Three years after Portapique’s devastating mass shooting, the Nova Scotia community rebuilds

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On a cold, dreary spring day in Portapique, N.S., there are few physical reminders of the mass murder that started here almost three years ago. The mountains of flowers and cards are gone, as are most of the makeshift roadside memorials. And at the Irving Big Stop in Enfield, where the gunman was shot and killed by police, a lone tartan “Nova Scotia Strong” sign overlooks the pumps.

But for the people in these communities – and the others across central Nova Scotia where a gunman killed 22 people in April, 2020 – memories of the violence are ever-present.

“No one forgets,” said Victoria Lomond, councillor of the Municipality of the County of Colchester. “There are many, many reminders daily for most, not just at this time of year. I envy folks who don’t think about this every single day.”

Portapique

Que.

Truro

Minas Basin

N.L.

N.B.

N.S.

Brookfield

U.S.

Detail

102

Atlantic Ocean

Enfield: manhunt

ends with death

of 51-year-old

gunman

NOVA SCOTIA

Dartmouth

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Halifax

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THE GLOBE AND MAIL, SOURCE: TILEZEN;

OPENSTREETMAP CONTRIBUTORS; HIU

Portapique

Que.

Truro

Minas Basin

N.L.

N.B.

N.S.

Brookfield

U.S.

Detail

102

Atlantic Ocean

Enfield: Manhunt

ends with death

of 51-year-old

gunman

NOVA SCOTIA

Dartmouth

Halifax

103

0

20

KM

THE GLOBE AND MAIL, SOURCE: TILEZEN; OPENSTREETMAP

CONTRIBUTORS; HIU

Portapique

Que.

Truro

Minas Basin

N.L.

N.B.

N.S.

Brookfield

Detail

U.S.

102

Atlantic Ocean

Enfield: Manhunt ends

with death of 51-year-

old suspect

NOVA SCOTIA

Dartmouth

Halifax

103

0

20

KM

THE GLOBE AND MAIL, SOURCE: TILEZEN; OPENSTREETMAP CONTRIBUTORS; HIU

The communities and victims’ families had pushed for a public inquiry into the deadliest mass shooting in Canadian history, hoping for answers as to how such a tragedy could happen.

The Mass Casualty Commission’s final report, released Thursday, roundly criticized the police response and called for sweeping changes to the structure, training and procedures of the RCMP. It also declared intimate partner violence an epidemic.

For the rest of the country, the findings and recommendations will be the end of the story, a milestone that many hope marks the beginning of positive change. Here, however, grief and sorrow persist.

So does a lack of confidence in the RCMP. At the press conference in response to the scathing report, a few family members of victims shook their heads in disbelief as interim RCMP Commissioner Mike Duheme said he hadn’t had a chance to read or be briefed on any of the 130 recommendations – more than half of which apply to the national police force.

“There may be some closure for the community or for the public,” said lawyer Michael Scott, who represents a majority of the victims’ families, but “tomorrow is going to be the same as today. And I don’t think they ever thought otherwise.”

Even before the report was released, Nova Scotia Strong – a motto of togetherness that became a widespread symbol of support and resilience after the murders – had given rise to a counter motto born out of anger. Jordan Bonaparte of Halifax, the host of a popular podcast that focused on the mass shooting, created the slogan Nova Scotia Wants Answers, crossing out the word “strong,” in response to the overriding sentiment of the tragedy.

“Nova Scotia Wants Answers is kind of like … ‘We’re regular people who deserve a police force that is transparent,’” said Mr. Bonaparte, who has friends in the affected communities. “Things need to change.”

In Portapique, the sleepy coastal settlement where the rampage began, the community, at least, is changing. Signs of rebuilding are everywhere: new prefab houses, reports of new families coming in, a freshly excavated subdivision. The Rotary Club of Truro is framing a sprawling two-storey community centre, a project that has given residents an opportunity to come together and restore the community.

“It broke badly,” said Alana Hirtle, chair of the project. “It’s tough as a resident to hear all the negative things and go through the Mass Casualty Commission.”

