  Tachet,  two  remotely  located  communities  of  Lake  Babine  Nation,  5km  from  the  proposed  1000-­person  construction  camp.  Construction,  which  was  scheduled  to  begin  in  early  2016,  will   see  an   influx  of  200   to  1000  workers,  mostly  men,   in   to   the   region   that  Betty  and  Verna  call  home,  and  the  traditional  territory  of  Lake  Babine  Nation.    While  the  benefit  agreements  have  been  signed,  and  permits  have  been  granted,  consultations  are  ongoing,   as   are   concerns   regarding   the   potential   impacts   of   the   construction   camps,   specifically   the  negative   social   impacts,   such   as   increased   incidence   of   gender-­based   sexual   violence,   pregnancy,  domestic   abuse,   sexually   transmitted   infections,   and   sexual   exploitation.   In   October   2015,   Betty   and  Verna  were  expected  to  comment  on  the  SEEMP  and  provide  feedback  to  the  PRGT  staff.  In  the  sections  that   follow,   I   explore   the  ways   that  Betty   and  Verna   have   navigated   the   challenging   topic   of   gendered  sexual  violence  in  community  and  the  steps  that  they  have  taken  to  produce  the  Indigenous  Communities  and   Industrial   Camps:   Promoting   Healthy   Communities   in   Settings   of   Industrial   Change   (2017)   report.  This  report,  drafted  by  Gibson  et.  al.  (including  myself),  and  in  collaboration  with  Lake  Babine  Nation  and  Nak’azdli  Whut’en  First  Nation,  outlines  key  strategies  and  programs  designed   to  mitigate   the  negative  social   impacts  of   industrial  development  and  construction  camps  on  remote  Indigenous  communities.   In  the  report,  we  directly  address  sexual  violence  as  a  consequence  of  construction  camps  and  population  influx   by   outlining   key   community   concerns,   highlighting   existing   data   and   statistics,   and   offering  recommendations   and   mitigations   proposed   by   community   members,   industry   professionals,   front-­line  workers,  and  government  representatives.    The  goal   of   the   report  was   to   provide   solutions   and   to   bring   Indigenous  women’s   voices   in   to   the  conversation.   However,   from   the   very   beginning   of   this   project,   those   voices   coexisted   alongside                                                  1	  Any	  temporary	  lodgings	  established	  by	  a	  company	  to	  house	  used	  by	  companies	  to	  house	  an	  increasingly	  mobile	  and	  transient	  workforce	  for	  their	  short-­‐term	  operations	  in	  relation	  to	  a	  forestry,	  mining	  or	  oil	  and	  gas	  operations.	  See	  the	  Northern	  Health’s	  Background	  Paper	  entitled	  “Understanding	  the	  State	  of	  Industrial	  Camps	  in	  Northern	  BC”	  (2012).	  	  	  	  	  	   3	  prolonged  silences,  awkward  stoppages,  silent  refusals,  and  hesitant  pauses.  As  social  scientists,  we  are  compelled   to   valorize   speech,   “the   voices   heard   and   recorded”   in   our   research   encounters   (Mazzei  2007:1),  yet  my  research  encounters,  notes,  and  experiences  were  replete  with  silences,  dead  air.  In  their  article   Reading   Between   the   Lines,   Poland   and   Pederson   acknowledge   that   “silence   is   frequently  overlooked  in  qualitative  research”  (1998:293).  However,  voice,  as  the  analytical  focus  of  researchers,  is  suspended   in  and  demarcated  by  silences,  and   thus   implicated   in  silence.   In  my  early  encounters  with  silence,   I   assumed   a   binary   relationship   between   silence   and   voice,   moreover;;   a   hierarchical   binary  relationship,   with   ‘speaking   out’   and   ‘bringing   voice   to’   positioned   as   the   theoretical   imperative   of   the  feminist  researcher.  In  uncoupling  this  binary,  I  have  come  to  understand  silence  as  meaningful  in  and  of  itself.  The  silences  that  first  seemed  to  haunt  this  research  became  the  primary  focus  of  this  thesis,  as  I  engaged   in   the   silence   specters   “that   have   much   to   say   in   the   ‘not   said’…   in   layers   of   whispering,  breathing,  pausing  [and]  absenting”  (Mazzei  2007:7).    This   thesis   reflects  my   critical   engagement   with   silence   as   it   emerged   in   interviews,   negotiations,  public  discourse,  and  in  the  lived  experience  of  Indigenous  women  in  Lake  Babine  Nation.  The  questions  that  motivated  my  analysis  attend  to  silence  as  a  concept,  experience,  and  method:  Does  silence  always  exist   in   a   binary   relationship   with   voice?   How   can   we   hear   silence?   When   is   silence   mobilized   for  particular  purposes  and  to  what  end?  What  is  the  structure  of  silence?  How  might  we  understand  silence  as  integral  to  the  research  process  and  to  the  process  of  relationship  building?  How  is  silence  embodied?  What   follows   is   the   genealogy   of   the   silences   encountered:   the   silences   encouraged   by   a   history   of  colonialism,   the  silences  mobilized  by  marginalized  people   to  negotiate   institutions   that   seek   to   silence  them,  and  the  embodied  silences  of  those  who  live  with  the  affective  consequences  of  sexual  violence.      I   have   separated   this   thesis   in   to   three   sections,   each   dealing   with   a   distinct   moment   within   the  research  project.  Each  section  provides  a  unique  context  or  case  study  for  the  theorization  and  analysis  of   silence   among   different   actors   and   at   different   scales.   In   section   I,   I   problematize   the   silence/voice  dichotomy   that   situates   silence   as   the   natural   state   of   the   oppressed,   with   voice   as   the   state   of   the  liberated.  In  asking  who  is  silent  and  why,  I  come  to  understand  silence  as  relational,  and  as  a  functional  tool   mobilized   by   differently   located   actors   across   power   lines.   Section   II   explores   the   historical  relationship   between   silence  and   trauma.  Through  an  analysis   of   the   limitations  of   pathological   trauma  	   4	  and   victimhood   frameworks,   I   explore   the   structural   nature   of   silence   and   the   institutions   that   incite  silence   on   the   part   of   Indigenous   women   in   a   variety   of   forms.   Consequently,   we   see   how   silence   is  partial   and   negotiated,   extended   strategically   by   these   women   to   counter   the   structures   that   seek   to  silence  them.  Moreover,  I  explore  how  silence  is  negotiated  to  foster  ‘intimate  publics’  (Berlant  2008)  by  Indigenous  women.  Finally,  in  Section  III,  I  engage  with  a  praxis  of  silence  available  to  researchers  and  a  pedagogy   of   listening   based   on  my   fieldwork   experiences   in   Lake   Babine  Nation.   By   going   silent   and  learning  to  listen,  researchers  can  attend  to  the  silences,  gaps,  and  pauses  in  interviews  and  interactions  with   the  same  rigor  with  which  they  approach  that  which   is  spoken.   In  addition,   it   is   through  a  praxis  of  silence  that  we  can  begin  to  ascertain  the  felt  knowledges  (Million  2009)  and  affective  silences  embodied  by  Indigenous  women  as  they  survive,  thrive,  and  construct  new  futures,  despite  the  burden  of  resistance  in   the  face  of  ongoing  sexual  violence.  This   thesis   is  an  exploration   in  silence(s)  as  shared,  negotiated,  partial,  situated,  and  felt  throughout  my  experience  working  closely  with  members  of  Lake  Babine  Nation.  Through  a  concerted  focus  on  silences  that  surround  sexual  violence  against  Indigenous  women,  we  may  begin  to  see  how  anti-­violence  work  can  contribute  to  processes  of  decolonization  and  self-­determination.  Before  proceeding,  I  wish  to  clarify  the  social  and  political  location  from  which  I  write  this  thesis.  As  a  white-­settler  with  Irish  and  French-­Canadian  ancestry,  born  in  to  a  middle-­income  family  in  Montréal,  Québec,   I   write   from   a   place   of   relative   privilege   and   overall   comfort.   I   have   been   influenced   by   the  strength  and  passions  of   the  strong  women   in  my   life:  my  mother,  sister,  grandmothers,  and  aunts.  My  commitment  to  social   justice  has  been  learned  through  these  women,  my  focus  on  sexual  violence  is  of  personal   necessity.  My  current   role  as  a  master’s   student   at   the  University   of  British  Columbia,   on   the  ancestral   and   unceded   territory   of   the   xʷməәθkʷəәy̓əәm   (Musqueam)   people,   has   positioned   me   as   a  researcher.   I   bring  an   intersectional   feminist   approach   to   this   role   as   researcher,   grounded   in   both  my  academic   and   applied   experiences   working   with   marginalized   youth,   girl’s   groups,   and   human   rights  practitioners.      It   has   been   under   the   direction   of   women   like   Betty   and   Verna,   as   well   as   Indigenous  scholars   such   as  Sarah  Hunt,  Natalie  Clark,  Dian  Million,   Leanne  Simpson,   among  others,   that   I   have  learned  about  and  attempted  to  practice  responsible  and  accountable  allyship.  Following  Kim  Tallbear,  I  approach   the   research   process   as   a   relationship-­building   process,   “as   an   opportunity   for   conversation  and   sharing   of   knowledge,   not   simply   data   gathering”   (2014:n.p).   I   was   invited   by   Betty,   Verna,   and  	   5	  Ginger   to   participate   in   their   negotiation   process   and   to   develop   a   thesis   project   in   collaboration   with  them.  This  thesis  is  one  of  the  many  products  of  our  research  collaboration.  Through  their  generosity  and  support,   I   have   had   the   opportunity   to   attend   and   participate   in   government   and   industry  meetings,   to  learn   from   anti-­violence   workers   from   all   over   the   province,   and   bear   witness   to   the   creative   and  politically-­charged   resistance  efforts  of   two   inspiring   Indigenous  women.   It   is   to   these  women   that   I  am  accountable,  as  well  as  the  members  of  Lake  Babine  Nation  who  generously  shared  their  stories  with  me,  the  needo-­from-­nowhere.2  The  work  that  follows  is  based  on  fieldwork  and  participatory  engagement  between  October  2015  and  February  2017.  I  visited  the  community  twice  over  the  summer  of  2016  for  a  total  of  one  month,  and  met  with  Betty  and  Verna  multiple  times  in  Vancouver,  Prince  George,  Smithers,  and  Fort  Babine,  British  Columbia.   My   methodological   and   theoretical   approach   has   been   to   avoid   ‘damaged-­centered’   and  ‘deficit-­model’  research  that  centralizes  pain  and  suffering  to  establish  “harm  or  injury  in  order  to  achieve  reparations”  (Tuck  2009:413).  In  Suspending  Damage:  A  Letter  to  Communities,  Eve  Tuck  explores  how  researchers   frame   Indigenous   communities   as   broken   and   defeated,   such   that   “oppression   singularly  defines   a   community”   (2009:413).   Such   damaged-­centered   approaches   tend   to   present   Indigenous  women   as   at-­risk   and   as   inherently   vulnerable   due   to   historical   and   ongoing   colonial   processes.  Alternatively,   I  have  sought   to  bear  witness  to   the  ways   in  which  Betty  and  Verna,  and  the  members  of  Lake  Babine  Nation,  are  building  the  world  they  want  for  their  children  on  their  own  terms.  While  the  lived  experience  of  sexual  violence  was  central  to  this  research  project,  no  explicit  accounts  of  sexual  assault  or   statistics   of   violence   against   Babine   women   have   been   included.   I   focus   instead   on   the   theme   of  silence  that  presented  itself  throughout  the  length  of  this  project  to  understand  Betty  and  Verna’s  efforts  to   prevent   and  manage   sexual   violence   in   the   context   of   resource   extraction.   Following   Natalie   Clark  (2016c),   I  have  attempted  to  be  a  “good  guest,”   to  “decolonize  my  witnessing  practice,”  and  honour   the  stories  and  visions  of  the  future  as  presented  by  Betty,  Verna,  and  the  women  of  Lake  Babine  Nation.                                                    2	  Nickname	  given	  to	  me	  by	  the	  kids	  in	  Fort	  Babine.	  Needo	  is	  a	  common	  term	  for	  a	  white	  person.	  	   6	    Context  and  Background  •   Lake  Babine  Nation        Lake   Babine   Nation   (LBN)   is   one   of   the   largest   Indigenous   groups   in   what   is   now   called   British  Columbia  (BC),  comprised  of  nearly  2400  members  and  whose  territory  radiates  out   from   the  shores  of  Lake   Babine.   Running   along   the   largest   natural   lake   in   BC,   LBN’s   traditional   territory   is   located   in  northwestern  BC  in  the  Bulkley-­Nechako  Regional  District,  and  the  Skeena  Watershed.  Present  day  Lake  Babine   Nation   was   formed   through   the   amalgamation   of   Old   Fort   and   Fort   Babine   in   1957   by   the  Department   of   Indian   Affairs,   who   joined   the   two   bands   together   for   administrative   purposes.   The  amalgamation   was   made   without   consulting   the   members   of   either   band.   Consisting   of   twenty-­seven  reserves,  LBN   is  divided   in   to   five  distinct  communities:  Woyenne,  Donald’s  Landing,  Tachet,  Old  Fort,  and   Fort   Babine.   Fort   Babine   and   Tachet   are   the  most   isolated   communities   located   within   traditional  Babine   territory,   at   150km   from   the   nearest   town.   Woyenne,   the   largest   community   by   population,   is  located   outside   of   LBN   traditional   territory,   near  Burns   Lake   in  Ts'il   Kaz  Koh  First  Nation   territory.   The  land  was  purchased  in  1965  by  the  Department  of  Indian  Affairs  to  relocate  members  to  bring  them  closer  to  government  provided  social  services  (Patrick  2009).  While  the  Babine  people  once  lived  primarily  along  the  Babine  Lake,  the  largest  sockeye  producing  system  in  Canada,  members  are  now  spread  across  both  rural  and  urban  communities.  Known  as  the  four-­clan  nation,  the  Nadut’en  speaking  Babine  people  are  born  in  to  the  Bear,  Caribou,  Frog,  and  Beaver  clans.   Indigenous  governance  arises  from  the  authority  of   the  hereditary  chiefs  of   the  four  matrilineal   clans  with   government-­recognized   political   authority   arising   from   the  Chief   and  Council  electoral  system  and  the  Indian  Act  (Fiske,  Newell  &  George  2001).  Currently,   the  four  LBN  clans  have  over   120   hereditary   chiefs   who   continue   to   play   an   important   role   in   LBN   political   and   cultural   affairs  (Firelight   2014).   According   to   Fiske,   Newell   &   George,   hereditary   chiefs   exercise   their   power   through  feasting   ceremonies   known   as   the   potlatch   by   outsiders,   or   as   the   Bahl’at   by   members   (2001:72).  Customary   law   is   rooted   in   the  Bahl’at  system,  which  were  originally   held   to   end  warfare,  manage   the  lands,  waters  and  fish,  and  foster  social  continuity  and  harmony  (Patrick  2009).  With  the  outlawing  of  the  potlatch   by   the   Canadian   government   in   1885,   LBN   began   to   experience   a   loss   of   social   control   and  	   7	  cultural   continuity   inherent   in   the  Bahl’at   system   (Fiske   and   Patrick   2000).   The   loss   of   continuity   was  further  exacerbated  by  the  Canadian  residential  school  system.  Between  1930  and  1976,  Babine  children  and  youth  were  forcibly  removed  from  their  families  and  taken  to  the  Lejac  Indian  residential  school  where  many  were  starved,  abused,  and  sexually  violated  (Firelight  2014).     Members  cite  the  legal  subjugation  of  the  Bahl’at  and  residential  schools  as  transitional  moments  that   effected   the   Nation’s   ability   to   manage   colonial   oppression   and   dispossession   through   resource  extraction   (Fiske   and   Patrick   2000).   Consequently,   LBN’s   history   has   been   marked   by   shifting  dependence  on  resource-­based  economies  and  projects   including   fur   trading,   logging,  mining  and  most  recently,   liquid  natural  gas   (LNG)  extraction.  At  present,  men  and  women   rely  on  semi  and  non-­skilled  seasonal  work  provided  by  mining  and  LNG  proponents  (Firelight  2014).  Community  members  have  had  to  suffer  the  consequences  of  boom-­and-­bust  industry  cycles.  The  LBN  Natural  Resource  Department  is  currently   responsible   for  overseeing  and  managing   the  positive  and  negative   impacts   related   to  mining,  forestry,  LNG,  and  so  on.    •   The  Prince  Rupert  Gas  Transmission  Pipeline  Project  (PRGT)      PRGT,   a   subsidiary   of   TransCanada  Pipelines   Ltd.,   has   proposed   the   construction   and   operation   of   a  900-­kilometre  LNG  pipeline  from  the  district  of  Hudson’s  Hope  in  northeastern  BC  to  Port  Edward  on  the  Pacific   coast   (PRGT   2013:1).   Valued   at   $5   billion   dollars,   the   project   is   estimated   to   generate   8,250  person-­years  of  direct  employment  and,  during   the   forty  years  of  operations,   twenty-­three  full-­time   jobs.  The   Project   was   officially   announced   in   January   2013,   with   the   project   description   submitted   to   the  BCEAO   in  May  2013  (PRGT  2013:1).  The  Project   requires   the  construction  of   temporary   infrastructure,  such   as   access   roads,   stockpile   sites   and   construction   camps   (PRGT   2013:13).  