Violence at the Intersections of Women’s Lives in an Urban Context: Indigenous Women’s Experiences of Leaving and/or Staying With an Abusive Partner

Abstract

This article is based on an ethnographic study exploring Indigenous women’s experiences of leaving intimate partner violence. Analysis draws attention to the contextual features of Indigenous women’s lives that differentially shaped women’s experiences of “leaving and/or staying” with an abusive partner. Our findings are identified and described across four intersecting thematic areas: (a) the context of state-Indigenous relations; (b) complex trauma, stigma, and discrimination; (c) kinship and ties to communities and the land; and (d) health, healing, and resistance. These findings offer valuable insights into what constitutes appropriate, safe services, and support for the Indigenous women whose lives are shaped by multiple forms of violence.

Keywords

ethnography Indigenous women intimate partner violence photovoice

Introduction

Intimate partner violence (IPV) is a pressing issue facing Indigenous people in Canada (Boyce, 2016; Daoud et al., 2013). Despite the gains made in overall health status among Indigenous populations in recent years, rates of spousal violence continue to be higher against Indigenous women than Indigenous men and non-Indigenous people (Boyce, 2016; Pedersen et al., 2013). Understanding the significance of these rates requires an understanding of societal responses to women experiencing violence. In most Western societies, leaving an abusive partner is the primary solution offered to women, with formal supports such as police intervention, crisis lines, transition houses, and counseling oriented to assisting women to leave their partners—this in the context of a dominant social discourse placing responsibility on the woman to do so. However, leaving is not a panacea for women (Ford-Gilboe et al., 2005) as the abusive partner often escalates violence when a woman attempts to leave or after she has left (Spiwak & Brownridge, 2005). Furthermore, after leaving, women often live with substantial decreases in income, economic instability (Duffy, 2015; Ford-Gilboe et al., 2009), housing instability (Ponic et al., 2011), and ongoing health challenges (Adkins & Dush, 2010; Ford-Gilboe et al., 2009) and women with children face significant child custody challenges and report revictimization by the courts (Varcoe & Irwin, 2004; Wuest et al., 2006; Zeoli et al., 2013).

“Leaving and/or staying” with an abusive partner may have unique features for Indigenous women. However, little is known about these experiences or about the particular challenges and health and social support needs of Indigenous women who have experienced IPV. Given the high levels of violence experienced by Indigenous women, and the sociocultural, historical, political, and economic contexts of Indigenous women’s health and well-being, understanding the notion and process of “leaving and/or staying” from the perspectives of Indigenous women is critical to the development and redesign of accessible, and culturally safe,¹ health and social services and supports. To plan effective, responsive, and comprehensive health and social services and supports for Indigenous women, more must be known about their experiences of “leaving and/or staying” and women’s consequent health and social service needs. In this article, we draw on findings of an ethnographic study that explored how “leaving and/or staying” are experienced differently by women depending on their social locations, intersecting contexts, and life circumstances. We illustrate how intersectionality² is an important analytic framework for researchers in the area of inequity and social justice and, in particular, for researchers invested in promoting positive social change in the area of IPV. Specifically, we use intersectionality as an analytic tool for highlighting the complexity of social locations and experiences of Indigenous women who are leaving and/or staying in IPV and for understanding diverse health needs, women’s contexts, and health outcomes. We conclude by discussing relational approaches to policy and practice as one route to mitigating the intersecting inequities that many women experience, and focus on implications for health and social services and supports more broadly.

Despite the challenges for Indigenous women’s health and well-being presented in this article, it is critical to understand the many strengths and community ties that underpin the lives of Indigenous women and their families. Most Indigenous people do not live with IPV. However, there continues to be certain segments of the population that experience alarmingly high rates of violence. The findings and analysis discussed in this article focus on the experiences of a particular group of Indigenous women who, as a consequence of ongoing gender and colonial dynamics, fall into the latter group.

Background

IPV is a severe and ubiquitous problem affecting women in Canada and the world over (Boyce, 2016; García-Moreno et al., 2013; Valdez-Santiago et al., 2013). We understand IPV as a pattern of physical, sexual, and/or emotional violence in the context of coercive control by an intimate partner of any gender. Importantly, IPV is not confined to interpersonal relationships but is fuelled by larger social, cultural, and political structures that systemically oppress women, people who are poor, and those from nondominant or racialized ethnocultural backgrounds (Bourassa et al., 2004; Brownridge, 2008; Daoud et al., 2013; Pedersen et al., 2013; Varcoe & Dick, 2008). Research has tended to focus on factors that explain a woman’s decision to leave or stay in a violent relationship, and the processes involved in arriving at a decision to leave, with less emphasis on the challenges faced by women postseparation (Ford-Gilboe et al., 2009, 2015). Over time, many women go through “shifts in their thinking” about their abusive partners; they may leave and return several times and draw on different types of support to assist them in their decision making (D. K. Anderson & Saunders, 2003, p. 185).

