Canada violates UNDRIP with Bill C-5

Last week, I attended the Assembly of First Nations Annual General Assembly in Winnipeg. Hundreds of Chiefs and leaders gathered in ceremony, dialogue and resolution. But beneath the songs and smudges, a quiet alarm was ringing. That alarm has a name, Bill C-5, known as the One Canadian Economy Act.

Two key resolutions were passed. One calls for a delay in the implementation of the Building Canada Act, a part of Bill C-5. The other calls for a massive investment to close the First Nations infrastructure gap. At their heart, both resolutions call on Canada to pause, listen and honour its legal and moral obligations to Indigenous Peoples.

Bill C-5 gives sweeping powers to Cabinet to fast-track what are called “nation building” projects. These include highways, ports, nuclear facilities and pipelines. These projects can now be designated as being in the national interest with limited oversight and very little consultation. First Nations fear that this Act returns Canada to a past era when the government made decisions about our lands without our voices or our consent.

This is not fearmongering. The Act was passed in just twenty days. That is not consultation. That is not co-development. That is not free, prior and informed consent, the very foundation of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, or UNDRIP. And here is the most troubling part. Canada passed a law in 2021, the UNDRIP Act, which made those principles part of Canadian law. That law obliges the federal government to consult, cooperate and obtain consent from Indigenous Peoples before adopting any measure that affects us.

The implementation of Bill C-5 may very well be a violation of that law. It raises the possibility of legal action. First Nations governments could, if they choose, bring forward a legal challenge stating that the Crown has breached its duty to consult and has failed to uphold the requirements of the UNDRIP Act and Section 35 of the Constitution. The government may have passed Bill C-5, but that does not make it immune from the courts or from accountability.

Many of the Chiefs I spoke with were stunned to see that Indigenous Member of Parliament voted in favour of this bill; Liberal, Conservative and NDP members including Jaime Battiste, Rebecca Chartrand and Mandy Gull Masty, supported the legislation. Yes, they represent all Canadians, but they also hold a sacred responsibility to ensure Indigenous voices are heard. They had a chance to stand up and they stood down.

One Chief told me, “If Jody Wilson Raybould or Robert Falcon Ouellette were still in Parliament, this bill would not have passed like this. Mark Carney would have had to sit down with us and talk.” Perhaps. But more importantly, our people would have had someone willing to speak the uncomfortable truths aloud, even when it is not politically convenient.

We are not against nation building. We believe in the potential of this country. We want roads, energy, internet and housing. We want our children to have what every other child in Canada takes for granted. Our goal is not to stop Canada’s progress. It is to ensure that progress includes us.

Article 19 of UNDRIP is clear. You cannot make laws that affect Indigenous Peoples without consulting us and obtaining our free, prior and informed consent. Bill C-5 violated that principle. It passed too fast, with too little input and now risks becoming a legal and moral failure. We even passed a law which is supposed to give life to UNDRIP in Canadian laws. 

Canada must pause the implementation of the Building Canada Act and return to the table. Real dialogue is still possible, but only if the government is prepared to treat First Nations as equal partners, not as afterthoughts.

We have come too far to go back now.

 

Le Canada enfreint la DNUDPA avec la loi C-5

La semaine dernière, j’ai assisté à l’Assemblée générale annuelle de l’Assemblée des Premières Nations à Winnipeg. Des centaines de chefs et de dirigeants se sont réunis dans un esprit de cérémonie, de dialogue et de résolution. Mais derrière les chants et la fumée des cérémonies, une alarme discrète sonnait. Cette alarme porte un nom : le projet de loi C‑5, connu sous le nom de Loi sur une économie canadienne unifiée.

 

Deux résolutions clés ont été adoptées. L’une demande un report de la mise en œuvre de la Loi sur la construction du Canada, une partie du projet de loi C‑5. L’autre réclame un investissement massif pour combler le fossé en matière d’infrastructure dans les Premières Nations. Au fond, ces deux résolutions demandent au Canada de faire une pause, d’écouter et d’honorer ses obligations légales et morales envers les peuples autochtones.

 

Le projet de loi C‑5 accorde d’importants pouvoirs au Cabinet pour accélérer ce que l’on appelle des projets de "construction nationale". Cela inclut des autoroutes, des ports, des centrales nucléaires et des pipelines. Ces projets peuvent désormais être désignés comme étant dans l’intérêt national, avec un encadrement limité et très peu de consultation. Les Premières Nations craignent que cette loi ne ramène le Canada à une époque où les décisions concernant nos terres étaient prises sans nos voix ni notre consentement.

 

Ce n’est pas un alarmisme gratuit. La loi a été adoptée en seulement vingt jours. Ce n’est pas de la consultation. Ce n’est pas du co-développement. Ce n’est pas un consentement libre, préalable et éclairé, pourtant le fondement même de la Déclaration des Nations Unies sur les droits des peuples autochtones, ou DNUDPA. Et voici l’aspect le plus troublant : le Canada a adopté une loi en 2021, la Loi sur la Déclaration des Nations Unies, qui a intégré ces principes dans le droit canadien. Cette loi oblige le gouvernement fédéral à consulter, coopérer et obtenir le consentement des peuples autochtones avant d’adopter toute mesure qui les affecte.

 

La mise en œuvre du projet de loi C‑5 pourrait très bien constituer une violation de cette loi. Elle ouvre la porte à des actions en justice. Les gouvernements des Premières Nations pourraient, s’ils le souhaitent, déposer une contestation judiciaire affirmant que la Couronne a manqué à son devoir de consultation et n’a pas respecté les exigences de la Loi sur la DNUDPA ni de l’article 35 de la Constitution. Le gouvernement a peut-être adopté le projet de loi C‑5, mais cela ne le rend pas à l’abri des tribunaux ou de la reddition de comptes.