Operations   are   set   to  begin   in   2018,  with   the   construction   of   ancillary   infrastructure   commencing   in   early   2015,   to  mid   2017  (PRGT  2013:14).  In  the  Project  description,  PRGT  outlines  their  commitment  to  engagement  with  the  20  affected  Indigenous  groups,  including  Lake  Babine  Nation.  While   the  project  will   impact  multiple  First  Nation  communities,  140km  of   the  proposed  pipeline  runs  through  LBN  traditional   territory.  Furthermore,  PRGT  has   identified  the  need  to  construct   thirty-­two  ancillary  sites,  five  of  which  will  be  within  LBN  territory.  The  site  that  is  most  relevant  to  this  research  and  a   significant   concern   to   the   LBN   community   is   construction   camp   119.   The   camp,   expected   to   house  	   8	  temporary  workforce   of   nearly   one   thousand   people,   is   to   be   located   approximately   2km   north   of   Fort  Babine,   an   isolated   community   of   approximately   one-­hundred   people.   According   to   the   socioeconomic  impact  study  conducted  by  Ginger  Gibson,   the  Firelight  Group  and  LBN,  “without  careful  mitigation,   the  proposed  location  of  Camp  119,  and  its  short-­term  nature,  is  considered  likely  to  result  in  social  impacts  on   Fort   Babine   families   including   increased   crime,   prostitution,   addictions,   disparity,   and   other   social  challenges”  (2014:38).  Though  PRGT  is  committed  to  continued  consultation,  Firelight  has  suggested  that  consultation   cannot   replace   reliable   and   effective   mitigations   (2014:64).   The   main   security   concerns  expressed  by  LBN  members  include  the  increased  risk  of  sexual  assault  against  Indigenous  women,  an  increased   incidence   of   pregnancy,   sexually   transmitted   infections,   domestic   violence,   and   sexual  exploitation.3  Negotiations  between  LBN  and  PRGT  began  in  late  2013  when  LBN  created  their  LNG  Working  Group   to   manage   the   responsibilities   associated   with   negotiating   project   approval   and   assessment  processes.   To   begin   the   environmental   assessment   process,   LBN   signed   a   letter   of   agreement   with  PRGT  and  were  provided  with  funding  to  hire  experts  to  assist  with  data  collection,  traditional  use  studies,  and  socio-­economic  studies  (Patrick  2015:13).  On  behalf  of  LBN,  The  Firelight  Group  collected  relevant  traditional  use  data  through  interviews,  focus  groups  and  land-­use  mapping.  As  Betty  Patrick  describes  in  her  overview  of  the  PRGT  negotiation  process,  “the  environmental  assessment  process  took  a  major  part  of  the  summer  when  the  Provincial  Working  Group  for  the  EAO  met  for  three  consecutive  weeks  in  Prince  George  and  Prince  Rupert,  where  LBN  and  their  experts  had  to  go  through  the  application  and  address  issues”  (LBN  2015a:14).    The  EAO  completed   their   assessment   in   late  October   2014  and  gave   their   certification   in  mid-­November  2014.  PRGT  received  the  certification,  along  with  45  conditions,  particularly  pertinent  was  the  condition   to   “develop  and   implement  a  social  and  economic  effects  management  plan   to  ensure  strong  engagement   with   local   governments   to   minimize   effects   on   community   infrastructure   and   services”  (BCEAO  Factsheet  2014).  By  early  2015,  the  Babine  LNG  working  group  had  successfully  negotiated  a  pipeline  benefit  agreement  with  the  province  of  BC.  A  news  release  by  the  Ministry  of  Aboriginal  Relations                                                  3	  The	  negative	  social	  impacts	  of	  construction	  camps	  and	  temporary	  workforce	  populations	  have	  been	  outlined	  in	  detail	  in	  Gibson	  et.	  al.	  (2017),	  Amnesty	  International’s	  Out	  of	  Sight,	  Out	  of	  Mind	  report	  (2016),	  Ten	  Steps	  Ahead	  by	  Shandro	  et.	  al.	  (2014)	  and	  the	  National	  Aboriginal	  Health	  Organization	  report	  (2008).	  	   9	  and   Reconciliation   in   May   2015,   outlined   the   financial   details   of   the   agreement,   which   also   includes  commitments   to   local   environmental   stewardship   program   funding,   training   initiatives,   and   economic  development   (LBN   AGM   2015:54).   LBN   Chief  Wilf   Adam   stated   that   “this   project   meets   Lake   Babine  Nation's  conditions  for  consent:  it  can  be  built  in  a  way  that  is  safe  for  our  territory  and  resources;;  it  has  been  developed  and  will  be  built  with  our  meaningful  involvement”  (Hill  2015).  Despite  the  approvals  and  agreements,  the  Firelight  Socio-­Economic  study  revealed  that  LBN  members'  primary  concerns  related  to  the  construction  camps,  “including  in-­migration  of  primarily  young,  male,  itinerant  workers  and  increased  pressures   on   already   scarce   social   and   health   care   resources”   (2014:36)   had   not   been   adequately  addressed.    It  was  at   this  point   that   I  met  with  Betty,  Verna,  and  Ginger   for   the   first   time   in  Vancouver,  BC.  With   a   signed   Impact   and   Benefit   Agreement,4   Betty   and   Verna   entered   in   to   the   next   phase   of  negotiation.  As  Betty  said   to  me  at  our   first  meeting,   “now,   it’s  a  waiting  game,   it  will  all  depend  on   the  economy,  and  what  we  choose  to  do  with  the  time  we  have.”  Cognizant  of   the  fact   that  negotiations  do  not  only  happen  around  the  negotiation  table,  but   take  place  on  the   land  and   in  the  community  as  well,  Betty  and  Verna  began   to  zero-­in  on   their  core  concerns  –   the  safety  and  well-­being  of   their  daughters  and  granddaughters.  While  land  title  and  governance  are  a  key  concern  to  LBN  and  central  to  their  ability  to  exercise   their   rights,  negotiate  with  developers,  and  claims   to  self-­determination,  Patrick  argues   that  Babine  women   are   also   concerned  with   and   “troubled   by   the   ramifications   of   family   tension,   domestic  violence  and  sexual  abuse”  (2000:45)  in  their  communities.                                                         4	  An	  Impact	  and	  Benefit	  Agreement	  is	  a	  contract	  made	  between	  a	  community	  and	  a	  company	  that	  provides	  Aboriginal	  consent	  or	  support	  for	  a	  project	  to	  proceed.	  For	  more	  information	  see	  Gibson	  and	  O’Faircheallaigh	  2015	  	   10	  Section  I:  Silence  in  the  Boardroom            I   first   met   Betty   and   Verna   on   October   1st,   2015   when   I   was   invited   to   be   a   note-­taker   at   a  negotiation  meeting  between  the  Natural  Resource  Development  office  of  Lake  Babine  Nation  and  PRGT  staff.  I  was  attending  the  meeting  with  Dr.  Ginger  Gibson,  Director  at  the  Firelight  Group.5  Having  worked  with  Ginger  at   the  Firelight  Group,   I  expressed  my   interest   in   learning  more  about   the  social   impacts  of  resource  projects  on  Indigenous  women  and  children.  Ginger  knew  that  I  was  about  to  start  my  masters  in   anthropology   at   UBC,   and   invited   me   to   meet   with   Betty   and   Verna   to   discuss   the   possibility   of   a  research  project  in  cooperation  with  them.    When   I   walked   into   the   Firelight   office,   Ginger   was   set-­up   in   a   small   room,   papers   sprawled  across  the  table.  She  explained  to  me  that  she  had  conveyed  to  Betty  and  Verna  my  interest  in  learning  more  about  community-­based  research  processes,  and  how  the  social  and  economic  impacts  of  resource  extraction  on  Indigenous  communities  are  determined  and  mitigated.  Having  agreed  to  let  me  attend  and  take  notes,  I  made  tea  and  awaited  their  arrival  as  Ginger  prepped  her  meeting  notes.  Betty  and  Verna  arrived  soon  after,  and  we  were  quickly  knee-­deep   in  meeting  preparations.   I   followed  the  conversation  as  best  I  could,  as  the  world  of  socio-­economic  negotiations  was  new  to  me.  They  created  a  draft  agenda,  wrote  their  key  messages  for  the  day  in  bullet  points,  and  determined  how  best  to  lay  out  their  concerns  to   the  PRGT  staff.  As  we  discussed   the  possibility   of   sketching  diagrams  on   to   flip   chart   paper,  Verna  presented  a  plan.  She  had  a  story  that  she  wanted  to  share  with  us,  and  again  later  with  the  negotiation  team.  She  cleared  her  throat,  wrung  her  hands,  and  began.  Verna  explained  that  this  story  was  not  only  hers,  but  her  daughters,  her  daughters’  friends’,  and  their   community’s.  She  had  been  given  permission   to   share   this   story;;   it  was   important   so   that   people  could   understand   what   is   at   stake,   and   to   understand   with   whose   safety   we   are   gambling   when  considering  resource  development  and  ancillary   facilities   like  construction  camps  and  temporary  worker  populations  within   Indigenous   traditional   territories.  Verna  navigated   the  details  of   the  story,  walking  us                                                  5	  Ginger	  serves	  as	  a	  Director	  to	  the	  Firelight	  research	  firm	  and	  provides	  services	  to	  Indigenous	  groups	  across	  Canada,	  often	  related	  to	  traditional	  knowledge,	  and	  environmental,	  socio-­‐economic	  and	  cultural	  issues.	  I	  met	  Ginger	  while	  I	  was	  a	  research	  assistant	  at	  the	  Firelight	  Group.	  My	  work	  consisted	  of	  transcribing	  and	  coding	  community-­‐based	  interviews	  for	  the	  research	  projects	  in	  which	  the	  Firelight	  Group	  was	  engaged.	  Through	  this	  work,	  I	  became	  familiar	  with	  the	  social	  and	  cultural	  impacts	  of	  various	  resource	  development	  projects	  on	  Indigenous	  communities.	  	   11	  through  the  scenes,  the  pain  that  followed,  and  its  overall  warning  of  the  story:  “this  is  not  what  we  want  for   our   children.”   As   Verna   explained,   this   story   is   not   particularly   unique   or   surprising   to   Indigenous  communities.  It  is  a  story  about  sexual  assault  and  vulnerability,  about  men  who  are  outsiders,  and  of  the  resilience  of  a  girl  and  her  family.  Verna  said,  “while  this  story  makes  us  mad,  it  is  not  uncommon—I  have  many  more  stories  like  these,  but  this  is  the  one  I  want  to  share  today”  (Field  Notes,  October  2015).  We  sat  quietly   for  a  moment.  The   research  and  statistics   I  had   read   regarding   the   increased   risk  of  sexual  assault,  abuse,  and  domestic  violence  as  a  consequence  of  construction  camps  and   temporary  worker  populations  had  been  made  flesh,  given  a  name.  She  was  a  girl,  a  girl  younger  than  me,  the  same  age  as  Verna’s  daughter.  This  was  the  power  of  Verna’s  story.  Verna  and  the  team  decided  that  she  would  open  the  meeting  with  PRGT  with  the  story.    Before  the  meeting,  the  team  and  I  shared  lunch.  During  the  hour  that  we  spent  eating  our  soups  and   salads,   Betty   described   her   community   to   me   and   some   of   the   challenges   facing   the   remote  communities   of   Fort   Babine   and   Tachet.   She   talked   about   the   death   of   Elders   and,   consequently,   of  traditions   and   ceremonies.   She   talked   about   the   loss   of   coming-­of-­age   and   puberty   rites,   and   the  correlated  loss  of  self-­worth  and  power  experienced  by  people  of  all  genders  in  her  Nation.  She  explained  that  there  are  several  rituals  and  rules  that  young  women  used  to  follow  when  they  began  menstruating,  when   they   became   pregnant,   when   they   gave   birth,   and   so   on.   She   explained   that   these   rituals   and  ceremonies  were  often  about  teaching  a  young  woman  about  her  power  and  strength,  her  body,  and  her  role  in  the  community.  Without  these  rituals  and  ceremonies,  much  of  this  knowledge  was  no  longer  being  transmitted  inter-­generationally.  For  Betty,  a  key  concern  was  the  fact  that  Elders  are  dying,  taking  many  of  their  stories  with  them,  and  that  the  communities  are  suffering  for  it.  Betty  said,  “I  want  our  community  to  be  strong,  long  before  these  camps  come  in.  We  need  to  be  ready  for  them,  and  we’re  not.”  For  her,  the  negotiation  process  with  PRGT  is  an  opportunity  to  secure  resources  and  funds  that  can  be  mobilized  to  revitalize  traditions  and  build  community-­cohesion,  on  their  own  terms.  Verna’s  story  was  central  to  this  cause,   as   it   concretized   the   social   impacts   that   they   fear   most   –   sexual   violence,   specifically   rape.  Verna’s  story  remained  with  us  through  this  lunchtime  banter,  finding  voice  again  in  the  conference  room  later  that  day.    	   12	  The  negotiation  meeting  began  at  2:00pm  and  was  chaired  by  a  young  white  man  in  thick-­rimmed  glasses.  He  was  one  of  five  other  men  present,  and  I  was  one  of  four  women  present.  The  teams  sat  on  opposite   sides   of   a   round   table,   a   conference   phone   in   the  middle   that   hosted   up   to   three  more  male  voices   from   far-­away   places.   Verna   and   Betty   are   seasoned   politicians   and   veteran   negotiators.   They  know   these  men  well;;   they  know   these   rooms,  and   these  proceedings.   In  a  blue  and  white  conference  room,  surrounded  by  men  in  blue  and  white  suits,  I  listened  as  the  team  of  women  presented  their  points  and  discussed   their  needs  –   the  needs  of   their  communities.  One-­by-­one,   following   the  pre-­drafted  and  carefully  structured  agenda,   the  men   in  blue  suits  and  white  shirts   listened,  dragging   their  pens  across  sheets  of  paper,  watching  the  women  speak  over  the  tops  of  their  glasses.  Once  the  business  arising  had  been  addressed,  we  moved  on  to  new  business.  Verna  shifted  in  her  chair,  gestured  with  her  hand,  and  said,  “I’d  like  to  share  a  story  that  I  feel  is  important.”  The  story  to  be  shared  was  not  a  numbered  bullet  point  on  the  agenda,  yet  it  would  mark  a  distinct  change  to  the  negotiation.    Verna’s  voice  trembled,  flickering  like  a  loose  light  bulb.  We  all  sat  still.  She  recounted  the  story  of  a   young   girl,   a   friend   of   her   daughter,   brutalized   at   the   hands   of   a   construction   camp   worker.   She  described   the  mundane  nature   of   the   day,   the   typical   story   of   young  girls   playing   at   a   park.   The   story  mirrored  so  many  like  it,  reported  on  the  6  o’clock  news  in  disaffected  tones:  a  native  girl  goes  missing,  it  is  likely  that  she  will  not  be  found.  As  the  story  goes,  she  was  found,  left  to  die  but  alive;;  raped,  but  alive.  The   story   was   one   of   horrific   sexual   violence,   of   intense   pain   and   of   ongoing   familial   and   community  suffering.  “This  is  not  what  we  want  for  our  daughters,”  she  said,  “we  need  to  work  together  at  this  table  to  make  sure  that  this  does  not  happen  to  anyone  in  our  communities.  We  need  to  be  aware  of  these  things  and  prepare…  [long  pause]  I  have  to  ask  you  all  here  today,  how  many  rapes  is  too  many?”  The  question  lingered,  hanging   in   the  air   like   ripe   fruit   ready   to  drop.  A   few  of   the  men  sat  back   in   their  chairs,  as   if  creating  space  between  them  and  the  story.  Complete  silence.         Verna’s  face  was  damp  with  tears,  and  we  waited.  We  waited  for  two  minutes  of  crushing  quiet.  Then,  the  young  man  spoke,  his  voicing  cut  open  the  silence  that  had  ballooned  and  enveloped  the  room.  “We  understand  and  we’d  be  happy  to  look  in  to  these  concerns,  but  for  the  most  part,  this  kind  of  impact  is  indirect,  and  indirect  impacts  are  beyond  the  scope  of  the  Project”  (Field  Notes,  October  2015).  A  long  	   13	  pause   followed.  Betty   and  Verna   gazed   across   the   table,   silent.   The   sound   of   swallowing  was   audible  over  the  silence.  Another  man’s  voice:  “This  is  important  to  us,  none  of  us  here  want  to  see  that  happen.”    The  meeting  continued  for  another   fifteen  or   twenty  minutes,  each  utterance  easing   the   tension  and  mending  the  strange  atmosphere  that  the  silence  had  created.  The  play  of  silence  and  voice,  speech  and   quiet,   stayed   with   me   over   the   coming   weeks   and   months.   I   had   both   bared   witness   to   and  participated   in   the   long   silence.   I   noticed   this   same   dynamic   emerge   and   repeat   itself   throughout   my  fieldwork.  I  go  back  to  this  first   instance  to  begin  unpacking  the  binary  relationship  between  silence  and  voice,  to  uncouple  these  terms  and  concepts  to  understand  what  happened  in  that  conference  room,  and  to  analyze  what  an  exploration  of  silence  in  the  context  of  my  own  research  might  reveal.    My  initial  reaction  to  this  awkward  pause,  the  long  silence,  was  to  rationalize  it.  I  assumed  that  I  had  witnessed  a  group  of  white  men  uncomfortably  navigating  words  like  rape  and  assault.  I  saw  middle  and  upper  income  men  digesting  a  story  of  gendered  sexual  violence  against  Indigenous  women,  and  the  violent  disruption  of  a  young  girl’s  life.  I  saw  six  white  men  encounter  a  story  about  racial  violence  in  the  safety   of   a   board   room.   In   the   silence,   I   heard   the   negotiation   gears   turning,   the   consideration   of  ‘politically  correct’  phrases,  casually  sympathetic  yet  business  oriented  and  professional   responses.  