In this process, women draw on various forms of health and social supports (Duffy, 2015; Ford-Gilboe et al., 2005); for example, in a study of 309 Canadian women who had separated from an abusive partner (Ford-Gilboe et al., 2015), women used health and social services at a significantly higher rate than women in general, yet still they experienced unmet needs and barriers to accessing key health and social supports due to multiple intersecting social and structural factors (e.g., economic challenges, a lack of child care, service availability and/or response). After “leaving,” a substantial proportion of women continue to live with posttraumatic stress disorder, depression, and other trauma-related problems (Dillon et al., 2013; Ford-Gilboe et al., 2009). Also, psychological outcomes post-leaving often worsen due to continued violence, fear of retaliation (Brownridge, 2006), and additional stresses such as financial and housing difficulties (Ford-Gilboe et al., 2015). There is a growing body of literature documenting the health effects of IPV (Dillon et al., 2013; García-Moreno et al., 2013) as well as evidence that health problems suffered by women because of violence continue long after cessation of violence (Adkins & Dush, 2010; Ford-Gilboe et al., 2009; Wuest et al., 2003). Canadian data from 2004 show that 50% of women who reported assault by a partner experienced the violence after leaving the relationship, and for one third of those, the violence began or escalated after leaving (Johnson, 2006). Also, women’s abilities to leave abusive partners or to protect themselves from physical or sexual assault are influenced by their mental health and by the availability and acceptability of state-supported resources including safe housing, economic support, transportation, and child care (Abdulmohsen Alhalal et al., 2012; Morrow et al., 2004). Women who are survivors of IPV are often dependent on state-funded organizations and social welfare as they attempt to leave violent partners and reestablish their lives (Morrow et al., 2004).

Globally, rates of IPV against women are higher for people who continue to experience the effects of colonization (Valdez-Santiago et al., 2013). In Canada, Indigenous women are 8 times more likely than their non-Indigenous counterparts to be killed by their partner (Johnson, 2006). Rates of sexual assault and other types of violence are significantly higher on reserves than elsewhere in the country (e.g., 7 times higher for sexual assault; Brzozowski et al., 2006), and Indigenous women are more likely than non-Indigenous women to experience continuing IPV post-separation (Pedersen et al., 2013; Spiwak & Brownridge, 2005). The greater levels of violence experienced by Indigenous women can be seen as a consequence of the intersecting effects of colonization, racism, classism, and sexism (Bourassa et al., 2004; Brownridge, 2008; Pedersen et al., 2013).

Although IPV is a problem shared across ethnic and class divides in Canada, it is not simply a problem of an individual household, couple, or family, but rather is related to the broader social context. In the case of Indigenous communities, IPV has surfaced in a unique way for two key reasons. First, the roots of IPV in Indigenous communities are largely explained by colonial processes, including systemic and interpersonal racism, that contribute to feelings of devaluation among Indigenous people, policy-induced and sustained poverty, and destruction of traditional values and ways of life. The forcible removal of children from their families, and the abuse the children endured in residential schools³ and subsequently in foster and adoptive care in Canada, violated and traumatized generations of Indigenous families and have contributed to men’s use of violence against their partners (Haskell & Randall, 2009; Holmes & Hunt, 2017). Second, IPV has been fostered and sustained by ongoing neocolonial processes, including overt societal prejudice, indifference, and systemic racism within institutions. For example, police forces, judicial courts, and racializing practices in health care institutions exacerbate violence against Indigenous women (Bourassa et al., 2004; Tang & Browne, 2008; Varcoe & Irwin, 2004). Within this context, Indigenous women are not only victims of violence by men, nor are Indigenous men necessarily perpetrators; many Indigenous women partner with non-Indigenous men, and the dynamics of racism intersecting with sexism can play out in those relationships as violence. IPV also occurs against a backdrop of structural violence, which results in disturbingly high rates of homicide and violence against Indigenous women across Canada (Holmes & Hunt, 2017; Pedersen et al., 2013; Varcoe & Dick, 2008). IPV is thus affected by intersecting personal, society, and structural factors, and historical inequities.

Discourses that sustain violence through racism and sexism are continually operating in Canada. The Canadian media, a reflection of and influence on societal attitudes, often portrays IPV, addiction, and poverty as inherent to or characteristic of Indigenous community life or cultural practices. However, such a portrayal is ill-founded at best, given that when controlling for the effects of other known risk factors, the Indigenous population’s disproportionate levels of domestic violence remain (Perreault, 2015). Dynamics such as these effectively racialize social problems rather than recognize them as the consequences of collective violence and underscore the importance of examining Indigenous family violence within the context of continuing colonization and the devastating impact of past domination (Browne, 2007; Browne et al., 2005).

