Suicide Prevention: A Crying need!
Researchers interviewed family members and friends of 56 of those victims to spot trends that might prevent future suicides. Among other things, they learned that nearly half went on drinking binges in their last month. Two-thirds expressed hopeless thoughts or a wish to die.
Seventy-eight percent of respondents felt suicide victims didn't get enough professional help.
Silence is part of the problem, Martin said.
The study included little feedback from Natives -- they were reluctant to talk, said Perkins. Family members and friends of only 13 of 159 Native victims sat for interviews.
It's a tough issue in small villages where many people intimately live, said Martin, originally from Kake. But people must talk.
Tribal leaders should make suicide their priority and work with regional Native organizations and the state to provide public awareness campaigns to prevent suicidal factors, he said. They should increase cultural pride by creating traditional dance groups, Native art classes and other programs.
Parents, the front lines, should battle depression and alcoholism in children.
"That's where it's going to stop," he said.
Talks with family members and friends help Vera Tagarook fight suicidal thoughts, she said.
The dark thoughts developed after her younger brother killed himself in the North Slope village of Nuiqsut 17 months ago.
Joseph Taleak Jr. walked out of his house and into the cold darkness on his 20th birthday -- after celebrating it with friends -- and shot himself with a rifle.
He was despondent over a recent breakup, but he didn't drink that night, she said.
At times, Tagarook can't eat or sleep. She blames herself because she wasn't there when he needed to talk.
"When I get real mad and frustrated, I say I want to join my brother," said Tagarook, 26.
Her mom and others change her mind.
"They always listen to me, and they make me feel comfortable," she said.
"I take their compliments. They say you have a family. You have this and that."
Native suicide rates are highest in Kotzebue and the surrounding region -- 91 per 100,000 during the last three years, according to the study.
A key reason? Alcoholism destroyed families in the 1980s and hasn't let up, said Barbara Janitscheck, vice president of Maniilaq, the Native organization providing the region's social services.
Kotzebue's bars closed after the community voted to ban alcohol sales in 1988, but people still order booze from Anchorage. It flows to surrounding villages on snow machines, boats and planes, though the villages outlawed alcohol possession, she said.
A few years ago, Maniilaq made suicide a priority. It developed teams in villages to look for "risk signs" in people and interviewed young people to understand why it's so common.
Young people reported feeling hopelessness stemming from the lack of college opportunities and jobs. They have trouble connecting with grandparents and parents who speak more Inupiat than English. Some soothe despair with drugs and alcohol.
Last year, Maniilaq won a $1.2 million federal grant for "Project Life," an initiative to raise awareness about suicides and prevention through radio, videos and other means.
"Seems like everyone knows someone who's killed themselves," said Janitscheck.
The steps the state's tribal health care providers have taken to address suicide in the past two decades haven't been enough, said Scott Prinz, director of behavioral health and rural services for the Alaska Native Tribal Health Consortium.
The federally funded system, inherited from the government, waits for people to get sick instead of preventing the problem, he said. Tribes hope to reorient the effort to give prevention more resources.
One important hope: A $4.3 million program to create 50 village-based health aides. Among other duties, they'll focus on at-risk groups, such as families with alcohol and drug problems. They'll try to involve potential victims in sports, dancing, subsistence programs and other healthy activities.
The study showed mental health services in Alaska aren't responsive enough, said Diane Casto, the manager of the state's prevention and early services section in behavioral health.
Therapists and case workers who address suicide issues for Maniilaq, for example, live in Kotzebue and fly to villages, said Janitscheck. It's difficult to recruit professional staff to live in villages.
The state provides about $800,000 in yearly prevention grants, helping some communities create healthy cultural activities, such as dancing, drumming and beading programs.
The state also has several mental health centers around the state, Casto said. But those are based in hub communities, not villages.
"It can work (in villages)," Casto said. "But it's not going to work when people need something right now."
Daily News reporter Alex deMarban
I want to share with you why I have a burden for suicide prevention in the arctic. As I mentioned in a previous article, suicide among Alaska native young people is 400% higher than in the rest of United States. Let me share a recent newspaper article from the Alaska Daily News that outlines the problem.
Pastor Ken
Suicide plagues Natives
NO IMPROVEMENT SINCE '80S: Alcoholism, cultural isolation, drugs and unemployment cited as factors.
