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Social Studies 11 Canada: A Peoples History

Companion Readings

Episode 16 Years of Hope and Anger




Nationalist Passions

Canadians toast their country while Quebecers embrace their own nation "Vive Montral! Vive le Qubec! Vive le Qubec libre!" - French President Charles de Gaulle, 1967 The 1960s, was an era of heightened nationalist passions in Canada. The country celebrated its 100th anniversary with a party in Montreal and a new flag. In Quebec, nationalism was also front and centre as the province underwent a revolution of change that would usher in a new era of separatist upheaval. The decade began with Quebecers electing a new reform-minded premier, Liberal Jean Lesage. The new premier was determined to fully modernize the province, which had been controlled for 18 years by the iron authority of former premier Maurice Duplessis. The Quiet Revolution The Lesage government set about nationalizing the hydroelectric utilities and overhauling the church-based education system. It also set up a medicare program and created new ministries for cultural affairs and federal/provincial relations. Brian Upton, a Montreal Star journalist, coined the phrase "Quiet Revolution" to describe the massive changes being wrought in Quebec. Emerging in the new Quebec, were growing separatist passions. On the night of March 7, 1963, the most radical separatist group to emerge so far the Front de Libration du Qubec (FLQ) proclaimed its existence by placing bombs in mailboxes in Montreal. A month after the bombings, Lester B. Pearson was elected Prime Minister, and as one of his early initiatives, he created the Royal Commission on Bilingualism and Biculturalism. Flag debate While the commission was at work, Pearson launched a debate on the nations flag, or its lack of one. The Prime Minister was hoping for a symbol that would unite Canadians. Canada had existed for almost a century and still did not have a flag to

call its own. But instead of uniting the country, the flag became yet another divisive issue. A new flag was finally raised on Parliament Hill on February 15, 1965. Birthday bash Two years later Canadians celebrated another nationalist milestone as the country marked its 100th birthday. Expo 67 was the pinnacle of the celebrations and a symbol unity and pride for Canadians. Montreal hosted the mammoth world's fair, revealing to Canada and the world the enormous economic and social transformation of post-war Quebec. Expo 67 was a gleaming futuristic spectacle. It was visited by more than 50 million people, a stunning international success. In the wake of the giddy spirit of Expo 67, Pierre Trudeaus leadership campaign had a contagious glamour. Trudeau won the Liberal leadership and led his party to victory in the federal election on June 25, 1968. In 1969, the Trudeau government passed the Official Languages Act, giving French and English equal status in Canada. It also proclaimed that all federal agencies, departments, institutions, and organizations must operate in both languages. Crisis in October But a year later, a radical Quebec separatist group triggered a dark chapter of Canadian history. In October 1970, the Front de Libration du Qubec kidnapped British trade commission James Cross and Quebec labour minister Pierre Laporte. Trudeau invoked the War Measures Act and hundreds of people in Quebec were arrested without warrants or charges. The October crisis ended with the death of Pierre Laporte and the release of James Cross. After the arrest and conviction of key members, the FLQ ceased activity. But the issue of Quebec separatism remained alive and well. On November 15, 1976, the separatist Parti Qubcois swept to victory in the provincial election, winning seventy-one ridings to the Liberals twenty-six.


The Quiet Revolution

The provincial government spearheads revolution in Quebec

In the early 1960s, Quebec's church-based education system became a focal point in a series of rapid, sweeping government reforms. The changes would transform Quebec and mark the peak of the Quiet Revolution. Since the first days of New France, the Catholic Church had assumed the task of educating the young. In the early 1960s, the system - and the curriculum - were archaic, obsolete and produced one of the highest dropout rates in the country; half of all Quebec students were leaving school by the age of fifteen.
Those who wanted a higher education found a system designed for a few chosen souls.

"Our mission was to train the elite," said Claude Brouillet who taught at a classical college near Montreal. "We had some sons of working-class people. To be able to get (financial) help, they had to have a recommendation from the parish priest." In rural Quebec, education was a low priority. "Here, in the country, it was the exception that could go on beyond sixth grade," said teacher Juliette Gagnon. "People said that to pick up rocks and work the land, they didn't need an education." In 1960, Jean-Paul Desbiens, a teaching brother, denounced the school system in a book entitled The Impertinences of Brother - Anonymous. It was based on a series of letters hed written to the influential newspaper, Le Devoir. "Lets give all the (education) officials all the medals there are," Desbiens wrote. "Lets create some special ones, such as one for Solemn Mediocrity. Lets give them all a comfortable and well-paid retirement and send them home to their mamas." Desbiens struck a chord with Quebecers. The book was an unprecedented success, selling over 100,000 copies. As for Desbiens, the Church did not appreciate his criticisms. His Catholic order sent him off to Europe for three years of reflection. But the floodgates were open. The book's popularity revealed a Quebec society that was ripe for change after years of post-war prosperity and industrialization. The year the book was released, Quebecers elected a new reform-minded premier, Liberal Jean Lesage. Lesage was determined to fully modernize the province, which had been controlled for 18 years by the iron authority of Union Nationale Premier Maurice Duplessis. The Lesage government set about nationalizing the hydro-electric utilities. It also set up the Quebec pension plan and created new ministries for cultural affairs and federal/provincial relations. Brian Upton, a Montreal Star journalist, coined the phrase "Quiet Revolution" to describe the changes being wrought in Quebec. Lesages most radical reform, however, was in education. Youth Minister Paul GrinLajoie was assigned the task of wresting control of education from the Catholic Church and making it a modern institution. "We were concerned by the reality of the moment and this reality was brutal and easy to see: Quebec's education system was not up to the needs of the twentieth century." Archbishop Maurice Roy, the primate of the Canadian Catholic Church, defended the church's historic hold on education. "There are, in this great enterprise established a hundred years ago, guiding principles that cannot be changed without endangering its solidity."

