SQUAMISH ELDERS TORCH DRUG DEN

They came because they'd taken too much. They'd seen grandchildren,
sons and daughters, brothers, sisters and friends devoured in a hell
of drug abuse. So today, in the rain, in a bleak sandlot behind Chief
Joe Mathias Centre, members of the Squamish Nation planned to fight
fire with fire.

With blessings from the Squamish council and local police, following
weeks of surveillance and a search and seizure, the band towed a dingy
red and white piece of hell on wheels, a mobile crack house, to the
edge of the lot, behind tall stands of pine trees.

The trailer's owner had been dealing drugs out of it "fast and
furious," according to Chief Bill Williams and West Van police. The
man, a non-Squamish member, was declared an undesirable and told to
clear off and not come back.

Inspired by a similar action in the Lummi Nation, just to the south in
Washington, Squamish elders decided to burn the infernal thing,
sending evil spirits to the sky, calling on God and ancestors to bring
healing for the pain and strength for the coming battle.

It would be a powerful ceremony of justice, healing and purging.
Beyond that, it would be a message. A line in the sand. A hot, black,
sooty smoke signal: You and your like can't come into the community
and poison our kids any longer.

"Dear relatives and friends," cried Squamish Nation chief of council
Dennis Joseph. "Maybe you have somebody who is struggling with drugs
or alcohol now. Maybe you know someone who has gone to the other side
already."

He pointed to a platform at the back of the lot with two large sheets
displayed - one for girls, one for boys.

"You are welcome to sign their name and express a message," Joseph
said. "The first message is already there. I want my daughter back - I
want my daughter back - I want my daughter back!"

Dennis Joseph's wife lined up with other men and women from the
Squamish and visiting Sechelt nations. On the yellow board for girls a
police officer had written, "We Will Win - We Will Win - We Will Win!"

When it was her turn, Joseph's wife wrote on the white board for boys:
"I want my son back. Please God, take away the pain."

The couple's 18-year-old boy had just returned from the hospital after
a nine-week stay, Dennis Joseph explained. He'd been given a bad dose
of drugs for free. The dealer was trying to hook the boy, Joseph said.
It had hurt his child really bad.

Gathered band members were given candles that would serve two
purposes, one spiritual, one practical.

Dennis Joseph again broke the silence, standing in front of the
30-foot mobile home, a gothic, rotting hulk, suggestive of
meth-ravaged trailer parks, grim all-night parties, and young bodies
wasted.

"Now what is here today does not belong to humanity," Joseph
shouted.

Inside, the kitchen area was littered with empty plastic pop bottles.
There were movie posters on the wall. It was dark. Outside, elders lit
candles and rang bells and led a low chant. A meal was prepared to be
taken inside the trailer, to appease the evil spirits that would
emerge. The rain subsided to a fine mist and grieving parents advanced
with candles, bending at the trailer to light stacks of pine before
retreating and holding the candles aloft, circling their hands in
front of the the little flames, representing the light of God.

Shaker priest Eugene Harry, a tiny man with long gray hair and defiant
eyes, sang, wailed and pounded his hand drum, making violent circling
movements with outstretched arms, as if ushering the bad spirits
skywards with the entrails of soot and smoke. As heat increased the
trailer hissed and shrieked, protesting against the immolation.

Twisting metal popped as loud as a gunshot, but little Eugene Harry
walked even closer to the heat, beating his drum harder.

A trio, three generations of women in a family, held hands and watched
the flames, standing behind Harry. A flock of geese flew overhead
towards the north.

With the trailer burnt to the ground many of the onlookers left after
being cleansed with fresh cedar boughs.

Harry spoke to remaining Sechelt and Squamish members.

"We've looked in the eye of the devil's helper today," he said. He
told them it was time to draw the line, and in fact step over the line.

"We have to get down in the muck with our children," he cried, and he
kneeled and crawled on the muddy lot. "We've got to go down to hell to
get them and bring them back out."

He recalled a certain case, scorning a care worker who had turned a
boy away from treatment for a petty reason.

"If you're a firefighter you don't ignore a fire because it's on the
other side of the line!" he wailed, and his voice broke with anger,
and he motioned rocking a child in his arms.

"I've held my fifteen year old boy in my arms! He's bigger than me!
I'm just one, small man."

Eugene Harry gathered himself and stood with the other elders before
offering a farewell blessing.

"We are all in great pain," he said. "Today we turn the
corner."

The trailer burning which took place Aug. 29 was a joint venture
between the Squamish Nation chief and council, West Vancouver Police
Department, CFOY (Caring for our youth) and the West Van fire
department. Police and the Squamish Nation will only identify the
trailer's owner as an undesirable whose property was legally seized
and has been served with a no-go order and will be deported if he
appears again on Squamish Nation land. The ashes from the burnt
trailer will be used as healing medicine on SN land. In an interview
SN Chief Bill Williams said the extraordinary action was not taken
lightly. He added First Nations communities across B.C. have been
calling for advice with regards to the burning ceremony, spurred by
similar problems with non-community members settling and pushing drugs
on their land.

WVPD Cpl. Fred Harding, who worked closely with CFOY's Doris Paul on
the trailer initiative, says similar actions against drug dealers are
on the horizon.

"You haven't seen anything yet," Harding said.