 

Beaucoup des chefs à qui j’ai parlé étaient stupéfaits de voir que des députés autochtones ont voté en faveur de cette loi. Des élus libéraux, conservateurs et néo-démocrates, dont Jaime Battiste, Rebecca Chartrand, Leah Gazan et Mandy Gull Masty, ont soutenu ce texte législatif. Oui, ils représentent tous les Canadiens, mais ils ont aussi une responsabilité sacrée : s’assurer que les voix autochtones soient entendues. Ils ont eu l’occasion de se lever. Ils ont choisi de se taire.

 

Un chef m’a dit : « Si Jody Wilson-Raybould ou Robert Falcon Ouellette étaient encore au Parlement, ce projet de loi n’aurait jamais été adopté tel quel. Mark Carney aurait été obligé de s’asseoir avec nous pour discuter. » Peut-être. Mais plus encore, notre peuple aurait eu quelqu’un prêt à dire les vérités inconfortables à voix haute, même quand ce n’est pas politiquement opportun.

 

Nous ne sommes pas contre la construction nationale. Nous croyons au potentiel de ce pays. Nous voulons des routes, de l’énergie, de l’internet et du logement. Nous voulons que nos enfants aient ce que tous les autres enfants au Canada considèrent comme acquis. Notre objectif n’est pas de freiner le progrès du Canada, mais de veiller à ce que ce progrès nous inclue.

 

L’article 19 de la DNUDPA est clair. Il est interdit d’adopter des lois qui affectent les peuples autochtones sans nous consulter et obtenir notre consentement libre, préalable et éclairé. Le projet de loi C‑5 a violé ce principe. Il a été adopté trop rapidement, avec trop peu de participation, et il risque maintenant de devenir un échec juridique et moral. Nous avons même adopté une loi censée donner vie à la DNUDPA dans le droit canadien.

 

Le Canada doit suspendre la mise en œuvre de la Loi sur la construction du Canada et revenir à la table de discussion. Un véritable dialogue est encore possible, mais seulement si le gouvernement est prêt à traiter les Premières Nations comme des partenaires égaux, et non comme des pensées de dernière minute.

 

Nous avons fait trop de chemin pour revenir en arrière maintenant.

 

Tu m’as dit que tu serais là, mais t’as tourné la tête.
T’as donné ta voix aux puissants pendant qu’on restait muets.
La promesse est tombée, cassée comme un bâton sacré.
Et moi, j’entends encore les anciens dire : « On nous a menti. »

 

Comme le corbeau qui libère le soleil enfermé : l’art autochtone à la Plains Gallery

Au cœur du quartier Exchange de Winnipeg, la réouverture de la Plains Gallery autochtone ressemble à une renaissance. Propriété de Jacques Goddard et exploitée par lui, la galerie occupe désormais un espace quatre fois plus grand qu’auparavant, un témoignage de la vitalité de l’art autochtone et de son attrait indéniable auprès des Manitobains et au-delà. Pourtant, derrière ce succès plane une tension que les artistes autochtones connaissent trop bien : qu’est-ce que l’art autochtone et qui a le droit d’en décider? 

Lorsque j’ai parcouru la galerie avec Jacques lors de sa grande réouverture, la réponse semblait jaillir de chaque mur. Peintures, sculptures en stéatite, estampes et bijoux : des œuvres de légendes comme Jackson Beardy, Daphne Odjig et Norval Morrisseau côtoient celles de figures établies telles que Linus Woods, Alex Janvier et Jackie Traverse.

 

« La culture, les récits, l’histoire, les enseignements, tout est dans l’art, » m’a confié Jacques. « Chaque peinture, chaque sculpture porte en elle une histoire, un récit, un enseignement. »

Depuis plus de 30 ans, Goddard tisse des liens avec des artistes du Manitoba et du Nord de l’Ontario, d’abord au sein du Aboriginal Arts Group en 1995, puis comme galeriste indépendant. Sa nouvelle galerie est à la fois une célébration de la survie et un défi lancé aux attentes étroites qui ont longtemps limité la créativité autochtone.

 

Comme le corbeau qui libère le soleil : l’art autochtone contre les limites imposées 

 

Mon oncle défunt, l’artiste cri Noel Wuttunee, m’a confié en 2012 qu’il se sentait étouffé par les exigences des acheteurs. « J’aime me lancer des défis, repousser les limites de mon art, » disait-il. « Parfois, mon art ne paraît pas autochtone. Alors les gens réagissent : Nous voulons seulement acheter de l’art autochtone. Je leur réponds : Je suis Autochtone. Je suis Cri, un Nehiyawak. Donc ceci est de l’art autochtone. Et eux insistent : Ce n’est pas l’art autochtone que nous voulons. »

 

Sa frustration reflétait une vérité que beaucoup d’artistes autochtones portent : être enfermés dans une boîte. Acheteurs, collectionneurs, et même institutions veulent souvent que l’art autochtone corresponde à une image figée : perles et plumes, motifs animaliers, capteurs de rêves. Mais l’art autochtone n’est pas un costume. Ce n’est pas une idée figée du passé. C’est quelque chose de vivant, d’expérimental, de contradictoire et de moderne.

 

Morrisseau et la controverse de l’authenticité

 

Un mur de la galerie de Goddard présente une rare estampe de Norval Morrisseau. Alors que des controverses sur des contrefaçons font rage depuis quelques années, Goddard en souligne les marques de séparation des couleurs pour en prouver l’authenticité. « C’est une vraie, » dit-il avec fermeté. Mais le simple fait qu’il doive en défendre la légitimité révèle une autre tension dans le monde de l’art : le contrôle de ce qui est considéré comme réel, authentique, ou « véritablement autochtone ».

 

Or, l’art résiste aux définitions simplistes. Qu’est-ce qui rend une peinture de Morrisseau plus autochtone qu’une toile de Patrick Ross, ou qu’une œuvre contemporaine de Jackie Traverse? La vérité, c’est que toutes deux naissent de réalités autochtones. Elles sont différentes, elles parlent à des expériences différentes, et elles sont toutes deux belles.