But the government refused to back down. By 1964, the province had an education ministry which was highly government controlled. Within a few years, Quebec created secondary schools and a network of junior colleges. Claude Brouillet had left his small classical college and now taught in Montreal. "I arrived at douard-Montpetit high schoolthe year it opened. I was coming from a school of 300 students to one where there were almost 2,000 of them. What a difference!" But not everyone seemed prepared for the huge changes that Lesage had unleashed. The education reforms had upset a way of life that was centuries old. Lesage's government would be defeated in the 1966 election by Duplessis old party The Union Nationale. But the new premier Daniel Johnson would not try to turn back the clock. The Quiet Revolution would continue.


The Great Flag Debate

Canadians respond with passion and dissension as the country seeks a new national symbol In 1963, Canada embarked on a seemingly harmless attempt to create its own flag but the issue revealed a nation hotly divided on what symbol should unite the country.

At the time, Canada had existed for 96 years and still did not have a flag to call its own. Since Confederation, the Canadian national flag had been the British Union Jack - a symbol of Canada's former colonial status. The Red Ensign - a modified version of the flag of the British merchant fleet - also was used atop the flag poles of the nation. In 1963, Prime Minister Lester B. Pearson pitched his idea for a new flag during a speech to the Canadian Legion in Winnipeg. "I believe that today a flag designed around the Maple Leaf, will symbolise and be a true reflection of the new Canada." As boos resonated throughout the audience, Pearson got a glimpse of the controversy he'd unleashed. Instead of uniting the country, the flag became yet another divisive issue. Support, laments and threats poured in to Pearson's office as the country debated its flag.

"If this is (Pearson's) idea of unity," read an article in the Vancouver Province, "it is doubtful whether the country can swallow much more of it."

Canadians were deeply divided on the flag issue. Some felt a strong attachment to the mother country and its Union Jack. Others disagreed on what new symbol should represent the country. It was only in Quebec that the flag issue provoked little more than apathy. "Quebec does not give a tinkers dam about the new flag," Liberal politician Pierre Trudeau said. "Its a matter of complete indifference." It was in a charged atmosphere that Parliament began the flag debate, lead by Conservative leader John Diefenbaker. He insisted that the Union Jack be incorporated into the new flag to reflect Canadas British heritage. The Liberals and New Democratic Party wanted something with maple leaves. Canadians were invited to use their imagination and talent and submit ideas for a flag. As many as 5,900 alternative designs were sent to Ottawa. A 15-member allparty committee was formed to review the suggestions and make a recommendation. Pearsons preferred design of three maple leaves was finally rejected in favour of a design proposed by the historian George Stanley that featured a single leaf flanked by red bars. Diefenbaker dismissively said that it looked like the Peruvian flag.

The parliamentary debate on the flag was lengthy and ugly. It consumed 37 sitting days: the Conservatives made 210 speeches, the Liberals 50, the NDP 24, Social Credit 15, and the Crditistes 9. Pearson eventually used the rules of closure to limit speeches to 20 minutes and force a vote. That vote was taken on December 15, 1964 and the committee's recommendation was accepted 163 to 78. Canada's flag was officially hoisted at the Peace Tower on Parliament Hill on February 15, 1965. "You have done more to divide the country than any other prime minister," Diefenbaker charged. When Diefenbaker died in 1979, his coffin was draped with both the Red Ensign and the new flag. However, Canada's new flag was generally well received by the public. The large generation of Canadians born after the Second World War took to the country's new symbol. The government used Canada's 100th anniversary celebrations in 1967 to promote the new flag throughout the country.


Expo 67

Canada welcomes the world but reveals a tear in its national fabric Expo 67 was the pinnacle of Canada's 100th anniversary celebrations and a symbol of pride for Canadians. That is, until the President of France came to call and exposed the tear in the national fabric.

