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 

 

The Rise and Fall of the Hudson’s Bay Company: A Trickster’s Reflection

The Rise and Fall of the Hudson’s Bay Company: A Trickster’s Reflection

As I sit in my tipi drinking tea with my friend, the Trickster Coyote, this Sunday afternoon, we are surrounded by muskets, beaver pelts, and well-worn utensils. The fire gives off a warm glow, and we talk of the history of our nation and the workers at the local Hudson’s Bay Company fort, many of whom might soon be losing their jobs. Coyote chuckles, his sharp teeth glinting in the firelight, reminding me of the history of Canada and Indigenous peoples.

The Hudson’s Bay Company arrived in Cree (Nêhiyaw) territory over 350 years ago, bringing change, whether we wanted it or not. At first, they said they only wanted to trade—beaver pelts for metal pots, knives, and muskets. The exchange seemed fair. The land was vast, the animals plentiful, and their numbers were few—just a handful of Scotsmen and Englishmen, eager to make their fortunes. But Coyote laughs because he sees the irony of it all. These men who came as guests soon began to act like landlords, claiming the land beneath our feet as their own. They said the land was called Rupert’s Land, named after a prince of England. We call it Askiy.

At first, their presence was strange, but they were traders, and we were traders, too. We did not think of land ownership in the same way; we moved with the seasons, following the rhythm of the earth. But then, in 1812, they brought refugees from Scotland—families fleeing hardship, seeking a new beginning along the Red River. And the trickle became a flood. We wanted to help them, and we did, as we always have. The land they once said they only wanted to trade upon became land they claimed. What was once shared was now fenced. The buffalo herds that had sustained us dwindled, pushed aside by settlers and their cattle. Eventually, the Hudson’s Bay Company said the land had been sold to Canada. Coyote and I laugh at the thought—the audacity!

So we forced them to sign treaties, not with the government, but with the Crown. The Crown rules by the grace of God, and we, the Cree, are here because of Kitchi Manitou. It is unfortunate, but the treaties we signed with the Crown in good faith were often ignored or manipulated, and Canada even created the Indian Act, as enduring as the Hudson’s Bay Company itself. We said we would share the land as long as the sun shines, the grasses grow, and the rivers flow. But those words, sacred to us, were mere formalities to them.

Now, after centuries of dominance, the once-mighty Hudson’s Bay Company is struggling. The company of empire, which once controlled trade routes and dictated policies, now fights to stay afloat. They prioritized profit above all else, and now, they are victims of their own philosophy. Make money at all costs—that was their way. But now, the cost may be their own existence.

Ironically, an offshoot of their old rival, the North West Company, still thrives. It sells food and supplies in remote Indigenous communities, where prices are exorbitant, but demand never fades. They are often the only game in town. Coyote shakes his head, knowing that as long as there is money to be made, someone will always step in to fill the void.

There is a strange sadness in watching an old adversary and friend disappear. We built this country together in ways that history books rarely acknowledge. We gathered at their forts, traded, laughed, married, and sometimes fought. Their blankets and guns became part of our lives, and our furs and skills became part of their wealth. And though the nation we helped build would later betray us, we were there, side by side, from the very beginning.

Now, the Hudson’s Bay Company is but a shadow of its former self. The empire they once claimed is slipping from their grasp, just as they once took the land from us. Coyote grins, knowing that change is constant, that the land endures, and that we, the people of this land, are still here. Perhaps, in the end, that is the greatest irony of all. We will always be here.

The empire has come, the empire has gone,
The Nêhiyawak still stand strong.
We watch over this land with pride,

 

The Power of Spirit: The Story of Morgan Harris and Marcedes Myran

The Power of Spirit: Honoring the Resilience of Indigenous Women and the Fight for Justice.

In life, Morgan Harris and Marcedes Myran were among the many Indigenous women whose voices were often drowned out by a system that valued them less, if at all. These women, from Long Plain First Nation, were seen as powerless by those who refused to recognize their inherent worth. However, after their tragic deaths, their spirits became a force more powerful than anything they could have ever imagined in life. The communities of Winnipeg, particularly Indigenous peoples, ensured that these women’s spirits would not fade into obscurity. They became symbols of resistance, strength, and unity—a movement that refused to allow the injustice of their deaths to go unnoticed.

 

The journey to find Morgan and Marcedes was not an easy one. It was riddled with delays, rejections, and the harsh realities of systemic discrimination. The provincial government of Manitoba, led by the Progressive Conservative party, argued strongly against searching the landfill where the remains of these two women were believed to be. They cited many concerns about the feasibility of the search and the safety of those involved, but for many, this refusal was about money and the unwillingness of the government to spend resources on people they saw as less worthy. Many said that if the victims were women of European heritage, the landfill would have been torn apart. This is a stark reflection of how Indigenous lives are treated as disposable.

 

In their grief, Morgan’s and Marcedes’ families were subjected to trauma after trauma, as governments (federal, provincial, and municipal) repeatedly turned them away. The refusal to search the landfill felt like a betrayal, a denial of the very humanity of the women whose lives had been taken so violently.

 

But despite this, the spirits of these two women would not be silenced. The resistance from the Indigenous communities was unwavering. The efforts to locate their remains became a collective fight for justice and dignity. In June 2024, I had the privilege of attending a powwow at the search site, the city dump where the remains were believed to be. It was an emotional day—people from all walks of life were there, showing up in solidarity. Tipis were erected, and a sense of community permeated the air. I stood among the people in my military uniform, part of the Grand Entry as a veteran, an act of support for the families and their ongoing fight. It was unfortunate, but no police officers attended, leaving the families to continue the fight alone. You need to be there in tough times too. 

