A Quality of Light (44 page)

“I
t’s going well,” I told Nettles when I checked in. “He’s open and negotiable.”

“Glad to hear it. Glad to hear it. Sounds like no one has to die,” he said pointedly.

“That’s right. No one has to,” I said while Johnny listened on the extension.

“Any change in demands from in there?” Nettles asked.

“No. I need time, David.”

“Take all you need. We’re prepared to deal with it.”

“I’ll talk to you in an hour.”

S
ecrets metamorphose. When we’re children they sweep and shift with the vibrancy of a world revealing itself like the colors in a kaleidoscope. We press them to our chests like cherished things, certain that they are our own vital discoveries, our own new worlds unbesmirched by other eyes. They are our private joy. But as we grow older and time works its harder, more practical magic on our hearts and minds, our secrets become weightier things, deeper and darker colors in a phantasmagoria of loyalties and associations. They become our private pain.

As I hung up the phone I churned with uncertainty over the pair of secrets I held. I wanted fourteen people to walk out of this building safely.

As I watched Johnny move among his captives, asking each of
them about any discomforts or messages for their families, I knew his genuine concern for them. This was a man standing on and for belief. A man willing to fight for the survival of a people in the only way he knew. A people not his own except for the common unity of a way of faith and a way of being. A man brave enough, bold enough and strong enough to place his life in a sacrificial manner before an incredible opposition. A warrior. I was Indian enough to see the injustice that Johnny spoke of. There was indeed a farcical quality to the history of this land, and perhaps it might take a dramatic human comedy to bring the message into the living rooms.

“You know what I figure should happen in Oka?” Johnny said, approaching and folding a note pad into his chest pocket.

“No,” I said, glad to be shaken from my mental stew. “What should happen?”

“Well, pretty much every Canadian, or at least pretty much every
white
Canadian, is insulted over the barricades. To them the Warriors are renegades, thugs, criminals. Right?”

“I suppose.”

“And pretty much every white Canadian figures that although they might have a legitimate beef, they’ve no right to arm themselves and challenge justice, right?”

“Generally, yes.”

“And pretty much every white Canadian figures they should be brave enough to show their faces instead of wearing masks, right?”

“Again, generally, yes.”

“And they pretty much agree that it’s a sad day for the country when their own army has to face-off against its own citizens, right?”

“Yes. Even more widely.”

“And most of them are missing the farce, right?”

“The farce being?”

He grinned slowly. “The farce being that the Mohawks are defending sacred ground and their right to perpetuate their spiritual and cultural way. The army is defending a golf course and their right to inexpensive greens fees.”

I chuckled. “Okay. So what should happen?”

“Well, I figure they should all walk out and face the army line. Just when the soldiers are getting antsy they should drop their
weapons, pull out golf clubs and drive a few hundred balls at the ranks. And then just walk out. What a statement that would be!”

I laughed. He was right. It was farcical.

“Won’t happen, though,” he said, sadly.

“Why?”

“Because it can’t. Because there’s too much at stake there. That’s why the farce is up to someone else.”

“You?”

“I guess.” He shrugged.

“Why?”

He sighed heavily. “Because if they take me out, Josh, it’s just one life. But they’ll still have to listen to me fall. Maybe it’s hard for you or anyone to understand, but when you’re a warrior you fight out of love. Love for your people, love for your enemy. Love for the ground we share. You can’t fight out of hate, out of self-righteous anger, out of indignation or some jingoistic notion that your borders are everywhere. Those are just soldiers. I know you know that. It took me a long time to realize it but I know it now, and believe me, this is a good day to die.”

“Because why?’ I asked.

“Because I know the truth now.”

“And that is?”

He looked at me with an unwavering peaceful face that shone through the slick ooze of paint. I had never seen that look on his face. “That I was always supposed to be a warrior,” he said with dignity. “I was born with an Indian heart and an Indian mind. I was. I was if you believe that human purpose is to find your own humble place in the scheme of things, that salvation is a process. That we’re not born to control but to belong. If you believe that your God is a living God alive in every thing and every body and that life is the most sacred thing. If you believe those things, then I was born to be and I
am
an Indian. Just as much as you, minus the blood and the skin of course, but just as much.

“I had the warrior thing wrong for a long time. But now I know the truth. And the truth is that being a warrior is living principled and moral … and dying the same way. It’s learning that the life all
around you depends ultimately on kindness, respect, purity, harmony balance … and sacrifice. That’s what being a warrior is all about. And there’s another thing I know, too.”

“What’s that, Johnny?’ I asked, humbled.

