In 1990 when I was 18 there was a stand off in Oka. I watched the news every night worried for the people who were fighting for their land. I watched as the government criminalized the Indigenous people. I watched as racism raised its ugly head and hate filled the hearts of many people. I ended up writing this poem about the warriors that were fighting.

Tall, brave, defiant stand the young warrior. Praised by his people for his valor, fighting for his cause.

Yet people once friends now label him an enemy. Insulting things that they do not understand. They call him names and laugh in scorn at the proud warrior

“What is this they fights for?” they ask. “A piece of land, what possible meaning could it have?” They suggest to give up; for they believe it is a lost cause.

Still he, the warrior, remains resistant, standing with gun in hand, ready, waiting for the tanks to lumber across the land, his ancestral home. The burial ground of his grandfathers. That is why he fights.

He fights for that final resting place, his historic homeland. He, the warrior is fighting for something that belonged to his forefathers. His land by right, snatched from the hands of his predecessors. Into a corner his ancestors were pushed; now his generation comes out fighting.

His people were forgotten, pushed away until now. For now his people have taken a stand, wanting to get back what is rightfully theirs.

I wrote this on August 28, 1990 during the Oka stand off. For those who were on the front lines and those that were there in spirit.