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 The airstrip was unusable because it's outdated and lacks modern navigation tools.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.
