Fred Marcel: Chief of a people swept by change

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When Fred Marcel was born in 1916 at Jackfish, south of northern Alberta's Lake Athabasca, his father wondered what lay ahead for his son.

To the 52-year-old Chipewyan trapper, everything was changing.

A year earlier, at Fort Chipewyan, he'd seen the Oblate Mission's Brother Charbonneau sitting in the "Ford", a noisy metal box that moved by itself and smoked like a fire made of wet wood.

And when he'd traveled to the Hudson's Bay Company after a long winter in the bush, the manager told him he'd better get some money to buy guns, kettles and cloth, instead of bringing in fur to trade.

The trapper imagined Fred would grow up to be a good hunter and provider. He pictured himself taking the boy out to hunt as soon as he was old enough. Fred remembers dogsled trips made with his father to get fur, and how proud he was to see his son start a family after marrying in 1942.

But the old man died six years before Fred was voted in as chief of the Fort Chipewyan Band in 1954. No one knows what he would have thought of the many fast-paced changes his son would have to face during his 28 years of leadership.

"It was hard for me to go and meet with the politicians and work with the government when I was chief. I had nothing to work from. I never even had the chance to go to the mission for school," Fred recalls.

Government and the white man's greed for natural resources seemed like insensitive steamrollers threatening to crush the Indians' way of life in and around the isolated wilderness settlement on Lake Athabasca, 700 km north of Edmonton.

Fred was only four years old when the 1920 epidemic of Spanish influenza killed hundreds, buried in shallow, mass graves.

He saw how the decline of the world fur market, which had made Fort Chipewyan the fur trade center of the north, affected his people.

He witnessed the depletion of fish in the lakes and the loss of trapping areas in the face of government regulation and development.

In the days before the fur trade, when the Chipewyan led a nomadic life following the caribou herds north into the barrenlands, Fred would have been made a temproary chief needed only in times of war or to lead the hunt.

But as a chief in the mid-1990's, he fought for a good education system. He realized the traditional ways of living off the land were a thing of the past.

"When I came back after being in the hospital for two years for TB, the people were waiting for me to take the position of my mother's brother as chief," Fred explains. He asked for an election, because he was not a hereditary chief, and won the position.

"Before I left for the hospital, there were no treaty Indians in town. When I came back, there were quite a few Indians because the governemt was pushing them to move in for education."

Some families continued to live outside of town after Fred became chief, but he was kept busy trying to get adequate housing and education for those that did. Since he understood the peoples' attachment to the old way of life and the land, he didn't urge them to move to the settlement.

Fred interrupts the interview to get a ling, black metal tube from his bedroom. Removing a rolled paper, he carefully spreads it on the table.

"This is the original treaty signed by Chief Alexander Laviolette in 1899," he says, pointing to the signature. By signing, Alexander exchanged vast Chipewyan hunting grounds for reserves, treaty money, and education, health and social welfare benefits.

Looking at the document, Fred wonders about its worth. Alexander hoped it would mean a better life for children to come. He signed in trust, but present land claims and battles for aboriginal and treaty rights indicate the obligations bound within the treaties have been disavowed.

The government promised a lot of good things. There were a lot of promises made to the Indians...there was a record of them, but they didn't come out with what they said," he says wistfully.

"We got free school, free health care and thing like that. But even today the government is cutting back on education."

The Fort Chipewyan Band struggled as change swept over them. It was uncommon for government officials to ask the Indians' input regarding matters which affected them, and they sometimes had to fight to be recognized.

"In the early 60's, the government told us we would be better off if our education was looked after by the Northlands School Division instead of by the Department of Indian Affairs.

"They went ahead and took down the crucifixes from the school and that was big thing for the old people...they wanted the children to be taught religion. They came to me right away and I went to see the Indian agent. We had a vote and nobody wanted Northlands School Division here. We fought Indian Affairs but they didn't want to take it back."

Finally, Fred joined the Indian Association of Alberta, and with that organization's backing, he was determined not to lose the battle.

At an explosive meeting, the Indians delivered an ultimatum to the government: "Put our children's education back under the authority of Indian Affairs within eight days or we'll take them all out of school."

On the morning of the eighth day a telegram arrived from Ottawa saying Indian Affairs would take over again.

Symbolic of past insensitivity and confusion brought on by the government and laws is Fred's gambling story.

One night, while still chief, he joined a few men in a friendly game of poker, playing for ten cents a chip. An R.C.M.P. corporal heard abut the game and showed up to collect the cards and money and inform them they would have to appear before the magistrate.

When the corporal picked Fred up to take him to the barracks, he asked why he had allowed himself to be charged for gambling.

"Well,' I asked him, 'where do you go if you live here in Fort Chip? You go to Peace River, Fort Smith, Swanson Mill and you go to Uranium City for curling. Why do you go?' 'Because I like it,' he said. "Well, us too, we lke to play cards because we like it and we don't hurt anybody. It's just a small amount of money and we never knew it was against the law."

"He looked at me for a second and then he tore up the statement. He gave me back the money and told me to tell the other men not to come to court. That was crooked work...if I hadn't been there, he would've told the magistrate to fine the men."

Fines are high and jail sentences long, Fred remembers. Many laws were alien to the Indians, yet most RCMP displayed a general disinterest in the Indians and their culture.

As Chief, Fred was familiar with misunderstandings between the dominant society and his people. He hasn't grown bitter though, and carries no grudges. Discussions of the pulp mills planned for northern Alberta make him angry, but otherwise he's a peaceful man who likes to talk about more carefree times.

"When I was young, I trapped and hunted. I was free to go wherever I wanted and I had my own dogs. I had good dogs from 1940 to '43 and I'd go for any race," he recalls, laughing.

At an even earlier age he attended tea dances with his parents and listened to the drummers play and sing while the people moved around the fire. The dances would sometimes last for days.

"Sometimes we'd use a big, private house for a hall to have old timer dances. We'd heat it up with the wood stove, and we'd light the gas lamps. Emille Mercredi would make our music with his fiddle. We'd jig, polka, two step, fox trot...everyone wanted to low waltz. But there's nothing now. They don't know about music. They dance any old way, eh?"

"We had dances at our house at Jackfish too, especially at New Years's. The women cooked all day on December 31 and then the men shot off their guns."

Church services were also held at the Marcel residence regularly. "I remember a priest gave my dad and old rifle, a .44, and some shells. He used that for his bell. He'd fire two shots and everybody was waiting. Those that lived across the water would get in heir boats and start their kickers or people would come walking. We'd say our beads and sing lots of hymns."

On Sundays the Lord's law was strictly observed. "We didn't do anything--no work, just church. And even in the bush, me dad would stay home, he wouldn't work.