 

Un mélange de voix anciennes et nouvelles

 

En parcourant la nouvelle Plains Gallery, la variété est frappante. Des peintures de maîtres reconnus côtoient des œuvres d’artistes en début de carrière. On y trouve de grandes et de petites sculptures, des lignes modernistes et des iconographies traditionnelles, des formes expérimentales et des symboles profondément historiques. La vision curatoriale de Goddard laisse de la place à tout cela.

 

« C’est un bon mélange, » dit-il. « Des artistes disparus, certains établis, d’autres émergents. C’est une question de continuité. Il s’agit de montrer que l’art autochtone n’est pas qu’une seule chose. »

 

Le sens plus profond

 

Ce qui compte le plus, ce n’est pas de savoir si une œuvre paraît « assez autochtone », mais si elle porte en elle un récit, une identité et un esprit. L’art est l’endroit où l’histoire et l’avenir se rencontrent, où les peuples autochtones se définissent eux-mêmes, à leurs propres conditions.

Pour moi, les paroles de mon oncle résonnent plus que jamais. Les artistes autochtones ne sont pas des reliques de musée, mais des créateurs du présent et de l’avenir. Quand Noel disait : « Je suis Cri, je suis Nehiyawak, donc ceci est de l’art autochtone », il affirmait une vérité : c’est l’artiste qui définit l’art, non l’acheteur, non le marché.

 

La réouverture de la Plains Gallery est plus qu’une simple décision d’affaires. C’est une déclaration de survie et d’autodétermination. Elle crée un espace où les artistes autochtones peuvent être libres d’être eux-mêmes, que leur travail paraisse « traditionnel » ou « moderne ». Elle affirme que l’art autochtone a sa place partout : dans la boîte, hors de la boîte, et dans des espaces que nous n’avons pas encore imaginés.

 

Le chef enferma le soleil dans son coffre scellé,
Nous sommes sombres, glacés, privés de vérité.
Mais le corbeau, refusant de plier, brisa les chaînes,
Et le peuple retrouva enfin sa lumière certaine.

Pushing Beyond the Box: Indigenous Art at the Plains Gallery

In the heart of Winnipeg’s Exchange District, the newly reopened Indigenous Plains Gallery feels like a rebirth. Owned and operated by Jacques Goddard, the gallery now spans a space four times larger than before, a testament to the growth of Indigenous art and its undeniable pull on Manitobans and beyond. Yet, behind the success, there lingers a tension that Indigenous artists know all too well: What is Indigenous art and who gets to decide?

When I walked through the gallery with Jacques during his grand re-opening, the answer seemed to spill from every wall. Paintings, soapstone carvings, prints, and jewellery, pieces from legends like Jackson Beardy, Daphne Odjig and Norval Morrisseau, alongside established names such as Linus Woods, Alex Janvier and Jackie Traverse. “The culture, the stories, the history, the teachings, it’s all in the art,” Jacques told me. “Every painting, every carving has history, a story, a teaching to it.”

For more than 30 years, Goddard has been building relationships with artists across Manitoba and Northern Ontario, first through the Aboriginal Arts Group in 1995 and then as a gallerist on his own. His new gallery is both a celebration of survival and a challenge to the narrow expectations that have long confined Indigenous creativity.

The box Indigenous artists are pushed into

My late uncle, Cree artist Noel Wuttunee, once told me back in 2012 that he felt suffocated by what buyers demanded of him. “I like to challenge myself, to push my art,” he said. “Sometimes my art doesn’t look Indigenous. And then people push back. They say, ‘We only want to buy Indigenous art.’ I tell them, ‘I am Indigenous. I am Cree, a Nehiyawak. So this is Indigenous art.’ They say, ‘It’s not the Indigenous art we want.’”

His frustration echoed a truth many Indigenous artists carry: being pushed into a box. Buyers, collectors, and even institutions often want Indigenous art to fit a set image, beads and feathers, animal motifs, dreamcatchers. But Indigenous art is not a costume. It is not a frozen idea of the past. It is alive, experimental, contradictory, and modern.

Morisseau and the controversy of authenticity

One wall of Goddard’s gallery features a rare Norval Morrisseau print. With controversy swirling about forgeries in recent years, Goddard points out the score marks of color separation to prove its authenticity. “That’s a real one,” he says firmly. But the very fact that he has to defend its legitimacy points to another tension in the art world: the policing of what is real, authentic, or “authentically Indigenous.”

And yet, art resists simple definitions. What makes a Morrisseau painting more Indigenous than a Patrick Ross canvas, or a contemporary piece by Jackie Traverse? The truth is that both spring from Indigenous realities. Both are different styles, they speak to different realties and both a beautiful. 

A blend of old and new voices

Walking through the new Plains Gallery, the sheer variety is striking. Paintings by established masters hang beside works from artists who are just beginning their careers. There are carvings large and small, modernist lines and traditional iconography, experimental forms and deeply historical symbols. Goddard’s curatorial vision makes space for all of it.

“It’s a good blend,” he says. “Artists who have passed on, some established, some emerging. It’s about continuity. It’s about showing that Indigenous art is not just one thing.”

The deeper meaning

What matters most is not whether a piece looks “Indigenous enough,” but whether it carries story, identity and spirit. Art is where history and future meet, where Indigenous peoples define themselves on their own terms.

For me, my uncle’s words resonate more than ever. Indigenous artists are not relics of a museum but creators of the present and future. When Noel said, “I am Cree, I am Nehiyawak, so this is Indigenous art,” he was asserting a truth: the artist defines the art, not the buyer, not the market.

The reopening of the Plains Gallery is more than a business move. It is a statement of survival and self-determination. It creates a space where Indigenous artists can be free to be themselves, whether their work looks “traditional” or “modern.” It insists that Indigenous art belongs everywhere, inside the box, outside the box, and in spaces we haven’t even imagined yet.

 

Fire Without Water: First Nations, Wildfires and a Broken Promise

In our ceremonies, fire and water are life. Fire (iskotêw) is tended by men, fire keepers who ensure its warmth gives life, not destruction. Women, as water protectors, carry the even greater responsibility: safeguarding the very source of life. Without water, nothing grows. Without fire, some seeds never open. But both must be in balance. Both must be respected. Fire uncontrolled, without the balance of water — becomes death.