Montreal hosted the mammoth world's fair, revealing to Canada and the world the enormous economic and social transformation of post-war Quebec, dubbed the Quiet Revolution. From the beginning, Prime Minister Lester B. Pearson worried that Montreal wouldn't meet the tight construction deadlines of the exposition. The fear of an unprecedented disaster hung in the air right until opening day; what if the country stumbled on the world stage? But when Expo opened its doors on April 28, 1967, it was a gleaming futuristic spectacle. A monorail train snaked through the immense grounds that included oversized geodesic dome and an innovative housing complex called Habitat 67. Sixty countries erected pavilions, from the sober to the fanciful, on two man-made islands in the St. Lawrence River, le Ste-Hlne and le Ntre-Dame, created out of landfill from the building of the citys new subway system. The Montreal Star described it as "the most staggering Canadian achievement since this vast land was finally linked by a transcontinental railway." Expo 67 was sleek, sexy, and lived up to its theme, Man and His World. It was visited by more than 50 million people, a stunning international success. Then French President Charles de Gaulle came to call and spoiled the party. De Gaulle was one of many world leaders invited to Expo that summer. A hero from the Second World War, the President was ecstatically received in Quebec. His triumphant motorcade from Quebec City to Montreal, reminded De Gaulle of his glory days.

"All along the way, I found myself in the same atmosphere as that of the liberation." On July 24, thousands gathered around Montreal's City Hall to greet De Gaulle. The President stood on the balcony flanked by Premier Daniel Johnson and Montreal mayor Jean Drapeau. He addressed the huge, enthusiastic crowd, delivering his famous words: "Vive Montral... Vive le Qubec ...Vive le Qubec Libre!"

Below him, the crowd erupted with cheers. In Ottawa, Pearson's reaction was diplomatic anger. "Canadians do not need to be liberated," the Prime Minister said. "Canada will remain united and will reject any effort to destroy her unity." De Gaulle cut short his trip and returned to France. But he had given Quebec indpendantistes like Pierre Bourgault an enormous boost. "Because for the first time in 200 years he has come to our land to tell us in French what he thinks. He is the first man who is a winner to come and say to us: don't give up!" De Gaulle's words also sent shockwaves through Quebec's political elite. Ren Lvesque, a Quebec Liberal MPP, had watched the proceedings and pondered its consequences. "A look at reality dictates that we should exercise as quickly as possible the right of any normal people which feels clearly that things don't work, that it is stuck at a crossroads, we must decide to use the right we have." Lvesque left the provincial Liberal party a few months later, after his proposal for a modified form of independence, which he called "sovereignty-association," was defeated at the partys policy convention. Within a year, Lvesque would launch the separatist Parti Qubcois, with a platform that outlined an economic union with Canada in the event that voters supported sovereignty. In the fall of 1967, Canada's 100th anniversary celebrations wound down as Expo 67 closed its doors on October 28. Although the exposition was considered a huge success, the fateful day in late July had foreshadowed difficult times to come for the nation.


The October Crisis

A radical Quebec group raises the stakes on separation and Ottawa invokes the War Measures Act In the fall of 1970, Canada was plunged into its worst crisis since the Second World War when a radical Quebec group raised the stakes on separatism.

On the morning of October 5, 1970, four men posing as deliverymen kidnapped British trade commissioner James Richard Cross from his plush Montreal residence. Cross was in the hands of Quebec's most radical separatist group, the Front de Libration du Qubec (FLQ). Since 1963, the FLQ had been involved in over 200

bombings in Quebec. Now the self-described revolutionary movement was changing tactics. The kidnappers threatened to kill Cross unless the government released 23 prison inmates charged with crimes committed in the name of the Front. The FLQ insisted these people were political prisoners. They also wanted their manifesto to be read on national television. At first, both the federal and provincial governments - led by Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau and Premier Robert Bourassa - downplayed the kidnapping. The Quebec government said it was open to negotiate with the FLQ and even allowed the group's staunchly separatist manifesto to be read on Radio-Canada. "We have had enough of promises of work and prosperity," the manifesto read. "When in fact we will always be the diligent servants and bootlickers of the big shots ... we will be slaves until Quebecers, all of us, have used every means, including dynamite and guns, to drive out these big bosses of the economy and of politics, who will stoop to any action, however base, the better to screw us ..." Despite some government concessions, the crisis escalated. Five days after the Cross kidnapping, the FLQ struck again kidnapping Pierre Laporte, the Quebec minister of labour and the government's senior Cabinet minister. The news sent ripples of panic through the public and gave the impression that the FLQ was a large, powerful organization. The kidnapping put tremendous pressure on the young premier who turned to Ottawa for help. The federal government sent in the army to protect politicians and important buildings. For Pierre Trudeau, a lifelong champion of individual rights, it was a defining moment. In one exchange with CBC reporter Tim Rafe, Trudeau displayed an iron resolve.

Reporter: "Sir what is it with all these men with guns around here?" Trudeau: " There's a lot of bleeding hearts around who don't like to see people with helmets and guns. All I can say is 'go ahead and bleed' but it's more important to keep law and order in this society than to be worried about weak-kneed people who don't like the looks of..." Reporter: "At what cost? How far would you go? To what extent?" Trudeau: "Well, just watch me." As the country watched, events continued to unfold in Quebec. On October 15, three thousand people gathered at Paul Sauv Arena to show support for the FLQ's separatist ideas. The FLQ's lawyer, Robert Lemieux, fired them up. "We're going to organize, choose our ground, and WE WILL VANQUISH."