Now, people gather for work parties at the site of the future centre and, on sunny days, a handful of kids clamber over wooden structures at a new playground, the only one in the rural community. A weekend farmers’ market attracts more than 100 people. These are small – but not insignificant – signs of healing and strength in a place that is heavily scarred.

“The really weird thing was that not everybody in the community knew each other at the time of the event,” Ms. Hirtle said. “It became obvious that there had been a disconnect over the years, that people weren’t as community centric. You didn’t know your neighbours in the same sense, due to technology, due to people moving in and out.”

For many, the mass murder remains too painful to discuss, something people quietly acknowledge through supporting and checking in on their loved ones. “It’s pretty raw,” said Truro resident Caleb Lloyd, who was friends with two of the victims. “It’s not very much talked about.”

Mr. Lloyd can’t forget that, unbeknownst to him at the time, the gunman drove past his home just as he and his fiancée decided not to go out for coffee. He counts himself as one of the lucky ones, whose inner circle, not the police, warned him of the lethal threat.

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Over time, disenchantment with the RCMP has only grown throughout these communities.

The lack of a public alert to notify people that a gunman dressed as a police officer was on the loose, driving around in a mock cruiser, stirs up residual anger – especially when such alerts have been issued many times in Nova Scotia since, said Elizabeth Smith-McCrossin, the independent MLA for Cumberland North.

“Every time we see an emergency alert, it puts people back into a place of fear even though there was not an emergency alert with the massacre,” she said. “Lives would’ve been saved had there been an alert at least that Sunday morning.”

Everyone in these tight-knit rural communities of Cumberland, Colchester and Hants counties knows someone who was murdered – and has multiple connections to other victims.

This includes Ms. Smith-McCrossin, whose father knew Tom Bagley, a retired firefighter who was killed in Wentworth.

“People are going to be impacted by this massacre for a long time,” she said. “I think there’s going to be long-lasting effects.”

Nondescript gravel shoulders, for example, are no longer just places on the way to somewhere else, but sites where people were murdered on their morning walk, on their way to work or coming to the aid of someone else.

The side of Plains Road in the farming community of Debert is one of the few, if not only, spots that has remained a tended memorial. Painted rocks and crafts have been set up to remember nurses Kristen Beaton and Heather O’Brien, who were killed not far from each other during their individual commutes to work.

Just beyond Ms. O’Brien’s roadside memorial, tucked behind a stand of spruce trees, is a small park alive with darting chickadees and cooing mourning doves. There’s a newly built gazebo where clear plastic hearts etched with the names of the victims, including a baby in utero, swing from the roof and catch the sunlight on a clear blue day. Garden chairs and picnic tables beckon people to stay. Green tips poke through fresh plots of soil, pushing toward the light.

Establishing a permanent memorial has been too much for many of the victims’ families to think about. On the first anniversary of the shooting, a large red metal broken heart made by welder Wayne Smith, whose stepson Corrie Ellison was killed, was the focal point for people to gather at a ceremony in Victoria Park in Truro. Afterward, it was unclear whether the families wanted it to remain, so it ended up at the back of Mr. Smith’s property, where it still is today.

“It feels like the victims have been forgotten,” said Mr. Smith, his eyes welling up as he sits in his office. “I want to put it in a secluded place where people can go quietly mourn the victims.”

There has been discussion of creating a memorial in nearby Bass River on a point that allows people to look back toward Portapique, but its status is unclear.

Perhaps part of the hesitation stems from Portapique now being synonymous with the worst mass killing in the country’s history. Residents want to redefine the way people think of the place they have always considered their small slice of heaven, said Ms. Lomond, who has lived in Colchester County all of her life.

“This event does not define us, and maybe for quite some time people will hear Portapique and they will have feelings of empathy and sadness but eventually I hope that fades,” she said. “Although the loss cuts incredibly deep and the reality of that night was beyond terrifying, I feel a sense of hope for the future.”

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