By ALEX deMARBANAnchorage Daily News
Published: April 10, 2007
NO IMPROVEMENT SINCE '80S: Alcoholism, cultural isolation, drugs and unemployment cited as factors.
By ALEX deMARBANAnchorage Daily News
Published: April 10, 2007
Despite two decades of effort by state and community leaders, Alaska Natives continue to kill themselves at alarming rates, a new study reports.
In fact, they seem to be committing suicide as often as they did in the late 1980s, when Native leadership, state officials and others acknowledged the crisis and vowed to solve the problem.
"It's a crisis, and if we don't start doing something really soon, it's only going to get worse," said Bill Martin, a Southeast Native and Alaska Statewide Suicide Prevention Council chairman.
Among other things, the study reports 58 of every 100,000 Natives killed themselves in 2004. That's the highest rate since 1986, according to state records on the council's Web site.
The rates were also high in 2005 -- 52 per 100,000 -- but improved in 2006 to 42 per 100,000.
For years, the national suicide rate has consistently hovered around 10 per 100,000. In 2004, the last year figures are available, it was 11 per 100,000.
"The figures command immediate attention from society and the state as whole," said Lanny Berman, with the American Association of Suicidology in Washington, D.C., which helped with the study.
What's happening? State and tribal officials said Natives battle the same basic afflictions they faced two decades ago, with new factors thrown in, such as methamphetamine.
Alcoholism remains rampant. And young Native men are culturally adrift, caught between the traditional subsistence world and newer demands of a cash-based lifestyle. They're searching for identity and hope in areas where jobs and educational opportunities are few.
The behavioral health system has grown tremendously to battle depression, substance abuse and other suicidal factors, experts said. But it doesn't reach enough into villages where per-capita suicides are most rampant.
The study was conducted by the Alaska Injury Prevention Center and other groups on behalf of the state Division of Behavioral Health, Alaska Mental Trust Health Authority and the suicide council. It was released last month.
Calculation methods might have caused differences between 1980s rates and today, but not enough to change the fact that Native suicides for the last three years appear to be as high now as they were then, said Ron Perkins, the injury center's executive director.
In the study, rural Alaska posted the highest numbers of suicides. Two Inupiat regions in Northwest Alaska topped the charts. The regions, around Nome and Kotzebue, had seven to eight times more suicides during the three-year study period than the 2004 national average.
Also high are suicides by males 30 and younger.
As part of the study, the center analyzed the 426 Native and non-Native suicides that occurred in Alaska between Sept. 1, 2003, and Aug. 31, 2006.
In fact, they seem to be committing suicide as often as they did in the late 1980s, when Native leadership, state officials and others acknowledged the crisis and vowed to solve the problem.
"It's a crisis, and if we don't start doing something really soon, it's only going to get worse," said Bill Martin, a Southeast Native and Alaska Statewide Suicide Prevention Council chairman.
Among other things, the study reports 58 of every 100,000 Natives killed themselves in 2004. That's the highest rate since 1986, according to state records on the council's Web site.
The rates were also high in 2005 -- 52 per 100,000 -- but improved in 2006 to 42 per 100,000.
For years, the national suicide rate has consistently hovered around 10 per 100,000. In 2004, the last year figures are available, it was 11 per 100,000.
"The figures command immediate attention from society and the state as whole," said Lanny Berman, with the American Association of Suicidology in Washington, D.C., which helped with the study.
What's happening? State and tribal officials said Natives battle the same basic afflictions they faced two decades ago, with new factors thrown in, such as methamphetamine.
Alcoholism remains rampant. And young Native men are culturally adrift, caught between the traditional subsistence world and newer demands of a cash-based lifestyle. They're searching for identity and hope in areas where jobs and educational opportunities are few.
The behavioral health system has grown tremendously to battle depression, substance abuse and other suicidal factors, experts said. But it doesn't reach enough into villages where per-capita suicides are most rampant.
The study was conducted by the Alaska Injury Prevention Center and other groups on behalf of the state Division of Behavioral Health, Alaska Mental Trust Health Authority and the suicide council. It was released last month.
Calculation methods might have caused differences between 1980s rates and today, but not enough to change the fact that Native suicides for the last three years appear to be as high now as they were then, said Ron Perkins, the injury center's executive director.