All signs indicated that the FLQ was a powerful force in Quebec. Bourassa and Montreal Mayor Jean Drapeau urged Ottawa to invoke the War Measures Act. "What else can I do?" Bourassa reportedly told a colleague. "I personally know a great number of the people who will be arrested ... I know that my political career is over. The economic recovery, the foreign investment, the 100,000 new jobs, all that has just gone up in smoke." On October 16, Trudeau invoked the War Measures Act, which suspended basic civil rights and liberties. It allowed police searches and arrests without warrants, and prolonged detentions without charges and without the right to see a lawyer. It was the first time in Canadian history the Act was used during peacetime. That morning the police arrested 405 people including Quebec singer Pauline Julien. "They didn't ask us anything," Julien remembered. "I refused to stay in the livingroom during their search. I told them: You are in my house, I'm going with you everywhere. They didn't behave that badly, they weren't as brutal as I have head they were elsewhere." Julien's partner, leftist journalist Grald Godin, was also arrested. "Why was I in jail?," said Godin. "If only they had questioned me, I might have had an inkling. What had I said? What had I written or published?" Some of those arrested under the War Measures Act were kept behind bars for 21 days - the full period allowed under the Act - but most were released after a few hours without being charged. Julien and Godin were detained for eight days, then released without charges. The day after the first arrests, the tide turned for the FLQ. On the night of October 17, an FLQ communiqu led police to a car parked near St. Hubert airport. In the trunk was the body of Pierre Laporte. He had been strangled to death. It was the first political assassination in Canada since the murder of Thomas d'Arcy McGee 102 years earlier. Laporte's death would mark the beginning of the end of the FLQ as sympathy abruptly shifted away from the group. On November 6, Bernard Lortie was arrested when the police raided the hiding place of the Laporte kidnappers. Three members escaped the raid but were captured in late December. Paul Rose and Francis Simard received life sentences for murder. Bernard Lortie was sentenced to 20 years in jail for kidnapping. Jacques Rose was convicted of being an accessory after the fact and sentenced to eight years in jail. After two months of captivity, James Cross was released as part of a deal, which allowed five kidnappers to leave Canada. Over the years, all of the exiled FLQ members returned to Canada to face trial. They were all convicted of kidnapping and sentenced to jail terms. A sixth Cross kidnapper remained in Montreal and was arrested in July 1980 and convicted of kidnapping.

Several years later, after extensive investigation, it became apparent that the FLQ was not the major paramilitary organization many had believed. It was an informal group, organized in small, autonomous cells, whose members dreamed of a separate and socialist Quebec. At the time of the October Crisis, the group had no more than thirty-five members. The FLQ ceased activities in 1971.



Challenging the Status Quo

Baby-boomers come of age and reject the constraints of the past "Greenpeace became the first organization that linked the survival of the human race with the survival of the environment." - Patrick Moore, Greenpeace co-founder In Canada almost 10 million children were born between 1947 and 1966, forming that immense demographic bulge called the baby boomers. In the 1960s, the first baby-boomers came of age, forming a massive youth movement that challenged the status quo and began reshaping society. As opportunities for post-secondary education expanded in the early 1960s, a restless generation of university students emerged, increasingly aware of international issues, and newly militant. Era of protest Students organized demonstrations to denounce everything from the war in Vietnam to university tuition fee hikes. In 1971, a small Vancouver group called Dont Make a Wave rented a beat-up fishing boat which they renamed The Greenpeace and headed to Alaska to protest nuclear testing. The test went ahead but the environmental lobby group, Greenpeace was born. Liberating times During this era of upheaval, the women's movement was also on the rise. In 1961, a contraceptive pill first appeared in Canada. In its first year on the market, ten thousand Canadian women started to use it. Five years after its introduction, 750,000 women were "on the pill." The culture of sexual liberation that the birthcontrol pill engendered corresponded to a wider sense of women's liberation throughout Canadian society. On February 16, 1967, Prime Minister Lester B. Pearson, succumbed to pressure by women's groups and announced the creation of a Royal Commission on the Status of Women, headed by Ottawa journalist Florence Bird. Move to equality The commission held public hearings in fourteen cities, visited all ten provinces and both territories, and received 468 briefs, 1,000 letters, and heard 870 witnesses. The

commissions 500-page report was tabled in the House of Commons in 1970, and its 167 recommendations included equal pay for work of equal value, a national daycare network, and paid maternity leave. Two years later, the National Action Committee on the Status of Women was founded to monitor and press for government action on the commissions recommendations. Native awakening Canada's native people also experienced an awakening during the liberation era. In 1969, native leaders protested a government proposal to terminate Indian treaties and abolish reserves. A year later, Alberta natives occupied a rural school demanding the right to control their own education. The two-week sit-in signalled the dawn of a new era in native activism after more than a century of slow misery.


Snubbing Convention

Chatelaine's editor turns heads when she combines work and pregnancy In the early 1960s, Doris Anderson was oddity in Canadian society: a pregnant woman with a high-powered job. As editor of Chatelaine magazine, she helped lead a quiet revolt against the conventions of the day.

