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Yesterday, I sent Lee and the kids out to walk the Maliseet Trail in Woodstock while I made birthday cake and cried for New Brunswick, and this broken world.

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I am in solidarity with the Elsipogtog people, and the growing community of New Brunswickers and global citizens who oppose hydro-fracking, who oppose police brutality, who oppose the contravention of human rights.

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There is something seriously wrong with the picture of 200 RCMP and snipers in swat gear, brandishing assault rifles, descending on 20-40 peaceful protestors who are standing up for 2.5 million hectares of land that has been unilaterally handed over by the government to be raped and pillaged by SWN Resources.

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I value non-violence.  I believe in non-violence.  The mothers, grandmothers, children, elders and men who faced police lines have been non-violently protesting this injustice for months.

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I am enraged by the portrayal of the burning of police cars as aggression, when the cops have guns drawn, hands on, and the full force of their threatening, cowardly, intimidating presence, backed by government.  The destruction of vehicles, in this case, could certainly be interpreted as a clear statement of legitimate fury and frustration, yet one made in the spirit of preserving life; still fundamentally non-violent in the face of the direct physical force of the police.  But even the CBC, who have featured Pamela Palmeter’s impassioned analysis of the situation, have characterized the firebombed squad-cars as an unacceptable assault while simultaneously showing the unbearable images of cops in riot gear descending on unarmed mothers.

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I hate the Alward government.  I hate the Harper government.  I hate the RCMP.  I hate the police.  I hate a police state.  I hate the brutalization of our natural treasures: our forests, our clean water.  I hate the human rights violations that first nations people experience, that women during pregnancy and childbirth experience, that infants experience—still, here, now, in Canada, in 2013.

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Five years ago, just minutes before the clock struck midnight, Horus was born, here in this church where we are living now.  A couple of days prior, I had dutifully gone to the hospital for a prenatal meeting.  I knew I would be giving birth at home, and I knew the doctors had nothing to offer me, but I had no friends in this part of New Brunswick and no support network, and I was afraid that unless I showed up at the prenatal clinic at the appointed time, I would be threatened, coerced, or reported.  Finally, fed up with the constant pressure to be induced during my last week of pregnancy, I told them at my last appearance, that I would be giving birth at home.

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At that, I was called into a room with two doctors, who proceeded to tell me how stupid, ignorant and dangerous my plans to–get this–give birth in a human way, were.  They told me that I was acting against medical advice, and that I would be charged with manslaughter if anything happened to my baby.

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I draw parallels between the refusal to recognize the sovereignty of first nations, the violation of first nations lands and our lands, and the violation of women’s bodies, because these violations arise from the same paradigm of hierarchalism, authoritarianism, power, patriarchy and domination.

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The injustices happening here in New Brunswick are in stark relief right now, and I’m happy for that, at least.  The struggle for women’s reproductive freedom and the right to bodily integrity is, unfortunately, obscured by the false rhetoric of “choice” that permeates maternity wards and women’s groups.

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First nations people have freedom and respect as long as they shut up and stay on the reserve.  Women have freedom of choice as long as their choices align with what their doctor/daddy tells them is best.

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Happy birthday Horus. This fight is for you.