Critical Theoretical Perspectives and Intersectionality

Postcolonial and critical feminist theoretical perspectives informed the approach to inquiry in the study being presented in this article (Browne et al., 2005, 2007). Postcolonial theories are widely divergent yet tied by a common political and moral concern about the history and legacy of colonialism, and how it continues to shape the everyday experiences of those who have been marginalized (Gandhi, 1998; Young, 2001). Increasingly, postcolonial theories are drawn upon by Indigenous scholars who emphasize the need to include marginalized voices in social inquiries aimed at addressing the “after-effects” of colonialism and other forms of unequal relations (Battiste, 2000; LaRocque, 1996; McConaghy, 2000). Critical feminist discourses direct us to focus on the intersections of “race,” racism, gender, class, and historical positioning in producing inequitable social relations (Collins, 2000) and to see violence within these intersections (Varcoe, 1996). A point of convergence in critical and postcolonial theories is that individual experience needs to be interpreted and understood within the context of broader social, political, and historical relations (J. M. Anderson et al., 2003).

Overview of the Research

The findings discussed here are derived from a 4-year ethnographic study that aimed to (a) explore Indigenous women’s experiences of leaving and/or staying in IPV; (b) explore, from the perspectives of Indigenous women experiencing IPV, the actual and potential benefits and harms of current health and social services; (c) consider what constitutes safe and effective health and social services and support; (d) analyze the women’s experiences within wider institutional and sociopolitical contexts to understand how these contexts shape “leaving” and access to health and social services; and (e) use the research findings to generate recommendations concerning the role of health policy and services and health care providers in contributing to culturally safe services for Indigenous women to promote equitable access and utilization of health and social services and supports.

Method

This participatory study was conducted in a large Canadian city and involved Indigenous and non-Indigenous researchers, and community-based partners who work with Indigenous women in the health and social service sectors. Beginning with a team of researchers in diverse roles (academic, community, and Indigeneity), the study engaged a range of women (primarily Indigenous women) as co-researchers. In addition, the study design, research process, dissemination of findings, and evaluation were guided by the perspectives of a community Indigenous advisory team of elders, healers, providers, community members, managers, and policy makers. The study used a descriptive exploratory design, and draws on critical feminist ethnographic approaches—namely, in-depth individual and focus group interviews, photovoice, and participant observation–and was informed by Indigenous perspectives/epistemologies.

Photovoice is a qualitative method that involves research participants taking on the role of researcher, gathering data in the form of photography, and analyzing that data through their own experiences and “voices” (Wang, 2006). This technique combines photography and social action and has been used successfully to deepen understanding of the experiences of women in a wide range of contexts (Wang & Pies, 2004), including with Indigenous women (e.g., Moffitt & Vollman, 2004). The technique permits expression in ways beyond text. Women were invited into photovoice because of its appeal as a method to address gender-based violence; photovoice action research methods act as both an intervention and a research method (Christensen, 2019). It allowed active and direct engagement with the women.

Participants, research settings, and data collection

Participants were recruited from research settings that included several community-based agencies—all offering services and support to Indigenous women (and non-Indigenous women) with past and/or current experiences of IPV–and one Indigenous antiviolence agency that offers support groups (including women-only, men-only, and mixed groups) to both women and men experiencing IPV (including those who have enacted violence).

We began the research with participant observation in the latter organization and in antiviolence service organizations that also serve Indigenous people living in the large urban center in which the study was conducted. Observation data were recorded as field notes, which provided important contextual data that informed our analysis. From there, we invited women, men, and service providers to participate in interviews; women participants were also invited to participate in photovoice using a disposable 35-mm camera (or their own digital camera) to capture their experiences of “leaving and/or staying,” if they wished to do so. The site agencies were located within a large health authority, and the health authority was a research partner in this study.

We conducted individual and focus group interviews with 25 Indigenous women who left and/or decided to stay in relationships involving IPV, focusing on their perspectives about their experiences of leaving and/or staying with an abusive partner–for example, the supports they received, what worked well, and gaps in services and supports. In addition, we interviewed a small number of non-Indigenous women (n = 5) to explore the experiences of leaving and/or staying in IPV that crosscut women’s experiences. All the women who elected to participate in an individual interview (n = 14) opted to also participate in photovoice. An Indigenous visual artist provided a workshop for the participants on photographic technique and imagery. In addition, we provided training on the ethical and consent issues involved. The women took as many photos as they wished, and as a beginning approach to analysis were invited to choose three pictures that were most meaningful to them and that they felt comfortable sharing publicly. Women then analyzed their own photos, either individually or in groups (which most preferred), and these analyses were captured with audio recordings. This provided an opportunity for the nuanced meanings of the photos to be shared, and in the process, their experiences as reflected in their unique photographic representations. Furthermore, interested women were invited to participate in dissemination activities with or without using their photos; several women have been integral to the presentations provided at research and policy conferences.

Lastly, we interviewed a small sample of men (n = 10) in a focus group format to provide another window to understand leaving and/or staying, and victims’ services workers and support workers (n = 10) to learn about providers’ perspectives on women’s experiences and consequent need.