"Some women just made a fetish out of having a baby," Anderson recalled. "There was no end of reading about it, and reading to the baby, and singing to the baby, and playing certain music to the baby, and, you know, being the best mother in the world. That was the aim of an awful lot of women back then because that was the only game in town." At the time, television and advertising idealized the image of the smiling, suburban wife, well-coifed, flanked by obedient children, greeting her hard-working husband. In the early 1960s, women made up only one-third of the workforce. Most were single earned 59 per cent of a man's pay for comparable work. One labour union suggested that "behind each woman in the workforce we find an unemployed man." But most women worked in jobs that were not part of the male domain. Many were secretaries, receptionists, waitresses, grade-school teachers and nurses. Twenty per cent of the women in the workforce were either maids or babysitters. A female boss was rare. Doris Anderson had worked at the women's magazine Chatelaine since the early 1950s. In 1957, against all odds, she became editor.

"They thought oh well, shes getting married and shell be quitting. But I said I want the job and Im not gonna work for anyone else so they gave me the job." A year later she was pregnant and facing societal convention again. It was considered "just not right" for an obviously pregnant woman to be at work. Her boss felt that businessmen working in the same building would be embarrassed by her presence. To keep her job, Anderson promised to be discreet. "Ill come and go at odd hours so I wont be too conspicuous," she told her boss. But even that wouldn't do. Finally Anderson was told that she could keep her job but she couldn't be seen. "I worked from home. The staff was running back and forth in cabs with layout and photographs and artwork. It was ridiculous." The next time she was pregnant, she told no one. And when her boss inevitably noticed, he confronted her. "He... said when are you going home?'" remembered Anderson. "I said Im going home the day after I have this baby. He threw up his hand and didnt do anything about it. By the time I had my third child, there were pregnant women all over Maclean-Hunter." As well as personal victories at Chatelaine, Anderson also changed the magazine dramatically. Since it was launched in 1928, Chatelaine had been dedicated to beauty tips, recipes and homemaking issues. Anderson expanded its scope to include feminist ideas and topics of interest to both businesswomen and homemakers. Anderson dared to publish articles on such previously forbidden subjects as contraception and abortion. During her tenure, magazine sales soared . Anderson remained editor until 1977. A year later, she became president of the federal governments Canadian Advisory Council of the Status of Women. She later headed the independent lobbying group, the National Action Committee on the Status of Women. Doris Anderson remains involved in women's issues today.



Young Canadians launch a groundbreaking movement with environmental ideals and public relations savvy In the early 1970s, Vancouver was the launching ground for an environmental movement that would take the world by storm.

Greenpeace's humble beginnings were inspired by the idealism a few young Canadians and by events that unfolded in a remote part of the continent. In 1969, Robert Hunter, a young Vancouver journalist, wrote about American nuclear testing on the Amchitka Island in Alaska. "Sometime between tomorrow and Oct 15 a 1.2 megaton atomic bomb will be triggered at the bottom of a 4,000-foot hole on the island. No one knows what the consequences will be," Hunter wrote in the Vancouver Sun. Amchitka was four thousand kilometres north of Vancouver. The island was the last refuge for 3,000 endangered sea otters and home to a plethora of other wildlife. And it was situated in one of the most earthquake-prone regions in the world. All along the Pacific coast people were concerned that the nuclear blast could trigger a giant tidal wave. Hunter was one of 7,000 protesters who shut down the main border crossing between British Columbia and Washington State to protest the test. The protesters managed to keep it closed for one hour. For Hunter it was a great victory. "Not since the War of 1812 had the border between Canada and the United States been closed. So there was a sense of history in the air," Hunter later wrote of the protest. But the Americans continued the nuclear tests and activists began to reconsider their strategy. In 1970, a Vancouver activist, Marie Bohlen, proposed a different idea. "Why doesnt somebody just sail a boat up there and park right next to the bomb? Thats something everybody can understand." A year later, a small Vancouver group called Dont Make a Wave rented a beat-up fishing boat which they renamed The Greenpeace. Then the group went searching for volunteers to sail to Alaska to protest another scheduled nuclear test at Amchitka. Robert Hunter signed on immediately. On board, Hunter met crewmate Patrick Moore, who had returned to Vancouver after going to college in St. Louis, Missouri. "I knew right away I wanted to join it," Moore said. "I wanted to do something, I wanted to do something about ecology and peace." Hunter, Moore and a dozen other activists sailed up the coast on the first voyage of The Greenpeace armed with environmental ideals and public relations savvy. "We may have just looked like a little old fish boat but in fact we were cranking away at our typewriters and with our tape recorders," said Hunter. "In a sense, we were a media war ship."