What we’re seeing in Saskatchewan, Alberta, and Manitoba today is not balance. It’s crisis.

In Pukatawagan, Manitoba, a forest fire (misi-kwâhkotêw) came within 300 metres of the airport, the only way in or out. The airstrip was unusable because it's outdated and lacks modern navigation tools. Fire crews were overwhelmed. There was no permanent firefighting force. It was nearly a catastrophe.

In 2016, when I was a federal Member of Parliament, I asked the federal government, my own government, a simple set of questions through an Order Paper submission: How many fires had occurred on reserves? How many people had died or been injured? What was spent on firefighting and prevention?

The answer: they didn’t know. They weren’t counting. They still don’t keep track.

Despite years of promises, including one in 2015 to improve infrastructure and basic services for First Nations, most communities still do not have a permanent firefighting service. There is no national Indigenous fire response program. No coordinated infrastructure plan to modernize airports or provide the basic capacity to respond to natural disasters. No meaningful recognition of the role fire plays in Indigenous life — or death.

This is not just about climate change, although it is accelerating the danger. It is about how Canada continues to treat First Nations peoples — as second-class citizens, unworthy of even the most basic safety services. Fire, police, health, education — these are the foundational duties of any government. And yet, we continue to outsource these functions when it comes to Indigenous peoples, or worse, ignore them altogether.

When wildfires rage near Flin Flon and Mathias Colomb Cree Nation, evacuations are last-minute. People are placed in shelters far from home. The trauma of being displaced, again and again, accumulates.

But in our worldview, this is not just a matter of logistics. It is spiritual. Fire must be respected and tended. It can clear the way for new growth, but only when held in balance. Water — the domain of women, life-givers and protectors — must also be honoured. What happens when governments ignore both? When neither fire is managed, nor water protected?

You get destruction. You get crisis. You get what we are seeing right now.

A national Indigenous fire service would not just fill a bureaucratic gap. It would acknowledge traditional roles, empower communities, and bring Indigenous knowledge systems into the heart of climate response. It would be led by the people most impacted, with deep understandings of the land, fire cycles, and the sacred roles fire and water play in our lives.

We hear a lot about economic development in First Nations. But there is no economy without safety. No community thrives under constant threat. The cheapest and smartest investments are often in the most basic infrastructure: modern airports that can land planes in smoke, trained firefighters with proper equipment, and the ability to respond not just after the emergency, but before it starts.

Ceremony teaches us that everything has a time and place. Fire, when respected, renews. Water, when protected, sustains.

It is time the federal government stopped treating fire on First Nations as an afterthought. It is time to restore balance — with policy that reflects our values and action that matches the urgency.

Fire is not our enemy. But neglect is.

 

Free Tuition Isn’t a Gift: It’s the First Step Toward Justice

 Free Tuition Isn’t a Gift: It’s the First Step Toward Justice

I remember standing outside the University of Calgary food bank with $19 in my bank account. I couldn’t even withdraw it, ATMs only gave out $20 bills, cell phone weren’t ubiquitous then. Tuition was also due and I had no idea how I would pay. My home reserve didn’t have the funding to support me; like many others, they could only help a few students, usually those who had graduated from the community high school. I had to find a way through alone.

People often assume all First Nations students get a free education. It’s a myth I’ve heard countless times — from students, faculty, politicians, and strangers. The truth is much harder: many of us struggle just to stay in school, to keep our stomachs full and the lights on.

When I was in university, I survived on being cheap, bad grades and sheer grit. I joined the military reserves for summer training, the pay was decent, and they offered during the summer free food and lodging. That income helped me cover basic needs while pursuing my education. I had a friend who was lucky enough to receive full band funding, including tuition, books and a living allowance. He often treated me to a sandwich or a warm meal — not out of pity, but maybe fear. He genuinely thought I might collapse from hunger.

Today, things are starting to change. Slowly. A small number of post-secondary institutions have stepped forward to offer free tuition to Indigenous students. It’s not a revolution, yet, but it is a critical step. These waivers don’t just ease financial pressure. They remove a barrier. One less mountain to climb. One less excuse not to finish. All Canadians want First Nations to participate in Canada, but for generations were denied the tools to participate successfully. 

The University of Ottawa recently joined this small but growing movement. After years of internal advocacy, led by my dedicated colleagues like Tareyn Johnson, we became the first and only French-language university in Canada to offer free tuition to eligible First Nations students. For those from the Algonquin Anishinàbeg Nation — on whose unceded territory the university stands — this is a meaningful recognition and reconciliation.

But we are not alone. McGill, Concordia, the University of Waterloo, Humber College, and Niagara College — all located in Ontario or Quebec — have also made similar commitments. In total, there are now six such institutions across the country. Ironically no efforts in places like Manitoba or Saskachtwean where there are very large First Nations peoples. 

I have no doubt this change was studied carefully. Administrators would have crunched the numbers. They would have asked, “Can we afford this?” And they found the answer was yes. Why? Because education should not be a privilege. Because inclusion is not too expensive. Because this is simply the right thing to do.

Out West, many First Nations see education as a treaty right — a commitment from Canada to support lifelong learning from kindergarten through to post-secondary. This isn’t about charity. It’s about the fulfillment of legal and moral obligations.

Among the Seven Grandfather Teachings, principles that guide many Indigenous cultures, is inyisîwewin, or wisdom. We are told to seek knowledge, to live in balance, and to carry what we learn with humility and courage. For us, learning is not just a path to employment. It is sacred. To deny someone access to knowledge is to deny them a full life.

It’s time we rethink the stories we tell about Indigenous students. Not all of us have access to “free education.” Many are still left behind. But with programs like these, fewer students will have to choose between food and tuition. Fewer will have to depend on luck, a generous friend, or the nearest food bank.