But  silence.   In   my   preliminary   reflections   as   recorded   in   field   notes,   I   saw   Verna   as   an   empowered  Indigenous   woman   who   had   broken   the   silence   about   the   sexual   violence   that   is   characteristic   of   the  clash   between   construction   camp   culture   and   Indigenous   women’s   lives   (Eckford   and   Wagg   2014;;  Northern  Health  2012;;  Shandro  et  al.  2014).   In  breaking   the  silence,   she  created   tension.  The  meeting  provided  her  with  a  platform  to  voice  her  knowledge  and  effect  change  at  the  level  of  industry  negotiation.  She  had  voice,  and  thus  agency.  She  breached  the  silence;;  the  long  pause  at  the  table  only  emphasized  the   need   to   speak-­out.   Representatives   from   industry   felt   uncomfortable   about   these   issues,   but   they  were  forced  to  listen  to  the  realities  of  communities  they  are  mandated  to  work  with.  Such  rationalization  was   based   on   assumptions   and  my   own   initial   biases,   rather   than   through   engaged   research  with   the  men  at   the   table.  Later   I   learned   that  some  of   the  men  present   felt  deeply   implicated   in  and  moved  by  Verna’s  plight.  As  such,  I  sought  to  critically  reflect  on  the  assumptions  and  categories  that  led  me  to  such  an  analysis.    	   14	  Verna’s   speech   act   was   no   doubt   powerful   and   brave.   But,   my   interpretation   of   her   act   of  speaking  out—of  bringing  voice  to  the  issue  of  sexual  violence  against  Indigenous  women—is  rooted  in  a  binary   that   has   been   mobilized   in   numerous   disciplines,   including   feminist   theory   and   anthropology.  Arguably,   the   concept   of   voice   lies   at   the   heart   of   many   anthropological   endeavors.   Arjun   Appadurai  states,  “much  fieldwork  is  organized  talk,  and  the  ethnographic  text  is  the  more  or  less  creative  imposition  of  order  on  the  many  conversations  that  lie  at  the  heart  of  fieldwork”  (1988:16).  As  a  series  of  interviews,  conversations,  and  shared  stories,  the  ethnographic  process  is  largely  predicated  upon  the  presumption  that  speech  acts  express  one’s  subjectivity  (Jackson  2012:1000).  Jackson  argues  that  talk  “is  the  way  in  which   interests   are   defined,   defended   and   demanded,”   such   that   speech   and   voice   are   adopted   as  universal  standards  for  expressing  and  measuring  agency  (Jackson  2012:1001).         For   Amanda  Weidman   (2014:38),   “voice   is   a   crucial   site   where   the   realms   of   the   cultural   and  sociopolitical   link   to   the   level   of   the   individual,   a   site  where   shared   discourses   and   values,   affect,   and  aesthetics  are  made  manifest  in  and  contested  through  embodied  practice.”  Thus,  through  ethnographic  encounters   and   talk,   voice   may   be   uncovered,   recorded,   and   presented   in   the   ethnographic   text.  Eurocentric  assumptions,  regularly  adhered  to  by  anthropologists,  suggest  that  voice  “expresses  self  and  identity,  thus  relating  voicing  and  speaking  out  to  a  kind  of  authentic  self-­representation  and  authorship”  (ibid:39).   The   relationship   between   voice   and   agency   that   is   so   prevalent   in   Euro-­Western   academic  traditions   takes   for   granted   an   inherent   linkage   between   voice   and   self-­identity.   Voice—activated   and  expressed   through   speech   acts   and   talk—becomes   the   vehicle   through   which   subjects   activate   and  express   the   ‘truths’   of   an   interiorized   and   rational   self   (ibid).   For   anthropologists   working   in   colonial  contexts,   ethnography   and   other   ‘tools   of   anthropology’   were   mobilized   to   capture   the   voice   of   the  colonized  in  order  ‘to  speak  of  and  speak  for’  the  colonial  subjects  in  a  disciplinary,  possessive  manner”  (Simpson  2007:67).    Academics  engaged   in  criticisms  of  Anthropology  and   the   ‘crisis  of   representation’   in   the  1980s  and  1990s  were  wary  of  the  ethnographic  project  as  a  process  of  scientific  representation  and  its  ability  to  accurately  represent  and  ‘speak  for’  the  populations  being  studied.  Scholars  such  as  Clifford  (1986)  and  Marcus  and  Fischer  (1989),  linked  the  process  of  ethnography  to  power,  especially  colonialism,  and  other  forms  of   dominance.   Their  work   built   on   earlier   scholarship   that   exposed   the   discipline’s   entanglement  	   15	  with  imperialism  (Asad  1973).  In  the  1980s,  scholars  from  outside  of  the  discipline  such  as  Gayatri  Spivak  (1988)  and  Edward  Said  (1989)  launched  important  critiques  of  representation  as  a  form  of  dominance  at  the   core   of   anthropological   practice.   As   Weidman   discusses,   anthropological   interest   shifted   from   a  preoccupation   with   documenting   “the   wholeness   and   coherence   of   cultural   systems   toward   issues   of  power  and  representation”  (2014:43).    The   crisis   of   representation   revealed  not   only   the  entrenched  assumptions  about   voice  but   the  importance  of  exploring  who  is  speaking  for  whom,  to  whom,  and  how  voice   is  mobilized  within  specific  arenas.   In  good  part   influenced  by  feminist  critiques,  anthropologists   theorized  the  effects  of  power  and  the  possibilities  for  research  participants—through  the  ethnographic  encounter  and  text—to  ‘speak  back’  to  those  structures  of  power.  With  the  turn  to  relations  of  power  and  domination  came  attention  to  silence,  framed  as  the  absence  of  voice.  As  Carol  Kidron  argues,  ethnography  and  the  documentation  of  voices  has  taken  on  a  moral  and  political  mission,  as  anthropologists  seek  to  “liberate   trauma  victims  from  the  ‘shadow   of   silence’”   (Waterston   and   Rylko-­Bauer   in   Kidron   2009:8)   and   “talk   back   to   power”   (Russo  2013:35).   The   binary   linking   of   voice/silence   with   agency/oppression   suggests   that   for   a   marginalized  population  who  is  silenced  to  gain  power,  they  must  leverage  and  activate  voice  “to  resist  and  transform  the  conditions  of  their  oppression”  (Rowe  and  Malhorta  2013:1).  To  ‘break  the  silence’  on  women’s  issues  has   been   touted   as   a   practical   and   theoretical   imperative   among   many   feminist   scholars   (ibid.).   An  important   development   within   anthropology   was   the   introduction   of   oral   history   as   a   means   for  documenting  women’s   representations  of   their  own  realities,  and   telling   their  stories  on   their  own   terms  (Gluck  and  Patai  1991)  There  is  a  strong  precedent  for  critically  examining  voice,  authenticity,  and  representation  within  the   discipline   of   anthropology.   The   work   of   anthropologists   like   Michel-­Rolph   Trouillot   and   Julie  Cruikshank   have   inspired   a   generation   of   anthropologists   to   consider   the   homogenizing   and   silencing  function  of  anthropology  and  history  as  a  monolithic  and  objective  representation  of  human  experience.  In  his  work  on  history  and  silence,  Haitian  anthropologist  Michel-­Rolph  Trouillot  (1995)  explored  the  silences  inherent  to  the  production  of  history,  such  that  marginalized  voices  are  erased  and  excluded  from  grand  historical  narratives.  In  his  work,  he  studied  silences  to  reveal  “the  differential  power  of  various  groups  of  agents   in   producing   history”   (1997:38),   and   to   fill   those   silences   with   oral   histories   and   personal  	   16	  narratives.   In   Life   Lived   Like   a   Story   (1991)   and   The   Social   Life   of   Stories   (1998),   Julie   Cruikshank  explores   the   emergence   of   orally   narrated   life   stories   as   a   means   of   navigating   the   issues   of  representation  and  authenticity.  While  oral  histories  were  traditionally  used  in  anthropology  to  “breathe  life  into   academic   writing”   (Cruikshank   1991:1)   and   supplement   ethnographic   description,   more   recent  engagement  with   oral   histories   reflects   ongoing   collaboration   between   interviewee   and   interviewer   that  begins  by  “taking  seriously  what  people  say  about  their  lives”  (ibid.).  By  understanding  the  stories  of  the  Indigenous  women  who  she  worked  with  as  knowledge   in  and  of   itself,  and  not  as  evidence   that  either  supports  or  contradicts  western   ideology  and  science,  Cruikshank  presents  oral  histories  as  contextual,  contradictory,   and   complex.   Her   work   on   oral   histories   and   life   history   promotes   a   decentering   of   the  researcher  in  a  collaborative  effort  to  record  stories  and  voices  as  nuanced,  complicated,  and  polyphonic.  While  much  scholarly  attention  has  been  paid  to  power  and  representation  in  anthropology  and  feminist  practice,   voice   remains   a   salient   category   particularly   due   to   its   ongoing   association   with   anticolonial  nationalist  movements  and  the  emergence  of  new  democracies,  human  rights  discourses,  and  the  rise  of  Indigenous  movements  (Weidman  2014:38).    In  the  blue  and  white  boardroom,  I  was  moved  by  Verna’s  courage  and  her  ability  to   ‘speak  up’  and  ‘break  the  silence’  about  violence  against  Indigenous  women.  I  equated  her  actions  with  agency  and  empowerment.   My   reaction   was   rooted   in   the   basic   assumptions   of   the   binary.   I   took   for   granted   the  nature  and  form  of  voice  and  silence.  Like  many  feminist  anthropologists  before  me,  I  held  up  the  binary  and   valorized   Verna’s   voice   without   critically   examining   the   context   within   which   she   spoke,   and   the  structure   of   the   silence   that   followed.   In   so   doing,   I   also   engaged   in   the   act   of   silencing.   In   equating  Verna’s  speech  act  with  liberation,  I  presumed  the  opposite  –  that  those  who  do  not  speak  lack  agency,  inadvertently   reinscribing   the   very   power   hierarchies   that   feminist   anthropology   seeks   to   probe   and  dismantle   (Russo   2013).   Such   an   analysis   denies   the   rich   history   of   Indigenous   women   resisting   and  shedding   light   on   the   issue   of   sexual   violence.   As   Indigenous   scholar   Sarah   Hunt   stated   in   her  presentation  Decolonizing  the  Roots  of  Rape  culture   (2016b),   “my  relations  before  me  have  carried  this  weight  since   long  before  academics  or   feminists   recognized   that   this  was  an   issue  worthy  of  writing  or  talking  about  and  we  need  to  honor  this  legacy.”  	   17	  Verna’s   story   and   her   decision   to   share   that   story   within   the   context   of   the   negotiations   with  PRGT  bring   in   to   relief   the   intellectual,  emotional,  and  physical   labour  of   Indigenous  women  who  have  always   understood   sexual   violence   as   intimately   and   necessarily   related   to   the   colonial   project   and   to  resource   extraction   (WEA-­NYSHN   2016;;   Smith   2005;;   Million   2009;;   Simpson   2014).   Following   Hunt,  Verna’s  speech  act  belongs   to  a   long   tradition  of   “everyday  actions,  beliefs  and  attitudes  of   Indigenous  people  who  are  already,  constantly  pushing  back  against  sexual  violence  and  the  many  manifestations  of  rape   culture   which   we   have   been   resisting   since   colonialism   began”   (October   2016).   For   Indigenous  scholars,   activists,   and   allies   such   as  Hunt,   Simpson   (2014),   and  Smith   (2005),   the   rape   and   violence  committed  against  the  bodies  of  Indigenous  women  is  mirrored  by  the  destruction  of  Indigenous  land  and  the  displacement  of  Indigenous  peoples.  “Sexual  violence  is  an  instrument  of  empire  and  colonization,  not  merely  a  symptom  of  a  dysfunctional  community”   (Bubar  2014:528).  Dian  Million  explores  how  gender-­based  violence  has  been   indispensable   to   the  subjugation  of  colonized  peoples  and   the  construction  of  hierarchical   patriarchy   in   “indian   Canada”   because   “rape   interrupts   and   dissolves   the   ontological  presence  of  person  and  community,   their  desire  to  be,  to  go  on,  to  endure,  to  have  integrity”  (2013:38).  For   Lake   Babine   Nation   members,   violence   against   Indigenous   women   is   also   consequence   “of  internalizing  colonial  oppression”   (Fiske  2000:188)  and,   “of   the  stresses  of  poverty,   racism,  and   loss  of  cultural  values  (Fiske  2000:23).    What  might  be  revealed  by  theorizing  silence  in  a  way  that  considers  a  history  of  Indigenous  women’s  resistance  and  the  framing  of  sexual  violence  as  “just  one  manifestation  of  the  continuum  of  violence  wrought  by  settler  colonialism”  (Hunt  2016)?    I  turn  to  the  work  of  anthropologists  and  others  who  explore  the  creative  possibility  of  silence  as  a  productive,  meaningful,  and  creative  force.  In  terms  of  troubling  the  binary  and  understanding  silence  as  potentially   positive,   if   not   a   politically   charged   and   highly   tactical   strategy,   Keating   (2013:35)   has  distinguished  between  different   forms  of   silence   including  silent   refusal,   silent  witness,  and  deliberative  silence.   In   outlining   these  distinct   kinds  of   silence,  Keating   seeks   to   untangle   the   relationship   between  power  and  silence,  and  explore  the  dynamics  at  play.  To  uncouple  this  binary  relationship,  we  might  first  reverse  the  binary  and  ask,  who  is  silent?  If  Verna’s  speech  act  belongs  to  a  deep  genealogy  of  speech  acts  against   violence,   then  who   is   silent   in   this  encounter?  Who  bears   the  burden  of  speaking  up?  As  Mazzei  asks,  what  are  the  silences  “about  whiteness,  racism,  homophobia,  or  sexism,  for  example,  that  	   18	  are   not   spoken   with   words,   but   are   spoken   between   words”   (2007:39).   I   suggest   that   silence   be  approached  as  a  creative  act  of   resistance   in   the   face  discursive  strategies   that  seek   to   “colonize   talk”  (Baurain  2011:95)  and  deflect  responsibility.    While  I  was  not  able  to  ask  the  men  at  the  table  to  reflect  on  Verna’s  story,  the  long  pause  that  followed,  and  the  phrase  that   interrupted  the  silence,  I  was  able  have  this  conversation  with  Verna.  Her  response  was  simple  enough:  “we’re  used  to  that  kind  of  thing.  And  I  don’t  think  it  (the  long  pause)  was  a  bad  thing.”  To  take  the  silence  as  purposeful  and  creative  is  to  understand  “periods  of  silence  as  integral  parts   of   speaking   strategies”   (Gomes   and   Paulo   2008:39).   In   the   boardroom,   Verna   has   effectively  mobilized  both  voice  and  silence  to  her  own  ends.  The  silence  that  follows  the  story  is  instructive  and  the  grounds  from  which  new  understanding  can  be  fostered.  It  is  a  conscious  silence,  a  pause  in  suspension,  left   to   linger.  This   interpretation  shifts   the   focus   from   those   framed  as  marginalized  and  silent,   to   those  who   purport   to   be   listening   –   in   this   case,   the   PRGT   negotiation   team.   In   this   sense,   silence   can   be  explored  as  deeply  relational,  and  as  an  experience  shared  between  differently  located  actors.  Malhorta  and  Rowe   (2013:1-­2)   suggest   that   the   simplistic   binary   formulation   of   ‘voiceless’   places   the   burden   of  social   change   “upon   those   least   empowered   to   intervene   in   the   conditions   of   their   oppression.”   The  burden  of   breaking   the   silence   is  on  Verna,  who   like  many  other   Indigenous  women   is  motivated  by  a  profound  “desire  to  heal  families,  nations,  and  the  earth”  (Million  2013:25).  Indigenous  women  like  Betty  and  Verna  present  a  threat  to  the  Canadian  governments’  “single-­minded  obsession  with  drilling,  mining,  and   fracking”  and  “insatiable  vision”  of   resource  development   (Klein  2014).  As  Klein   (2014)  argues,   the  government  has  little  motivation  to  strengthen  the  incentive  to  “heal  and  strengthen  the  very  people  that  it  sees  as  its  greatest  obstacle.”  Verna’s  response  exposes  the  burden  that   is  disproportionately  borne  by  Indigenous  women  to  decolonize,  to  teach  settlers  about  the  history  and  ongoing  impacts  of  colonialism,  and  to  resist  the  forces  and  structures  that  continue  to  produce  suffering  and  insecurity  in  their  lives  and  communities.    Malhorta  and  Rowe  (2013:2)  propose  that  we  might  focus  our  critical  lens  on  those  who  are  in  a  position   to   listen,   hear,   and   respond   to   that   which   is   being   communicated   to   them   through   modes   of  expression   that  are  often  either   framed  or   interpreted  as  silence.  The  silence  being  broken  was  not   the  silence  of  Indigenous  women  on  the  topic  of  sexual  violence.  The  silence  in  the  boardroom  sheds  light  on  	   19	  the   silences   produced   by   colonialism   and   whiteness,   where   gender-­based   sexual   violence   against  Indigenous   people   is   framed   as   distinct   and   separate   from   historical   and   ongoing   settler   colonialism  where  the  context  of  resource  extraction  has  no  bearing  on  the  bodies  and  safety  of  Indigenous  women.  