A personal account for Indigenous women whose bodies, hearts, minds were stolen

This piece was written for CBC North's missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls special live program called 'CBC Asks: How do we keep Indigenous women and girls safe?' on Nov. 28 in Yellowknife.

She sees him every so often shuffling down the streets of Yellowknife.

She looks at him and wonders, is he still trying to do what he did to her to others? 

She wonders how he is able to blend into society unnoticed, without shame, without anyone knowing the crimes he has committed. 

She once sat in a witness box in the courtroom as a child in the eyes of the law, but she did not feel like a child. 

Her innocence had been stolen. She testified against him in the dim light of the carpeted courtroom. 

She did not know what the different terms were for sexual intercourse when the lawyers asked her detailed questions of what happened when alone with him.

She ran as fast as she could out of his small, empty apartment.- Catherine Lafferty

Not old enough to be able to give consent over her own body, she thought she was the one in control and had the power to say yes or no. But the intensity of being swallowed up in the justice system — in that quiet, serious, maroon-coloured courtroom — made her realize that she was, in fact, a victim. 

Yet somehow, she felt like she was the one that committed a crime — a crime against herself. 

The courts did not offer her solace. No one stood beside her. She had managed to keep it a secret from her family. A secret she would never reveal if she could help it. She was trapped in a stranger's body.

A body bought. A body sold. A body that now belonged to the court.  

She was coerced into prostitution at a young age by those she considered friends. 

Then one day, she decided to take back the rights to her own body. 

She agreed to meet with a man who expressed interest in paying her for sex. He was a family man and a well-known retailer in the small town. 

She knocked on his apartment door. He opened it, made his way to the bedroom, and lay on the bed.

First though, she would ask him for the money. "I don't trust that you will give it to me." 

I once knew that girl, but I don't know her now.- Catherine Lafferty

He pointed to the money on the bedside table. She took the envelope and looked inside at the hundreds of dollars. 

No amount of money would ever be enough. 

"I need to use the washroom," she said, but instead she headed straight for the front door. 

She ran as fast as she could out of his small, empty apartment, down the long hallway, afraid for her life until she reached fresh air. She told herself that would be the last time she would ever allow herself to be touched by a man that did not love and respect her if she could help it.

Now, she understands that this was a form of sex trafficking. 

I once knew that girl, but I don't know her now. 

I said goodbye to her a long time ago, letting her go softly, forgivingly. 

This is the hidden truth of stolen innocence. This is but one account of ongoing sexual violence that is perpetuated in the lives of Indigenous women and girls every day which goes virtually unnoticed in small towns and cities.

These words are written for my Indigenous sisters who are submersed in a life of poverty, addictions and abuse, feeling like there is no way out. It's for those struggling with shame and anger; for those who are exploited by abusers, but also by the courts and colonial systems that continue to suppress and marginalize Indigenous women and girls, putting them at further risk. 

These words I'm sharing are for the Indigenous women and girls whose bodies, minds and hearts have been stolen. 

Together we will take back what was never for the taking.

This column is part of CBC's Opinion section. For more information about this section, please read this editor's blog and our FAQ.