formerly known as
Womens Liberation Front


Welcome to, formerly known as.Womens Liberation Front.  A website that hopes to draw and keeps your attention for  both the global 21th. century 3rd. feminist revolutution as well and a selection of special feminist artists and writers.

This online magazine will be published evey six weeks and started February 1st. 2019. Thank you for your time and interest.

Gino d'Artali
indept investigative journalist
and radical feminist











                                                                                                            CRYFREEDOM 2019/2020

When one hurts or kills a women
one hurts or kills hummanity and is an antrocitie.
Gino d'Artali
and: My mother (1931-1997) always said to me <Mi figlio, non esistono notizie <vecchie> perche puoi imparare qualcosa da qualsiasi notizia.> Translated: <My son, there is no such thing as so called 'old' news because you can learn something from any news.>
Gianna d'Artali


<The stench of death>
<Canada's murdered women and girls.>

Between 8 Nov 2021 and April 2022 AL Jazeera published a serial  of articles (except one i.e. an Al Jazeera team) all by Canadian-French and better said Cree/Iroquois journalist Brandi Morin about femicides of Canadian Indigenous women and girls of which each word is so heartbreaking that it takes a lot of courage to read the whole serial. Still I challenge you to do so! I divided it  according to the number of articles and quoted from them ending with a read more URL.:

1<The stench of death
On Canada's Highway of Tears.>
2<'Snatched away'>

4<A lingering evil>

5<'No one is going to believe you'>
6<'If she was white, she would still be here'>

7<Vancouver rallies for missing, murdered Indigenous women>
8<A letter to … Sarah, who was murdered by a serial killer> (Canada)

9<‘Walking to justice’>
10<Haunting Canada boarding school shot wins World Press Photo>

11<A warrior for Indigenous women and girls.>
12 Special about Brandi Morin: <Telling Indigenous stories: 'I’m fighting to be heard'
I've been seeking out and sharing the stories of oppression, trauma and brutality that my people continue to endure.>

NEW JULY 2022 Brandi Morin has been working on a to be published soon book <Our Voice of Fire: A Memoir of a Warrior Rising>


Click here for an overview of all related links and a special of the French/Cree/Iroquois journalist Brandi Morin


The Guardian
21 July 2022
The long read.
By Hugh Brody
<<'The deepest silences': what lies behind the Arctic's Indigenous suicide crisis. For years I lived with the Inuit community in Canada's far north. But it was only later, when the suicides began, that I learned of the epidemic of abuse that had unfolded during that time.
Looking back on it now, I have to be careful about reconstructing or selecting memories in the light of all that transpired. In 1970, as part of my work for a research group within the Canadian Department of Indian and Northern Affairs, I moved to the Arctic and began learning the Inuit language, Inuktitut. My girlfriend, Christine, and I ended up living in a settlement named Sanikiluaq, located on the Belcher Islands, some 90 miles from the Hudson Bay coast of Arctic Quebec. The Canadian government had established this settlement in the 1960s, the result of a postwar policy to incorporate all of the country, even its remotest edges, into the Canadian nation. Such policies came with a new conviction that the far north had vast economic potential. Although life in Sanikiluaq was now based on the new government settlement, this was an Inuit world, where language, culture and links to the land continued to be very strong.
During my career as an anthropologist, I have written much about my work with and for Inuit, but I have written very little about Sanikiluaq. The beauty of those islands and of the people for whom this was their home were clear to me then, and are so now as I bring them to mind. But there is a thread of darkness running through these memories, intimations embedded in the stories that the people of Sanikiluaq shared with me. There was also a shocking reality that I failed to see. These stories raise questions of life and death that have been central to Inuit experience, and are turning out to be of urgent importance for us all. At the time I arrived, white people from the south, who the Inuit called the Qallunaat, had overwhelming influence and authority. Most were there either to transform the Inuit – and supposedly help them through the confusions of that transformation – or to take over possession and management of the land on behalf of the Canadian government in the south. The Inuit were expected to adopt a new religion, learn about the world of the south in schools run by southerners, and live more like other Canadians. When describing to me their feelings about these white people, lnuit in Sanikiluaq often also used the Inuktitut word ilira, to express awe (as in relation to ghosts) and intimidation (as in relation to powerful elders or shamans).
Christine and I lived as much as we could outside the norms and attitudes of most Qallunaat. This did not make for easy relations with the other southerners living there. The one other Qallunaat who did like to visit us was a man named Ed Horne. Of the three schoolteachers in Sanikiluaq, Horne had responsibility for the younger children. He ignored the Qallunaat's disdain for our small shack at the edge of the community. By spending time there, he had dissociated himself from the settlement manager and the other teachers (a married couple), with whom he had had a serious falling-out. In defying the Qallunaat's disapproval of us, Horne was suggesting that he was not really one of them – an implication re-inforced by his saying to me, as I recall, that he was part indigenous. But however much he might have wished not to be identified as Qallunaat, he was very much seen to be one by the Inuit, and treated as such. And they were right: we would learn, years later, that Ed had been born into a white Canadian family in provincial British Columbia. As I recall, Horne would visit most days when we were in the settlement. I also remember how ambivalent I felt about his visits. I was often embarrassed by the way he behaved with Inuit who were visiting, and dismayed by the mix of friendliness and competitiveness – and, at times, obvious hostility – that he showed towards me.
In all the time we knew Horne, neither of us ever went into his house. This was unusual – there was no other house in Sanikiluaq that I did not visit. I can bring it to mind, though. The windows were always covered by some kind of thick curtain. All light shut out; any possibility of his being seen at home removed. The dangers of retrospect grow around that house and its thick, concealing curtain. We did not look hard enough at what it meant. But we did think it very peculiar. Then came the trashing of his house and the apparent suicide of the young man who did it. It happened when I was away. As it was told to me, Horne had come back to his house to find his living room had been smashed up – the lights, the furniture, all his belongings. The young man, a teenager, who had done it then got on a skidoo and drove out on to the ice, and was never seen again, presumed to have killed himself. This was some years before the outbreak of suicide in the north. It is one of only three cases that I knew about during the 10 years – 1971-81 – that I worked there. So it was both shocking and bewildering. The Inuit who reported the events to me at the time seemed unable to explain how this could have come about, or why that young man should have been so disturbed and self-destructive. This brings me to the troubling crux of it all, the aspect of the story that has haunted me since I first heard of Horne's arrest in 1987. Why did we not raise the possibility that he was something more significant than an unpleasant misfit? How did it never occur to us that he might be secretive and hidden because he had something he needed to hide? How come no one – as far as I know – sought an explanation of the attack and the suicide? No one seems to have looked at what the relationship might have been between Horne and that desperate former pupil of his.
Revelations about sexual abuse of Inuit and First Nations children would come to dominate thinking about the north (and the rest of Canada) in the 1990s and ever after, but at that time had not yet come to light. The cases against Newfoundland priests, whose crimes against children were the first to come to the Canadian courts, took place in the 1980s. In the early 70s people were less likely to think of priests or schoolteachers as possible sexual predators. It seems naive to have failed to recognise that possibility, and perplexing: many of us were intensely sceptical about missionary activity, but our scepticism did not include paedophilia. We lacked the knowledge, and perhaps even the language, with which to raise the appropriate suspicions about Horne. >>
Do read the whole story here:

Related stories:
<Resistance and Residential Schools. ...and
<Facing history and ourselves ...



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