Despite  widely  circulated  statistics  in  media,  and  numerous  government  and  public  reports  (Czyzewsky  et  al.  2014;;  Amnesty  International  2016;;  Gibson  et  al.  2017),  stories  such  as  Verna’s  remain  shocking  and  confounding   to   outsiders.   Verna’s   response   is   telling,   and   for   her,   the   relationship   between   the  environmental  and  social  impacts  of  a  LNG  development—that  include  sexual  violence,  are  explicit.  The  onus  is  on  Verna  and  women  like  her  to  bring  clarity  to  the  linkage  between  the  violence  against  land  and  violence  on  their  bodies  to  speak  up  and  tell  their  story.    In   her   work   on   silence   and   whiteness   in   the   research   process,   Mazzei   (2003)   explores   how  silence  can  be  reduced  simply  to   ‘that  which  is  not  said’,  but  can  also  be  located  in  how  people  tend  to  respond   to   questions,   how   they   rephrase   and   navigate   questions   that   implicate   race   and   gender,   and  what   they   choose   not   to   explore   in   conversations.   In   the   boardroom,   the   young   man   responded   by  framing   rape   as   ‘beyond   the   scope’   of   a   resource   extraction   project   and   the   responsibilities   of   the  company   in   terms   of   mitigation.   In   doing   so,   Verna’s   experiences   were   distinctly   unrecognizable,  belonging   to   a   realm   outside   of   the   boardroom,   outside   of   what   is   recognized   as   direct   impacts   of  resource  development  within  LBN’s  traditional  territory.  His  speech  served  to  deflect  Verna’s  story,  and  to  evade  the  task  of  coming  to  know  his  own  implicit  involvement  in  ongoing  colonial  violence.      The  experiences  of  these  women  are  rendered  unintelligible,  unrecognizable  as  ‘direct’   impacts,  such   that   the   ‘land  question’   remains  more  prevalent  and  separate   from   ‘the  woman  question’   (Maracle  1996:16).   Through   her   speech   act   in   the   board   room,   Verna   brings   in   to   conversation   the   ‘woman  question’   and   the   ‘land   question’   as   irreducible   to   discrete   social   problems.   In   doing   so,   Verna   made  settler-­colonialism   and   whiteness   visible   in   her   speech   act—and   through   her   silence.   By   mobilizing  silence,  Verna  destabilized  the  business  as  usual  discourses  that  normalize  violence  against  Indigenous  women   as   a   consequence   of   internal   dysfunction   and   violent   Indigenous   men.   Instead,   violence   was  linked   to   issues   of   resource   extraction,   displacement,   and   community   disruption.   In   some  ways,  Verna  said   as  much   in   her   pause   as   she   did   in   her   speech.  Mazzei   argues   that   the   silences   that   racial   and  gendered   discomfort   sometimes   produce   demonstrate   a   failure   to   understand   whiteness   as   a   racial  	   20	  category,  where  our  whiteness  serves  as  a  veil  to  “mask  what  we  choose  not  to  see,  or  wish  not  to  see,  for   to   see   is   sometimes   unbearable”   (2003a:30),   such   as   ongoing   settler   colonial   violence   through  contemporary  institutions.  These  silences,  grounded  in  white  privilege,  produce  a  kind  of  social  blindness  to   historical   and   political   violence   that   is   perpetuated   through   contemporary   economic   development  efforts.  Similarly,  as  a  scholar  of  indigeneity,  colonialism  and  whiteness,  Moreton-­Robinson  explains  that  not  all  representations  are  equal  within  whiteness’s  ‘regime  of  power,’  such  that:    Some  are   deemed   truthful  while   others   are   classified   fictitious,   some  are   contested  while   others  form  part  of  our  commonsense  taken-­for-­granted  knowledge  of  the  world.  Imbued  with  a  power  that  normalises  their  existence,  these  latter  representations  are  invisible,  unnamed  and  unmarked.  It  is  the   apparent   transparency   of   these   normative   representations   that   strategically   enables  differentiation  and  othering  (2004:76-­77)    In   his   initial   response,   the   young   man   denied   the   lived   experience   of   sexual   violence   as   a  consequence   of   resource   development   and   the   actions   of   temporary   male   workers.   In   that   moment,  Verna  extended  to  him  a  prolonged  silence,  a  contemplative  and  shared  silence,  in  which  those  present  at  the  conference  table  could  consider  the  ‘taken-­for-­granted’  and  otherwise  ‘invisible’  knowledge.  In  his  work  on  silence  and  history,  Gerald  Sider  suggests  that  silences  are  situated  and  contextual,   that  some  experiences  deemed  as  ‘silences’  may  be  “particularly  silent  precisely  to  us”  (Sider  and  Smith  1997:16)—the   non-­Indigenous   meeting   attendees,   the   non-­women,   the   non-­victim-­survivors.   The   silence   that  followed  was  the  silence  of  a  dominant  group,  a  dominant  society.  By  introducing  that  silence  to  the  room,  Verna  made   our   whiteness   audible,   such   that   the   silence  was   bound   “within   a  myopia…   that   resisted  seeing  oneself  as  being  seen”  (Mazzei  2007:76).  We  inhabited  the  silence  “full  of  words  and  sentiment”  together   (Johnson  2013:60).  Silence  was  actively  mobilized  as  a   tool  of  negotiation   that  provides   those  who   inhabit   it   the  possibility   to  become  aware  of  one’s  social   location,  one’s  position,  and  thus   to  know  differently.    While  this  analysis  does  not  entail  a  complete  dismantling  of  the  voice/silence  binary,  it  does  shift  the   focus   towards   those   in   positions   of   power,   and   asks   us   as   researchers   to   consider  who   has   been  silent.   To   position  Betty   and  Verna   as   silent   is   to   deny   a   legacy   of   resistance   to   colonial   and   gender-­based   violence   in   LBN,   obfuscating   the   intellectual   and   practical   success   and   weight   of   their   work.  Framing   rape   as   beyond   the   scope   of   a   resource   project   denies   the   lived   experience   of   Indigenous  women  in  the  Canadian  resource  development  context  and  perpetuates  the  notion  that  sexual  violence  is  	   21	  a  domestic  and  reserve  issue,  as  opposed  to  a  central  feature  of  the  “on-­going  dispossession,  occupation  and  erasure”  of  Indigenous  peoples  (Simpson  2014).  By  understanding  silence  as  meaningful  and  useful,  we   can   understand   how   silence   can   be  mobilized   consciously   to   produce   spaces   for   alliance   building  across  power   lines.  The   challenge   then   for   those   in   positions  of   authority   is   to   acknowledge  both   their  implicit  and  explicit  silences  on  racialized  and  gendered  sexual  violence,  and  improve  their  ability  to  listen  and  hear  those  who  bear  the  burden  of  resistance.         	   22	  Section  II:  The  C3  Workshop  On   the   first   day  of   the  C3:  Communities  and  Construction  Camp  workshop,  Betty  addressed  a  crowd  of  35  Indigenous  women:  We  have  always  been  excellent  crisis  managers;;  we  respond  to  crises  very  well.  But  we  need  to  work  on  prevention  so   that  we  can  protect  our  grandchildren.  A  work  camp   is   coming   in  a   few  kilometers  from  our  community,  and  we  need  to  prevent  this  kind  of  violence  from  happening  to  our  community  members.  There  are  gaps  in  the  management  plans  that  do  not  address  our  most  vulnerable.  …this  is  right  at  our  doorstep,  so  let’s  get  started.  Our  focus  is  not  on  impacts  today,  but  on  strategies  so  that  we  can  push  the  burden  back  on  ministries  and  industry.  (Field  Notes,  June  2016)    On   June   22nd   and   23rd,   Lake   Babine   Nation,   in   collaboration   with   Nak’azdli   Whu’ten   and   the  Firelight  Group,  invited  Indigenous  women  from  across  British  Columbia  to  attend  a  two-­day  workshop  in  Prince  George.  The  goal  of  the  workshop  was  to  produce  a  set  of  mitigations,  programs,  and  policies  that  might   limit   the  potential  negative   impacts  of  construction  camps  on  co-­located  communities,  particularly  those   impacts   related   to   sexual   violence.   The   workshop   was   made   possible   through   the   support   and  resources  provided  by  Ginger  Gibson  and  the  Firelight  Group,  as  well  as  the  Ministry  of  Oil  and  Gas.  We  opened  day  one  of   the  workshop  with  a  welcome  by  Lheidli  T’enneh,  opening  prayers,  a  smudge,  and  presentations  by  Betty  Patrick,  Ginger  Gibson,  and   Indigenous  women   leaders   from   the   region.  Ginger  was  passionate  and  emotive  as  she  discussed   the  context  of  her   research  and  her  dedication   to  Betty  and   Verna’s   cause.   For   Verna   Power,   the   C3   was   an   opportunity   for   women   to   come   together   and  discuss  what  “can’t  always  be  talked  about  in  community,  let  alone  in  a  public  space”  (Field  Notes,  June  2016).  Verna  continued:    If  we  brought  up  sex  and  assault  growing  up,  we  were   told  not   to   talk  about   it.   It  was  a  sin   to   talk  about  the  body,  the  flesh.  We  learned  this  in  residential  schools.  But  it  is  no  longer  like  this,  it  is  no  longer   a   sin   to   express   that   your   boundaries   have   been   crossed.  We   were   told   to   be   quiet,   our  parents   and   grandparents   too,   in   those   residential   schools.  Why   are   we   doing   this?   It’s   because  industry   doesn’t   believe   that   sexual   assault   is   happening.   They   don’t   want   to   believe   that   their  employees  are  doing  these  things,  so  they  tell  us  to  ‘prove  it’.  This  stuff  doesn’t  brush  me  right.  This  topic  alone  can  rip  us  apart…  we  need  to  keep  it  real.        A   cursory   analysis   of   Verna’s   statement   relies   on   the   voice/silence   binary   and   presumes   a  community  of  women  silenced  by  their  experiences  of  a  coercive  and  gendered  Christian  education,  with  such   experiences   resulting   in   unspeakable   personal   trauma.   Such   an   analysis   is   predicated   on   the  assumption  that  silence  is  a  pathological  response  to  violence,  with  voice  and  the  ‘telling’  of  those  violent  experiences   presented   as   inherently   ‘healing,’   and   as   a   community   building   opportunity.   Verna’s  	   23	  statement   brings   in   to   question   the   role   of   historical   systems   and   institutions   that   have   impacted   how  women   like  her  have  understood   their  bodies  and   the  violence  committed  against   them.  Her  statement  points  to  sin  and  shame  as  learned  through  those  institutions,  producing  specific  kinds  of  silences  that  are  historically  contingent.    In  a  continued  effort  to  trouble  and  decolonize  the  voice/silence  binary:  how  might  a   consideration   of   the   historical   context   within   which   certain   silences   emerge   inform   a   theorization   of  silence  that  is  situated  and  structural,  as  opposed  to  individual  and  pathological?     In  their  work  on  the  relationships  between  violence,  silence  and  suffering,  Hastings  and  Simpson  (2007)   have   explored   how   ethnographic   works   on   conflict   and   violence   have   tended   to   focus   on   the  ‘hyper-­individuated’  and  subjective  experience  of  violence  as  a  traumatic  event.  This  work,  in  their  view,  presents   individuals   as   detached   from   social   relations,   “locking   them   into   a   world   that   they   frequently  seem  unable  to  communicate  to  others,  and  that  others  seem  unable  to  ‘share’”  (Hastings  and  Simpson  2007:5).  Similarly,  in  her  work  on  testimony  and  the  holocaust,  Carol  Kidron  has  explored  how  academics  frame   silence   as   the   consequence   of   trauma,   “the   burial   or   repression   of   speech,   resulting   not   from  personal  volition  but  rather  from  the  unspeakable  nature  of  an  experience  that  is…  beyond  words,  beyond  narrative,  and  thus  beyond  representation”  (2009:7).  Consequently,  Verna’s  statement  about  the  difficulty  of   discussing   sexual   violence   and   rape   could   readily   be   classified   as   a   kind   of   ‘psycho-­pathologized’  process  of  avoidance  and  repression,  where  well-­being  is  “contingent  upon  the  liberation  of  voice”  (Kidron  2009:6).  Such  a  pathological  reading  of  silence  positions  the  women  in  the  room  at  the  C3  workshop  as  “traumatized  victims”  who  simply   require   the  space  and  opportunity   to   testify  about   their  experiences  of  violence,  to  share  their  stories.  Trauma  as  a  psychological   state  and   the   ‘new  condition  of   victimhood’  began  circulating   in   the  mid-­20th   century,   when   it   gained   prominence   as   a   legitimate   psychiatric   condition   affecting   both  individuals  and  entire  nations  (Fassin  and  Rechtman  2009).  In  Empire  of  Trauma,  Fassin  and  Retchman  (2009)  seek  to  denaturalize  trauma  as  the  normal  psychological  state  of  victims  and  explore  the  historical  construction   of   ‘trauma’   since   the   Second  World  War   and   within   the   current   ‘humanitarian   age.’   Their  analysis  suggests  that  trauma  can  and  has  been  mobilized  for  political  ends,  and  that  persons  are  not  the  “passive   recipients   of   the   label   ‘traumatized’”   (2009:xi).   The   assumed   correlation   between   violence,  trauma,  and  victimhood  can  adversely  affect  those  labeled  as  victims.      	   24	  In  her  work  with  Indigenous  girls  on  sexual  violence,  Métis  scholar  and  trauma  counselor  Natalie  Clark  has  suggested  that  “the  current  construction  of   trauma  continues  to  create  a  colonial  subject  who  requires   intervention,  support  and  saving,”  obfuscating   the  role  of   the  state   in  perpetuating  neo-­colonial  violence   (2016a:2).   Clark   explains   that   trauma,   as   an   individualized   and   medicalized   state,   has   been  framed  as  a  mental  health  issue,  resulting  in  state-­funded  and  regulated  programs  and  interventions  that  “further  colonize  and  pathologize  Indigenous  children  and  youths’  health  and  their  bodies”  (2016a:3).  The  result,  for  Clark,  is  a  ‘trauma  industry’  that  contributes  to  a  ‘shock  and  awe’  campaign  which  perpetuates  “statistics  of  horror  and  shock”  (ibid.)   that  are  then  circulated  in  the  media  and  consumed  by  the  public.  The   social   response   is   to   intervene   at   the   level   of   the   self   and   the   interpersonal,   as   opposed   to   the  political   (McKinney  2007).  The  consequence  of  a  pathological   interpretation  of   silence  undermines  and  neglects  the  economic,  political,  and  social  structures  –  the  structural  violence  –  that  continues  to  infringe  upon  the  rights  of  Indigenous  women  and  communities.    In  his  seminal  work  on  structural  violence,  Paul  Farmer  demonstrated   the  need   to  consider  not  only  the  individual  experience  of  violence,  but  “the  larger  social  matrix  in  which  it  is  embedded  to  see  how  various   large-­scale  social   forces  come   to  be   translated   into  personal  distress  and  disease”   (1997:261).  Like   Farmer,   the   Indigenous   women   at   the   C3,   were   interested   in   exploring   and   mitigating   the   social  forces   that   “crystalize   into   the   sharp,   hard   surfaces   of   individual   suffering”   (1997:263).   Locating   and  naming   structural   violence   can   be   challenging,   as   its   impacts   are   often   “part   of   the   routine   grounds   of  everyday  life  and  transformed  into  expressions  of  moral  worth”  (Scheper-­Hughes  2004:4).  In  Lake  Babine  Nation   for   example,   women   participating   in   this   research   project   described   the   sexual   violence   as   “an  ordinary  condition  of  their  lives…  so  common  as  to  seem  to  be  a  normal  phenomenon”  (Fiske  and  Patrick  200:188).  Kleinman  and  Kleinman  warn  against  the  Western  process  of  rewriting  social  experiences  and  suffering  related  to  poverty  and  conflict  in  to  medical  terms,  where  ‘victims’  are  constructed  as  passive,  as  one  “who  cannot  represent  himself,  who  must  be  represented…  then  he  becomes  a  patient”  (1997:10).  In  short,  one  who  has  suffered  political,  structural,  and  economic  violence  becomes  one  who  is  sick.    As  traumatized  victims,   Indigenous  women  are  continuously  framed  as  sick,  as   in  need  of  help,  and   as   inherently   vulnerable   and   susceptible   to   violence.   This   process   undermines   their   role   as   anti-­violence   experts   and   activists,   as   well   as   their   capacity   to   contribute   to   intervention   strategies   and  	   25	  resistance.  Vulnerability   itself  becomes  naturalized   through   this  process  as   intrinsic   to   the  population   in  question,   rather   than   a   historically   and   socially   produced   status   through   the   ongoing   process   of  colonization  (Green  2011:25).  Colonialism  as  the  source  of  vulnerability  is  obscured.  Consequently,  it  was  not   the   pathological   and   highly   traumatic   nature   of   rape   and   sexual   violence   that  was   explored   by   the  women  at  the  C3,  but  instead,  the  structures  that  limit  and  curtail  how  they  can  talk  about  violence,  seek  out  support  services,  and  protect   themselves  and  their   families.  This   is  not   to  undermine   the  potentially  damaging  and  horribly  disruptive  effects  of  sexual  violence,  but  to  emphasize  the  capacity  of  survivors  to  contribute  and  even  thrive  despite  the  trauma  they  bear.       