“I know that I’m a whiteman,” he said with a slow grin. “That’s
my
truth. The hardest one I’ve had to face. I’m a Germanic Caucasian male because that’s what my Creator created me to be. I’m not an Indian. I never can be. I wasn’t graced with that identity. As much sweat lodge time as I have, as much ceremony and ritual as I absorb and use, as much as I try to live the life, under the braids, the moccasins, the war paint, I’m still Johnny Gebhardt,
white guy.
My salvation lies in finding out what
that
means. Because I disinherited myself a long time ago. Tried to lose myself by rediscovering myself in an Indian motif. But I was created a whiteman and I need to explore that, and maybe cast it away once my exploration’s over and return to the circle anyway. But I can’t deny myself any longer. Can’t go on living as a displaced person. Besides, I’ve never tasted Wiener schnitzel, never did the polka or visited the country.”

He stood there looking out the windows and I knew how difficult a journey this had been for him. Knew how treacherous denial’s boneyard could be and how strong you become for the trek. I admired him with the pure exuberant zeal of boyhood that I knew whose secret I would bear, whose territories I would defend and whose blood I would protect with my own.

“Then I guess we’d better get busy getting out of here so we can get you on a slow boat to the Rhineland!” I said.

“Yeah. I’m about ready for home, wherever that turns out to be.”

W
e sketched out a number of scenarios for surrender. The one we were leaning strongly towards had Johnny cropping his hair into a crewcut, borrowing some clothes from one of the
hostages and negotiating his delivery to Nettles as the first released hostage. I would re-enter the building and return with the rest of the hostages, whereupon Johnny would identify himself in front of the TV cameras, making his statement and allowing himself to be secured in custody. He’d like it because, as he said, it showed that you never knew who the warriors were going to be. However, we decided that the identities of each hostage were quite likely known, especially to the tactical unit, who would need to know who it was they were supposed to be shooting at. Or at least we hoped they knew.

One by one we erased scenarios and settled on order. Or, at least, order in a fashion. Each hostage would leave the building carrying one of Johnny’s handmade arrows. They would walk to the police line and wait there for the next one. When they were all safe and protected, I would walk out and lay his weapons down in front of the building. I would re-enter and we would walk together to make a statement of surrender in front of a television camera. I would follow him with a message about there never being any real threat on his part, about his compassion for his hostages, how they were representative of the captive situation of native peoples, and the necessity for everyone to look at the larger issue rather than focus on the criminality of this one situation. I would tell people that the demands he’d made for a special sitting of the House of Commons, for a United Nations tribunal, and for the withdrawal of the army from Oka were demands made to focus attention on the processes necessary for resolution, for the continued emancipation of all native people in the country. Only when we’d secured the right to speak would he allow the situation to defuse itself.

“And if they don’t agree?” I asked.

He shrugged. “If they don’t agree then we find another tack. If they don’t agree it’s just their way of telling me, telling us, that we still, despite everything, have no voice.”

“But we will work towards finding another tack?”

“Of course. No one’s going to die here, Josh.”

“I know. But I think before we call Nettles we should fax the
media and tell them exactly what the terms of surrender are. Arrange the scrum beforehand. That way, if it doesn’t happen, they at least know the story.”

“We should trust them?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“We have to,” I said simply.

“Josh, the media only want to hear from Indians when they’re either dead, dying or complaining. We don’t have to wear war paint anymore because the media paints it on us themselves whenever we push for something.”

“But, Johnny, they’re storytellers too. In our circle storytellers have a responsibility to tell stories like they receive them, accurately, without color or embellishment. We call it honesty. They call it ethics.”

“You believe that?”

“We have to.”

“Trust the integrity of the oppressor, right?”

“Right. In all his guises.”

“Oooh, I like that! Okay. You wanna write the fax and I’ll get busy figuring out what I want to say?”

As I watched him move across the room to a private place and begin scratching out his message to the world, I found myself saddened that I had missed the opportunity to be part of his migration to self-knowledge and truth. The mole journey we all must make to find our own salvation, to find the quality of light we reside in. He bent his head in thought, pen poised above the paper, and I uttered a silent prayer to the Creator watching over all of us that he be directed the words he needed, and that he be granted the ultimate reward of the true warrior. Peace.

I
faxed the terms of resolution to the media. That’s how I worded it.
Resolution.
I waited fifteen minutes before I picked up the phone to call Nettles.

He answered on the first ring. “You got me singing soprano here, Joshua,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean alto’s impossible with my nuts in a vise! We were going to discuss everything first. That’s what our agreement was. What’s up with faxing the press first?” he asked harshly.