The boat neared Amchitka on September 24, but the blast, scheduled for October 2, was postponed until November. Moore was convinced the Americans were delaying the test to throw them off their plan. And it worked. The group had little choice but to sail back to Vancouver. "The big problem for us was to have to wait for a month," Hunter said. "We had food and fuel supplies to last only six weeks. We would have been stuck up there, a few hundred miles from the Russian coast, without food and drink." The United States finally detonated the bomb on November 6. There was no resulting tidal wave but the protest group had managed to garner world-wide media attention for its actions. Shortly afterwards, the Canadian government voted to condemn nuclear tests. Following the Alaska trip, some crew members decided to develop their protest movement. It was based on the use of non-violent direct action to increase public awareness and influence government policy. The Greenpeace Foundation was born and Hunter and Moore were its first co-presidents. "Greenpeace became the first organization that linked the survival of the human race with the survival of the environment," said Moore. Today, Greenpeace is the most visible environmental movement in the world, headquartered in Amsterdam with offices in dozens of countries. The organization opposes nuclear weapons, pollution and has launched successful campaigns against the commercial seal hunt and whaling. There are 130,000 Greenpeace members in Canada. Today Hunter promotes environmental issues through his work as an author and television broadcaster. Patrick Moore is a director of the Forest Alliance of British Columbia, and president of Greenspirit, an independent environmental consultancy.


Native Awakening

Alberta Indians occupy a rural residential school and signal a new era in native activism In July 1970, Alberta natives occupied a rural school demanding the right to control their own education. The two-week sit-in signalled the dawn of a new era in native activism after more than a century of slow misery.

Charles Wood was among the two hundred protesters at the Blue Quills school near St. Paul in Central Alberta. "We have been told that native culture was not good, and that our customs were nogood pagan rites for so long that it was hard for us to believe we were good enough [to run our own schools]," said Wood, the manager of the nearby Saddle Lake band.

"But, one evening, one of the elders stood up and asked: How many of you have studied up to grade 12? No hand showed. Then, How many of you have studied up to ninth grade? A few hands. See? the old man said, almost none of us can claim to have received an education. But the white man, the clergy, have been in charge of our education for over a century. We cant do worse than them." The events at Blue Quills school were triggered a year earlier when Indian Affairs Minister Jean Chrtien delivered a White Paper (government policy outline) that proposed to end the long-standing practice of treating Indians differently from other Canadian citizens. Among other things, it would provide a fund of $50 million to compensate for the termination of the treaties, abolish reserves and integrate many native children into white schools. For a century, the federal government had assumed the responsibility for the education of aboriginal people, a job which it then delegated to the churches. They had set up a series of residential schools for native children, which in the 1960s were coming under attack by natives for their educational limitations and reports of decades of physical and sexual abuse. "My first memory of education is being trucked into the school," said Leona Makokis, from the Saddle Lake Reserve. "We were all lifted into a big truck box, where we lay looking up at the sky. There were kids screaming and hollering around us, and we were driven away from our families." The residential school curriculum dismissed native history and forbade teaching in native languages. In 1966, the high-school drop-out rate among natives was 94 per cent. The Blue Quills school was run by Catholic priests and nuns and served 11 native reserves. By July 1970, the federal government had backed off from its White Paper recommendations in the face of stiff opposition from native chiefs. But the Blue Quills school was still slated to close. Stanley Redcrow, had two children at the school and was also the only native who worked there. He was furious at government plan. "This is our school. We can take it, we can run it ourselves. We wont need the sisters and we dont need the priest for education. " The parents asked the government to give them the school instead. Indian Affairs wouldnt budge. The parents in Saddle Lake decided they would take over the school anyway. On July 14, they began their sit-in. They set up camp in the school yard and held prayer meetings in the gymnasium. Margaret Quinney was involved in the occupation. "This was our school," she said. "We did not want them to close it. Some of the older kids had tried integrated schools. They were saying it was even tougher than residential school. We thought we could manage the school, and educate our own children."

Natives across Canada rallied to their cause and the protest received international media attention. Csar Chvez, leader of the California farm workers union, sent a crate of grapes in a gesture of solidarity. At the end of July, Harold Cardinal, president of the Indian Association of Alberta and 15 other protesters were flown to Ottawa for three days of meetings with Jean Chrtien and his officials. In the end, the federal authorities relented, and in September 1970, Blue Quills School became the first school in Canada managed and operated by aboriginal people. The first school board included representatives from all 11 reserves in the area. Mike Steinhauer became its executive director. "The first thing I did was take down all the crucifixes from the walls, all the traces of white religious domination in our education." For Margaret Quinney, from Frog Lake band, their victory opened the way to a brighter future. "We wanted to re-introduce our children to their native culture, and, above all, to make them proud of their heritage," Quinney said. In 1972, the National Indian Brotherhood (which later became the Assembly of First Nations) formally proposed local community control of schools and teaching in native languages, a policy subsequently adopted by the Department of Indian Affairs.

III. Introduction:

In the Name of Progress

People are transferred and communities demolished in the name of a new religion called progress "They took our homes, they moved us out of Africville. The city moved us out of Africville in the city's garbage trucks. We had it a lot better out there than in some of the places they put us in the city." - Daisy Carvery, former-resident Africville During the 1960s and 1970s, progress became a religion in Canada that lay waste to traditional ways. Around the country, people were pushed aside in the name of progress. In Toronto, Montreal and Halifax, whole neighbourhoods, mostly working class, were razed and tight-knit communities destroyed to satisfy government's appetite for development and renewal.

