The Respectful Way of Life

A Quaker’s Education in the Ethic of Noninterference

I grew up in the 1960s in Winnipeg, Manitoba. I left for about 25 years before returning. In early 2015, Winnipeg was named by Maclean’s, a respected national news magazine, as “the most racist city in Canada.” The racism I grew up with in Winnipeg was much more blatant and unrepentant than the current forms. This history is the context of my exploration of the ethic of noninterference.

When I was 17, I took a temporary job in a sheet-metal factory. Halfway through my first day, I was sent home, having dropped a slab of sheet metal, which sliced my arm open. At age 66, I still have the scar to show off, and I have reflected upon that day more times than I can count. I was partnered with a young Indigenous man. He was my age but much bulkier and far stronger. We were to place the eight-by-four-feet pieces of sheet metal onto pallets for shipping. I wanted to lift one at a time; he wanted to lift three. I needed constant breaks; he treated it like an endurance workout. I asked him if we could stop, so I could drink some water. As I was enjoying the rest, our supervisor told us we were being paid to work, not to sit around. He stared us both down, looked at my partner and then me, and said directly to me, “Keep an eye on him.” I said nothing, but even in the moment, I knew I should have told the supervisor the truth and expressed myself directly to my partner. Feeling shame, and not having the maturity to convert my feelings into words, I just said, “We can do three.” We moved three sheets at a time until about half an hour later, when the stack slipped and made a two-inch-long cut along my right arm. Neither before nor since have I ever seen so much of my own blood at once. The supervisor walked me to the first-aid station, suggested I go home, and “stay in school.” Sadly, I have many such stories of racism to tell, but the subtlety and clarity of this one makes it stand out in my memory. As I commit this story to written form, I realize there is a lot that is not in it. What was my partner’s name? What needs in his life led him to that workplace? What experience in other workplaces might have led him to be such a hard worker? 

In university, I signed up for tutoring jobs and met many Indigenous people who talked more about the challenges of living in Winnipeg than the challenge of their coursework. Whether through training or intuition, or likely both, I knew when I heard these stories that my role was not to apologize, not to fix, but only to listen and to let the students speak until they finished. Even at that young age, I grasped that I should mirror the lack of eye contact by the students and look down as I listened. In the Cree and Ojibwe cultures, as well as in many other Indigenous cultures, looking someone in the eye has the exact opposite meaning to what it has in the dominant culture. It is a sign of challenge rather than respect. Eye contact is a declaration of interference. It was all awkward for me, but at the moment, I knew I was doing the right thing. It was a time to do less rather than to do more. 

When I was in my early thirties, the church I served moved us across Canada, from Cape Breton Island on the East Coast to northwestern British Columbia, in particular Gitxsan territory (pronounced Git-k-san with the “k” being both guttural and abrupt). We stayed seven years before we moved back to Winnipeg for family reasons. Shortly after our arrival, I was instructed on the importance of the “ethic of noninterference.” One of my teachers was a senior minister who shared his experience that when the Gitxsan like you, they will step outside their own culture to correct you. When they are indifferent to you, they will give you the space to either grow into your role or to make enough mistakes to expose yourself. And finally, if they really don’t like you, they will start a rumor that you are leaving, again stepping out of their cultural ways, but in the gentlest manner. This was a settler’s take on his own experience, and when I would repeat it to Gitxsan friends, they would always laugh and nod at its truth and familiarity, often jokingly adding that they had heard that I was going to be moving soon. 

It was only days after our arrival in Gitxsan territory that we attended an open spiritual and cultural education session. This was the first time I had heard the phrase “ethic of noninterference.” A Gitxsan cultural teacher named Skanu’u relayed the meaning of the concept and how it has served and continues to serve the community. The practice is so common to them that it is akin to breathing, and although the term “ethic of noninterference” is drawn from academic culture, Skanu’u showed how it is useful in the setting of cross-cultural teaching. 

I want to acknowledge the importance of two articles which tested and ground my thoughts in academic thinking, helping me relate the term “ethic of noninterference” to my experience of its practice. One article by Joe Wark, Raymond Neckoway, and Keith Brownlee was titled “Interpreting a Cultural Value: An Examination of the Indigenous Concept of Non-interference in North America” (published in International Social Work in September 2017). Not only did the basic definitions and categories provide structure for my thoughts, but the references led me to places of further clarity and sophistication. The review of the academic literature beginning in 1961 and continuing to the present persuasively built the case for the universality of this ethic within North American Indigenous cultures. The other article is a feminist critique of how the patriarchy benefits from the ethic: “Are Indigenous Conceptions of Sovereignty as Non-interference Patriarchal?” The authors are Rauna Kuokkanen, Sheryl Lightfoot, Gina Starblanket, and Matthew Wildcat, and it was published in the Review of International Studies in January 2025. The four authors offer complex and nuanced arguments that destabilize any attempts to speak of the ethic of noninterference in absolute or universal terms.

