This piece was originally published in the IndigiNews newsletter.

You may have seen that IndigiNews recently published two versions of a story about Buffalo rematriation on the plains — one in English, and one in nêhiyawêwin — in collaboration with our friends at The Narwhal.

This project has been a highlight of the past year (and ever!) at IndigiNews, and I wanted to give a bit more context about how it all came together.

It was back in the summertime when I got a call from Narwhal editor Michelle Cyca: She wanted to team up with IndigiNews on a story about Buffalo. The idea was amazing — to send Métis writer and photographer Kayla MacInnis on a road trip to visit sites where Buffalo populations are being restored.

“It’s really been a dream to do a big beautiful story about Buffalo and their significance on our homelands,” Michelle said.

“Just a really hopeful story about how we are seeing Buffalo return and what it means for the land and the people. So it felt just really special to see this story come together.”

Over eight days in August, Kayla travelled across the prairies, conducting interviews and photographing Buffalo. The trip resulted in a sprawling feature that IndigiNews and the Narwhal co-published in October.

Travelling the Buffalo road: Indigenous nations are rematriating bison to the prairies

“At the end of the day this felt different than the stories I’m used to writing,” Kayla explained. 

“It was a collective effort that highlighted something that matters so much to our community.”

Originally, we wanted to publish two versions of the piece at the same time: one in English, and one in nêhiyawêwin. We knew that since the story was about revitalization, that utilizing the language of the land it was reported from only felt right.

A solitary bison grazes peacefully in the golden grasses of the National Bison Range. Photo: Kayla MacInnis / The Narwhal

In an ideal world, every story we publish would be shared in the original language of the place it came from. But bringing Indigenous languages that have been deliberately extinguished back into use takes effort, time and cost. And in the end, we needed to take extra time to allow the process to unfold.

After Cree language holder Dorothy Thunder translated the text of the story, IndigiNews publisher Eden Fineday travelled to amiskwaciywâskahikan (Edmonton) where Dorothy is based, and spent an entire day recording her narrating the piece.

“It was such a privilege to spend time with a Cree language speaker, and Dorothy was so gracious and kind,” Eden said.

“It took a lot of work for her to do that, like a lot of energy for her to read that whole story. Most sentences had to be read two or three times.”

e-pimohtâtamihk paskwâw mostos meskanaw

Eden, who herself has been on a journey to learn nêhiyawêwin, spent many hours editing the audio featured in the story. She said she couldn’t help but think about all the generations before who had to fight to hold on to their Indigenous languages, “and now it’s our job to fight to learn them.”

“That’s why I think this Buffalo story is so special because it’s just given us this opportunity,” she said. 

“It’s bringing something that most people might consider old; and it’s actually become new.”

After all, we weren’t just highlighting sources who came from a culture of Buffalo and nêhiyawêwin. The entire editorial team who worked on this piece — from the writer, to the editors, to the publisher and translator — come from that culture, too. Each one of us are Cree and/or Métis from the prairies, and hold nêhiyawêwin as an ancestral language.

Creating a version of this story in nêhiyawêwin is about more than just accessibility of the language. It’s about full-circle storytelling. Whenever someone is telling a story from their own culture and lands, something very special happens — and to have an entire team who have this connection was transformational.

“It’s probably the only collaboration like this, honestly, where four people in journalism who all have this ancestral language have collaborated to bring a story like this to life,” Michelle said.

“It feels incredible and really significant.”

A Buffalo herd grazes in the mixed grass prairie grassland at Elk Island National Park, surrounded by smooth blue aster and goldenrod. Ninety per cent of the prairie biome consists of roots below the soil’s surface, and grazing by Buffalo promotes the growth of wildflowers within the grassland. Photo: Kayla MacInnis / The Narwhal

I feel so lucky to work with a team of women who deeply understand the dimensions of this subject; after all, the language is deeply linked to the land, which is linked to the Buffalo, which are linked to the people and on and on.

“I feel like we honoured our ancestors and the land and these Indigenous futures and histories,” Kayla said, “because time is not linear and it all exists at once, and it felt like the story was all past and present and future in one.”

It took us until just a few days ago to bring the nêhiyawêwin story into the world, and it definitely felt different than any other story.

When I first heard the recording of Dorothy speaking the story in Cree, and saw the words between Kayla’s stunning photos of the Buffalo, I felt so many emotions well up inside me. It turns out that Kayla, Michelle and Eden all had the same experience, too.

“Scrolling through the story while listening to Dorothy’s voice is a really special experience,” Michelle said.