End of Africville In the 1960s, Halifax's oldest black neighbourhood was one of the most controversial victims of the times The derelict area was called Africville, located in the northern end of the Halifax peninsula. Africville was the ramshackle home to some of the descendants of the American slaves who had fled to Canada more than 150 years earlier. In 1964, the city decided that Africville must be razed and the 70 families moved to housing elsewhere in the city. At the time, Halifax was intent on developing the area as part of some ambitious post-war renewal projects. Lost outports In Newfoundland, the march of progress helped destroy a coastal culture that had existed for hundreds of years. Between the mid-1950s and the early 1970s, the Newfoundland government led by Premier Joey Smallwood closed 250 coastal villages. Thirty thousand people were uprooted and relocated to larger villages and towns. Smallwood argued that resettlement in larger communities would reduce government expenditures on education, health care and social service. Smallwood also wanted to wean Newfoundlanders from the cyclical and risky business of fishing, to retrain them for other work. Youth exodus But the religion of process didn't mean salvation for the Atlantic provinces. The region was too dependent on traditional industries such as mining and fishing. Industrial development continued to lag behind the rest of Canada. Young people were forced to choose between unemployment and exile as their homeland failed to enjoy the prosperity of the era. Between 1956 and 1973 almost one million people left the Atlantic provinces.


Newfoundland's Lost Outports

Thousands are moved from tiny fishing villages and a way of life ends Less than a decade after Newfoundland joined Canada, the provincial government began wiping out a coastal culture that had existed for hundred of years.

Between the mid-1950s and the early 1970s, the Newfoundland government led by Premier Joey Smallwood closed 250 coastal villages. Thirty thousand people were uprooted and relocated to larger villages and towns. "Most people in my village were fishermen," said Bruce Wareham. "Maybe 90 per cent of them. They just moved these people away from their fishing grounds. I do not know what will happen next. I think it is very sad." Newfoundlands dependence on the fishery had made it Canadas poorest province. Over the course of five hundred years, fishermen had established hundreds of small, isolated communities along the rocky shoreline. But the small outport fishing industry was in decline. By the 1950s, large, mechanized fishing vessels were becoming the norm and small-boat operators couldn't compete. The provincial government also decided that it could not afford to bring modern services to these outports, many of which could be reached only by sea. Premier Joey Smallwood seized on a radical solution of re-location. He argued that resettlement in larger communities would reduce government expenditures on education, health care and social service. Smallwood also wanted to wean Newfoundlanders from the cyclical and risky business of fishing, to retrain them for other work.

The massive program introduced many Newfoundlanders to the amenities of modern, urban life: electricity, telephone, schools, roads. Many Newfoundlanders welcomed the governments initiative. "We have re-settled at last," said Charlie Parish, one of the uprooted villagers. "We have a new house, and I will soon be able to buy a car. I am grateful." A re-located fisherman echoed the sentiments. "This is our new land. This is our new home. Everything will be ok. Im quite content on what Im gonna do in many years. Quite content of it. Me old days is over. " But for some, the relocation wasn't welcomed; it starkly signaled the end of an era and the death of a way of life. "What can I do? I never worked on the land. I went on the water when I was 13 now Im 60."


Victims of the Times

Halifax's oldest black neighbourhood is demolished and a beloved community destroyed

As Canada continued to flourish in the post-war years, progress became a type of religion.

Around the country, people were pushed aside in the name of development. In the 1960s, Halifax's oldest black neighbourhood became a victim of the times The derelict area was called Africville, located in the northern end of the Halifax peninsula. Africville was the ramshackle home to some of the descendants of the American slaves who had fled to Canada more than 150 years earlier. They had found freedom in Canada but little else. Decades of racism and neglect by civic administrations had turned Africville into the most miserable urban ghetto in the country. Standard services were not provided, homes did not have plumbing nor electricity. There was little civic planning done to create a healthy community. In the 1850s, land near to Africville was expropriated for railway tracks and to create sewage disposal pits. And a century later, city council moved an open dump to the edge of the community. Not long afterward, a report by the city of Halifax described Africville: "In terms of the physical conditions of buildings and sanitation, the story is deplorable. There (are) only two things to be said. The families will have to be rehoused in the future. The land which they occupy will be required for the future development of the city. " The city decided that Africville must be razed and the 70 families moved to housing elsewhere in the city. At the time, Halifax was intent on developing the area as part of some ambitious post-war renewal projects. But the mayor of Halifax, John Edward Lloyd, explained that the decision to bulldoze Africville had been made for sanitary reasons, and he stressed the move would mean an end to racial segregation in Halifax: "It is clear to me that Africville must be redeveloped, but sometimes we have to explain to people that we are acting in their interest. We have taken our decision in the interest of the public, and in the best interest of the people [of Africville] and of their children." But to its residents the move would not be in their best interest. Africville was their community, with homes and a church and school, stores, gardens and clubs. To Terry Dixon, it was a warm and safe place to live. "There was just that sense of anywhere you go, anywhere you fall down, you hurt yourself, you don't have to go home, you go to the nearest house, than have that taking care of." Africville's residents were not wealthy but they were proud. Most believed that they owned their land and the house in which they lived.