Let’s not stop at six universities. Let’s make this a national standard — so that all Indigenous students and eventually all students, regardless of province or background, have a chance to succeed. Free tuition isn’t a gift. It’s the beginning of justice. 

La gratuité scolaire n’est pas un cadeau : c’est un premier pas vers la justice

La gratuité scolaire n’est pas un cadeau : c’est un premier pas vers la justice 

Je me souviens de ce moment, debout devant la banque alimentaire de l’Université de Calgary, avec seulement 19 $ dans mon compte bancaire. Impossible de retirer cet argent : les guichets automatiques ne distribuaient que des billets de 20 $. À l’époque, les téléphones cellulaires n’étaient pas encore omniprésents. Les frais de scolarité étaient dus et je n’avais aucune idée comment j’allais payer. Ma réserve n’avait pas les moyens de m’aider. Comme beaucoup d’autres, elle ne pouvait soutenir qu’un nombre limité d’étudiants, souvent ceux qui avaient obtenu leur diplôme de l’école secondaire de la communauté. J’ai donc dû me débrouiller seul.

On croit souvent que tous les étudiants autochtones ont droit à une éducation gratuite. C’est un mythe que j’ai entendu maintes fois — de la part d’étudiants, de professeurs, de politiciens et d’inconnus. La réalité est bien différente : plusieurs d’entre nous luttent simplement pour rester aux études, garder les lumières allumées et se nourrir.

 

Quand j’étais à l’université, j’ai survécu en vivant chichement, en accumulant de mauvaises notes et en m’accrochant avec acharnement. Je me suis enrôlé dans la réserve militaire. L’entraînement d’été offrait un salaire décent ainsi que le logement et le bouffe. Cet argent m’a permis de couvrir mes besoins essentiels. Un ami, plus chanceux, recevait un financement complet de sa communauté : droits de scolarité, livres et allocation mensuelle. Il m’invitait souvent à manger un sandwich ou un repas chaud. Pas par pitié, peut-être par inquiétude. Il pensait vraiment que je risquais de m’évanouir de faim.

 

Aujourd’hui, les choses commencent à changer. Lentement. Un petit nombre d’établissements postsecondaires ont décidé d’offrir la gratuité scolaire aux étudiants autochtones. Ce n’est pas encore une révolution, mais c’est une étape cruciale. Ces exemptions ne font pas que soulager une pression financière : elles suppriment un obstacle. Une montagne de moins à gravir. Une excuse de moins pour abandonner. Tous les Canadiens souhaitent que les Premières Nations participent à la vie du pays, mais pendant des générations, on leur a refusé les outils pour y parvenir.

 

L’Université d’Ottawa s’est récemment jointe à ce mouvement. Après des années de militantisme interne mené par des collègues dévoués comme Tareyn Johnson, nous sommes devenus la première et la seule université francophone au Canada à offrir la gratuité scolaire aux étudiants des Premières Nations admissibles. Pour les membres de la Nation algonquine Anishinàbeg, sur le territoire non cédé de laquelle se trouve l’université, il s’agit d’une reconnaissance significative et d’un geste important de réconciliation.

 

Et nous ne sommes pas seuls. McGill, Concordia, l’Université de Waterloo, le Collège Humber et le Collège Niagara (tous situés en Ontario ou au Québec) ont pris des engagements similaires. En tout, six établissements à travers le pays ont emboîté le pas. Ironiquement, aucune initiative comparable n’a vu le jour au Manitoba ou en Saskatchewan, où vivent pourtant d’importantes populations autochtones.

 

Je suis convaincu que ces décisions ont été soigneusement analysées. Les administrateurs ont dû faire leurs calculs et se demander : « Peut-on se le permettre ? » La réponse a été oui. Parce que l’éducation ne devrait pas être un privilège. Parce que l’inclusion n’est pas un luxe. Parce que c’est simplement la chose juste à faire.

 

Dans l’Ouest, de nombreuses Premières Nations considèrent l’éducation comme un droit issu des traités, un engagement du Canada envers l’apprentissage tout au long de la vie, de la maternelle aux études postsecondaires. Il ne s’agit pas de charité, mais du respect d’obligations légales et morales.

 

Parmi les Sept enseignements sacrés, des principes qui guident plusieurs cultures autochtones, se trouve inyisîwewin, la sagesse. On nous enseigne à chercher le savoir, à vivre en équilibre et à porter ce que nous apprenons avec humilité et courage. Apprendre n’est pas qu’un chemin vers l’emploi. C’est sacré. Refuser à quelqu’un l’accès à la connaissance, c’est lui refuser une vie complète.

 

Il est temps de revoir les récits que nous racontons au sujet des étudiants autochtones. Non, tous n’ont pas accès à une éducation gratuite. Beaucoup sont encore laissés pour compte. Mais grâce à ces programmes, moins d’étudiants auront à choisir entre se nourrir et payer les frais de scolarité. Moins dépendront du hasard, de la générosité d’un ami ou d’une banque alimentaire.

Ne nous arrêtons pas à six universités. Élevons cela au rang de norme nationale — pour que tous les étudiants autochtones, et peut-être un jour tous les étudiants, peu importe leur origine ou leur province, aient une réelle chance de réussir.

 

La gratuité scolaire n’est pas un cadeau. C’est le commencement de la justice.

 

Argent, argent, argent, c’est ce que je veux,
Pas pour la fête, l'alcool, ni les jeux,
Je veux tracer un chemin droit devant,
Et marcher fier, comme mes ancêtres avant.

A Legacy That Haunts Me: A Personal Reflection on Cultural Genocide and the Ties That Bind Us

As I write, I am filled with sadness and a sense of illness. A video sent to me on Twitter initially seemed like just another far-fetched conspiracy theory, but as I dug deeper, the reality set in. 

 

The video captured a 1965 interview with Robert J. Carney, a Catholic educator and federal day/Indian residential school principal in the Northwest Territories, who described Indigenous children as "culturally retarded." His words, though reflective of the time, were harsh then—and remain unforgivable today. Carney explained that “culturally retarded” referred to children from Native backgrounds who hadn’t attended school regularly or were behind in their studies. His words were steeped in ignorance and systemic racism—language that was damaging then and remains damaging now.

