In the vast, remote landscapes of the Canadian Arctic, where polar nights stretch endlessly and communities are isolated by ice and distance, I spent nearly two decades as a criminal defence lawyer. Nunavut, a territory comparable in size to western Europe but home to fewer than 40,000 people, primarily Inuit, presents a unique backdrop for justice. Despite its sparse population, it records some of the highest violent-crime rates per capita globally, with justice delivered via travelling circuit courts that set up temporary venues in local halls for brief periods each year.
A Pivotal Case That Challenged Perception
Among the many tragic and strange cases I handled, one early in my career stands out profoundly. I represented a young Inuit man accused of firing a rifle at a parked car filled with innocent passengers. Multiple sober and reliable witnesses provided articulate statements, describing how they saw the accused leave his house with a rifle, approach the vehicle, and open fire, shattering windows and terrifying those inside. Miraculously, no one sustained serious injuries, but the evidence seemed overwhelming.
When I interviewed my client in a holding cell, he adamantly denied firing a gun, despite police reports indicating glass damage consistent with bullets and witnesses recounting loud gunshots and the smell of gun smoke. It appeared to be an open-and-shut case, yet a late-arriving forensic report revealed a startling truth: the rifle had never been fired and was completely inoperable. In reality, the accused had used it like a baseball bat to smash the windows, leading to the dismissal of more serious charges that carried lengthy jail terms.
The Malleability of Reality and Memory
This case illuminated just how malleable our reality can be. We often rely on our senses and memories to navigate life, but the brain is not a perfect instrument. Confidence in recollection does not always equate to accuracy. The witnesses in this instance had not fabricated their accounts; they genuinely believed they had seen a gun being fired. Their fear, very real, impaired their senses, and over time, their memories were reshaped by a desire to make sense of the trauma and subtle influences from others.
Throughout my years in criminal trial work, I frequently encountered situations where genuine belief clashed with reality. However, this case was the first to shake me deeply, prompting me to question not only the reliability of eyewitness evidence but also my own understanding of personal history.
Confronting a Personal Trauma
As a younger man, I survived a near-drowning incident where two malicious older boys prevented me from exiting a deep pond, forcing me to tread water until I went under and inhaled a large amount of water before being rescued. I never discussed this event with anyone, but it haunted me for years. I would wake at night gasping for breath, entangled in sweaty sheets, seized by panic and lingering sensations of drowning.
Instead of seeking therapy, I defiantly challenged water, engaging in activities like scuba diving, surfing, and free-diving in frigid waters, treating it as an adversary. This unhealthy approach persisted until a particularly dark period just before the pandemic, when I finally sought help from a psychiatrist.
Therapy and Rewriting History
Through months of sessions, I revisited the drowning episode from various angles, recognising the same frailties of memory and perception that I had observed in eyewitnesses. The details were a blurred mess of intense emotions and physical sensations, yet I had allowed them to negatively impact my life as if they were unchangeable truths.
In one pivotal session, while describing the incident with my eyes closed, the psychiatrist gently instructed me to place my feet on the floor instead of resting them on the chair's rungs. This simple act triggered an uncontrollable sob, a rare emotional release for me. From that moment, I embarked on a journey of breathwork and consciously editing the traumatic experience into a version where I could always breathe and feel grounded.
The night terrors ceased, and my mental health improved dramatically. I learned, as writer William Burroughs once noted, that if something is recorded, it can be edited. Just as the forensic report forced me to question memory's reliability, therapy enabled me to rewrite the terrible parts of my history, react differently to triggers, and move beyond self-imposed limitations.
This experience taught me that we can be the authors of our own lives, reshaping our narratives for healing and growth. It underscores the profound interplay between external realities and internal perceptions, a lesson forged in the harsh yet beautiful expanse of the Arctic.