As   the   coordinators   of   the   workshop,   Betty   and   Verna   were   tasked   with   the   challenge   of  navigating   a   topic   that   has   frequently   been   labeled   as   ‘taboo’   and   ‘off-­limits’   by   fellow   community  members.  Attendance  on  day  one  of   the  workshop  was  by   invitation  only   to   ensure   that   those  women  present   felt   safe   and   supported   as   they   discussed,   disclosed,   and   deliberated   on   sexual   violence   and  construction   camps.   Women   representing   communities   already   impacted   by   construction   camps  recounted  their  experiences  with  the  influx  of  temporary  workers  from  the  south  in  to  their  territories,  and  the  increased  risks  of  sexual  assault,  rape,  trafficking,  pregnancy,  STIs  and  drug  use  that  are  associated  with   the   establishment   of   construction   camps   (see   Gibson   et   al.   2017;;   Shandro   et.   al.   2014;;   Sweet  2014a).   A   woman   who   works   with   the   Highway   of   Tears   Initiative   disclosed   her   experience   of   sexual  violence  at   the  hands  of  a  camp  worker.  Her  story  was  accented  with   long  pauses,  moments  when  the  conviction   in   the  room  seemed  to  deepen.  Solutions  and  viewpoints  were  collected  and  grouped  by  the  women   into   categories   such   as   health,   employment,   transportation,   and   cultural   continuity.   In   the  afternoon,  we  split  up  in  to  groups  and  focused  on  developing  programs  and  policies  that  might  mitigate  the  negative   impacts,  based  on  those  categories.   I  spent   the  afternoon  with   the  health  group.  Here,  we  talked  about  the  need  for  culturally-­appropriate  health  care  services,  free  child-­care  for  women  employed  at  the  camp,  on-­reserve  sexual  health  services,  and  funding  for  drug  and  alcohol  prevention  programs  in-­community.  A  key  concern   for  many  at   the   table  was   that  while   they  may   feel  healthy  now,  camp  work  might  render  them  unwell  –  be  it  the  result  of  shift  work,  or  as  a  consequence  of  a  dramatic  increase  in  income  that  might  result   in  unhealthy  spending,  or  domestic  conflict.  The  risks  requiring  mitigation  were  broad  ranging  and  diverse.  Repeatedly,  the  conversation  circled  back  to  sexual  health  and  the  safety  of  	   26	  women  in  camps  and  in  community.  When  asked  to  discuss  how  we  might  go  about  mitigating  the  risk  of  increased  STIs  and  pregnancies  among  community  members,  one  woman  who  I  call  Jody  said:    Before  we  go  in  to  that,  can  I  just  ask:  if  a  woman  is,  you  know…  attacked—what  is  she  supposed  to  do?  We  can  talk  about  STIs  and  that,  but  I  think,  like  she  said,  we  need  to  talk  about  that  first.  Who  do  you  even  report  it  to?  The  boss  of  the  guy  who  did  it?  The  police?  How  do  we  deal  with  it  on   reserve?   I   wouldn’t   trust   any   of   those   guys   anyways.  …   I   can’t   call   the   police,   and   I   won’t.  Maybe  if  someone  had  training  who  was  on  the  reserve,  you  know?    While   the  women  around  the  table  nodded   in  agreement,   I   inquired:  “What  do  you  mean  when  you  say  you  can’t  call  the  police?”  The  woman  explained  to  me  that  there  is  no  trust  between  her  community  and  the  RCMP,  that  in  her  community  they  have  a  special  name  for  the  RCMP  because  they’re  the  ones  who  take  their  children  away.   In   this  statement,   I  can   identify  a  deliberate  and  conscious  silence  (that  of  not  calling  the  police)  mobilized  by  a  woman  who  is  cognizant  of  the  relationships  of  power  in  which  she  lives.  Jody’s   silence   reflects   her   own   relationship   with   structures   and   institutions   that   have   silenced   and  oppressed  her  in  complex  ways.  This  is  not  to  entrench  a  voice/silence  binary,  but  instead  to  consider  the  ways   in   which   structures   can   incite   or   require   conscious   and   even   resistant   silence.   In   short,   does  theorizing  silence  provide  us  with  space  and  opportunity  to  shift  towards  a  “mode  of  inquiry  that  turns  the  anthropologist’s  critical  analytical  lens  outward,  to  history  and  to  power”  (Fernando  2014:238).  As   Yep   and   Shimanoff   argue,   silence   is   neither   exclusively   oppressive   nor   liberatory,   but  both/neither   “depending   on   the   discursive,   material,   historical,   and   geopolitical   contexts   in   which   it   is  deployed”  (2013:142).  This  woman’s  silence  and  speech  regarding  the  RCMP  and  the  removal  of  children  from  communities  is  grounded  in  the  context  of  historical  and  neo-­colonialism,  the  realities  of  the  ‘sixties  scoop’,   and   the   current   statistics   that   suggest   that   there   is   a   disproportionate   number   of   Indigenous  children  and  youth  in  foster  care  in  Canada.    According  to  a  report  published  in  2003,  40%  of  the  76,000  children  and  youth  placed  in  out-­of-­  home  care  in  Canada  are  Indigenous  (Farris-­Manning  and  Zandstra  2003).  Cindy  Blackstock,  a  Gitxsan  social  worker  and  advocate   for   Indigenous  youth-­in-­care,  estimates  that  there  may  be  as  many  as  three  times  more  Indigenous  children  in  the  care  of  child  welfare  authorities  now   than  were   placed   in   residential   schools   at   the   height   of   those   operations   in   the   1940s   (2003).   In  addition,   the  Aboriginal   Justice   Inquiry  Child  Welfare   Initiative   (2001)   stated   that   some  provinces   claim  that  over  80%  of  children  in  care  are  Indigenous.  These  numbers  are  startling  when  we  consider  the  fact  that  only   five  percent  of  Canadian  children  are   Indigenous  (Trocmé  et.al.  2004:578).     As  Trocmé  et.  al.  	   27	  argue,  the  disproportionate  level  of  Indigenous  children  in  care  must  be  considered  contextually,  and  this  means   considering   “the   history   of   assimilationist   education   and   child   welfare   policies   in   Canada”  (2004:578).  As  the  women  around  the  table  explained  to  me,  they  feel  that  the  removal  of  their  children  is  part   of   the   ongoing   colonial   project.   While   children   are   removed   because   their   living   situations   are  deemed  to  be  unsafe,  the  Too  Many  Victims  report  released  in  2016  by  the  BC  representative  for  children  and   youth   revealed   that   between   2011   and   2014,   121   youth-­in-­care   reported   being   the   victims   of  sexualized  violence.  Of  the  121  children  and  youth,  74  (61%)  were  Indigenous  girls.  By  understanding  the  violence  as  structural,  I  can  begin  to  understand  the  silence  as  structural  as  well.    Jody’s  statement  about  not  disclosing  violence  because  of   the  structural   factors  and   institutions  that  wield  authority  to  remove  children  from  their  families,  gives  a  weight  to  the  form  and  function  of  her  own   silence.   By   exploring   institutional   and   structural   factors,   we   can   observe   how   “the   conditions   of  silence  and  silence  as  a  condition  arise  together”  (Perez  2013:203).  Jane  Parpart  suggests   that  silence  may   be   used   as   a   resistive   strategy   and   as   a   political   tool   for   security   and   survival   (2010:17).   Here,  silence  reflects  a  necessity  within  the  context  of  the  current  Canadian  foster  care  system  and  its   impact  on   the   lives   of   Indigenous   families.   As   Parpart   states,   an   emphasis   on   ‘speaking   truth’   assumes   that  those   who   speak   will   be   “protected   by   international   and   national   institutions   devoted   to   democracy,  freedom   of   speech,   and   human   rights”   (2010:15).   However,   the   Indigenous   youth-­in-­care   example  suggests   that   speaking  out  may   in   fact   result   in   devastation.  Consequently,   Judy’s   silence  mirrors  and  brings  to  light  a  more  nuanced  silence,  through  which  communities  negotiate  violence  locally,  relying  on  internal   strategies   of   retribution   and   justice   (Parpart   2010:21).   If   she  were   to   call   the   police,   her   story  could  be  used  as   justification   for   the   removal  of  her  children.  But,  by  enacting  silence,   this  woman  can  preserve  her  family  on  her  own  terms,  and  resist  the  institutions  that  silence  them  in  the  first  place,  such  as   the   settler-­colonial   Canadian   state.   Overall,   this   kind   of   analysis   points   to   the   role   of   the   state,  institutions,  and  public  discourses  in  upholding,  inciting,  and  maintaining  specific  kinds  of  silences  to  their  benefit   (Bhattacharya   2009).   As   such,   structural   silences  might   be   addressed   by   silence   at   a   different  scale,  the  personal  or  local,  “deployed  as  a  tool  to  resist  the  very  discourses  that  imposed  the  silence  in  the  first  place”  (Bhattacharya  2009:360).    	   28	  Foster  care,  the  Indian  Act,  Bill  C-­31,  the  RCMP,  police  brutality,  residential  schools,  the  judicial  system,  the  prison  system,  the  service  sector:  these  are  just  a  few  of  the  structures  and  institutions  that  were   named   and   discussed   on   day   one   of   the   C3   workshop.   Each   one   of   these   institutions   could   be  explored   in   detail   as   I   have   done   above   in   the   case   of   youth-­in-­care.   Leanne   Simpson   (2014)   has  explored   in   depth   the   role   of   residential   schools   in   the   destruction   and   reconstruction   of   sexuality   and  gender  that  she  states,  produces  gender  based  violence  as  a  necessary  part  of  heteropatriarchy  and  the  ‘capitalist   dream.’   In   her   doctoral   thesis   titled:  Warrior   Women,   Robyn   Sanderson   Bourgeois   (2014)  outlined   at   length   the   role   of   the   Indian  Act   and  Bill  C-­31   in   the   continued   oppression   of   and   violence  against   Indigenous   women.   Indigenous   woman   scholars   and   activists   have   written   about   and   against  these   structures   for   decades.   The   women   in   the   hotel   conference   room   were   profoundly   aware   and  conscious  of  the  structures  and  relationships  of  power  within  which  they  live.  They  argued  that  institutions  like  the  RCMP,  the  service  sector,  and  so  on  are  tangled  in  the  webs  of  colonialism,  racism,  and  sexism.  The   confluence   of   these   intersecting   forms   of   oppression   imparts   an   image   of   Indigenous   women   as  “already  and  always  the  victims”  (Field  Notes,  June  2016)  to  the  public  and  to  people  working  within  those  institutions  to  justify  heightened  state  intervention  ‘for  their  own  good.’  Throughout   the   first   day   of   our   meetings,   women   expressed   how   the   colonial   processes   and  institutions,   such   as   those   mentioned   above,   have   made   them   feel   like   “bad   mothers”,   “unqualified  employees”,   “non-­credible   witnesses”,   “inadequate   wives”,   and   “unworthy   women”   (Field   Notes,   June  2016).  For  Lee  Maracle,  colonial  processes  deny  Indigenous  women  personhood,  reducing  “whole  people  to  a  subhuman  level”  (1996:17).    In  Sherene  Razack’s  view,  sexism  and  racism  frame  Indigenous  women  as   ‘less   than  human’   (2002),   such   that   assault   and  death  are   treated  as   ‘unexceptional’   (Hunt   2016a).  Moreover,   in  Conquest   (2005)  Andrea  Smith  has  explored  at   length   the  ways   in  which  colonizers  have  framed   Indigenous   bodies   as   polluted   and   sinful,   “underserving   of   integrity   and   violable   at   all   times”  (2005:10).  As  the  source  and  reproducers  of  a  people  and  their  culture,  sexual  violence  is  used  as  a  tool  of   empire   to   destroy   people,   “as   well   as   their   sense   of   being   a   people”   (Smith   2005:3).   As   such,   as  Weidman   suggests,   we   need   to   explore   when   and   why   voice   becomes   a   ‘salient   metaphor’,   and   to  consider   what   is   at   stake   in   it   (Weidman   2014:38).   If   Indigenous   women   mobilize   voice   under   these  conditions,  what   is  at   risk?  What  kind  of   consequences  do   they   incur?  And   “what   forms  of  subjectivity,  	   29	  identity,  and  public  and  political  life  are  enabled…”  through  silencing  and  voicing  (Weidman  2014:38)?  As  the  C3   experience   exemplified,   not   all   kinds   of   disclosure   or   reporting   serve   the   needs   of   the   women  present,  but  present  risks  and  challenges.  However,  a  space  like  the  C3,  designed  and  facilitated  by  and  for  Indigenous  women,  may  provide  a  venue  where  certain  kinds  of  disclosures,  be  they  partial  or  shared  in  quiet  voices,  can  have  a  powerful  impact  in  the  formulation  of  practical  solutions  and  mitigations.    We  stood   together  at   the  end  of   the  day,   reflecting  on   the  work   that  had  been  done.  A  woman  from  Xeni  Gwet’in  First  Nation  performed  a  smudge  for  everyone  in  the  room,  the  aroma  of  sage  climbing  to   the  ceiling.  To  end  on  a  ceremonial  note,   two  women  suggested   that  we  sing   the  Women’s  Warrior  Song  together.  The  weight  of  the  silences  and  stories  bore  down  heavily,  but  as  the  voices  grew  louder,  positivity  and  enthusiasm  took   its  place.  As   the   room  emptied,   the  shared  stories  stretched   in   to   fill   the  corners  of  the  room.  The  walls  were  plastered  with  poster  board  covered  in  words  carrying  the  ideas  and  thoughts  from  the  day.  Decaling  company  vehicles,  a  no  hitch-­hiking  policy,  a  ‘wet’  camp,6  traditional  food  menus  for  camp  workers,  community  hosted  BBQs,  cultural  sensitivity  training  for  workers,  free  child  care,  separate  gendered  dormitories,   a  private  help-­line   for  workers,   female   leadership  at   the  camp,   rape  kit  training  and  provision  on  the  reserve,  revitalization  of  puberty  rites  and  rituals  –  just  some  of  the  proposed  mitigations  scrolled  on  to  the  sheets  of  paper.  Day  one  was  fruitful  and  challenging.    Day   two   of   the   C3   followed   a   different   format,   as   Betty   and   Verna   had   invited   provincial  government   representatives   from   several   ministries,   including   the   Ministry   of   Aboriginal   Relations   and  Reconciliation,   the  BC  Environmental  Assessment  Office,   the  Ministry  of  Health,  and  Ministry  of  Natural  Gas   Development.   Additionally,   they   invited   professionals   from   industry   and   shareholders   including  representatives  from  Summit  Camps,  TransCanada,  and  Domcor.7  These  guests  were  invited  to  enter  the  room  at  10:00am.  Prior  to  their  entry,  we  spent  an  hour  reflecting  on  the  first  day  and  preparing  mentally  and  physically  for  the  entrance  of  our  guests.  Once  the  two  groups  convened,  Betty  Patrick  provided  the  welcome.   Ginger   spoke   next,   foregrounding   our   work   in   the   important   efforts   of   the   Native   Women’s  Association   of  Canada   and   the  Sisters   in  Spirit   campaign,   the  Walk4Justice   initiative,   Lorelei  Williams’                                                  6	  A	  ‘wet’	  camp	  is	  one	  where	  alcohol	  may	  be	  purchased	  and	  consumed	  within	  designated	  areas	  of	  the	  camp	  compound.	  ‘Wet’	  camps	  may	  discourage	  workers	  from	  seeking	  out	  alcohol	  in	  nearby	  communities.	  For	  further	  discussion	  see	  Gibson	  et.	  al.	  2017,	  page	  21.	  	  7	  Companies	  currently	  engaged	  in	  industrial	  development	  in	  the	  B.C	  Interior	  implicated	  in	  assessment	  and	  negotiation	  processes	  with	  the	  members	  of	  the	  Nations	  present	  at	  the	  workshop.	  	  	  	   30	  ‘Butterflies   in   Spirit’   dance   project,   and   the   Carrier   Sekani   Tribal   Council   Highway   of   Tears   Initiative,  among   many   others.   We   introduced   the   recommendations   outlined   in   many   of   these   reports   to   the  government  representatives.  Before  we  broke  for  lunch,  an  Indigenous  woman  with  experience  working  in  construction  camps  shared  her  experience  of  sexual  violence  at  the  hands  of  construction  camp  workers.  She   ended   her   story   by   saying:   “I   am   more   than   this   attack,   we   can   prevent   these   attacks   from  happening,  you  here  in  this  room  have  that  power,  use  it.”    With  her  call   to  action  still   ringing  in  our  ears,  we  broke  for   lunch.  We  were  all  keen  to  start   the  afternoon   session   where   representatives   from   each   of   the   subgroups   established   on   day   one   would  present  a  summary  of   their  group’s   findings  and  proposed  mitigations.  Melanie,  a  member  of  Nak’azdli  Whut’en,  opened  the  afternoon  and  set  the  tone  for  the  presentations  that  would  follow.  She  said:        We  are  not  here  to  attack  industry  or  government.  This  is  much  bigger  than  that,  this  is  about  our  survival,  and  our  safety.  There  are  five  proposed  pipelines  right  now,  all  of  them  will  be  traversing  our   territory   in   some   way.   …When   we   say   we’re   worried   about   the   higher   burden   on   health  services   in  our   region,  government  and   industry  both  say   “prove   it.”  When  we  say  we’re  worried  about   sexual   violence,   you   say   “prove   it.”     With  Mt.   Milligan,   we   saw   our   young  mothers   being  evicted   so   that   apartments   could   be   renovated   and   rented   out   at   a   higher   price.   