 

As I reflect on these words, I can’t help but wonder: Do people see me the same way? Do they consider all Indigenous people "retarded" because of our identity? These thoughts haunt me, especially when I think back to my time in Parliament. I fought an election that many thought I couldn’t win, and yet, we triumphed. But even in victory, I faced constant reminders that my space was limited to Indigenous issues alone. “This is your space; don’t speak outside of it,” was the unspoken rule I faced within the Liberal party. Whenever the media sought a comment from me, it was always on Indigenous issues. My contributions outside these boundaries were dismissed.

 

Years of proving myself, building a resume I thought would stand on its own, felt minimized to “you’re good on this one thing.” I constantly had to fight for a seat at the table where my voice was valued—not just as an Indigenous person, but as a human being with thoughts and opinions that mattered beyond my heritage. This reality became even clearer when I realized that people like Mark Carney—despite his father’s controversial legacy—are not bound by these limitations. His father’s ties to the system of cultural erasure in the Northwest Territories are undeniable. How much of Carney’s perspective is shaped by his father’s legacy?

 

Carney’s legacy is tangled in colonial history. While we may not be responsible for the actions of our parents, we must acknowledge their impact on shaping the present. The scars of residential schools, day schools, and the destruction of our languages and cultures run deep, passed down through generations.

 

Mark Carney has a chance to shape the narrative moving forward. I wonder how he will approach the reckoning that is long overdue. Will he address the harms of the past in a meaningful way? Will he work toward reconciliation, not just as a political gesture, but as a genuine commitment to undoing the legacy of cultural genocide still affecting Indigenous peoples? And perhaps, could he stop talking about Trump as if he’s the only thing that matters? Indigenous struggles are often sidelined, and it’s time for leaders like Carney to give these issues the attention they deserve.

 

The truth is, the reality of these atrocities is often swept under the rug. We are told to move on, but the past continues to haunt us. As an IRS survivor’s child, I am constantly reminded of the life my father never had. His experiences shaped his world in ways I can never fully understand. But what I can do is ensure that his legacy—his resilience—is honored. I strive to live the life he never had the chance to live. I strive to be good to my children, offer help to those in need, and contribute to my community.

 

When I watch videos like the one about Robert Carney, I feel grief and anger. This history is not something we can easily forget, nor should we. Even today, many Indigenous peoples still face the consequences of a system designed to destroy our culture, language, and identity.

 

I understand why Carney, when he came to Winnipeg on April 1, could not use the word “Indigenous” in his speech. For so long, terms like “Indian,” “Native,” or “culturally retarded” have been used to define us in a way that was not our own. The reluctance to embrace the term “Indigenous” reflects discomfort in confronting the truth of what these terms represented—a system built on the destruction of our cultures, erasure of our languages, and undermining of our identity. But as much as I understand why the word may have been avoided, I feel it’s time to stop hiding behind these old terms. It’s time to reckon with the past.

 

Why did Robert Carney leave the Northwest Territories when Mark was six? Was it because he didn’t want his children attending school with what he referred to as the "culturally retarded"? Did they sit around the dinner table, and if Mark asked why they no longer lived in the NWT, was the answer simply that they wanted him to have "better opportunities, better friends"? What motivated the decision to leave, and how did this decision, tied to his father’s work, shape Mark’s understanding of Indigenous peoples?

 

In education, there is the written curriculum and the unwritten curriculum—the words left unsaid. Which is more important? Stephen Harper once said it wasn’t the major decisions that mattered, but the 150 decisions a leader makes throughout the day. How was Carney shaped by the subconscious values in his life?

https://ici.radio-canada.ca/espaces-autochtones/2154487/robert-carney-enfants-autochtones-heritage 

Mark Carney Came to Winnipeg — and Forgot Indigenous Peoples

Mark Carney came to Winnipeg. Three First Nations chiefs in full headdress stood proudly in the middle of a room filled with over 800 people. They waited patiently. They listened carefully. They stood with dignity, hoping for a signal — just a few words — that they were seen, that they were heard, that they were part of Mark Carney’s vision for Canada. But not a single Indigenous word was spoken. His speech, curiously delivered one day after the National Day of Indigenous Languages, never once mentioned reconciliation, Jordan’s Principle, MMIWG, or the ongoing search for the missing and murdered women believed to be in the Prairie Green landfill just north of Winnipeg. 

Instead, Carney said: “The shock of this betrayal. But we should never ever forget the lessons — we have to look out for ourselves.” He was not talking about Canada’s betrayal of Indigenous peoples. He was not placing himself in the moccasins of First Nations. He was speaking of himself. Of Donald Trump. Of economic power, global markets, and his personal journey. The words fell flat in a place called Manitoba, a name rooted in Cree: manitôhkân, a place of spiritual power. 

 

Where has Mark Carney been the last few years? He may be a man of global finance and polished speeches, but he seems to have missed the most important story Canada has been telling itself: the unfinished business of reconciliation. A story about healing, truth, justice, and the hope that Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples can walk forward together in dignity and mutual respect. To show up in Manitoba and not mention Indigenous peoples — especially with three hereditary chiefs standing right in front of him — is a political oversight of monumental proportions. It’s also deeply personal. 

 

As a former Member of Parliament, I’ve seen many leaders come and go. Some speak of reconciliation as a checklist. Others have tried — truly tried — to understand what it means to rebuild trust and nation-to-nation relationships. Mark Carney, for all his global experience, seemed unaware of the room he was standing in. Unaware of the land. Unaware of its history. 

If Mark Carney hopes to earn a mandate from Canadians, it cannot come simply from convincing Liberal insiders or appealing to disillusioned NDP voters. He must also convince Indigenous peoples that they matter — that they will not be forgotten once the ballots are counted and the speeches fade. But after this speech, maybe Indigenous people will choose to stay home. Maybe they will resist. Maybe they will see his possible majority government not as a triumph of democracy, but as another chapter in a long story of being ignored. If this is the beginning of his campaign, perhaps the best Canada can hope for is a minority government — one that forces Carney to listen, to consult, to learn. 