Data analysis

We conducted an interpretive thematic analysis using procedures for qualitatively derived data (Thorne, 2008). The university-based team members repeatedly read transcripts of the interviews, including the photovoice discussion sessions, and reviewed the observational notes, to identify recurring and contradictory patterns, and possible linkages to theoretical perspectives. NVivo version 2 was used to organize, manage, and code the data. We triangulated the data sets including the photovoice data, individual and focus group transcripts, and our observational data, which contributed to the rigor and trustworthiness of the analysis (Thorne, 2008). Credibility was assessed by regularly discussing our analytical insights and emerging themes with our team members, which included leaders and experts in Indigenous women’s health, agency support personnel, and university-based researchers. Throughout, an audit trail of analytical interpretations was maintained for our team’s ongoing reference.

Findings and Discussion

Although Indigenous women’s experiences of leaving and/or staying in IPV may be in some ways similar to those of non-Indigenous women, these experiences are differently shaped by the intersections of social inequities, ageism, sexism, classism, racism, ableism, and the differing historical, social, and political factors that influence women’s lives. These unique dynamics are captured in four thematic areas: (a) state–Indigenous relations; (b) complex trauma, stigma, and discrimination; (c) kinship and ties to women’s communities and the land; and (d) health, healing, and resistance. For the women in this study, leaving IPV was constrained in several important ways: by policies and practices shaped by the historical and ongoing relationships between the Canadian state and Indigenous peoples; everyday stigma and discrimination associated with a multiplicity of intersecting factors affecting Indigenous women’s lives—race, gender, class, and so on; and the relationships among Indigenous people, the state, policies, and their home communities. Women’s kinship and ties to communities and the land both made leaving more challenging and offered sources of strength. At the same time, health, healing, well-being, and resistance to both structural and interpersonal violence were supported by the women’s connections with other women and Indigenous healing and other practices that they found meaningful.

State–Indigenous Relations: Child Welfare and the Justice System

The unique characteristics of state–Indigenous relations, including, for example, the history of stigmatization and the racialization of Indigenous women in Canada, the significantly high rate of incarceration of Indigenous women in Canadian prisons (Murdocca, 2009), and the ongoing surveillance of Indigenous mothers by the state (Denison et al., 2014; Fallon et al., 2015; McKenzie et al., 2016), profoundly affected the Indigenous women in this study and their experiences of violence. The effects of these contexts were particularly evident in the child welfare and criminal justice systems. These unique, racialized dynamics made leaving relationships involving IPV more difficult and untenable for women; they were well aware of the high risk of losing their children to foster care, and being incarcerated, and thus had to take these risks into account in their decision making. The well-known overrepresentation of Indigenous children in state care in Canada (Fallon et al., 2015; Sinha & Kozlowski, 2013) was reflected in the experiences of the women in this study. Most, if not all, of the men and women in this study had been in some sort of state care—residential school, foster care, or adoptive care—and had been threatened with state apprehension of their children. The majority of the women had their children removed from their care. For example, in a support group of approximately 20 men and women, more than half of the participants spoke with anguish of their struggles to regain or keep custody of their children in the face of constant scrutiny by child welfare authorities, and for most, in the face of unstable housing and significant poverty. An Indigenous provider participant who worked within the anti-violence sector discussed the problem with the child welfare system as follows:

You know many of these women had their first kids between 15 and 18, they haven’t increased their education, they haven’t had an opportunity to do anything, they’re going to have to work at absolute minimum wage—if they work. Otherwise, they’re on welfare and then they’re going to be watched constantly by the [child welfare] Ministry, right? Watched for the children but also because [of] the assumption—and I’ve seen it written down in case reports that this woman is an empty vessel. She was not properly cared for herself as a child, so like especially if her parents were involved in the [child welfare] Ministry. If she is a child that was ever in care now she qualifies as an empty vessel, who has no parenting skills and who probably can’t adequately take care of her kids.

The narrative above illuminates how neocolonial and racializing discourses continue to provide the dominant institutional lens for child welfare authorities through which the complex challenges that many Indigenous women and families face are interpreted; thus, rather than problematizing issues of poverty and the lack of educational opportunities and system of social support, Indigenous women are seen as the problem. Ironically, here, acknowledgment of the impact of intergenerational trauma also provides the justification for stigmatizing Indigenous women as inevitably unfit mothers who make bad choices; thus, rather than addressing issues of poverty and the lack of educational opportunities, and providing services and support for Indigenous women and their families, a situation is created that places Indigenous women and their families not only at risk of not having their needs met, but also at risk of remaining subject to paternalistic treatment and state-legitimized forms of surveillance.

The experience of having their parenting challenged and scrutinized was so common that the participants spoke in a way that acknowledged such apprehension as routine, signaling that for some, such experiences were normalized. State apprehension of children was a constant threat that crossed generations and income levels. For example, one woman, a grandmother, who was a highly educated, well-respected leader with a strong employment record, described her recent experience in a child welfare court hearing. Apparently, an estranged relative reported her to authorities as unfit to care for her grandson, whom she had been raising for some time, because of alleged “abuse.” In the context of racism, sexism, ageism, and so on, this woman endured an agonizing battle to ensure the well-being of her grandson. She won this case, however; notably, the relative who lodged the complaint admitted to deliberate false accusations. Her description resonates with prior research documenting how ex-partners and abusers sometimes launch malicious or unfounded accusations of child neglect or abuse against mothers, sometimes resulting in the removal of children in the case of First Nations women (Varcoe & Irwin, 2004).