“I hope that people — even if they don’t know any Cree at all — will take the time just to listen to it and connect to the story on that level. Hear the language that the Buffalo were hearing hundreds of years ago when they were moving across the plains.”

We’ve all felt the magic of this story, cried happy tears, poured love and care into it — and we hope that our readers will feel that, too.

“I also think it’s a really powerful example of what happens when you give Indigenous women editorial control,” Eden said.

“It’s an amazing example of collaboration and just a beautiful experience of reciprocity. This story has given us the opportunity to practice our cultural values around kinship and reciprocity and I’m grateful for that.”

The Narwhal’s reporters are telling environment stories you won’t read about anywhere else. Stay in the loop by signing up for our free weekly dose of independent journalism.

This piece was originally published in the IndigiNews newsletter.

IndigiNews has won our first National Newspaper Award, sharing the honour with our friends at The Narwhal for a story we collaborated on in 2023.

Not only was it a first-time win in this venue for both of our outlets (The Narwhal also won a second award later that night!) but IndigiNews became the first Indigenous media outlet to receive an NNA since the awards began in 1949.

The story was a long feature that was co-reported by myself (Cara McKenna) and The Narwhal’s Matt Simmons, with photos by Marty Clemens. Together, we reported on the rematriation of a Nisg̱a’a totem pole from a Scottish museum and its journey back to its home territories.

The piece, and accompanying first person story, won in the Arts and Entertainment category. I was so happy that both Matt and I were there to accept the award during the gala in “Toronto” — working on this story together has been such a special experience from start to finish.

The Wilps Ni’isjoohl memorial pole was welcomed home with a ceremony at Nisg̱a’a in September of 2023. Photo: Marty Clemens / The Narwhal

The collaboration on this story was born because, last summer, I was on my way to Scotland to attend a wedding. A few weeks before I was set to leave, I got a press release to my email from the Nisg̱a’a Lisims Government indicating that a delegation from the nation was set to visit the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh that August. The family would carry out a closed ceremony to prepare the Wilps Ni’isjoohl memorial pole for its journey back to Nisg̱a’a. 

The fact that I would also be in Edinburgh around this same time felt like a beautiful coincidence, since I had been following the story about the totem pole’s rematriation since 2020, when I first heard Sigidimnaḵ’ Nox̱s Ts’aawit (Amy Parent) and her family were working towards its return.

So I reached out to The Narwhal’s “B.C.” bureau lead Lindsay Sample — who formerly worked with us at IndigiNews — and Matt Simmons (who lives up north near Nisg̱a’a homelands) to see if they would be open to collaborating with us on a sprawling feature story about the rematriation, and everything gelled into place beautifully for us to work together.

I can’t say enough good things about working with this team, and in particular Matt who inspired me with his deeply respectful, gentle and kind approach to storytelling.

While Matt and Marty were up in Nisg̱a’a territories, there was an accident that resulted in a breach of protocol, which was a serious matter and resulted in the story’s publication being delayed while we sorted things out. After discussing things with Nox̱s Ts’aawit, she suggested that we talk about what happened in a transparent way so it could become a learning experience for others.

I’m so grateful for her guidance on this matter, and also cultural guidance more generally in reporting of this story. I think as journalists we often expect others to be accountable, but aren’t necessarily always accountable for our own mistakes, and it was exactly the right call to share what occurred and issue a public apology.

A mistake is a gift: decolonizing journalism includes missteps and teachings

At the NNA gala, several other journalists approached me to say that they had read the reflection piece, and that they had also taken away lessons from it for their own practice when working within Indigenous communities. Matt and I both agreed that this in itself was just as special as receiving the award was — it’s so beautiful to see the tide turning in our industry as journalists increasingly acknowledge the importance of decolonizing our practice.

Seeing independent outlets like ours recognized on this prestigious stage amid industry giants like The Globe and Mail, Toronto Star and Canadian Press is huge and speaks to how powerful we can be when we work together. Both IndigiNews and The Narwhal do journalism from a unique lens and we don’t have a large amount of resources — relying on support from our readers like you in order to keep going.

As The Narwhal’s editor in chief Emma Gilchrist said, this night marked “a sea change in the Canadian news industry, with several upstart, trailblazing news organizations winning awards this year.”

To everyone who supports IndigiNews, The Narwhal and other independent media — thank you. This award is just as much a win for all of you as it is for us.

The Narwhal’s reporters are telling environment stories you won’t read about anywhere else. Stay in the loop by signing up for our free weekly dose of independent journalism.

This story is a collaboration between The Narwhal and IndigiNews.