We   saw   an  increase   in  STIs,  and  other  health   indicators  shift   for   the  worse…The  government  needs   to   fund  and  promote  prevention  across  the  region,  not  just  based  on  those  who  have  the  capacity  to  ask.  LNG  development   is   the  government’s  plan.  We  need   rape  crisis  plans.  Why   is   this  on  us   to  do  when  you’re   the  one  promoting   these  camps?  How  about  you  prove   to  us   that  your  projects  and  camps  won’t  hurt  our  women  and  children  instead?  There  has  been  a  lot  of  anger,  and  this  could  get  personal.  We  also  know  that   talking  about  sexual  violence  can  trigger  people   in  the  audience  here  today  and  in  our  communities.  So,  we  need  to  be  careful  and  caring,  we  need  to  speak  gently  and  listen  to  each  other.  Our  work  is  often  done  in  isolation  so  we  need  to  create  a  space  for  First  Nations,  government,  and  industry  to  work  together  to  find  solutions.  We  need  to  come  together.    I   present   this   quote   to   show   the   ‘space’   that   was  made   by  Melanie   through   her   remarks.   Here,  Melanie  acknowledged   the   systems  and   structures   that   have  produced  different   kinds  of   silences.  She  acknowledged  systems  that  have  placed  the  onus  of  proof  on  to  victims  of  assault,  government  plans  that  have  ignored  the  aspirations  of  Indigenous  peoples  and  their  consent.  Through  her  speech  act,  Melanie  establishes   the  space  within  which   the  dialogue  will   take  place.  The  decisions   that  Melanie  and   the  C3  participants  made  on  day  one  about  which  stories   to  share  and  how,  and  what   to  withhold  and  protect  were   part   of   a   conscious   process   to   change   the   terms   of   engagement  with   a   public   (government   and  industry)   that   has   been   implicated   in   the   pathological   trauma   narratives   explored   above.   As  Weidman  argues,  the  acts  of  silencing  and  voicing  that  these  Indigenous  women  are  engaged  in  are  constituted  in  negotiation   with   “those   who   interpret,   circulate,   and   reanimate   them:   by   the   communities   of   listeners,  	   31	  publics,   and   public   spaces   in   which   they   can   resonate”   (2014:45).   On   day   one,   the   public   was   what  Lauren  Berlant  calls  an   ‘intimate  public’  or  a  grouping  of  people  who  come  together  based  on  a  shared  worldview  or  emotional  knowledge  “that  they  have  derived  from  a  broadly  common  historical  experience,”  marked   by   a   common   lived   and   embodied   experience   (Berlant   2008:viii).   Our   goal   on   day   two   of   the  workshop   was   to   engage   in   speech   acts,   both   voicing   and   silencing,   that   would   extend   that   intimate  public,   and   include   the   representatives   who   had   been   invited   to   join.  Melanie’s   remarks   called   on   the  public  present  within  the  room  to  resist  anger,  be  caring,  speak  gently,  and  listen.  In  doing  so,  she  called  on   industry   and   government   to   implicate   themselves   in   the   intimate   public   already   achieved   at   the  workshop.    While   I   was   not   able   to   formally   interview   any   of   the   government   and   industry   personnel   who  attended,   feedback   forms   were   circulated   to   participants   and   returned   to   the   workshop   team.   A  government  representative  wrote:  “this  was  a  special  day,  I  am  leaving  with  a  heavy  heart,  but  I  am  glad  we   were   invited   here   to   work   on   solutions.”   An   Indigenous   C3   participant   said   in   their   evaluation:   “I  appreciated  creating  awareness  with  government  and  industry  at  a  very  intimate  level.  We  don’t  get  these  opportunities  often.”  Both  comments  suggest  that  affective  and  intimate  connection  was  made  at  the  C3,  at  least  for  some  of  those  present.  In  discussing  the  value  of  achieving  intimate  publics,  Berlant  says  that  the  “tiny  point  of  identification  can  open  up  a  field  of  fantasy  and  de-­isolation…”  (2008:11).  Identification  comes   from   the   shared   desire   for   a   ‘better   good   life’   felt   by   people   “often   in   contradictory   social  positionings”   (2008:270).   The   C3   participants,   as   an   intimate   public,   integrated   outsiders   in   to   the  affective   atmosphere   that   they   had   established   on   their   own   terms:   through   negotiated   and  measured  silences,  calculated  speech  acts,  and  ceremony.  As  Weidman  states  voice  and  silence  as  speech  acts  are  generative  of  publics  insofar  as  they  give  rise  “to  new  forms  of  collective  identity,  affect,  and  intimacy”  (2014:44).   This   is   not   to   over-­determine   the   affective   experience   of   industry   and   government  representatives,   but   to   honour   the   ways   in   which   the   Indigenous   women   in   the   room   managed   the  silences   incited   by   colonial   processes   and   structures,   and   negotiated   their   lived   experiences   of   sexual  violence   in   the   face   of   a   public   comprised   of   people   implicated   in   such   structures,   either   implicitly   or  explicitly.    	   32	  A  strength  of  day   two  was   that  Melanie,  along  with   the  other  presenters,  moved  a  community  of  listeners,   an   ‘intimate   public,’   towards   solution-­seeking.   Feedback   on   the   workshop   evaluation   forms  reiterated   the   importance   of   this   strategy.   The   meeting   was   led   by   Indigenous   women;;   held   on   their  territory  using  their  frameworks  and  concerns  as  the  foundation  for  conversation;;  they  navigated  the  acts  of   disclosure,   stories,   and   the   development   of   solutions   and   mitigations   using   ceremony   and   cultural  awareness.  While  we  acknowledged  on  day  one  that  these  women  are  not  disclosing  to  the  RCMP  due  to  structural   constraints   framed   by   racism,   they   developed   and   facilitated   a   kind   of   controlled   and   partial  disclosure  that  served  their  own  ends,  despite  those  structural  barriers.    Indigenous   women   have   always   and   will   continue   to   establish   spaces   in   which   they   voice   their  stories  and  disclose  their  experiences.  Under  structures  that  silence—structures  of  silence—  Indigenous  women   know   what   to   share   and   what   not   to   share.   Here,   I   understand   silence   as   both   partial   and  negotiated.   As   Hastings   and   Simpson   (2007)   argue,   silence   is   rarely   complete.   In   fact,   like   speech,  silences  are  “necessarily  partial  accounts,  shaped  and  constructed  in  a  particular  situational,  biographical,  institutional,   cultural,   historical,   and   interactional   context”   (Poland   and   Pederson   1998:294).   In   its  partiality,  silence  marks  moments  of  profound  agency  and  restoration  for  those  engaged  in  its  negotiation.  Furthermore,   in   the   process   of   negotiation,   women   like   Betty   and   Verna   and   the   attendees   of   the   C3  workshop  may  determine  who  to  speak  to,  when,  and  under  what  conditions.  While  many  of  the  women  in  the  room  may  not  have  reported  their  experiences  of  assault,  they  have  chosen  specific  elements  of  their  stories   to   share,   on   both   day   one   and   day   two   of   the   workshop.   In   creating   the   C3   as   a   safe   space  managed  by  Indigenous  women,  they  decided  what  to  tell,  and  what  not  to  tell,  mobilizing  both  voice  and  silence  in  creative  ways  to  navigate  unequal  power  structures.       	   33	  Section  III:  In  Babine,  With  Babine     Though  only   105km   from  Smithers,   the   drive   to  Fort  Babine   can   take  anywhere   from   forty-­five  minutes  to  two  hours  depending  on  who  is  driving,  the  state  of  one’s  tires,  and  the  level  of  traffic  on  the  primarily  single   lane  dirt   road.  The  Nilkitkwa  forestry  service  road,  known   locally  as   the  4000  road,  was  constructed  in  the  1970s  to  support  the  booming  forestry  industry.  It  runs  parallel  to  Lake  Babine  River—the   longest   natural   lake   entirely   within   British   Columbia.   This   road,   a   part   of   the   intricate   network   of  forestry   roads  all  over   the   industry-­marred   landscape,  connects   the  deep  woods   to   industry  processing  plants   in  small   towns  like  Smithers.  It   is  along  this  road,  5km  from  the  Wit’at  reserve  (Fort  Babine),   that  PRGT   has   proposed   the   construction   of   their   1000-­person   construction   camp.   In   late   July   and  August  2016,   I  had   the  opportunity   to  conduct   fieldwork   in  Lake  Babine  Nation  and  participate   in  an   internship  organized   by   Ginger   and   Betty.   In   cooperation   with   Garaline,   a   young   Indigenous   woman   and   LBN  member,  I  helped  to  create  a  community-­based  sexual  violence  preparedness  plan.  As  interns,  Garaline  and  I  enjoyed  the  beauty  of  Babine  territory  together.  In  August,  the  air  was  thick  with  the  plumes  rising  from  family  smokehouses  in  keeping  with  Wit’at’s  namesake,  ‘the  place  of  making  dry  fish.’  Red  salmon  belly  hung  in  the  rafters,  slowly  drying  in  to  tender  morsels  while  whole  fish  hung  in  the  sun  attracting  flies  and   curious   children.  Members   fished,   gutted,   dried,   pickled,   and   packaged   salmon   by   the   thousands  during  the  harvest  season.  Families  picked,  cleaned,  boiled,  and  canned  pounds  of  berries.  It  was  during  many  of  these  activities  that  I  came  to  know  and  spend  time  with  the  members  of  Lake  Babine  Nation.    Nation   members   frequently   refer   to   Fort   Babine   as   the   heart   of   the   Nation,   and   as   the   most  traditional   of   its   five   communities.  One   LBN  member  who   lives   and  works   in  Woyenne   described   Fort  Babine  as  “the  closest  you  can  get  to  God.”  This  woman,  like  many  LBN  members,  visits  Fort  Babine  in  the  summer  where  she   reconnects  with  her   relations.  Families  continue   to  make   the   long   journey  each  summer   from   Vancouver,   Chilliwack,   Nanaimo,   and   Kelowna   to   make   their   fish   and   visit   family   and  friends.  Many   speak   fondly   of   Babine,   referencing   long   summer   nights   and   the   nostalgia   of   childhood.  “They  didn’t  have  WiFi  there  until  about  a  year  ago,”  one  man  told  me,  as  he  reflected  on  the  ‘quiet’  that  can   be   found   in   Fort   Babine.   As   the  most   remote   of   the   five   communities   that  make-­up   Lake   Babine  Nation,   Fort  Babine   is   at   the   center   of   the  Nation’s   resource   disputes   and   negotiations.  Consequently,  Fort  Babine   residents  are  accustomed   to  visits   from  researchers,  consultants,  and  professionals  hailing  	   34	  from  the  South.  These  experts   take  soil  samples,  collect  survey  data,  and  gather   traditional  knowledge.  LBN   members   are   veteran   interviewees;;   however,   their   knowledge   and   narratives   risk   being  “appropriated,  interpreted,  retold  and  sold”  by  ‘experts’  (Castillejo-­Cuéllar  2005:172).    In   our   efforts   to   ‘bring   voice’   and   to   ‘break   silence’   about   violence,   researchers   (like   myself  included)   risk   becoming   engaged   in   an   extractive   industry   that   relies   on   the   retelling   of   violent  experiences  that  become  commodities  in  the  market  for  academic  prestige  (Castillejo-­Cuéllar  2005:173).  Furthermore,  as  Fiske  and  Patrick  (2000:22)  explore  in  Cis  Dideen  Kat,  “no  dialogue  of  equals  is  possible  in  a  situation  in  which  Babine  women  are  primarily  clients  and  rarely  the  service  providers”  of  health  care  and   social   services.   Babine   women’s   experiences   and   aspirations   are   rarely   considered,   but   are  dominated  by  the  discourses  of  so-­called  ‘helping  professions’  such  as  psychology  and  social  work.    The  structural  silences  produced  by  colonialism  and  extractive  contexts  continue  to  limit  how  and  where   Indigenous  women   in   the   region  disclose  experiences  of   sexual   violence  and  ways   they  access  support  and  resources.  Much  of   the   ‘data’  presented  below  came  from  informal  conversations  with  men  and   women   while   preparing   meals,   swimming   in   the   river,   and   cleaning   our   freshly   harvested  huckleberries.   Very   few   of   the   twelve   formal   interviews   conducted   were   recorded   in   part   because   our  hands  were  often  covered  in  fish  guts,  but  also  as  a  reaction  to  the  extractive  quality  of  ongoing  studies  in  Fort  Babine.  Women   like  Nancy,  Helen,   and  Sharon  welcomed  me   in   to   their   homes  and   lives.   It  was  during   informal   time  spent  with   these  women   that   I  began   to  understand  silence,   in  both   the   instructive  and  structural  forms  discussed  previously,  but  also  as  a  way  of  being  in  the  world,  as  embodied  practices  and  experiences  that  are  felt  and  lived  every  day  by  Indigenous  women.       I   visited  Nancy   regularly   during  my   two   stays   in  Fort  Babine.  She   invited  me  over   for   lunch  or  dinner  when   I  was  not   occupied  by   interviews  or   fishing.  Her   house  was  often  bursting  with   kids,   loud  chatter,  and  pop  music.  As  a  meeting  point  for  kids  in  the  community  and  having  five  children  of  her  own,  Nancy  was   often   preoccupied  with   the   tasks   of   preparing,   serving,   and   tidying   up  meals.  On   a  muggy  Wednesday  afternoon,  Nancy  and  I  sat  in  her  kitchen  and  talked  about  my  research  and  the  construction  camp.  She  stirred  a  pot  of  boiling  blueberries  as  we  spoke,   the  sweet  aroma  of  macerated  berries  and  sugar  filling  our  nostrils.  We  discussed  the  unemployment  rate  in  Babine  and  the  desperate  need  for  jobs,  	   35	  especially   for  women.   I   asked  Nancy   about   the   kinds   of   programs  and   training   that  might   be   useful   in  terms  of  employability.  She  said:    Nancy:  “That’s  not  …  that’s  not  the  solution.  That’s  not  what  I’ve  been  saying.  [Pause]    I  know  that  the  violence  and  stuff  is  really  bad.  But  I  want  to  talk  about  something  else,  hey?  I  am  in  that  stuff  every  day,  you  know?  It’s  in  my  bones  [long  pause].  I  just,  …you  know?  I  have  scary  stories  and  things,  I  know  a  thing  about  this  girl,  but  I  don’t  want  to  do  that…  [Turning  to  the  stove  to  stir  a  pot  of  water  and  noodles],  I  want  us  to  talk  about  this  Kraft  dinner  we’re  gonna  eat.  [Pause]  I  don’t  know…  you  know?      Hannah:  I’m  sorry,  I  didn’t  mean  to  push.  Did  I  say  something  wrong?      Nancy:  Don’t  be  sorry.  Oh  you  white  ladies.  I  just  want  to  talk  about  some  good  things,  you  know?  …  [Pause]  I’m  not  sure  you  understand  where  I’m  coming  from…”    On   other   occasions,   Nancy   offered   countless   mitigations   strategies   and   insights   in   to   camp-­life   and  women’s  safety.  Today,  she  extended  her  silence  to  me.       Audra   Simpson   (2007)   has   explored   this   kind   of   stoppage   in   an   interview   as   ‘ethnographic  refusal’   taken  up  in  generative  and  productive  ways.  While  I  sought  to  make  sense  of,  order,  and  make  more  explicit  the  impacts  of  construction  camps  and  potential  mitigations,  Nancy  chose  on  that  day  to  not  ‘get  in  to  it’  (Simpson  2007).  Like  Simpson  and  her  interviewee,  Nancy  and  I  reached  a  limit.  However,  I  would  like  to  suggest  that  Nancy’s  refusal  does  not  reveal  a  level  of  unspeakability  or  incommunicability,  but  instead  speaks  to  her  desire  to  shift  towards  different  “representational  territory”  (Simpson  2007:78).  Initially,  I  was  embarrassed  and  apologetic.  I  fidgeted  in  my  chair,  blushing  hard.  I  recalled  the  silence  in  the  boardroom  from  almost   ten  months  earlier,   the  silence  that  protected  colonial  desires  and  deflected  the  lived  experiences  of  Indigenous  women.  I  considered  how  this  situation  might  be  like  the  one  in  the  boardroom.  I  said  to  Nancy:  “I  talk  too  much,  don’t  I?”  Nancy  replied,  “Yep!  [laughing]  No,  no,  I  like  talking  too.  Just  don’t  forget  to  look  around,  look  at  how  people  are  living  too.”         In  my  attempt  to  get   to  know  Nancy  and  understand  her   insights,  had  I   forgotten  how  to   listen?    Was   I   in   the  position  of  power,   like   the  men   in   the  board   room,   impervious   to  my  own  positioning  and  privilege?   In   their  article  Voicing  Silence  and   Imagining  Citizenship,  Herakova  et.  al.   (2011)  discuss   the  ambiguity   and   confusion   of   verbal   pauses   and   silences   in   focus   groups   and   interviews.   Their   work  focuses  on  dialogue  between  differently-­situated  actors   in  dialogue  over   issues  of   racism  and  privilege,  and   the   numerous   silences   that   emerge.   While   reflecting   on   their   own   experiences   as   focus   group  facilitators   with   youth,   the   authors   distinguished   between   the   act   of   being   silent,   and   the   act   of   going  	   36	  silent.  While  the  silence  in  the  boardroom  may  speak  to  silence  of  and  by  those  in  power—of  being  silent,  the  instance  of  silence  in  Nancy’s  house  reflects  the  latter;;  the  importance  of  going  silent.  