By Britnae Purdy, First Peoples Worldwide, Cross-Posted with Permission
Walking home. At night. Alone.
Every woman holds close a fear of this situation – even the bravest occasionally let a “what if” wander into the corners of their mind.
You’re walking home from work because you can’t afford a car just yet – ironically, the same reason you need to keep this job. All your friends were busy tonight, so you couldn’t bum a ride. And public transportation just doesn’t go this far out. You’ve done it before; you know the dangers, but there’s really nothing else to do. More than likely, things will be fine.
When you see headlights coming up behind you, you hold your breath.
When the car pulls up next to you, your heart stops for a moment.
When he rolls down the window, your body switches into survival mode – tensed, pulse racing, scanning the dark landscape for an out.
You steel yourself against the words he and his friends shout to you, throw at you, wondering not for the first time what your skin color, cup size, outfit really have to do with it all. There’s four of them – why do they always seem to travel in packs? You grasp your keys, knowing what a feeble defense they’d provide anyway. Mostly you pray, wondering if tonight is the night you’ll join the numbers – the upwards of 900 Indigenous women who have been murdered or gone missing in Canada in the past 30 years.
Part of Canada’s beauty lives in its vastness. Your ancestors have thrived in partnership with the land since time immemorial. But that vast nature can be frightful as well – there are many places you could take a person where they won’t easily be found.
You wonder if you’ll have time to dial up the police on your cell phone, but the authorities aren’t much trusted by your community – a long pattern of abuses and misplaced authority have eroded that relationship.
The worst thought that passes through your mind isn’t so much what will happen to you, but the idea that your family may never know. The investigation is likely to go cold – if it is even opened at all. The rates are so high in your community that they’ll likely just write you off – your entire life reduced dismissively to one word: “runaway,” or “suicide,” or “overdose.”
The car rolls along beside you as you walk, eyes forward, mind rolling over these thoughts. Then, for whatever reason, your harassers lose enthusiasm for their fame. They decide you’re not the special “Pocahontas” they’re looking for tonight, you’re actually just a “dirty, drunk, redskin bitch” like all the rest. One hollers a final “war cry” and the car revvs and speeds up, the hunters leaving you in the dark with your beating, beating heart.
You call up your sister to talk for the duration of your walk home. She’s not happy to be woken up late at night, but you need to hear her voice. She’ll understand when you explain later.
You rationalize it out until your breath returns to you and the shaking in your hands subside. It’s normal. It’s to be expected. It will happen again, and at least this isn’t as bad as what happened to your friend or cousin. You’re lucky. You won this battle. Congratulations.
But you can’t help but wonder – what is this life you’re fighting so hard for?
What is a life when others view you less as human, more as prey?
Britnae is currently acting as the communications manager at First Peoples Worldwide, a nonprofit dedicated to supporting Indigenous communities, culture, and rights around the world. Britnae received her BA in International Affairs and Women’s and Gender Studies from the University of Mary Washington in 2013, and is now working on an MA in Global Affairs, with a specialization in Global Health, at George Mason University.