"In this country, when you own a piece of land, you are not second class citizen," said resident Joe Skinner. But very few actually had a deed to prove their ownership. They were stunned when they learned they must leave. The city of Halifax offered the inhabitants of Africville nothing more than a symbolic lump-sum compensation for their houses. Daisy Carvery, a mother of five, was outraged: "The meanest part that they did to Africville is, they got the old people together, because they simply knew that the older people did not have an education. What is $500 to a 75-year-old Negro? He thinks he is rich. They took our homes, they moved us out of Africville. The city moved us out of Africville in the citys garbage trucks. We had it a lot better out there than in some of the places they put us in the city." Eventually all the residents of Africville were removed and their beloved community destroyed. The last to go, in 1970, was 72-year-old Aaron "Pa" Carvery. "The day I left my home, a part of me inside died ... If I had been a little younger, city would never have gotten my land." Today the former community is part of Seaview Park and part of the scrubland surrounding roads that leave the city. The destruction of Africville has become a symbol for Canadians fighting racial discrimination. Halifaxs black community wants the city government to compensate the neighbourhoods former residents. In March 2001, former resident Irvine Carvery (Daisy's son) spoke at hearing in Halifax to mark the International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination. "There's never been a more racist act committed in Canada than what happened to Africville. Canada wants to stand up in international forums and flout how great a country it is ... until the question of Africville is settled, Canada can not hold its head up and say it is a fair and just country to live in."


East Coast Exodus

Young people must choose between unemployment and exile as tough times hit the Atlantic provinces In the 1960s, Margaret Hynes faced a sobering reality. The Newfoundland community she loved was wasting away and young people had few options but to say good-bye to life on Canada's eastern seaboard.

"Everyone knew that unless you were a professional teacher, nurse or doctor, there was no future for you in Newfoundland. Its beautiful, a beautiful island, but it is just not a healthy way for people to live."

In the early 1960s, Bell Island was the third largest city in Newfoundland. A short boat trip from St. Johns, the island was home to 12,000 people, many of whom depended on the iron mine - owned by Hawker-Siddeley Canada - which had been operating for more than 60 years. "My dad worked in the mines for years," said Margaret. Our life centred around the iron works. Thats where the work was. And as a child my strongest memory is of the colour of the iron ore. Its red, you see. And day after day, my mother would say, oh, no, I hate to put the sheets out on the line, theres a wind. It was always windy. And the dust would get everything red." Then in 1966, the mine closed and Bell Island began to die. Margaret was still in school training to be a secretary and her boyfriend Hubert Butler - the 11th of 12 children - was looking for his first job. But jobs were scarce and Hubert decided to leave Newfoundland. Hubert's exodus was a scene replayed throughout the region as the fresh promise and prosperity of the 1960s largely bypassed the Atlantic provinces. Mining and fishing were in decline and industrial development continued to lag behind the rest of Canada. Hubert headed for Ontario, looking for work at an automobile factory. The new Auto Pact with the United States, signed in January 1965, was creating thousands of jobs. Nine out of 10 of them were in southern Ontario. For the first time in history, Canada was exporting more cars than it was importing. Southern Ontario was the land of promise although for Hubert it was a world away from the life he knew. "Arriving at Toronto, looking at those buildings ... you know, until you couldnt turn your neck any further ... Me and my buddy Sweeney, both of us were very nave, didnt really have a clue what we were up against and really thinking that the world was one big family. ... And we realised really fast that, you know, this isnt going to be quite as easy you think, Bucko." But for Hubert it was easy. Within a week, he got a job at the Ford plant in Windsor. "He decided to go to Windsor because his uncle had got work there at the Ford Motor Company," Margaret recalled. "Imagine, being nineteen, a young nineteen from a small town, going all the way to Windsor to seek your fortune! And he went up to Windsor, and stayed with that uncle and, the next week, he applied for a job at Ford, and he got it!" A full-time job was a rarity back home, and Hubert was elated. A few months later, he went back to Bell Island to see Margaret. "I could see the change in him, even in his clothing. ...And the hair was a little longer, a little fuller. And even some of the accent had rubbed off. But you could tell he was really enjoying himself. "

Hubert asked Margaret to come with him to Ontario. "I knew that I had to decide - either go to Ontario, or cut off the relationship. So I decided to go," Margaret remembered "Id never been farther than St. Johns. And I was so scared. ...And the thing that struck me first as soon as I came out of the door of the plane was - the air. In Newfoundland the air is fresh, theres always a breeze. It was COMPLETELY different - like being in a foreign land." They were married and had their honeymoon in Niagara Falls. Hubert and Margaret would never go back to work in Newfoundland. Five of Hubert's 11 brothers and sisters and all of Margaret's siblings also would leave Newfoundland to settle in other parts of Canada. "You almost realize as a Newfoundlander when you are raising your kid that there is a good chance he is going to have to move to some part of Canada or the United States to get a job," Hubert said. Between 1956 and 1973 almost one million people left the Atlantic provinces. Eighty per cent of Bell Islands inhabitants eventually left, following the trail of easterners seeking work. Today, Bell Island is a commuter town, many of the residents work in nearly St. John's. Newfoundland's unemployment remains high and young people continue to leave the province to find work.