In 1967, the year I enrolled as a student at SFU, Canada’s Parliament had a change of heart concerning hanging. This didn’t impact my life, but I’m certain Rene Castellani was deeply relieved. He was in court at the time the bill was being stickhandled through Parliament, charged with the death of his wife Esther. She loved milkshakes and he had laced them with arsenic, bringing them to her even when she was hospitalized. Two weeks after the moratorium was announced, he was convicted of murder. Without the change, he almost certainly would have had a black hood placed over his head and a noose slipped around his neck.

I came to know Rene quite well during his years at Matsqui Institution. Prior to his incarceration, he had been a highly regarded personality at Vancouver radio station CKNW and possessed exceptional PR skills. Unfortunately, his judgment became seriously impaired when he entered into a romantic relationship with a switchboard operator. He showed me photos of himself at a gala event attended by political and business elites He denied guilt to the end, but the evidence against him was deemed quite sufficient to convict him. Rene was paroled after 10 years, then died of cancer at age 57. Undoubtedly some innocent men were hanged prior to the moratorium.

Before the demolition of the B.C. Penitentiary, my duties at times called me into that foreboding institution of forlorn souls. On one occasion, a staff member escorted me through a spacious open area. Looking around, I saw only dull grey concrete. About a dozen disconsolate, grey clad men stood purposelessly around the perimeter. Their demeanor suggested they had no reason for hope or optimism. A skinny desiccated elderly man listlessly pushed a broad broom across the grey floor. The Penn has been torn down since then and some inmates were transferred to Matsqui Institution in rural Abbotsford. Here the atmosphere was less sombre and oppressive. Inmates could acquire work skills if they chose to. It was still prison, with two high wire fences topped by razor sharp wire. With no grey floors or walls though, it was a significant step up when compared with the dreary B.C. Penn.

At Matsqui, one inmate I came to respect was Albert, better known as Red. In his early 60’s, his copper coloured hair was tinged with grey. He had long supported his addiction to heroin with small scale trafficking. This “business” side of the heroin had landed him in several federal prisons. In spite of the many lost years, Red wasn’t devious or bitter and never attempted to use me to obtain favours. His responsibilities in the hobby shop gave him opportunity to talk without guards near by. He presented well and on escorted passes to purchase supplies for the hobby shop, he wore slacks and a sports jacket. At times his appearance and gracious manner led people to mistake him for a prison official.

Albert completed his sentence and returned to his usual haunts in Vancouver. At his age and lacking marketable skills, all he knew was trafficking. Heroin owned his soul. He sold a small quantity of the then highly illegal substance to an undercover officer and was sentenced to another 8 years. Laws concerning trafficking in even small amounts of heroin were much tougher then.

Over the years lawmakers have wrestled with our criminal justice system in an attempt to make it more humane and also more effective. Even so, as Canadian Senator Kim Pate has said, “Prisons are not treatment or mental health centers.” We’re allocating immense resources to redeem individuals who have been shaped by years of “jail house education.” Because of their criminal lifestyle and years of confinement, too often this is a futile effort.

Reflecting on Rene Castellani, the skinny inmate sweeping with a broad broom, and Albert at Matsqui Institution, I was prompted to ponder about the innocent, fresh faced youngsters in Similkameen schools today. Some will be lured into drug use and a life of crime. No government at any level has demonstrated the vision or will to forestall this likelihood. As a society, we need to allocate more funds to support parents, grandparents, schools and communities in their efforts to positively shape the thinking and actions of the next generation.

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On a dark night last December, I was standing uncertainly at the front door of Lukas, my cross town neighbour. Before ringing the doorbell, I hesitated. Was I foolishly venturing too far into unfamiliar territory? I had never met Lukas, but I knew he was known in the community for racing around town in his car at night, laying long black strips of rubber, waking citizens from their peaceful sleep, and terrorizing anyone still on the streets. A lot of townspeople wished he’d go away, or be put away by a judge. Until recently he had been pretty lucky, but now the law was closing in. He was awaiting a court date for several serious driving infractions and had already demonstrated a lack of respect for conditions imposed by the judge.

I was acutely conscious of the chasm of values, experiences and lifestyle between us. Also, there was the matter of age. Lukas is only 20. My hair is as white as the snow on the mountain tops surrounding Hedley. Would he resent my unannounced intrusion into his life? Would I be rebuffed?

In one hand I held a small plate of Christmas cookies Linda had baked that morning. I hoped they might momentarily distract him from the chasm. I pressed the doorbell. A dog yelped excitedly, then the door opened.

I introduced myself and, holding the plate toward him asked, “do you like cookies?” Accepting the plate he said, “my grandpa loves treats. He’s here for a few days.”