Under a protective blanket of low clouds, the Wilps Ni’isjoohl memorial pole returned to Nisg̱a’a territory almost a century after it was stolen in 1929. Imbued with the spirits of ancestors and carved with the crests of names that live on today, the pts’aan (pole) is more than an object — it is an ancestor. Its return to Nisg̱a’a lands was observed with comparable ceremony and protocol for bringing home a loved one who passed.

In Lax̱g̱alts’ap, a few kilometres from where it once stood in the village of Ank’idaa on the banks of Ḵ’alii Aksim Lisims (Nass River), the clouds drifted away and the ancestor breathed Nisg̱a’a air and felt the warmth of the late September sun. An eagle flew slowly across the valley and ravens watched from the surrounding forest as family from Wilps (House) Ni’isjoohl of the G̱anada (raven/frog) clan gathered to celebrate with other citizens of the Nisg̱a’a Nation and guests.

Four Nisg̱a’a villages sit along K‘alii Aksim Lisims (Nass River). The Wilps Ni’isjoohl memorial pole was originally raised in Ank’idaa, a few kilometres from Lax̱g̱alts’ap. Map: Shawn Parkinson / The Narwhal

Nisg̱a’a Matriarch Joanna Moody was around 25 years old in 1860 when she commissioned the pole to honour her relative who died defending Nisg̱a’a lands. 

“She undertook her leadership at one of the worst times of genocide that we’ve experienced as Nisg̱a’a peoples,” Sigidimnaḵ’ Nox̱s Ts’aawit (Amy Parent) said of her ancestral grandmother. “She also had to undertake her leadership during a time of great grief as she was called upon to erect this memorial pole to honour Ts’waawit, our family member.”

It took around a year for the carver, Oyee, and his assistant, Gwanes, to complete the pole, during which time Joanna Moody housed and fed both, a sign of her wealth and power — derived from the richness of the land and the river that annually brought saak (oolichan) and salmon up from the coast to villages along its banks. Carved from a giant red cedar that Oyee chose from its towering peers in what’s sometimes now called the Nass Valley, the pole depicts several figures, including a raven associated with the G̱anada clan. The hat of the pole is encircled with four rings, commemorating the number of feasts held by the former house chief. 

Finally home, the ancestor breathed Nisg̱a’a air and felt the warmth of the sun, as Nisg̱a’a Nation citizens and guests gathered to celebrate its return.

An educator who works in Nisg̱a’a language and cultural revitalization, Nox̱s Ts’aawit is a descendant of Moody, who lived to 115. She said holding four feasts, particularly during that time period, signified the great wealth of the wilps (house.) At every feast, the chief and family give gifts to everyone seated in the feast hall, honouring their role as witnesses. This is true today. 

The pole’s creation was rooted in grief and kwhlix̱hoosa’anskw (respect). But respect was not what it received when it collided with colonization.  

In 1929, Canadian anthropologist Marius Barbeau took the pole from the Nisg̱a’a village of Ank’idaa and shipped it to the National Museum of Scotland.

Museum records indicate that Barbeau was commissioned by the institution to purchase the pole for $600. Though these colonial documents show a sale by a Matriarch from the House of Ni’isjoohl, that signature is believed to have been falsified since it contradicts the family’s oral history, according to the Nisg̱a’a. 

The family says the pole was stolen by Barbeau with the permission of the Government of Canada during the summertime, when people in the village were away for an annual fishing, hunting and food harvesting season.

“This pts’aan left Ank’idaa and it left under a terrible situation because it was removed without the consent of our community, without the consent of the family,” Apdii Laxha, Andrew Robinson, said. He helped bring the pole home in his role as the former chief administrative officer of the Nisg̱a’a Village of Lax̱g̱alts’ap. “It encountered horrendous weather and … storms where some of the poles that were wrapped up with it were lost.” 

Trafficking totem poles during this era was often done without consent, something that is highlighted in field notes from Barbeau and others involved with taking totem poles — which colonial officials described as “specimens.”

Barbeau had a special affinity for the Nass Valley and for Nisg̱a’a in particular, viewing the carvers from the nation as “on the whole the best in the country,” according to his writings. Though he recognized the significance of the Wilps Ni’isjoohl memorial pole to Nisg̱a’a, having spent time studying their protocols, that didn’t stop him from removing it. 

Barbeau’s entire career took place during the Potlatch Ban, a federal law first enacted in 1885 that made potlatching and raising totem poles illegal for 67 years. Barbeau was known for “preserving” the existing northwest coast totem poles during this time — then seen by colonizers as a dying artform — by taking them from Indigenous village sites and distributing them to museums. 