In the study, rural Alaska posted the highest numbers of suicides. Two Inupiat regions in Northwest Alaska topped the charts. The regions, around Nome and Kotzebue, had seven to eight times more suicides during the three-year study period than the 2004 national average.
Also high are suicides by males 30 and younger.
As part of the study, the center analyzed the 426 Native and non-Native suicides that occurred in Alaska between Sept. 1, 2003, and Aug. 31, 2006.
Researchers interviewed family members and friends of 56 of those victims to spot trends that might prevent future suicides. Among other things, they learned that nearly half went on drinking binges in their last month. Two-thirds expressed hopeless thoughts or a wish to die.
Seventy-eight percent of respondents felt suicide victims didn't get enough professional help.
Silence is part of the problem, Martin said.
The study included little feedback from Natives -- they were reluctant to talk, said Perkins. Family members and friends of only 13 of 159 Native victims sat for interviews.
It's a tough issue in small villages where many people intimately live, said Martin, originally from Kake. But people must talk.
Tribal leaders should make suicide their priority and work with regional Native organizations and the state to provide public awareness campaigns to prevent suicidal factors, he said. They should increase cultural pride by creating traditional dance groups, Native art classes and other programs.
Parents, the front lines, should battle depression and alcoholism in children.
"That's where it's going to stop," he said.
Talks with family members and friends help Vera Tagarook fight suicidal thoughts, she said.
The dark thoughts developed after her younger brother killed himself in the North Slope village of Nuiqsut 17 months ago.
Joseph Taleak Jr. walked out of his house and into the cold darkness on his 20th birthday -- after celebrating it with friends -- and shot himself with a rifle.
He was despondent over a recent breakup, but he didn't drink that night, she said.
At times, Tagarook can't eat or sleep. She blames herself because she wasn't there when he needed to talk.
"When I get real mad and frustrated, I say I want to join my brother," said Tagarook, 26.
Her mom and others change her mind.
"They always listen to me, and they make me feel comfortable," she said.
"I take their compliments. They say you have a family. You have this and that."
Native suicide rates are highest in Kotzebue and the surrounding region -- 91 per 100,000 during the last three years, according to the study.
A key reason? Alcoholism destroyed families in the 1980s and hasn't let up, said Barbara Janitscheck, vice president of Maniilaq, the Native organization providing the region's social services.
Kotzebue's bars closed after the community voted to ban alcohol sales in 1988, but people still order booze from Anchorage. It flows to surrounding villages on snow machines, boats and planes, though the villages outlawed alcohol possession, she said.
A few years ago, Maniilaq made suicide a priority. It developed teams in villages to look for "risk signs" in people and interviewed young people to understand why it's so common.
Young people reported feeling hopelessness stemming from the lack of college opportunities and jobs. They have trouble connecting with grandparents and parents who speak more Inupiat than English. Some soothe despair with drugs and alcohol.
Last year, Maniilaq won a $1.2 million federal grant for "Project Life," an initiative to raise awareness about suicides and prevention through radio, videos and other means.
"Seems like everyone knows someone who's killed themselves," said Janitscheck.
The steps the state's tribal health care providers have taken to address suicide in the past two decades haven't been enough, said Scott Prinz, director of behavioral health and rural services for the Alaska Native Tribal Health Consortium.
The federally funded system, inherited from the government, waits for people to get sick instead of preventing the problem, he said. Tribes hope to reorient the effort to give prevention more resources.
One important hope: A $4.3 million program to create 50 village-based health aides. Among other duties, they'll focus on at-risk groups, such as families with alcohol and drug problems. They'll try to involve potential victims in sports, dancing, subsistence programs and other healthy activities.
The study showed mental health services in Alaska aren't responsive enough, said Diane Casto, the manager of the state's prevention and early services section in behavioral health.
Therapists and case workers who address suicide issues for Maniilaq, for example, live in Kotzebue and fly to villages, said Janitscheck. It's difficult to recruit professional staff to live in villages.
The state provides about $800,000 in yearly prevention grants, helping some communities create healthy cultural activities, such as dancing, drumming and beading programs.
The state also has several mental health centers around the state, Casto said. But those are based in hub communities, not villages.
"It can work (in villages)," Casto said. "But it's not going to work when people need something right now."
Daily News reporter Alex deMarban
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