Arctic Defence Lawyer's Revelations on Memory and Trauma
For nearly two decades, I worked as a criminal defence lawyer in the remote, vast communities of the Canadian Arctic. Nunavut, a territory roughly the size of western Europe, is home to fewer than 40,000 people, predominantly Inuit. The region experiences brief summers with endless daylight and long winters plunged into polar night, where temperatures can plummet to a bone-chilling -50°C. Despite its sparse, homogenous population and lack of urban centres, Nunavut records one of the highest violent-crime rates per capita globally.
The Isolated Justice System of the Far North
There are no roads connecting Nunavut's 26 scattered communities. Aircraft provides the only reliable transport, except for a brief ice-free window in late summer when supplies arrive by boat. Several times annually, the justice system makes its arrival: a travelling circuit court establishes a temporary courtroom in local gymnasiums or community halls for three to four days at a time.
Over my twenty-year career, I handled numerous tragic and strange cases, but one particular incident stands out vividly. Early on, I represented a young Inuit man charged with firing a rifle at a parked car filled with innocent passengers. Several sober, reliable witnesses provided articulate, seemingly unembellished statements. They claimed to have seen the accused leave his house with a rifle, walk towards the vehicle, and open fire—shattering several windows and terrifying those inside. Miraculously, no one sustained serious injuries.
A Case That Defied Initial Appearances
When I interviewed my client in a holding cell, he adamantly denied firing a gun, despite all evidence pointing against him. Police reports indicated the car's glass bore damage consistent with bullets, and further witness statements detailed loud gunshots and the pungent odour of gun smoke. On the surface, it appeared to be an open-and-shut case. However, reality proved far more complex.
In Canadian firearms cases, standard practice involves sending the weapon for forensic analysis. The report arrived late, just before the hearing. It revealed a startling truth: not only had the gun not been fired recently, it had never been fired at all. The rifle was completely inoperable. It turned out the accused had actually used an old, broken rifle from his porch like a baseball bat to smash out the windows. Consequently, the more serious charges of discharging a firearm and endangering lives, which carried lengthy jail terms, were dropped.
The Profound Realisation About Memory's Malleability
That day, I realised just how malleable our reality can be. We depend on our senses and memory to define ourselves and navigate our lives, yet the brain is not a perfect instrument. Confidence does not always equate to accuracy. The witnesses had not fabricated their accounts; they genuinely believed they had seen an angry man point a gun and shoot. Their fear was palpable and real. However, that very fear impaired their senses, and over time, their memories were reshaped by a yearning to make sense of their trauma, coupled with subtle influences from others.
Throughout my years in criminal trial work, I repeatedly witnessed genuine belief at odds with reality. But this case was the first to profoundly shake me. It not only instilled a wariness regarding the reliability of eyewitness evidence but also prompted me to question my understanding of my own life.
Confronting a Personal Trauma
When I was much younger, I survived a near-drowning incident. Two malicious older boys prevented me from exiting a deep area of a pond, forcing me to tread water until exhaustion. I went under, inhaled a large amount of water, and had to be rescued. I never discussed the incident with anyone.
Throughout my life, I would occasionally wake in the middle of the night gasping for breath, tangled in sweaty sheets, seized by panic and lingering sensations of drowning. Instead of confronting it through therapy, I spent years defiantly challenging water. I scuba-dived globally, surfed in South America, swam long distances on reckless dares, and free-dived in the frigid North Atlantic until darkness and cold became unbearable. Water transformed into an adversary. Whenever alone near a large body of water, I would stare into its depths, feel its pull, and dare it to take me a second time. I told myself this was resilience, but ultimately, it was an unhealthy coping mechanism.
Therapeutic Breakthrough and Emotional Release
It wasn't until a particularly dark period just before the pandemic that I sought professional help. With a psychiatrist, I revisited the drowning episode from countless angles over many months. Through these sessions, I began to recognise the same frailties of eyewitness recollection at work within myself. The details of the near-drowning were a blurred mess of intense emotions, physical sensations, and visual flashes, yet I had allowed them to negatively impact my life as if they were immutable truths.
During one session, I sat with eyes closed, describing the incident—the crushing pressure in my chest and the sensation of my feet flailing for solid ground. The psychiatrist noticed my shoes resting on the chair's rungs and gently instructed me to place them on the floor. I rarely cried in my life, but in that moment, I sobbed uncontrollably, experiencing a profound emotional release.
Rewriting Personal History and Finding Healing
Following that session, I emerged as a transformed individual. I spent months engaged in breathwork and consciously editing the traumatic experience into a version where I could always breathe and my feet were firmly on the ground. The night terrors ceased, and my overall mental health improved dramatically.
William Burroughs, a teenage hero of mine, once remarked: "Everything is recorded, and if it is recorded, then it can be edited." Just as the forensic report compelled me to question the reliability of human memory and perception, therapy forced me to reevaluate what I thought I knew about my own trauma. I learned that we possess the capacity to rewrite the terrible chapters of our history. We can learn to react differently to triggers and move beyond self-imposed limitations. Ultimately, we can become the authors of our own lives.