Jean Chrétien once told me in the House of Commons, “Sometimes it’s better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.” He chuckled when he said it. But it left me wondering then — and now — who is Mark Carney? If he’s serious about leading this country, he must recognize that Indigenous peoples are not a checkbox or a photo opportunity. 

We are nations. We are families. We are leaders. And we are voters. When you come to Manitoba — when you come to manitôhkân — you don’t have to say everything. But say something. Acknowledge the nations who were here before Confederation, who signed treaties, who defended this land, and who still hope — against the odds — that Canada can be a place of justice for all. 

Reconciliation is not just an ideal. It’s a responsibility. And silence is not neutrality — it is a choice. Mr. Carney, if you want to lead this country, don’t just talk to bankers and party faithful. Speak to the people who have long been left out of the Canadian dream. Speak to us. Or at the very least, notice when we’re standing right in front of you.

https://ici.radio-canada.ca/espaces-autochtones/2153752/mark-carney-campagne-maniotoba-reconciliation 

 

 

To Vote or Not to Vote: Indigenous Peoples Face a Choice

In 2015, something rare happened in Canada: hope, passion, mobilization. Carried by the Idle No More movement, a generation of Indigenous people believed that politics could truly change our lives. We elected the highest number of Indigenous Members of Parliament in the country’s history. Voter turnout in ridings with high Indigenous populations saw a remarkable increase. For a brief moment, it seemed that Justin Trudeau’s promise — “no relationship is more important than the one with Indigenous peoples” — was finally coming true.

And yet, nine and a half years later, the results are mixed. Yes, there were victories: the Indigenous Languages Act, Bill C-92 on child and family services, the incorporation of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples into Canadian law. But there were also failures, broken promises, bureaucratic silence, and deep institutional inertia.

The clearest symbol of this failure remains the Indian Act, still in force — a piece of colonial legislation from 1876. How, in 2025, can we still uphold a law that classifies Indigenous peoples as wards of the state? A law that governs our lands, our wills, our civil rights, as if we were incapable of self-determination? Even after a decade of fine words and symbolic reconciliation, this supposedly “priority” relationship was never truly based on real respect. Marc Miller is gone. Justin Trudeau is gone. And the Indian Act is still here. We’ve merely tinkered around the edges of the Canadian system, without ever transforming its heart.

Now, we approach a new election: Pierre Poilievre versus Mark Carney. On one side, a combative, populist Conservative — but at least consistent in his positions. On the other, a well-spoken, polished technocrat — but with no clear vision for First Nations. I’m sure he offers a firm handshake — but has he ever left Bay Street to sit and listen to an Elder by the fire?

I remember meeting Stephen Poloz, former Governor of the Bank of Canada, before the Standing Committee on Finance. The Bank of Canada controls how our economy works — including the economies of Indigenous peoples and communities. They’re the ones holding the reins. I asked him a simple question: “What’s your connection to Indigenous peoples?” He answered, with a faint smile and equal simplicity: “Once, I drove through a reserve while on vacation.” I wonder if Mark Carney is just driving through, too.

I’m not saying Pierre Poilievre would be better. I’m only saying that Indigenous people no longer have trust. Not in the electoral process, not in the promises. In 2015, we had hope. In 2025, we have memory. The memory of Tina Fontaine, of Joyce Echaquan, of Ashlee Shingoose, of Chanie Wenjack. And the memory of a government that, despite ceremonies, conferences, and accolades, chose to preserve the colonial foundations of Canada.

Today, our youth are more cynical than ever. They see elections as a game meant for others. And who can blame them? When we’re still waiting for clean water, decent housing, or justice for our missing and murdered sisters — it’s hard to believe in campaign promises.

But is abstention the answer? Perhaps a Conservative government, driven by necessity, will do what the Liberals never dared: abolish the Indian Act and build a new relationship based on treaties, equality, and mutual respect. Sometimes, a presumed enemy can become an unexpected ally.

It’s time to speak the truth: this country is still afraid to recognize us as nations. It fears our strength, our languages, our economies, our systems of governance. Perhaps it is not Ottawa’s role to define who we are — but ours, through the ballot box or through the rebuilding of our own systems.

The Indian Act, driving through the reserve,
“Yes, Governor, shine your shoes, Governor.”
Always polite, always prompt: “Right away, Governor.”
But do we, at last, have a vision that dreams?

https://ici.radio-canada.ca/espaces-autochtones/2151128/vote-autochtones-abstention-promesses 

The Uncomfortable Irony: Prioritizing Military Ships Over Indigenous Children’s Future: Federal Election 2025

On a sunny Sunday, while Canadians enjoy their coffee or still sleep in, the Prime Minister walks over to the Governor General's residence to call for a federal election. This moment symbolizes what is important, but also highlights what is often ignored.

One of the final acts of Justin Trudeau’s government and the beginning of Mark Carney’s was the approval of $22 billion in spending for the Irving Shipyards to build naval destroyers. As Canada moves forward with this costly military procurement, we must ask: how can we justify such massive spending when the most vulnerable among us—Indigenous children—remain trapped in a broken system?

This decision highlights a glaring and uncomfortable irony: our government is willing to invest heavily in defense projects, yet continues to neglect the basic human rights of Indigenous children. The $22 billion naval program is the largest defense procurement in Canadian history, but while military preparedness is deemed essential, there is an equally pressing need to invest in the future of our children—particularly Indigenous children who have long suffered from systemic neglect.

Indigenous teachings emphasize thinking in terms of seven generations, urging us to make decisions that benefit not just our present, but future generations. If we are truly concerned about security, we must first ensure that our youth have the foundation they need to thrive, not just survive. It’s a glaring contradiction that, while billions are being allocated to military ships, our children’s basic rights are still in question, and the government is dragging its feet on resolving the issues that directly affect their future.