Participants generally thought they were treated unjustly by child welfare systems. Another woman expressed complete frustration with her child welfare worker. Although her 2-year-old child had been apprehended (several months ago), the assigned worker did not tell the participant about the “Indigenous Liaison” worker who could help her negotiate her “rights.” After accessing this liaison worker, she was able to choose her sister as the foster mother and, shortly afterward, her child was returned. The woman and her husband also received support from the Indigenous liaison worker to improve their relationship. Notably, it was in this support group that she was apprised of information regarding the Indigenous liaison worker and her rights. When another woman in this group, whose child also had been apprehended, heard her share the story later on about how she had gained strength to fight for her rights because of this knowledge, she also was encouraged to seek out an Indigenous liaison worker. Although child apprehension had seemingly been normalized, several of the women in this study had begun the process of questioning child apprehension and were actively engaged in seeking information regarding their rights.

The well-known overrepresentation of Indigenous women and men in prisons (Murdocca, 2009; Wesley, 2012) was also reflected in the experiences of the study participants. Many of the men and several of the women in the study had been incarcerated because of violence. In sharing a photo that she took for the photovoice session, one woman described the tremendous rage she lives with everyday as a consequence of the violence in her life over many years: “It is suppressed anger turning into rage, right . . . that’s how I ended up in jail.” The woman showed us the scars on her head where she had been impaled with a hatchet by her former partner; because of her retaliation she ended up in prison.

The photo is of a wire frost fence (taken at night) with barbed wire on the top; the participant described how looking through it to the other side where the city lights illuminated the horizon was reminiscent of her time in prison when she was looking from the inside out. Interestingly, other participants in the study noted the moon that was faintly in view in the upper left aspect of the picture. Although the women present were from many different nations and traditions, they all converged in their agreement that “Grandmother Moon” was a symbol of hope and recovery.

For most of the women in this study, interpersonal and structural violence and trauma had been lifelong experiences with serious consequences for individual, family, and community health and well-being. As we continue to discuss, these experiences of trauma significantly affected women’s capacities to seek help from health and social services.

Complex Trauma, Stigma, and Discrimination

The impacts of IPV are increasingly being understood within the context of the cumulative effects of multiple forms of trauma and violence (Scott-Storey, 2011). Indigenous people in Canada have been largely stripped of their lands and rights, and have been the targets of systemic and individual discrimination. Furthermore, as described previously, many generations of Indigenous families have been separated, with children confined to residential schools and, more recently, foster and adoptive care, and adults incarcerated. As a consequence, many Indigenous people have experienced violence as children at the hands of their caregivers and as adults in the form of racial violence in society, including in prison for those incarcerated. A participant shared her experiences of stigma, discrimination, and violence—an experience that resonated for many of the women–saying, “all of our lives, Indigenous women have been kicked to the curb.” For this woman and most of the other women in this study, stigma, discrimination, and violence had been ongoing, beginning in early childhood and continuing into adulthood. For example, the woman cited above had been adopted into a non-Indigenous home as an infant; she did not know she was Indigenous until she was in her early 20s. She was abused in this household, and became completely alienated from her adoptive family shortly after establishing a connection with her First Nations roots and her biological family. She also was in a series of “unhealthy” intimate relationships, which she had left.

Most women in this study had been violated in multiple ways for much of their lives. Most witnessed violence and/or were abused in their communities of origin and experienced pervasive discrimination in educational settings and in their everyday lives. All the women experienced profound sadness, fear, and pain related to violence. For example, one woman described her abusive partner as “a powder keg in her living room;” the only relief for her was when he spent time in jail. Another woman described the experience of being isolated by abuse; her picture of an evergreen tree isolated and bent over in snow piled high on and around it was a poignant representation of the heavy burden of decision making about leaving and/or staying with her abusive partner. As she explained, “I felt really down . . . I felt burdened . . . it was the breaking point . . . this tree, it’s kind of stooped over in a harsh environment”—an environment in which she was isolated not only by violence but also by being a woman with children. Notably, this woman decided to stay in the relationship after both she and her husband were able to connect with mental health and social services and supports.

Another participant spoke of the way in which the memories of abuse were “forever emblazoned in the body and in [my] mind.” These memories were reinforced by the way in which she was treated dismissively in the broader society. Each of the women in this study described experiences of stigma and discrimination when trying to seek assistance. This was most acutely experienced by those women with children; whether it was social assistance, housing, or health care, women in this study found meaningful support difficult to access.