I had anticipated suspicion, but he seemed surprisingly mellow and receptive. There was no edge or even a hint of hostility. Enboldened, I asked, “would you want to chat sometime?” “Anytime,” he replied, opening the door wide and motioning with his hand for me to come in. We talked for about 20 minutes, mostly about what had already been reported in the local media.

A couple of weeks later I had a conversation with Marvin, the grandfather. I learned Lukas had been very close to his mother until she passed away approximately half a dozen years ago. Losing her was a devastating event and his life began spiraling downward,

I had one more visit with Lukas. A few days later he was picked up by the police and will be in custody until his court date.

My experience with inmates in provincial and federal prisons causes me concern for Lukas and our community. As a society, our response to individuals like him suggests a lack of understanding, wisdom and creativity. Too often we fail to provide counselling and other assistance when they are young and likely less hardened. Courts impose probation, order community service and possibly sentence them to an all too brief program of rehabilitation that has inadequate resources. Then comes jail time.

I’m reminded of Simon, a 34 year old inmate I interviewed as part of a research project at Matsqui Institution. Like Lukas, his early associations and activities had pushed him to the periphery of society. Between brief jail terms, he managed to get married and father 2 sons. When he lost everything in a poker game, he had to tell his family they no longer had a home. Not having good work skills he fell deeper into a life of crime. By the time I met him he had become a hard core con, talking out the side of his mouth the way prisoners do in movies. All contact with his family and the outside world had been severed. When he was released on parole, he drifted back to his criminal associations and haunts in Vancouver.

Prison inmates are shaped by a subculture that makes them even less prepared to participate in the life and economy of mainstream society. Upon release, they frequently return to the community they had come from. If Lukas is placed in jail will he, like Simon, become steeped in criminal values, culture, attitudes, and lifestyle? This would be detrimental to him and also our community.

I’ve observed many times how difficult it is for anyone who has done time, even adolescents, to re-enter mainstream society. The younger and less experienced in criminal associations, the greater is the possibility of snatching them back, before the chasm becomes too wide and we can no longer reach them. Lukas will almost certainly return to Hedley. As individuals and as a society, we’d be wise to look for a more innovative response.

For attendees at the Princeton Traditional Music Festival this summer, the performance of the Doukhobor choir was a “wow” experience. Singing in their native Russian and also English, without instrumental accompaniment, their exquisite harmony calmed and uplifted our spirits.

I called the choir director, Elsie Campbell at her home in Castlegar several days later. She said, “I can’t even read music, but I hear any little mistake.” In her early 70’s and walking with a cane, she’s committed to the preservation of Doukhobor music. “I at times conduct 4 different choirs,” she said, “I don’t want our music to die. I want it to convey the importance of striving for peace, justice, hope, the environment and freedom for all.” She has travelled extensively with Doukhobor choirs, including 3 visits to Russia.

Having heard their music, I wanted to know more about them. Writing on the USCC Doukhobors’ website, D.E. (Jim) Popoff explains the name Doukhobor came from Archbishop Ambrosius of the Russian Orthodox Church in 1785. Wanting to identify a group of peasants as heretics, he referred to them as “Doukhobortsi”, meaning spirit wrestlers. He intended this as derogatory, suggesting they were struggling against the Holy Spirit. The Doukhobors responded, “we are struggling with and for the Spirit of God.” They rejected the church’s practise of worshiping icons.

Like my own Mennonite forbears, late in the 19^th century Doukhobors began experiencing increasing pressures to conform and to serve in the military. Led by their leader Peter V. Verigin, in 1895 they burned their weapons and refused military service. Repression followed and Verigin arranged for emigration to Canada, first to Saskatchewan and then in 1908-1912 to the Boundary Kootenay area.

In Russia they had lived communally, and for a time they continued this practice with all land being registered under the name of Peter Verigin. They developed successful commercial enterprises, producing fruits and vegetables, jams, jellies and honey. When Verigin was killed in a rail car bombing in 1924, and the Stock Market crashed in 1929, their way of life was severely disrupted. They had borrowed from the banks for land purchases and development, and could no longer make the payments. It was the end of their communal way of life.

In spite of economic and societal pressures, they clung tenaciously to their beliefs, practises and culture. This effort to maintain traditional ways continues today. “Our schools are in English,” Elsie said. “The children are also taught Russian. Borscht, vereneki (pyrogies), potato salad and other traditional dishes are still prepared. We don’t have the Bible but many of our teachings and beliefs come from the Bible. Bread, salt, and water are important symbols in our faith. They represent hospitality.” In the realm of spiritual beliefs, Doukhobors differ from some Protestant and Catholic teachings. For example, they don’t accept the miracles of Jesus.

