'as long as it them and not me' syndrome

Last year, I sat in a class and listened to a woman speak about something heavy on her heart—a reporter, much like herself. She shared the story of the missing women, especially those taken from our communities. There was a man in Nanaimo, accused of harming Aboriginal women, and she was set to interview him. 

As she approached his home, fear crept in. She stood at the door, her heart racing, hearing noises from inside. When the door finally opened, she felt a chill but pushed through, starting her questions. He answered her, and for a moment, it seemed okay. But then, she caught sight of a young Aboriginal girl in the background, and she breathed a sigh of relief. In her mind, she thought, “He only targets our women, so I am safe.” 

This woman’s feelings reflect many in society. She is a public figure, but I am one of those women at risk—my daughter and granddaughter are too. Just thinking about the possibility of my child facing violence from someone who hates Aboriginal women makes me feel sick. It fills me with worry.

I can see how the mindset of “as long as it’s not me” affects everything around us—jobs, housing, food, education, and even the harsh reality of prison and death. Those with privilege don’t know our struggles; they walk freely, believing the police will always protect them. But for many of us, especially women of color, the missing and murdered are part of a painful truth.

Why do we need a special task force for our missing and murdered women? Why aren’t they protected like everyone else? Their stories deserve to be heard, and their lives respected. 

We must stand together, raise our voices, and bring light to the darkness. There is hope in our unity, in our strength, and in the love we share for one another. We carry the dreams of our ancestors, and we will not let their spirits fade away.

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