Bearing witness to what should never have been

Opinion

Some stories are so heavy, you almost want to look away. But when they come from people you know, people you call friends, you realize that looking away is part of what allowed the suffering in the first place.

In recent days I have been listening again to the voices of adults who shared what they went through in the foster care system, residential schools and the forced adoption practices of the ’60s Scoop. Their words are fragments of memory and pieces of truth told with courage, carrying more weight than any of us should have to bear alone. Accounts of abuse, neglect, abandonment and the absence of care. Children mistreated by those entrusted with their protection, left without safety or even recognition of their worth.

My heart cringes with these stories. I imagine the child they once were, left without comfort or safety, sometimes without being treated as worthy of love. There are no words that can undo what happened. But there are words that can bear witness and that matters.

It is essential that these are not just accounts from the past, sealed away as if they belong only to history. The people who endured this are our neighbours, our co-workers, our fellow community members. They are parents and grandparents still carrying the weight of what was done to them as children.

Awareness-raising can sometimes be reduced to one or another aspect of this painful history. Symbols and events can be important, but they are not enough. A shirt, a slogan, or even a day of remembrance risks becoming ritual without depth unless we connect it to the flesh-and-blood reality of those who lived through these systems. Unless we let it reach our hearts.

For the vast majority of those who went through the foster care system, residential schools or forced adoptions, no single month or commemoration can capture the suffering they endured. Their healing cannot be timed by the calendar. And yet, these moments do offer the rest of us opportunities to pause, to learn and to bring our hearts into conversations more often.

As someone who has not lived these experiences, but who has friends who have, I have heard enough to know that what has been publicly spoken is only a small part of the truth. And I know this is true across many communities who have carried unbearable histories. For every account told, there are many more that remain unspoken because the pain is too deep or the trust too fragile or the silence too long ingrained. I respect that choice. I also know that even when words are not spoken, the suffering is real.

I am still learning what it means to be a true ally in this space and still wondering how to honour both the courage of those who speak and the choice of those who cannot.

So what can someone like me offer? I cannot take away what happened. I cannot tell these experiences as if they were mine. But I can stand alongside, I can acknowledge, I can refuse to look away. I can add my voice to the chorus of allies who say what was done to children in these systems was wrong, it caused lifelong harm and it should matter to all of us.

When I read what survivors are willing to share, my heart breaks for what no child should have endured. I find myself filled with admiration for the strength it takes to go on, to choose paths of love and care despite so much injustice. I want them to know they are not alone, that their words do not fall into silence, that someone is listening and cares.

For those who have not lived these realities, my hope is that we can open our hearts a little wider. That we can see this is not abstract history. That compassion is not only possible, but necessary as we support each person along their healing path.

Bearing witness is about dignity, about refusing to let people carry unbearable burdens in isolation. It is about recognizing that reconciliation is not an event we attend, but a way of being together that honours the truth and makes space for healing.

I find myself wondering what comes after bearing witness. Recognition and compassion are essential, but they are only beginning steps. Perhaps it’s about becoming the kind of community where voices like my friends’ are not only heard but genuinely listened to. Maybe it’s about creating conditions where we don’t stand by when harm is happening, where we notice when something is wrong and refuse to accept it. Not because we have all the answers, but because we’ve decided that the well-being of every person in our community is worth our care.

Some stories are so heavy, you almost want to look away. But if we want a better future, we need to stop looking away, listen, care and stand with those who survived. Because their lives have value, their voices have power and their healing has meaning. Always.

Carina Blumgrund writes from Winnipeg.