According to Popoff, “In struggling for a better life, they determined to use only the spiritual power of love, rather than any form of violence or coercion.” Their motto was (and still is), “Toil and peaceful life.” When a radical splinter group, The Sons of Freedom, created a measure of chaos with such practises as nudity and arson in the 1950’s, the majority of Doukhobors did not follow.

Early in the last century, the world around them was already entering a time of rapid transition. Larger centres offered a glittering array of exciting enticements. Societal values, attitudes and beliefs were changing. For many minority religious and ethnic groups, these societal trends continue to be a challenge today.

Barry Verigin, co-editor of ISKRA, Voice of the Doukhobors, told me, “Encouraging our youth is an issue we take seriously. Our Union of Youth organization sponsors a number of events, including a very popular Youth Festival each May long weekend.”

The 2^nd leader of the Doukhobors in Canada, Peter Petrovitch Verigin, counselled the youth to acquire all  the positive, constructive aspects of knowledge and skills which were offered through formal education, while at the same time retaining their valuable heritage. “The combination of the best influences from these two sources,” he said, “will prepare you for a life as truly responsible citizens of the world.”

If their current executive director, John J. Verigin, and other Doukhobors like Elsie Campbell are able to successfully transmit their values and beliefs to their youth, the next generation of leaders will be well prepared to make a valuable contribution to Canadian society.

There are no “for sale” signs on our street anymore. In fact, in all of Hedley, they’ve become almost as rare as an extinct species. Over the past year people, mostly from larger centres, have eagerly purchased local homes and moved here. Many had become distressed with the crime, pollution and noise of the city. In Hedley they like the clean air, feel safe, and enjoy the quiet evenings. The idyllic Similkameen setting and unhurried lifestyle offer a lot, but can they survive?

Recently I heard popular, long serving Abbotsford Councilor Patricia Ross on CBC radio, deploring the cutting down of trees in that city. Patricia has been sounding the alarm about degradation of the physical and social environment for at least a quarter of a century, but she is certainly not the first.

Possibly the most compelling account of environmental desecration I’ve come across is Richard Llewellyn’s classic, How Green was my Valley. At the outset we meet a young boy growing up in a mountain village in Wales. For him and his chums, life is simple, structured and pleasant, with few serious complications. Their fathers are mostly employed by the coal mine higher up the mountain. They need the work and remain largely oblivious to the black mass of slag and sludge the mine is creating on the mountainside above the village.

As the boy is growing up the heap is growing too, creeping relentlessly toward the village. The mine owners are single minded in their pursuit of profit. They make no changes to protect the homes or the people and their way of life. When the sinister black mass descends to the edge of the community, the people are forced to acknowledge the danger, but it is too late. One after another the houses buckle under the onslaught of the remorseless mass. Eventually, the entire village lies crushed, and with it the social ties and structures that had evolved over centuries.

I realize I might be considered a doomsayer if I express a concern that the largely pristine Similkameen Valley might one day be similarly defiled. However, personal experience suggests to me it is essential that we not be complacent. When our family moved to the Fraser Valley in 1947, my young friends and I held no fear of our physical or social environment.

We drank freely of the clear brooks and never thought about the air as hazardous. Mount Baker was never shrouded in pollution. Nor were we ever concerned about being sexually molested. I don’t recall anyone ever being shot. Like the boy in Llewellyn’s book, we were young innocents in an unsullied world.

In time, as adults living in Abbotsford, Linda and I became aware of our city’s mad, headlong rush to cover its land surface with pavement and concrete, malls and tall buildings. One day I watched from our third story condo as 3 healthy, towering evergreens were taken down to make room for more homes. The trees were at the rear of the lots and could have been saved. The city’s anemic tree by-law did not apply to them. Whatever regulations existed gave them about the same protection as dandelions. The beautiful city we had once known was being denuded and covered with pavement and concrete, the modern equivalents of slag and sludge.

For us, walking in the evening had long been a source of enjoyment. But, while we and most in our community were preoccupied with personal issues, aggressive developers and their political allies were forging determinedly ahead. With the encroachment of “progress,” our respiratory systems began to protest. On our walks, almost invariably one of us would say, “the air is really bad tonight.” It was this polluted air that played a key role in our decision to return to Hedley some 5 years ago.

Reflecting on the comments of Patricia Ross, Richard Llewellyn’s story, and Linda and my experiences in Abbotsford, I’m reminded of the observation that “the reason history repeats itself is that no one was listening the first time.”

I’m concerned that with elevated property prices in large centres, some developers may already be thinking about projects in the Similkameen Valley. This will likely be the case in other rural communities as well. Importing big city amenities could destroy what many of us came here for. I’m not against needed changes in our communities, but why would we invite the conditions from which many of us are emigres?