"No, that never crossed my mind," said Ms. [Tina Jmaeff]. "I just say: 'God, help us. We're your messengers.' "

Two elderly women in a B.C. prison preserve a tradition of arson, fasting and nudism

Meet the last radical Doukhobors

Two elderly women in a B.C. prison preserve a tradition of arson, fasting and nudism

Monday, March 9, 1998

in Burnaby, B.C. -- SITTING on the edge of her bed, Tina Jmaeff raises a hand in greeting. She is 73 -- and stark naked.

Next to her Mary Braun, 77, is fully clothed, having just arrived from her quarters on the second floor of the Burnaby Correctional Centre for Women. Within minutes, however, she too decides to remove her clothing.

"This," she says, "is how we greet people."

Clearly, the two women are, as one of their jailers says, different from most people. They are also the last of their kind -- activist Sons of Freedom Doukhobors.

It has been almost 40 years since the radical sect based in the west Kootenay Mountains regularly made the news. The Sons of Freedom represented a small segment of the community, but their extreme resistance to taxation and, especially, public education ensured that all Doukhobors, or "spirit wrestlers," came to be associated with arson, bombing and public nudity.

Over the years, the radicalism has faded, as has the Canadian public's understanding of it. No one actually questions their sanity but anthropologist Mark Mealing of Selkirk College in Castlegar, B.C., says that Ms. Jmaeff and Ms. Braun may be the last of the sect's true adherents.

Their dedication has yet to waver, even though they have been jailed so often in the past 25 years that they're no longer sure how many times they have been behind bars and for how long. The current sentences -- two years less a day for Ms. Jmaeff and four years for Ms. Braun -- are for mischief as a result of fires they set back in their West Kootenay communities.

They also go on repeated hunger strikes and hold the record for the longest one ever conducted in a Canadian jail -- 107 days in 1987.

Last week, Ms. Jmaeff was in the health-care unit, recovering from the effects of a 25-day fast to protest against the threat of military confrontation between the United States and Iraq. Coincidentally, on the day that friends finally persuaded her to start eating again, United Nations Secretary-General Kofi Annan struck his deal with Saddam Hussein.

Buoyed by that news, the two women consented to a rare interview to explain their beliefs.

And their beliefs govern almost everything they do. Even after disrobing, Ms. Braun stood with Ms. Jmaeff and, clad in nothing but socks and slippers, they clasped their hands, bowed their heads and recited the Lord's Prayer, first in English, then in Russian. Then they were ready to talk.

Refusing nourishment, they explained, is not a political statement but a spiritual one. "We are messengers from God, with a message for the world: health, love and peace," Ms. Jmaeff said.

Fasting is a form of prayer, added Ms. Braun, a way of identifying with the starving masses rather than "the wealth and power of the greedy rich." It's also a form of sacrifice. "How much can one give of oneself to try and avert this?"

So, they restrict their diet to boiled water with lemon whenever their hearts tell them to, and break the fast only when they feel they have accomplished something.

Corrections officials respect their freedom to fast, acting district director John Pastorek said. Since a B.C. Appeal Court ruling in 1983, prisoners cannot be force-fed, but there have been times when authorities have resorted to intravenous feeding to keep them alive after they have lapsed into a coma. And there have been times when the women have resumed the fast as soon as they have regained consciousness.

Arson, of course, is why they are in custody, and they discuss the homes they have burnt down with a measure of pride. "I did two," said Ms. Braun, "but my sister-in-law did four -- no, three." Then, with a touch of envy in her voice, she recalled the cozy home that Ms. Jmaeff torched.

The homes they burn are their own. Asked where the salvation is in that, they respond with a question: What more can a person give? "This was my home, all my belongings, and I was left with nothing but my birthday suit," said Ms. Braun.

The dogged commitment to nudity, they said, stems from the belief that taking off their clothes strips away any signs or wealth or status. It allows them, explained Ms. Braun, to reveal who they truly are, as if to say: "Well, here I am. This was the way I was born."

At the peak of Sons of Freedom activism, in the late 1940s and early 1950s, hundreds of followers would show up at someone's home and watch the owner burn it down. They'd sing hymns, pray and often disrobe -- until the police arrived and started arresting them.

Now, fewer than 100 people voice any support for such measures, although many more are extremely protective of Ms. Jmaeff and Ms. Braun, as the only remaining Doukhobors in Canada to follow the faith so closely.

Despite their common beliefs, they became activists in different ways. Ms. Jmaeff was only 6 when she was taken away from her family because her parents would neither pay taxes nor send their children to public school. Twenty-two years later, two of her own children were taken away because she kept them out of classes.

Ms. Braun, however, had raised her three children before joining the cause. While attending the trial of her sister-in-law, she decided to disrobe in solidarity -- an act for which she was sentenced to three months. The next time, she was jailed four months. Her longest sentence, eight years, was for burning down her house.

Strange as it may seem for two people apparently clinging to the past, the last of the Freedomites take some solace in how much the world has changed.

Public nudity, they noted, has lost a great deal of its stigma, and a growing number of people are abandoning the public-school system. "Our children," said Ms. Braun, "were taken away for that."

Does this, along with their dwindling numbers, cause the women to question their faith or consider abandoning their activism?

"No, that never crossed my mind," said Ms. Jmaeff. "I just say: 'God, help us. We're your messengers.' "

Robert Matas is a member of The Globe and Mail's British Columbia bureau.