The ongoing legal battle concerning the welfare of First Nations children is a key example of the government’s failure to act. This battle, which began under the Conservative Harper government and continued throughout Trudeau’s tenure, has seen multiple rulings from the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal. The Tribunal has repeatedly found that the federal government discriminates against Indigenous children by underfunding essential child welfare services and failing to implement Jordan’s Principle—a policy meant to ensure that Indigenous children receive public services without discrimination. Despite these rulings, the government continues to delay compensation and reforms that could provide these children with the justice they deserve.

This refusal to act is not only an affront to these children’s dignity but also a clear violation of their human rights. Cindy Blackstock, a staunch advocate for Indigenous children’s rights, has fought for years to bring attention to these injustices. Yet, despite her tireless efforts, the government continues to ignore the Tribunal’s rulings, failing to negotiate a fair settlement or take the necessary steps to make meaningful changes. Instead, we see the government actively diverting billions to military contracts, while the lives of children remain at risk in a system designed to fail them.

Why such urgency when it comes to military procurement, yet such profound delay in ensuring that Indigenous children receive the support they need? The government seems more focused on purchasing destroyers than on securing the future of its youth. The cost of the military ships will not ensure the safety or future of Canada’s most vulnerable populations, but the cost of justice for First Nations children would offer hope—a real chance at breaking the cycle of poverty, trauma, and inequality that has plagued them for generations.

The government’s failure to negotiate on the child welfare case speaks volumes. The refusal to settle and provide the necessary compensation for the harm done to these children is not just a bureaucratic delay—it is an ongoing violation of their rights. Every day this case continues is another day of suffering for Indigenous children deprived of their basic needs, while the government expends resources on defense projects that fail to address the real threats to our society. If only Indigenous children were as good friends to the Irvings as they are to the Liberal Party of Canada.

If only our children were missiles or bullets, maybe then the government would prioritize their future. Maybe then the resources would be diverted toward ensuring that these children have what they need to thrive, not just survive. The fact that we continue to struggle with issues like child welfare for Indigenous youth while simultaneously making military investments of such magnitude is a stark reminder of our national priorities—priorities that seem to lack a clear vision for the future of our children.

https://ici.radio-canada.ca/espaces-autochtones/2150087/depenses-militaires-enfance-autochtone 

When Universities Cut Indigenous Programs, They Cut Our Future & Reconciliation

For a moment in 2015, it seemed like every university president in Canada had heard the calls to action. Following the release of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission's final report, institutions from coast to coast pledged to support reconciliation, Indigenization, and the creation of space for Indigenous knowledge within the academy. Much like when treaties were signed, many fine words were said.

But as the years passed, a troubling pattern emerged. When the work of reconciliation required more than symbolic gestures—when it demanded actual resources, long-term commitment, and sustained investment—many institutions quietly began to retreat. Now, York University has joined that list.

The university’s decision to suspend admissions to 18 undergraduate programs, including Indigenous Studies, is a betrayal not only of its stated values, but of the very purpose of higher education.

I understand that budgets are tight. I understand the pressures universities face from underfunding, from shifting demographics, and from government policies that often seem to favour the commodification of education over its deeper mission. But I also understand that institutions—like people—reveal their true values when times get tough. And this decision reveals something profoundly disappointing.

How can we explain the suspension of a program like Indigenous Studies at a time when interest in these courses is booming? As York Professor Brock Pitawanakwat noted, his Indigenous Studies courses are overflowing. Students are eager to learn, to understand, and to engage with Indigenous worldviews—because they know that to live responsibly in Canada, they must confront our shared history and present reality. The irony is that, in 2018, a senior York administrator said of Indigenous education: “For lasting transformation to occur, these changes need to be embedded in our administrative and educational structures.”

So why, then, are we cutting off the very knowledge that fosters critical reflection, ethical awareness, and intercultural understanding?

What is the purpose of a university education? Is it merely to produce workers? Or is it to create citizens capable of thinking, of questioning, and of contributing to a better society?

Universities must be more than factories churning out credentials. They are—at their best—the guardians of truth, the spaces where difficult conversations take place, and where new ways of thinking can emerge. Indigenous Studies is not a luxury. It is central to this mission.

Suspending admissions to Indigenous Studies, Gender and Women’s Studies, Jewish Studies, and Environmental Biology sends a chilling message: that knowledge which challenges the status quo, that reflects diversity, and that promotes equity is expendable.

These are not neutral decisions. They are political choices, made behind closed doors, without proper consultation. They echo what happened at Laurentian University in 2021—a devastating collapse driven by mismanagement and short-term thinking, in which Indigenous and French-language programs were disproportionately affected. We were told it was a one-off. A tragedy. An outlier. But now York follows suit, and the pattern is becoming clear.

If Ontario’s universities—once proud institutions of critical inquiry—continue to treat education as a product and students as consumers, then other provinces may follow. We risk gutting our universities of their soul. What will remain is an empty shell of academic respectability, serving only corporate interests and political expedience.

I have seen some amazing work at my own university, the University of Ottawa. In the Faculty of Education, we too are under pressure—as is every institution. But we are thinking deeply about our mission, the outcomes we want for our students, and the long-term impact they will have in classrooms once they graduate and become teachers. They must be equipped not only with information, but with the ability to make ethical, informed, and critical decisions. That is the responsibility of any university that takes its mission seriously.

Reconciliation is not a checkbox. It is a long, often uncomfortable journey that demands integrity and sacrifice. Cutting Indigenous programs—especially when course enrolment is strong—shows that for some, reconciliation was only ever about appearances.

But the rest of us must remember what’s truly at stake. This is not just about one program at one university. It is about who we are as a society and what we value. If we believe in the Canada we say we are building—one founded on respect, diversity, and reconciliation—then we must resist these cuts. We must demand that our universities live up to their highest ideals, not their lowest budgets.

Because what we choose to teach—or not teach—tells the next generation who we really are.

https://ici.radio-canada.ca/espaces-autochtones/2149507/universite-york-suspension-etudes-autochtones