The biggest challenge for a non-Gitxsan is that those living hlo’otxwhl didils (hla-aught-quill did-ills), the respectful way of life, which avoids interference, can appear to be what we might label passive-aggressive. When this happens, the gap between what is intended and what is understood can cause great misunderstanding, hurt, and pain. For example, one time I was sitting with two hereditary chiefs with whom I had strong relationships, and invited one to a Bible study. He answered me in Gitxsanimx and the two of them rolled with laughter. Only later did they explain to me that he had answered yes but meant no. Literally, dim laagaltxw (dim lag-degal-kwa) translates as “we will see,” but is used as a respectful way of declining an offer without the confrontation of a direct refusal. Without the support and teachings of the elders, I could easily have taken this as a passive-aggressive taunt when it was meant to be true to the respectful way of life their ancestors had taught them. Within their own culture, this response would have been immediately understood and respected. With me, they decided to have a little chuckle while teaching me their culture and language. At times, I wanted to add “being made fun of as the only non-Gitxsan in the room” to my job description, as it seemed to be one of my strengths. 

Noninterference can take the form of indirectness when direct disagreement would be disrespectful. Once when preaching in my own church, a visitor from a nearby Nis’ga (Nish-gah) community stood up during the time for testimonies and began by saying, “I really liked it when your pastor said . . .” and then offered an interpretation that directly contradicted what I had said. This occurred later in my time in the Gitxsan territories, and I accepted that a guest disagreeing with the minister would be outside the ethics of the culture. This indirect way of speaking was an acceptable manner in which the man could make his point while not directly opposing me. Later after the service ended, one of the guitar players—whom I was quite close to—came up to me and said, “I don’t think that guy actually agreed with you, but don’t worry about it. We all liked what you said.” Once again, I understood that his stepping outside the cultural expectation of noninterference was a sign of respect: meeting me where he knew I came from.

The most amazing experience of this ethic came when families invited me to meetings where very difficult matters were discussed, such as criminal charges, marital strife, or important health choices. In a small group charged with strong emotion, it was amazing to sit through the conversation and not once see someone interrupt another or tell another what they should do. It was so different from dominant society where correction and direction might both be at the top of the agenda.

As I spent more time on Gitxsan land, I became increasingly aware of the challenge of this distinct way of being. I was always struggling with my tendency to layer my own cultural instincts on top of almost every situation. I’d interrupt: Someone needs to hold this person accountable. That person is going to get into trouble, we have to help! Aren’t we going to decide something? Can’t you just answer the question? Please be honest and direct with me. Tell me what I am doing wrong! You can’t let yourself be a doormat, you have to stand up for yourself. You shouldn’t hang me out to dry like that. 

With time, I shifted away from saying such things to just thinking them. And with more time, I began to think about them less often. The value of the ethic became clearer to me in a long, slowly incremental process, lived one moment at a time. Whether it led to exceptionally patient listening, provided an opportunity for a polite reply, or helped people look at themselves rather than wait for correction, the intention and benefits of the “ethic of noninterference” are sometimes easier to perceive and understand than they are to enact. Just last week, I was on the phone with a Gitxsan friend and realized that what dominant culture calls audible signs of active listening were likely being received by my friend as interference and interruption. 

If I have a current takeaway from my experience, it is to listen carefully to responses to questions to which I expect a clear and emphatic yes or no. First, that is an unrealistic expectation, and second, anything other than a clear and emphatic yes is best understood as a no.

I see Quakers as being at their best when living in their own ethic of nonconfrontation, which I perceive as a step toward noninterference in their own context. This is hard to do as it is neither practiced nor understood in our dominant culture, let alone explicitly or universally embraced within Quaker circles. 

Is this ethic something that Friends can learn from? Undoubtedly. However, the very ethic of noninterference that I am trying to describe—as universal as it appears among Indigenous peoples—was created, bolstered, and refined within each subculture. There’s no doubt that it varies from nation to nation. We, as Quakers, don’t have their history and context; this always creates a challenge when trying to learn from other cultures. As I said above, I’ve found Quakers already have a parallel ethic. A well-run meeting for business with attention to worship embodies the principles of true listening: abstaining from interruption, seeking common unity rather than coercing agreement, and deep respect, all of which are at the heart of noninterference. 

In my own Friends meeting, members and attenders are discouraged from responding directly to vocal ministry. We have learned to speak directly, one-to-one, after worship and to thank people for following the leading to offer vocal ministry. This is an example of noninterference, as building upon or challenging another Friend’s words violates that principle. When we gather for worship with attention to business, we are in a circle, and are encouraged to imagine we are speaking into the circle, as opposed to a Friend across the circle. Such a practice echoes how the Gitxsan and other Indigenous peoples conduct business. Our meeting has had strong and sensitive elders who created this culture with practices that are caught rather than taught.

I close by returning to the sheet-metal factory, where 49 years ago I responded and felt the shame of doing nothing. My motivations were to protect myself, to not show up the supervisor, and to continue the fiction that I was adequately suited to the demanding work. I wonder if, perhaps for the wrong reasons, I got it right: the ethic of noninterference would say that to have stood up to the supervisor on behalf of my coworker would have been to interfere in a way that was likely inconsistent with my coworker’s own cultural practice. I like the advice to “think it possible that one may be mistaken.” I might have been mistaken to speak up; I might have been mistaken not to. 

Taking Indigenous spirituality and culture out of its context and applying it in another setting is never easy; it should be done rarely and with care, caution, understanding, awareness, and respect. I am thankful, however, that this ethic has developed in its own way in the more formal parts of my Quaker meeting, and I enjoy the freedom of not having to second guess quietness and inaction. While there are documented cases of harm from extreme cases of noninterference (such as not reporting crimes), I do not see that as a danger for us as we strive to live lives of simplicity and integrity with one another.