Kinship and Ties to the Land

Kinship was a central element in the decision to leave and/or stay and, for some of the participants, attachment to their home communities and the land (as places of origin) was closely tied to kinship. Leaving the community and the land had serious consequences for many of the participants including poverty, living without stable housing, and disconnection. “Leaving” for many of the women required leaving their communities including all family, friends, and means of financial and social support, as well as traditional lands and cultural connections, and in some cases, associated benefits such as housing that was no longer available to them outside of their home communities. One woman described the importance of connection with family and community: “. . . my aunt and community are one of my biggest supports . . . I don’t get to see them often but they are always there for me no matter what . . . they are my lifeline.” Hence, for the women in this study, to leave or not carried enormous consequences financially, emotionally, and spiritually.

The realities of state-induced poverty and lack of access to health care for many rural and remote on-reserve communities created particular vulnerabilities for Indigenous families when they needed to move closer to systems of care, often within larger, more expensive urban centers, and leave their informal supports behind. For example, a couple with five children was forced to move to the urban center because their 9-month-old son was born with a life-threatening birth defect and required a series of surgeries and long-term hospitalization. Post-hospitalization, the child was placed “in care” because the couple was unable to find secure housing and stable employment in the urban setting; as the woman’s partner noted, “We were told we could not care for him adequately.” In addition to her husband’s violence, the female participant had also become violent with her partner, in her view, due to the stresses associated with their situation and her own personal history of abuse.

As a consequence of state-induced poverty, the need to move often from a rural community to an expensive urban setting with unstable housing created challenges for many of the participants in this study. While the couple above had moved to the urban setting to be close to their son, they were disconnected from the supports of their reserve community and their other children, whom they needed to leave with relatives. They, like other participants in this study, described further marginalization by structural inequities associated with racism and other forms of discrimination, which exacerbated interpersonal tensions and dynamics.

Health, Well-Being, and Resistance

Despite the enormous challenges, the women in this study were vibrant, supportive of others, and strong. Most of the participants shared experiences of connecting with activities and practices that represented acts of resistance and renewal, and that generated a sense of health and well-being. Here, we are not referring to a notion of resilience per se, but rather to a process of reclaiming a sense of self; many women in this study, particularly those who participated in photovoice, described the process of leaving and/or staying in IPV as a healing journey. Some women had left their partners, some were in the process of leaving, and others had decided, at least for the time being, to stay, each balancing the potential harms and benefits to all—their communities, children, family members, partners, and themselves.

Health and healing were found in a myriad of different ways. For many of the participants, healing was experienced as inextricably linked to making connections—not only connection to different aspects of themselves but also connection to one another, family, and community. For example, finding a support group for Indigenous people was described as a kind of lifeline and a beginning to finding health and well-being. Although non-Indigenous people also were welcomed to the group, the group had been initiated by Indigenous people in response to the lack of services for Indigenous people experiencing IPV. Generally, people spoke of acceptance and support as well as assistance in finding ways to address abuse and violence in their lives.

Another woman described her experience of reengaging in traditional practices as profoundly meaningful because it afforded her a sense of introspection, comfort, and calm. Like this participant, many of the women in this study reported finding spiritual and mental strength in reconnecting to Indigenous culture through traditional cultural practices, customs, and rituals. For example, a young Indigenous woman was raised by her grandmother who had kept her Indigenous heritage from her in an effort to “protect” her granddaughter based on the grandmother’s own experiences in residential school. Learning about her culture and identity as an Indigenous woman acted as a key element of support in helping her through the process of leaving an abusive partner and in her journey toward well-being. She explained,

I’ve tried implementing culture in most aspects of my life, like what I know. And if I don’t know I’ll go to an Elder, not always from my nation or not always someone in the family, but someone who I know will carry that knowledge. . . . When I’m having a hard time I pick up my drum, I sing a song. I’ll go to my medicine wheel and if it’s getting really bad I’ll call for a sweat lodge.

As discussed by this participant and several other women in this study, learning about Indigenous culture emerged as a central aspect of reclaiming a positive sense of self and moving forward in their lives. This theme featured strongly in many of the photographs of the photovoice participants. Notably, many of the photovoice participants highlighted the transformative experiences that resulted from their engagement in the photovoice aspect of this study and how this contributed to “our healing journey.” For example, as one woman shared,

I think there’s major healing in this [photovoice] project for me and maybe others. . . . And it is emotional but it’s been able to, like I said, “open a door that closed and had closed for so long.” But out of that door comes the sadness, and the sun shone in, in the end.

Women not only spoke about the healing that can be found in telling your story and reclaiming ownership over these stories and “rewriting your [own] scripts,” but also highlighted the need for safety. One woman noted that telling your story is “very, very empowering . . . but hard. . . . It’s like you’re standing there naked.” For the women in this study, using photography was experienced as a safe way to “open this door” and a meaningful way to express “what you really want to say”; as one woman put it, “words are important and images are just as important.” In addition, the majority of women felt strongly that their stories had to be told to make women’s struggle with violence visible, fight the multiple stigma attached to living with IPV as an Indigenous woman, and provide a message to those who have the power to change things regarding the services and supports needed and structures requiring redress. As one woman explained, we want to tell our stories to show “our resistance, . . . the way we are, our strength, our spirit and how we go forward. We’re continuing to go forward despite our experiences. We are, in fact, stopping the violence.”