By  suggesting  that  we  change  the  subject  and  focus  on  the  present  moment,  the  life  in  the  room,  Nancy  moved  me  to  reflect  on  my  privilege,  my  position  as  a  white  settler  researcher,  and  the  assumptions  that  I  bring  to  this  work.  Through  the  lens  of  ethnographic  refusal  (Simpson  2007),  Nancy’s  silence  served  as  an  invitation  –  an   opportunity   to   go   silent.   In   accordance   with   the   experiences   of   Herakova   et.al.,   “going   silent   was  simultaneously   a   conscious   pedagogical   act   and   an   emotionally   charged   reaction”   (2011:385).      By  intentionally   going   silent,   space  was  created  where  Nancy   could  orient  me,  on  her  own   terms.  For   the  intersectional  feminist,  the  outsider,  the  act  of  going  silent  is  “the  practice  of  being  aware  of  not  knowing,  of   stepping   back,   of   committing   to   being   in   conversation,   not   domination,   with   a   range   of   relational  knowledges…  rather  than  entrench,  existing  power  lines”  (Russo  2013:39).       I  turn  again  to  Ann  Russo  and  her  work  on  silence,  voice,  and  accountability.  Russo  explores  her  position  as  a  white  feminist  with  the  responsibility  to  disrupt  the  hegemony  of  white  feminist  privilege  and  the  hierarchical  relational  dynamics  it  produces  (2013:36).  To  do  this,  Russo  requires  that  white  feminist  scholars   and   activists   engage   in   active   listening,   which   implies   “a   willingness   for   our   identities,   ideas,  theories,  and  actions  to  be  transformed,   in  the  process  of  dialogue”  (2013:36).  Active   listening  does  not  cease  when  we  feel  blamed,  guilty,  or  bad.  As  researcher  Jaskiran  Dhillon  argues,  deep  listening  requires  “decentering  the  author/researcher/advocate  as  the  single  voice  of  authority”  (2015:25).  If  researchers  are  going  to  center  research  on  the  lived  experiences  of  Indigenous  women,  then  we  need  to  take  seriously  their  leadership  role  and  knowledge  in  concrete  ways  (ibid.).  And  that  means  taking  direction  from  them.  Going   silent   and   active   listening   requires   that   we   live   in   these   sometimes   fleeting   and   sometimes  profound   feelings   of   “alienation,   of   not   belonging,   of   having   your   world   thoroughly   disrupted,   having   it  criticized  and  scrutinized  from  the  point  of  view  of   those  who  have  been  harmed  by   it,  having   important  concepts  central  to  it  dismissed,  being  viewed  with  mistrust,  being  seen  as  of  no  consequence  except  as  an  object  of  mistrust”  (Lugones  and  Spelman  1983,  in  Russo  2013:36).  It  is  only  through  going  silent  and  active   listening   that   I   can   know   differently.   Such   an   understanding   of   silence   encourages   us   as  researchers  to  approach  silence  methodologically,  as  a  pedagogy  of   listening   to  and   through  silence.  In  his   description   of   silence   as   pedagogy,   Baurain   suggests   that   an   “authentic,   attentive   listening  	   37	  understands  the  importance  of  contexts  and  relationships  and  the  potential  richness  of  silence”  (2011:89).  While  such  a  pedagogy  on  the  part  of  a  researcher  is  valuable  (and  necessary  to  decolonize  community-­based  research),  Nancy  had  also  made  a  parallel  request:  to  pay  attention  to  “how  people  are  living.”  This  leads  me  to  consider  the  relationship  between  silence  and  the  body,  or  silence  as  embodied.       As   the  site  of   lived  experience  and   felt   intensities,   the  body  presents   itself  as  a  unique  avenue  through   which   to   explore   silences   that   are   affective   and   affecting.   Acheson   suggests   that   silence  produces   symptoms   in   our   phenomenal   bodies,   “both   when   we   encounter   it   and   when   we   ourselves  produce   it”   (2008:547).   Such   embodied   responses   draw   our   attention   to   our   own   being-­in-­the   world  (ibid:548).  By  going  silent,  I  open  myself  up  to  witnessing  my  own  embodiment  and  that  of  others,  of  our  embodied  presence   together   in   silent  moments  of  meaning  making   (Johnson  2013:62).  What  might   an  approach  to   the  body  as  a  bearer  of  silence  and  creator  of  silence  reveal  about   the   lived  experience  of  violence   and   resistance   for   Babine   women?   One   Elder   whom   I   call   Rachel   spoke   to   me   about   her  perspective  on  violence.  She  said,    We  used  to  get  together  much  more  a  long  time  ago,  but  people  keep  to  themselves  more  and  more  now,  so  we  don’t  always  know  what’s  happening   to  our  women.  The  government  helps   in   this,  and  makes  a  lot  of  hate  between  one  another.  They  do  that  with  the  money  and  positions  in  government.  It’s  all  that  money,  money,  money.  I  have  aches  in  my  hands  and  fingers  because  of  the  sadness  I  feel  about  that.  But  when  I  hug  my  grandchildren  and  when  I  see  that  they  make  fish,  that’s  how  we  push  that  sadness  out.    Rachel  speaks  not  only  to  the  structures  that  create  silences  among  people,  but   to  how  that  process  of  alienation  has  created  a  symptom   in  her  body,   the  sadness   felt   in  her   joints.  While  Rachel  did  not   talk  about   the   violence   that   has   led   to   the   sadness,   she  did   not  not   talk   about   it.  By   situating   the   sadness  within  her  body,  Rachel   reveals   the  presence  of  violence   in  her  everyday  embodiment.  Though   it   is  not  articulated  in  words,  it  is  articulated  in  and  through  her  body.       Many  of  the  women  I  met  with  did  not  talk  about  sexual  violence  directly  or  disclose  their  personal  experiences.  However,  by  going  silent,  by  being  aware  of  embodiment,  I  felt  more  attuned  to  the  affective  awareness  and  experience  of  violence,  as   the  silent  embodiment  of   that  pain  and  anger.  For  example,  one  afternoon,  Nancy  and  I  were  outside  kicking  a  soccer  ball  around  with  her  children.  The  baby  sat  on  a  cotton   blanket   in   a   shaded  area,   his   cheeks   stained  blue   from   freshly   picked  berries.  Gesturing   to   her  children,  Nancy  said:    	   38	  I  want   them  to  know  our  culture,   the  way  I  grew  up  with  my  grandmother.  They  know  how  to  sew,  and  cut  moose  meat,  and  pick  berries.  A   lot  of  people  go  missing  on   this   road  here,   I   live  with  so  much   fear   in  my  body,   thinking  about  my  kids  going  missing  or  getting  hurt  –  ending  up   in   the   tall  grass   all   alone.   I   wish   I   could   make   myself   bigger   and   bigger   so   that   I   could   just   protect   them  everywhere  and  keep  them  safe.  I  don’t  like  to  talk  about  it  though.    Like  Rachel,  the  affective  impact  of  violence  lives  quietly  but  voraciously  in  Nancy’s  body.  It  affects  how  she  feels  about  and   interacts  with  her  children.  Though  she  spoke  of  violence   infrequently  with  me,   the  fear   is   embodied   by  Nancy   as   it   animates   her   desires   and   actions.  Only   by  going   silent  was   I   able   to  become  attuned  to  the  lived  and  embodied  presence  of  violence.     Kathleen  Stewart  writes  that  “everyday  life  is  a  life  lived  on  the  level  of  surging  affects”  (2007:9)  and  that  their  significance  lies  “in  the  intensities  they  build  and  in  what  thoughts  and  feelings  they  make  possible”  (2007:3).  Embodied  fear,  not  often  spoken  about  but  always  felt,  motivates  Nancy  to  protect  her  children,  to  pass  on  the  cultural  knowledge  that  was  shared  with  her,  to  “make  herself  bigger  and  bigger”  for   her   children.   There   is   significant   bodily   investment   involved   in   feeling   fear,   and   in   the   “tenuous  preservation  of  silence”  (Pollock  2013:162).  I  have  discussed  embodied  silence  as  sensed,  yet  numerous  women  also  discussed  these  silences  in  and  of  the  body  as  a  kind  of  knowledge.  Women  spoke  of  a  kind  of   “knowing   through   the   body”   (Kidron   2009:6)   when   discussing   sexual   violence,   its   impacts,   and  prevention  strategies.       One  night,  sometime  past  midnight,   I  was  cleaning   fish  with   four  women  by   floodlight.   I  noticed  that  my  hands  were  cramping  in  the  cold  air,  when  one  women,  whom  I  call  Helen  started  discussing  my  research.  She  briefly  mentioned  young  woman  she  knew   from  another  community,  a  story   like   the  one  Verna   had   shared   in   the   boardroom.   She   said,   “talking   about   assault   can   hurt   ...”  We   stood   together  quietly  for  a  few  moments.  Helen  continued:    I  had  to  tell  my  family,  then  police,  and  then  they  ask  you  if  you  want  to  go  to  the  hospital  and  you  feel  bad,  like  you  shouldn’t  want  to  go.  Then  you  meet  doctors  and  nurses  and  all  of  these  people  and   they  ask  you  over  and  over   ‘are  you  sure   that’s  what  happened?”  One  hundred  and  fifty   times  they  ask  you.  By  the  end  of   it  you  start   to  wonder   if   it   really  did  happen.  This  violation   happened,   but   you   start   to   doubt   yourself.   My   body   knew   it,   but   I   wasn’t   sure  anymore.  My  body  knew;;  It  always  knows.      Many  women  that  I  spent  time  with  chose  not  to  disclose  sexual  violence  to  the  RCMP  or  social  services  for  fear  of  not  being  heard  or  taken  seriously,  but  that  silence  did  not  mean  that  it  is  not  expressed  non-­verbally,   lived,   felt,  and  experienced  (Kidron  2009).  Binary  assumptions  surrounding  voice/silence   imply  that  voice,  as  vehicle   for  self-­representation,  has  a  body,  while  silence  does  not.  However,  as  Jackson  	   39	  argues,   silences   are   also   embodied   insofar   as   “experiences   and   subjectivities   are   always   embodied”  (1989).  As  Dian  Million  stated  at  the  Decolonizing  Rape  Culture  Workshop  in  October  2016,  “the  body  is  the  magnificent  bearer  of  the  storyteller;;  how  we  feel  matters.”  Bodies  speak  and  perform  a  kind  of  silent  testimony  through  every  day,  embodied  action.  Jackson,  who  has  studied  women’s  speaking  strategies  in  developing   countries,   suggests   that   “women’s   bodies   talk…   these   embodied   vocabularies   of   protest  address   both   personal   and   broader   politics”   (2012:1013).   To   consider   how   women’s   bodies   speak  suggests   a   phenomenological   approach   to   silence,   where   silence   is   the   discursive   terrain   of   “felt  knowledge”   and   of   embodied   emotional   knowledge   (Million   2013).   It   is   from   this   terrain   that   acts   of  speech  and  silence  are  constituted  and  negotiated.  The  visceral  and  embodied  experience  of  the  silences  surrounding   sexual   violence   suggests   not   only   a   conceptual   silence   that   is   political   and   historical   as  explored  above,  but  silence  as  lived  and  felt  phenomena.    In  Therapeutic  Nations,  Dian  Million  (2013:57)  defines  what  she  calls  a  felt   theory  of  knowledge  rooted  in  “lived  experience,  rich  with  emotional  knowledges,  of  what  pain,  grief  and  hope  meant  or  mean  now  and  in  our  pasts  and  futures.”  This  approach  suggests  that  affect  itself  is  knowledge,  a  felt  knowing.  Million’s   argument   centers   around   the   role   of   Indigenous  women   in   bringing   their   felt   knowledges   and  experiences  to  academia  and  to  popular  discourse  through  the  sharing  of   their  stories  –  primarily   in  the  form   narrative   fiction.   In   her   words,   through   their   story   work,   Indigenous   women   “changed   the   actual  conditions   for   what   could   be   said   about   the   poverty   and   discrimination   that   were   their   daily   fare”  (2013:56).  As  an  Indigenous  scholar,  Million  outlines  how  academia  has  segregated  felt  knowledge  from  theory  as  polemic,  feminine,  subjective,  and  “not  as  knowledge  at  all”  (2013:57).  While  Million  highlights  narratives  written  by  Indigenous  women,  I  highlight  storied  lives  and  bodies  of  Indigenous  women,  where  every  day  acts  of  existence  are  the  living  narratives  of  felt  knowledge.    When  we  were  done  cleaning   the   fish,  Helen   thanked  me  for  my  help  with   the   fish,  and   for   the  work  I  was  doing,  she  said,  “It  just  makes  me  so  angry,  these  stories  aren’t  stories,  they’re  our  lives.”  This  woman’s  statement  sheds  light  on  how  the  lives,  bodies,  and  lands  of  women  are  storied  by  the  lingering  affective  and  emotional  consequences  of  sexual  violence.  Women  like  Helen  lives  with  the  felt  knowledge  in  their  bodies,  as  felt  intensities  that  are  challenging  to  write  about  both  affectively  and  effectively.    	   40	  Silences   are   frequently   identified   in  my   field   notes   through   the   signifier:   [long   pause].  What   is  contained   in   these   square   brackets   reveals   to   me   time   and   again   the   affective   quality,   the   lived   and  embodied  experience  of  sexual  violence  that  is  shared  through  silent  refusal.  This  emotional  and  affective  terrain   is   managed   and   negotiated   through   lived   acts   and   every   day   practices.   The   felt   knowledge   of  these   women   is   embodied   pain,   anger,   and   frustration   expressed   through   daily   acts   of   persistent   and  triumphant   living.   By   going   silent   and   heeding  Nancy’s   request   to   learn   about   how   people   are   living,   I  began  to  bear  witness  to  ways  in  which  these  women  are  living  their  embodied  rage,  pain  and  silence  in  the  present,  to  the  ways  they  are  surviving  and  thriving,  disclosing  to  each  other,  healing  with  each  other.  As  a   listening  witness,  I  became  a  partner   in  the  resistance  of  these  women  (Clark  2016b).  Sarah  Hunt  writes,  that,  as  witnesses  “we  have  a  role  that  is  not  to  take  up  the  voice  or  story  of  that  which  we  have  witnessed,  nor  to  change  the  story,  but  to  ensure  the  truths  of  the  acts  can  be  comprehended,  honored  and  validated”  (2014:38).  Felt   knowledges   and   lived   silences   are   not   only   embodied   by   individual   bodies,   but   as   one  member  discussed,   they  are   felt  by   the  Nation  as  a  whole.   I  had  arranged   to  meet  Sharon  early   in   the  morning,  before  heading   to  Smithers   to   conduct   interviews  with   front-­line  workers.  At  7:30am   I  phoned  Sharon  to  confirm  that  she  would  still  be  available  at  8:00A.M.  She  was  out  of  breath,  “I’m  workin’  on  a  hide,   can   you   come   down   here?”  When   I   reached   Sharon’s   home   she   was   sitting   on   her   front   steps.  Wiping  sweat  from  her  brow,  she  asked  if  I  could  tell  her  about  the  construction  camps  and  why  I  was  in  Fort  Babine.   I   recounted  Lake  Babine  Nation’s  negotiation  process,   the   location  of   the  camp,  and  Betty  and   Verna’s   desire   to   implement   a   plan   to   prevent   and   respond   to   sexual   violence.   Sharon   listened  closely,  speaking  sparingly.  She  wiped  her  hands  clean  of  moose  dermis  and  fir,  and  picked  the  dirt  from  under  her  nails.  After  a  long  pause,  Sharon  said  to  me,  “It  effects  all  of  us  if  someone  gets  hurt  here,  all  five  communities.  It  takes  the  whole  community  for  one  person  to  heal.  We  can  do  ceremony,  drumming,  …   I   tan,   all   the   people   should   be   tanning,   doing   what   the   ancestors   taught   us.”   I   sat   quietly   beside  Sharon.  Slowly,  she  stood  up  and  collected  twigs  and  brush  from  around  her  porch.  “A  child  hurt   is   like  having  your  arm  cut  off.”  We  exchanged  a  few  more  thoughts,  but  Sharon  had  to  get  back  to  her  moose  hide  while  the  morning  air  was  still  cool.  I  walked  back  up  towards  the  center  of  the  village,  ruminating  on  Sharon’s   statement.   She   had   offered   up   the   possibility   of   a  Nation-­wide   embodiment,   where   pain   and  	   41	  suffering   are   felt   profoundly   and   collectively.   The   silence   is   embodied   by   the   Nation.   Fassin   (2008)  speaks   to   the  ways   in  which  collective  histories  and  experiences  (of  colonialism)  can  become   inscribed  on  individual  and  collective  bodies  in  a  corporeal  sense  as  affects  and  feelings.  Through  partial  silences,  punctuated  by  highly  affective  statements  like  the  one  Rachel  shared,  I  arrived  at  a  closer  understanding  of  silence  as  embodied,  be  it  by  individuals  or  entire  communities.  The  silence  that  violence  produces  in  these   bodies,   as  Rachel   tells   us,   can   be   expressed  without  words   through   acts,   such   as   tanning,   and  “doing  what  the  ancestors  taught  us.”         I  began  to  ask  others  about  how  the  Nation  deals  with  the  silence  that  envelops  sexual  violence  and  was   frequently   told  about   ceremonial   dances,   drum  circles,   beading,   and   the  Bahl’at   –   particularly  Headstone  Bahl’at.  At  the  Headstone  ceremony,  families  of  the  deceased  come  together  after  a  year  of  mourning  to  celebrate  the  end  of  the  suffering  and  sadness.  Garaline  explained  to  me  that  women  wear  black  clothing  and  cut  their  hair  to  demarcate  the  beginning  of  the  mourning  process,  and  let  it  grow  again  until  the  Headstone  feast.  “Our  hair  is  our  connection  to  the  earth  and  to  our  ancestors,  we  cut  our  hair  to  lessen  the  pain,  to  cut   it  short,”  one  woman  from  Babine  said.  