 

While the provincial government continued to drag its feet, the election of Wab Kinew as the first First Nations Premier of Manitoba in 2023 marked a turning point. Under his leadership, the excavation of the landfill began, and in February 2025, the remains of Morgan Harris were found. It was a bittersweet victory, a moment that brought relief to the family but also underscored the years of delay that had been inflicted on them. And yet, there was still work to be done. The search for Marcedes Myran and the other victims continues, and the fight for justice is far from over.

 

Elder Geraldine Shingoose, an activist has been a steady source of support for the families throughout this journey. She was there at every ceremony, offering guidance and strength. Her words resonate deeply: “Indigenous women are important. They have daughters, they have cousins, they have sisters, they are grandmothers… no one should have stayed in that landfill that long.” She reminds us that this fight is not just for Morgan and Marcedes—it is for all Indigenous women who have been subjected to violence and systemic neglect.

 

While we are still in the early stages of healing, the fight for justice continues. The journey of Morgan Harris and Marcedes Myran is not just their own. It is the story of every Indigenous person who has had to fight for recognition, dignity, and justice in a world that has too often ignored them.

 

What is worse, death at the hands of a serial killer or being ignored by society and the justice systems made to protect you?

 

Let us honour their spirits by continuing the fight for a better future, where no one is left behind, and where every life is valued.

https://ici.radio-canada.ca/espaces-autochtones/2147045/femmes-autochtones-tuees-discrimination 

 Open Letter to Prime Minister Justin Trudeau

(with copies to Grand Chief Cindy Woodhouse and all concerned parties)

Dear Prime Minister Trudeau,

I write to you in these final days of being Prime Minister, with a new Liberal leader soon to be chosen on March 9th and a general election likely to follow. It has been a remarkable nine years, but time is running short, and there is an urgent matter that must be fully resolved now, rather than left to the uncertainties of a new government. That matter is the long-overdue resolution of the First Nations child welfare dispute—a cause that has persisted under your leadership, with First Nations communities and, above all, their children still awaiting justice.

Much progress has been made, yet despite a potentially historic $47.8-billion proposal to overhaul on-reserve child welfare services, the process remains tangled in legal and political challenges. The Assembly of First Nations (AFN) Chiefs rejected the initial proposal and established the National Children’s Chiefs Commission (NCCC), chaired by Chief Pauline Frost of Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation, to reset negotiations. Canada, however, refuses to meet with the NCCC. Minister of Indigenous Services Patty Hajdu has stated there is “confusion” around the roles of the AFN and the NCCC. Meanwhile, the AFN insists it has clearly communicated that the NCCC should lead negotiations. This standoff directly harms children, families, and communities.

As Elders have often counseled me, kisēwātisiwinihk—speaking and acting from the heart—must guide our decisions. When I served as an MP under your leadership, I received a call from your office during the 2019 election, asking me not to speak publicly about the lawsuit involving First Nations children. I was assured it would be resolved as soon as the election ended. Yet another five years have passed, prolonging injustice. I pray I was not wrong. 

Meanwhile, the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal (CHRT) continues to uphold its 2016 finding that Canada’s child welfare system is discriminatory. Some chiefs, like Derek Nepinak of Minegoziibe Anishinabe, want an “opt-in” clause; others support the new NCCC. Even AFN National Chief Cindy Woodhouse Nepinak faces criticism from regional chiefs who question her closeness to your government.

Amid these political and legal disputes, we risk losing sight of who matters most: the children. They face the damaging consequences of an underfunded, inequitable system—conditions reminiscent of the tragedies once perpetuated by residential schools. Rather than cooperation, letters and legal motions circulate among your ministers, the AFN, the NCCC, and the First Nations Child and Family Caring Society. When the only real mandate should be the well-being of First Nations children, we see endless conflict.

With a leadership transition looming, and a possible new government on the horizon, we cannot assume a Conservative administration would uphold this settlement. If we wait, these children will remain entangled in legal battles instead of receiving the support they deserve—another tragic echo of past injustices. After nine years of litigation, the time to finish this work is now. I know you are busy with President Trump and trade disputes, but the AFN’s office is within walking distance—close enough for face-to-face conversation. The chiefs did not reject your proposal out of personal dislike; they carry decades of distrust toward government. They need a legally words written on your official paper as witness that First Nations peoples have full responsibility for their children.

A lasting solution demands compassion and humility from all sides. While details are important, Elders remind us not to be paralyzed by the quest to be “100% right.” Instead, we should honor kisēwātisiwinihk—acting from humanity and justice. It is time to address systemic inequities.

We may not, at this moment, eliminate the Indian Act or guarantee clean water for every First Nation. Yet we can take a decisive step by concluding this settlement now—before your term ends. Let it stand as a testament to reconciliation in action. If your chapter of leadership is closing, end it with clarity and respect, ensuring First Nations children receive the fairness they deserve. When historians reflect on your final days, let them see you standing up and saying every child matters.

Sincerely,
Robert-Falcon Ouellette
Former Member of Parliament

cc:

• Grand Chief Cindy Woodhouse (National Chief, Assembly of First Nations)
• Chief Pauline Frost (Chair, National Children’s Chiefs Commission)
• Cindy Blackstock (First Nations Child and Family Caring Society)
• All Concerned Parties