Lastly, women emphasized the importance of creating change for the next generation to come and, in this context, described the paradox of how existing services and supports exclude men despite the fact that trauma and violence are not women-specific issues but include men, families, and communities. As one of the women in the study, who had lived with an abusive partner for many years, noted, “men also suffer the burden of history.”

Discussion and Implications

The findings of this study contribute to a deeper understanding of how historic and ongoing colonization and racialized and gendered forms of structural violence intersect to shape Indigenous women’s experiences of leaving and/or staying in IPV. Along with an apparent mismatch between Indigenous women’s lived realities and the assumptions that underpin current systems of support, we found that a number of discriminatory policies hindered Indigenous women’s abilities to effectively leave abusive relationships.

Whereas leaving abusive partners is the primary “solution” offered to victims of IPV, especially in health care contexts (Burnett et al., 2015; Ponic et al., 2011), our findings suggest that this response fails to take into account the complexities and unique features of Indigenous women’s lives that shape leaving and/or staying. Although supporting women to leave their abusive relationships is often critical for enhancing women’s autonomy, safety, and well-being, implicit assumptions about leaving need to be examined within the context of a colonial history in Canada, current policies that contribute to structural violence for women, and the consequent embeddedness of stigma and discrimination in health care delivery to Indigenous peoples. By analyzing Indigenous women’s experiences of leaving and/or staying in IPV within the broader social and historical contexts, the present study generates new knowledge and insights to inform the development of culturally safe and trauma- and violence-informed services and supports for Indigenous women who live with past and/or current histories of IPV.

Key areas that require redress are those relating to housing and child welfare policies. As the Indigenous women reported in this study, restrictive housing policies in urban settings mean that social housing is not attainable for women who do not have custody of their children for more than 50% of the time. Ironically, when children have been apprehended, women lose access to housing, yet must obtain stable housing before regaining custody of their children. These findings challenge the taken-for-granted assumption that leaving an abusive partner is “a positive and possible option” for all women (Ponic et al., 2011, p. 1591). All the women in this study described struggling with decisions to leave or stay related to the fear of losing their children, secure housing, and/or connections to family and community. These fears are grounded in the context of colonial relations and the way in which these intersect with social inequities and the everyday experiences of the women in this study. For example, neglect, poverty, and substance use are the most often cited “causes” of child apprehension—manifestations of the impacts of colonialism (Sinha et al., 2011).

Even when women succeeded in leaving their abusive partner, we found that trauma and violence were often ongoing. These sociopolitical realities, manifested structurally within institutions, shape Indigenous women’s everyday social experiences and access to routine services (Browne, 2007; Halseth, 2013; Stout, 2010). In this study, this was particularly evident in the staggering number of women who had dealt with or were continuing to deal with a child welfare system that perpetuates state apprehension of Indigenous children as normalized policy and practice (McKenzie et al., 2016; Murdocca, 2009). The fact that Indigenous children make up only 7.7% of the child population in Canada but account for 52.2% of children in foster care (Government of Canada, 2020) reveals how pervasive this reality is for Indigenous women and children. In addition, it points to the complexities inherent in leaving. For example, historically leaving has been further complicated for Indigenous women on reserves. Unlike other Canadian women, Indigenous women on reserves had no right under Canadian law to certain assets after the breakdown of their marriage (Fiske, 2006) until the creation of the Family Homes on Reserves and Matrimonial Interests or Rights Act (MIRA) in 2013—legislation to address matrimonial rights on reserves (Government of Canada, 2018; MacTaggart, 2015). The previous law effectively rendered matrimonial property laws irrelevant on the reserve, and women and their children were denied any legal claim to occupy the family residence. Due to a lack of housing alternatives, women were forced to flee the reserve, or conversely, remain with the abuser (Dick & Varcoe, 2004). However, as MacTaggart (2015) notes, even with MIRA legislation, Indigenous women remain vulnerable to inequity in this domain due to a number of restrictions and challenges associated with the enactment of the legislation. This includes, for example, the need for women to be able to access a lawyer, the court system, and peace officers to enforce court orders (MacTaggart, 2015). However, many Indigenous women living on a reserve and/or in rural and remote settings have few social or economic resources outside of their immediate communities (Fiske, 2006). Although the women in our study were living in the urban setting, many were seeking stable housing and, for some, unstable housing was one of the reasons for the temporary apprehension of their children. Poverty and unstable housing intersected to render women more vulnerable to the effects of structural and social inequities. These findings underscore the importance of calls for an antiracist and antioppression framework in health policy, programming, and service delivery (Allan & Smylie, 2015; Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, 2015). Polices and programs operating from such a stance recognize and address the myriad ways in which trauma and violence for Indigenous women are structurally enacted through processes that are inextricably linked with the historic and ongoing colonization of Indigenous peoples, gender, class, and race.