Another  woman  spoke  to  me  about  grief,  explaining,   “It   is   traditional  here   to  be  calm  during   times  of  great  pain  and  sorrow,   like  when   there   is  a  death.  Our  ceremonies  are  not  about  crying  and  things,  that’s  actually  bad  luck.  It  is  best  to  be  quiet  and  calm,  it’s  more  respectful  to  be  quiet.”    Each  of  these  utterances  sheds  light  on  how  the  Nation  manages  the   affective   experience  of   the   “weighted   and   reeling   present”   (Stewart   2007:1)   through   their   ancestral  teachings.  In  a  way,  the  social  body  of  Babine  practices  silence  as  a  means  of  negotiating  and  resisting  the   realness   and   everydayness   of   violence.   Like   death,   violence   is   responded   to   through   ceremony  collectively.  It  is  from  this  silence  that  every  day  acts  of  existence  emerge  and  are  formed.  Silence  is  an  ongoing  experience  “that   is  continually   ‘done’”   felt,  and  enacted  (Warin  and  Dennis  2009:112).  Through  rituals,  ceremony,  and  every  day  acts  of  being,  these  women  ‘break’  silence  in  unexpected  and  embodied  ways.  In  maintaining  and  celebrating  these  traditions,  the  Nation  is  still  and  calm,  engaging  in  a  creative  and   “deliberate   refusal   to  stop   living,   to  stop  documenting   their  continued  existence”   (Farah  2013:242).  Ultimately,  this  reading  of  ceremony  is  based  on  my  own  experiences  in  Fort  Babine,  and  is  limited  by  my  lack  of  personal  cultural  knowledge  and  experience.      	   42	  For  people  like  Sharon,  the  silence  that  institutions  produce  is  embodied,  the  pain  is  felt  and  the  knowledge  gained  through  those  experiences  is  felt.  Unlike  ‘data,’  as  Million  suggests,  the  stories  these  women  choose  to  share,  contain  the  affective  legacy  of  their  experiences  (2014:33).  As  I  became  aware  of   “felt   knowledge,”   the   bodies   that   harbor   the   silence   of   violence,   I   became   more   conscious   of   the  everyday  practices  and  acts   that  Babine  women  engage   in.  By   living   their  ancestor’s   teachings  and  by  practicing  ceremony,  they  are  building  the  world  they  want  for  their  children.  As  Million  states,  one  of  the  most   important   features   of   these   felt   knowledges   is   “their   existence   as   alternative   truths,   as   alternate  historical   views”   (2014:64).   Nancy   taught   me   that   this   embodied,   felt   knowledge   could   not   always   be  ascertained   through   talk  but  had   to  be  witnessed.  This   is  not   to  say   that   felt  knowledges  are  silent,  but  that   it   may   be   perceived   as   such   to   outsiders.   For   these   women,   felt   knowledges   may   indeed   speak  loudly   to   them,   and   be   spoken   of   amongst   each   other.   No   amount   of   engaged   listening   guarantees  researcher  access   to  embodied  and   felt   knowledges.  Women   like  Sharon  and  Rachel  communicate  on  their  own  terms  in  ways  that  are  not  necessarily  shared  with  me  or  audible  to  me,  they  are  precisely  silent  to  me  due  to  my  position  as  an  outsider.     On  one  of  my  last  days  in  Fort  Babine,  a  community  member  brought  me  to  the  fish  fence  to  see  how   the   salmon  are   counted  and   caught.  We  walked  along   the   fence,   talking  about   the   traditional   fish  harvesting  methods  using  weirs,  ecological  change  and  industrial  impacts,  and  the  decrease  in  fish  stock  in   recent  years.  Three   little  boys  were  standing  by  one  of   the   fish  catchments.  One  boy  opened   the   lid  and   called  me   over   to   review   the   contents.   “They   let   a  million   go   through   the   fence   before   they   start  catching   the   food  fish,”  one  of   the  boys  said.  Fifteen  or  so  salmon  thrashed   in   the  shallow  water,  when  one  jumped  out  onto  the  dock.  The  boys  squealed  with  excitement  as  they  chased  after  the  slippery  fish.  One   of   the   fish   monitors,   named   Tom,   pointed   to   the   shoreline   and   asked   if   I   knew   about   the  archaeological  expedition  that  had  been  undertaken  by  a  research  team  from  the  University  of  Northern  British   Columbia   (UNBC).   Shaking  my   head   no,   he   explained   to  me   that   the   UNBC   team   had   started  excavating  in  2010.  Over  the  course  of  six  years,  the  team  had  uncovered  hundreds  of  artifacts.  Well  over  a  thousand  years  old,  the  artifacts  confirmed  for  many  in  Babine  the  longevity  and  continued  presence  of  their  community  in  Fort  Babine.  The  man  said  to  me,    All  that  stuff  that  those  people  dug  up,  the  archaeologists.  Can  you  imagine  all  those  things?  Buried  under  the  ground  for  years  and  years  and  years,   in   the  cold  and  dark.   It’s  got   to  be  so  quiet  down  	   43	  there.  They’ve  been  taken  up  now,  and…  I  don’t  know  if   that’s  good  or  bad.  But   it’s   like  us,  all   this  violence  and  things,  we’re  stuck  in  the  ground.  We  need  to  dig  ourselves  out!  No  one  can  do  it  for  us.      Tom’s  reflection  on  the  archaeological  dig  and  found  artifacts  suggests  a  body  immersed  in  silence.  While  his  imagery  may  recall  the  binary  approach  to  voice  and  silence—voices  that  must  speak  up  and  speak  back   to  power—I  suggest   that  Tom’s   reflection  contributes   to  a   theorization  of  silence  as  embodied,  as  affective.   The   lived   affective   intensities   of   violence   produce   a   surface   tension   on   the   skin.   As   Stewart  writes,   the   body,   “hums   along,   rages   up,   or   deflates.   It   goes   with   the   flow,   meets   resistance,   gets  attacked,  or  finds  itself  caught  up”  (2007:75).  By  living,  by  persisting,  by  resisting,  the  Babine  people  are  and  always  have  been   “digging   themselves  out”   building  a  world   on   their   own   terms,   in   relation   to   the  world  they  find  themselves  inhabiting.  in  creative  and  meaningful  ways  (Trend  2013).    I  thought  back  to  Nancy,  standing  in  her  cluttered  kitchen,  kids  all  around,  music  blaring,  stirring  the   Kraft   Dinner   as   she   disclosed   violence   and   then   stopped   speaking.   Ordinary   acts   that   serve   to  mediate   the   moment   to   moment   question   of   being   in   the   world;;   the   silence   extended   to   manage   the  difficult   affective   terrain.  As  Dian  Million   (2013:76)  writes,   “stories   form  bridges   that  other  people  might  cross,  to  feel  their  way  into  another  experience.”  That  is  the  promise  of  going  silent.  These  feelings,  these  affects,   “embodied   pain,   shame,   distress,   anguish,   humiliation,   anger,   rage,   fear,   terror,   can   promote  healing   and   solidarity…   and   provide   avenues   for   empathy   across   circuits   of   difference.”   In   learning   to  listen,   to  go  silent,   I  engaged   in  more  meaningful  witnessing  of   felt  knowledges  and  embodied  silences  that  comprise  the  life-­affirming  stories  and  world-­building  that  Indigenous  women  in  Lake  Babine  Nation  are  engaged  in.  To  echo  the  words  of  Sarah  Hunt  (2016b),  “other  worlds  are  alive  on  this  land,  and  in  our  bodies.”         	   44	  Conclusion     What   is   to   be   made   of   that   which   is   unsaid,   that   which   is   withheld,   those   spoken   words  punctuated  by   long  pauses  and  hesitations  within   the   research  process?  As   researchers,   reliance  on  a  dichotomy   that   positions   silence   as   absence   limits   analytical   potential   and   obfuscates   the   intensely  meaningful,   fertile   and   generative   function   of   silence   (Baurain   2011).      To   engage   with   silence   as  meaningful   is   to   “make   space   for   the   returns,   the   interruptions,   the   resistances,   the  denials,   the   subtle  eliding   of   text   present   in   the   unspoken”   (Mazzei   2003b:362).   The   purpose   of   my   concerted   focus   on  silence  has  not   been   to  produce  or   impose  a  grand   theory  of   silence  on  my   research  participants  and  their  experiences.  Rather,  the  goal  has  been  to  attend  to  the  pauses,  the  gaps,  and  the  refusals  as  they  emerged   in   the   research   process,   in   a   non-­binary   way.   By   extending   silence,   women   like   Verna   and  Nancy  invited  me  to  reflect  on  my  positionality,   the  structures  of  domination   in  which  we  are   implicated,  and   on   their   embodied   and   affective   realities.  What   I   find  myself   left   with   is   silence   as   invitation—   an  invitation  to   learn,  to  unsettle  and  untangle  colonial  and  racial  relationships,  to  refuse,  to  resist,   to  show  respect,  and  to  listen.    The   invitation   of   silence   requires   being   attuned   to   silences   in   our   research   encounters.   Such  attunement   presents   theoretical   and   methodological   challenges.   Theoretically,   how   are   we   as  anthropologists   and   researchers   to   define   silence?   As   argued   in   this   thesis,   silence   was   present   in  fantastic  variety:  discursively,  conceptually,  structurally,  relationally,  and  affectively.  Moreover,  what  tools  might   be   used   to   theoretically   examine   the   unspoken?   I   suggest   that   any   analysis   of   silence   must  consider  the  various  scales  at  which  silence  is  encountered,  the  historical  and  political  context  that  elicit  such  silences,  and  the  relational  and  narrative  contexts  in  which  pauses  and  gaps  emerge.  The  meaning  of   silence   is   highly   nuanced,   context-­dependent,   and   often   contradictory.   In   attending   to   silence,  researchers   such   as  myself   may   consider   several   questions:  Who   has   been   silent   and   why?     Whose  responsibility  is  it  to  break  silence,  or  to  become  silent?  How  is  silence  structural  and  historical?  When  is  silence   mobilized   as   a   resistive   and   creative   force?   By   asking   these   questions,   I   have   attempted   to  establish   that   silences   are   a   legitimate   and   fruitful   focus   of   investigation   in   qualitative   research   and,  “indeed,  that  silences  are  an  enduring  feature  of  human  interaction  and,  therefore,  of  our  work”  (Poland  and  Pederson  1998:308).  	   45	  Methodologically,   I  am  guided  by  women  like  Nancy  and  Verna  who  extended  silence  to  myself  and  others  on  numerous  occasions.  Their  silences  and  invitations  to  listen  have  led  me  to  consider  and  develop   a   pedagogy   of   listening.   By   going   silent,   researchers   such   as   myself   may   be   able   to   build  alliances   across   power   lines,   across   difference,   and   through   the   research   encounter.   If   we   are   to  understand   the   silent   dimensions   and   products   of   colonialism,   racism,   and   sexism   in   the   lives   of  Indigenous  women,  then  we  need  to  listen  to  their  concerns  and  experiences  (Dhillon  2015).  The  stories,  felt   knowledges,   and   personal   truths   shared   by   women   like   Betty   and   Verna   have   the   potential   to  destabilize   the   very   structures   and   processes   that   incite   and   animate   their   silences.   The   voices  suspended   in   silence,   and   silences   suspended   in   structures   “will   necessarily   confront,   disturb,   demand  that  listeners  even  alter  ways  of  hearing  and  being”  (hooks  1983:16  in  Clark  2016a:10).  As  researchers,  a  pedagogy   of   listening   requires   that   we   make   our   own   silences   audible,   and   that   we   bear   witness   as  essential  partners   in  the  resistance  of  Indigenous  women  (Clark  2016a:10).  By  going  silent,   I  became  a  witness   to   the   world-­building   (Million   2016)   processes   in   which   Indigenous   women   have   always   been  engaged.    Indigenous  women  like  Betty  and  Verna  and  their  relations  have  been  committed  to  anti-­violence  work   since   contact,   since   their   lands,   resources   and   bodies   were   first   encroached   upon   by   outsiders.  They  are  experts  of  their  own  felt  knowledges,  their  lived  experiences  of  sexual  violence.  My  exploration  of  silence  has  revealed  the  nuanced  ways  that  Indigenous  women  engage  with  silence  and  voice  to  resist  sexual   violence   and   build   the   futures   they  want   for   their   children.  My   experiences   learning   from   these  women  and   their   relations  has   taught  me   that   the  solutions  are  not  quite  as  nebulous  and  complex  as  they   seem.   As   those   invested   in   decolonization,   our   responsibility   is   to   take   direction   because   for   the  most   part,   the   failure   of   settler   intentions   has   been   our   inability   to   listen,   not   in   Indigenous   people’s  inability   to  articulate  and  share  solutions.  Engaged   listening  may  be   the   first  step   in  ending   the   logic  of  silence   engrained   in   colonialism   so   that  we  might   stop   reproducing   violent   colonial   relations,   and   start  producing  meaningful  solutions.      On  February  16,  2017,  Betty,  Verna,  Ginger,  and  myself  met  in  a  boardroom  together  once  again.  It  had  been  nearly  a  year  and  a  half  since  our  first  meeting  together  at  the  Firelight  office  in  the  fall  of  2015.  Our  report,  Indigenous  Communities  and  Industrial  Camps:  Promoting  Healthy  Communities  in  Settings  of  	   46	  Industrial   Change   (2017)  was   about   to   be   launched   at   a   high-­level   provincial  meeting   of   First   Nations  from  across  British  Columbia.  The  report   itself   is  seventy-­eight  pages   long  and  replete  with   the   insights  and  suggestions  of  community  members,  front-­line  workers,  engaged  industry  professionals,  government  representatives,  and  the  many  Indigenous  women  who  came  out  to  share  their  stories.  The  team  revised  their   speaking   notes   preparing   to   present   the   report,   the   context   within   which   it   emerged,   their   hopes  regarding  the  future  and  the  intended  impact  of  the  report.  The  report  is  designed  to  be  applicable  across  regions   impacted  by   large-­scale  and   rapid   resource  development.   It   is  a  call   to  action   for  grandfathers,  husbands,   sons,   and   brothers   to   take   women’s   experiences   seriously   and   to   support   the   process   of  violence   prevention   in   communities.   The   document   outlines   recommendations   for   government   and  distinct  ministries  therein,  for   industry,  for  the  employees  of   industry,  and  for   local  community  members.  As  Betty  said  to  the  crowd  of  onlookers,    Regulatory   processes   don’t   highlight   social   issues.   Other   things   like   money   and   jobs   take  precedence.  Leadership  is  ill-­equipped  to  deal  with  issues  of  sexual  assault.  When  you  see  these  issues,  compounded  with  other  impacts  on  the  land,  the  environment,  health—is  very  challenging.  We   have   to   find   ways   to   make   it   safe   to   talk   about   sexual   violence   at   these   higher   levels.  Leadership  across   the  board   is  primarily  made  up  of  men  and   the  EA  process   isn’t  First  Nations  friendly,  or  open  to  social  issues  like  these.  It’s  time  to  come  together  around  this  issue,  it  can  no  longer  be  ‘beyond  the  scope’  of  the  project.      As   a   witness   to   this   project   and   process,   I   have   observed   intentional   and   arduous   acts   of   world-­building   by   Betty,   Verna,   and   their   relations.   With   each   step,   the   world   that   Betty   envisions   for   her  grandchildren  comes  in  to  clearer  focus.  For  Betty,  there  is  safety,  there  is  culture,  and  there  is  a  Nation  Niwh  Di  Ghil  B  Ghehw  Dzi  Nee  Deeh,   ‘dancing   to   the  beat  of  our  own  drum.’  The   final   report,  open  on  laptop  screens  and  pressed  between   fingertips,   reads   rather   technical  and  practical.  The   information   is  presented   in   tables  and  graphs.  The  document   is   given   life   through   the   voices  and  silences  extended,  shared,   and   situated.   The   content   is   buttressed   by   the   stories,   disclosures,   visions,   and   solutions  proposed  by  all  the  women  who  came  in  and  out  of  the  research  process.  As  Million  states,  it  “is  from  this  potential,  the  potential  of  our  proposition  for  other  ways  of  being  and  living,  that  we  generate  and  attach  ourselves  to  our  intensely  dreamed  future,  always  becoming”  (2014:40).  Betty  and  Verna’s  efforts  reveal  the   centrality   of   anti-­violence   work   to   the   process   of   decolonization   and   self-­determination,   where  women’s  experiences  foreground  negotiation  and  drive  social  change  at   the  community   level  and  in  the  board  room.  Verna  closed  our  meeting,  her  hand  covering  her  heart:    	   47	  These  are  our  stories;;  we  live  with  these  realities.  We  hope  that  this  report  will  be  taken  up  by  you  and  brought   to   your   communities.   It   is   up   to   you   to   see  what   you   can  use,   to  give   this  work   your  voice.  Bring  it  to  your  table,  and  if  we  can  prevent  one  girl  from  getting  raped,  then  it  has  been  worth  it.  But,  there  is  much  work  to  do  yet.                                                                 	   48	  Bibliography    Acheson,   Kris.   2008.   “Silence   as   Gesture:   Rethinking   the   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