Youth conference a frustrating experience

Page 9

FIRST PERSON

The Hilton Hotel lobby on the evening of July 12 in Quebec City was a beehive of activity. More than 900 delegates from 21 countries, in town for the First World Indigenous Youth Conference, gradually poured in, some eager to check into their rooms and catch up on sleep. Many, myself included, preferred to stay up and enjoy light-hearted conversations with youths from Australia, Canada and the Mullocan Islands.

Despite the lack of heavy topics discussed in the circles, we all knew the next day was time to buckle down and begin what we had come for. Couldn't rest much that night. Too excited.

Early the next morning, I attended the sunrise ceremony at the Abraham Plains, where the elders encouraged us to greet the new day in our own personal manner. The setting was beautiful. All around, authentic style Indian dwellings such as tipis, longhouses and even a sweatlodge were set up for festivities and entertainment that would take place later in the afternoons. These daily ceremonies were an important part of the conference. All observers and admirers of indigenous cultures were welcome.

From then on, unfortunately, things began to sour.

Politicians who play safe and avoid getting to the heart of a question frustrate the heck out of me. We did have interesting speakers in the open forums, yet a few simple blurted out written speeches, failing to teach things we didn't already know. Accuse me

of naivete, I know they don't have a choice for the population they represent. Duty takes over free will.

While acting as Master of Ceremonies, I'll admit I got off the subject of culture and asked Matthew-Coon-Come of the Cree Nation what was being done with Bill C-31, a query I think he hardly expected to hear from a youth conference. I put him on the spot.

Can't say I regret it too much. I'm sick and tired of wishy-washy replies from political leaders. (I'm not saying you fit that description Matthew, it's just out of context) that don't do anything. Reminds me of imprisoned flatuence that finds an outlet only through words. For crying out loud - we had a representative of the United Nations Universal Draft on Indigenous Peoples read her consensus on the situation of Natives around the world. For more than 50 minutes!

The worst part of it was, we already knew our own plight and the issues

surrounding it.

The Reverend Sir Paul Reeves, a Maori from New Zealand and head of the Anglican Church, managed to capture our hearts. We met in a small room before I introduced him and I gently broke the news that he would be placed in front of a very, tough audience. He took the cue.

Watching a grown man of some worldly influence ignore his notes and speak straight from the heart (even adding some sayings in his own Native tongue) was a refreshing change. He and a few other keynote speakers went out of their way to satisfy delegate's questions.

The conference halted in the afternoon. Delegates took shuttles to the plains where singing and dancing activities were held. No doubt about it, relief was needed

from frustrations building inside. An entire day slipped by and nothing substantial had risen of it.

Day two and the third morning were carbon copies. Except now, half the delegates showed up for forums, no workable agenda for the conference had been

formed and group enthusiasm took a dive. A Hopi elder from Arizona took the mike, saying he disagreed with the way the talks were going. We were getting too political;

not enough emotional healing and spirituality was taking place.

We stayed silent for an instant, as if acknowledging his advice, and went right

on doing our own thing anyway. Typical youth.