Notably, although experiences of loss and grief were profound in this study, the stories of the participants were underpinned by incredible resistance and strength. Health, healing, and well-being were found through meaningful connections with Indigenous and other approaches and practices including the photovoice process itself. For example, in this study, women described their experiences of engaging in photovoice activities around photos and story as profoundly meaningful to their healing journey. The use of photovoice provided a unique opportunity to bring women together and share their experiences of leaving and/or staying in IPV in a safe and culturally respectful yet critical way. Through storytelling, the women not only were able to explore with one another the structural barriers they experienced in moving toward safety but also how they found strength and resilience in connecting with culture, land, and kinship. These findings closely align with the results from our previous and ongoing program of research (Varcoe et al., 2017, 2019), and indicate that safe and effective services and supports for Indigenous women with histories of IPV incorporate opportunities for women to connect with one another, their cultures, and their cultural identities as Indigenous women (Browne et al., 2016). As others have argued, photovoice may offer a particularly promising intervention for fostering the strength and resilience of Indigenous women and families (Tremblay et al., 2018).

Moreover, in keeping with the findings of a more recent qualitative systematic review (Christensen, 2019), photovoice became a vehicle for social change for the women, who expressed a desire to use their stories, pictures, and voices to raise awareness of the unique features of Indigenous women’s experiences of violence, and message what health and social supports made a positive difference in their lives and what policies and practices need redress. This led to the co-production of a film (Smye et al., 2012), which features selected photos and narratives of five women, who participated in the photovoice project, along with collaboratively crafted key messages to foster critical dialogue and equity-responsive strategizing in policy and practice for improving the health and well-being of Indigenous women and their families.⁴ The film has been used successfully as a critical discussion tool with a wide variety of audiences within different settings, including academic conferences, and policy, educational, and community settings, both by the researchers in collaboration with the women and by the women alone.

Concluding Comments

The unique experiences of Indigenous women leaving or staying in IPV relate to living with multiple, ongoing oppressions associated with colonial and neocolonial policies and practices, and everyday stigma, discrimination, and racism. Although Indigenous women share many of the same experiences as other women when they are making decisions to leave and/or stay in IPV, disconnection from the land, kinship ties, trauma histories, child welfare issues, housing, poverty, and the broader context of discrimination intersect to further marginalize Indigenous women and their children. Indigenous women’s experiences of leaving and staying provide an essential window to understanding what constitutes accessible, safe, and responsive health and social services and supports. Engaging Indigenous women with lived experience as advisors in the study gives it legitimacy and credibility; however, as the women in this study insist, future research must be focused on men’s roles as an integral and important part of the solution to the issue of IPV against women.

Footnotes

Acknowledgements

We gratefully acknowledge our study participants, and all members of the research team, who are not named authors: Tanu Gamble, social science researcher with UBC; Nadine Caplette, Indigenous health consultant; co-investigator Lorraine Davies with Western University; project collaborators—Sandra Greene then with the Pacific Association of First Nations Women, Joyce Fossella and Daniel Parker† with Warriors Against Violence Society, and Tonia Gomes then with Vancouver Coastal Health Authority. Special thanks and recognition to Elder Roberta Price and the Community Indigenous Advisory Team.

Declaration of Conflicting Interests

The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.

Funding

The author(s) disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article: This research was funded by the Canadian Institutes of Health Research, CIHR 84488.

Notes

Author Biographies

Victoria Smye is associate professor and director of the Arthur Labatt Family School of Nursing at Western University. Her research program focuses on addressing inequities in access to mental health, and addictions policy and services, and is located at the intersections of violence, poverty, gender, and Indigenous health.

Colleen Varcoe is a professor in the School of Nursing at the University of British Columbia. She has a long-standing interest in creating more just and ethical health policy and practice within the context of violence and inequity.

Annette J. Browne is a professor and distinguished university scholar in the School of Nursing at the University of British Columbia. Her research focus is on health and health care inequities, with particular attention in health inequities affecting Indigenous peoples.

Madeleine Dion Stout is an honorary professor with the School of Nursing at the University of British Columbia. She is a Cree scholar, nurse, and critical health researcher, who has received numerous awards for her critical work in the area of Indigenous health equity.

Viviane Josewski holds a PhD from the Faculty of Health Sciences, Simon Fraser University. Her research interests lie within the intersecting areas of (a) health policy and public administration, (b) social inequities in health and health care, and (c) mental health and addictions.

Marilyn Ford-Gilboe is a distinguished professor at the Arthur Labatt Family School of Nursing at Western University. Her research has focused on women’s health with a particular focus on intimate partner violence, and community and population health interventions research.

Barbara Keith is a master’s level social worker who has spent the majority of her career in the field of addiction. Her clinical practice in Aboriginal health services sought to recognize the value of Indigenous knowledge and healing to mainstream health care.

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