“Nearly all the Nass River poles by now have been purchased and removed by the author for various institutions in Canada, the United States, Great Britain and France,” he boasts in the first of his two-volume book Totem Poles, published in 1950.

“The art of totem-pole carving,” he once declared, “now wholly belongs to the past.”

Transporting the towering poles from the remote Nass Valley to museums was no simple task, and often involved cutting them in pieces where they could more easily be floated downriver and later be moved by ship and rail.

When it came to the Wilps Ni’isjoohl memorial pole, the Scottish museum received the pole “in one piece, except for the upper extremity, and certain projecting portions, which have been carved separately and fitted on,” according to a 1931 note from a curator.

It’s now believed by museum staff that the pole was coated with a protective paint so it could be floated down K’alii Aksim Lisims and transported to Edinburgh, where it arrived at the museum in 1930 and remained until its return this September.

The Lax̱g̱alts’ap Cultural Dancers commemorated the return of the ancestor with songs and dances.

Members of the four Nisg̱a’a pdeek (tribes/clans) — G̱anada (Raven/Frog), Laxgibuu (Wolf/Bear), Gisk’aast (Killer Whale/Owl) and Laxsgiik (Eagle/Beaver) — gathered to observe ceremony.

The National Museum of Scotland stands in the centre of Edinburgh — a landmark among the many ornate buildings in the city. Nearby looms the historic Edinburgh Castle, housing royal jewels that were recently presented to King Charles III following his coronation.

Prior to returning the pole, the museum’s staff set about readying the space in order for a group from Nisg̱a’a to gather and follow protocol to prepare the pole for its journey home.

Exhibited alongside the pole were various other Indigenous belongings; the museum has an extensive collection from North America, Australia, the Arctic and beyond. But on an August day shortly before the Nisg̱a’a group’s arrival, many of their cases were wrapped in plastic or boarded up for protection, in preparation for the totem pole’s imminent departure.

It was a bright summer day, and bagpipers played outside of the museum, their sound singing out as tourists crowded the streets for the popular annual Fringe Festival. But inside, it was quiet and calm as John Giblin — who oversees the museum’s department of global arts, cultures and design — looked up at the totem pole.

Adjacent to the main hall, the 11-metre pts’aan towered over the gallery as a stunning centrepiece. 

Giblin, a courteous man in a well-fitted suit, explained it’s the first totem pole to ever be returned to a First Nation from a United Kingdom museum, calling it an “incredibly significant” moment for both Nisg̱a’a and the National Museum of Scotland.

This return could set a precedent for more returns of cultural items from the United Kingdom and Europe, where other totem poles and many more stolen Indigenous belongings ended up. 

A totem pole typically weighs one tonne, and Giblin explained that moving such a large and aged item in one piece is “quite a feat in terms of the logistics.”

“It’s been on display in the museum since 1930,” he said. “The museum’s kind of been built around it in many respects, in different ways. It’s not that easy to actually move the pole out through the museum.”

Giblin said that the museum contracted a company to build scaffolding around the pole and a cradle beneath, “so there is no weight or pressure going on the actual surface of the pole.” Then, it will be gently lowered horizontally and rolled on a trolley through the museum’s underground gallery and outside. The last leg of the journey is by air; the Canadian military organized its flight home.

The Wilps Ni’isjoohl memorial pole stood in the National Museum of Scotland for more than 90 years. Photo: Neil Hanna

Saying goodbye to the pole and bringing it to the next phase of its life in Nisg̱a’a homelands, Giblin said, feels right.

“It’s been beneficial for many, many generations of Scottish public and international visitors that have come to see it and learn, but its place now is back home in the Nass Valley,” he said.

“[With] many, many generations of the Nisg̱a’a community who have been separated from it for such a long time.”

When an earlier Nisg̱a’a delegation first asked for the pole’s return in the early 1990s, they were told it was too fragile to be moved. Yet, as Nox̱s Ts’aawit found out, it was later moved to accommodate renovations at the museum.

“That made me very angry,” she said.

“It’s our ancestor, our great-great grandmother,” Sim’oogit Ni’isjoohl (Chief Earl Stevens) said. “We had to get her back on her home soil.”

In 2022, Sim’oogit Ni’isjoohl, Nox̱s Ts’aawit and other Nisg̱a’a leaders went back to Scotland to tell the museum directors they wanted the pole returned. 

“We went in with much uncertainty, but with even more determination,” Nox̱s Ts’aawit said. “And I truly believe that we went in with one of the biggest strengths that we have as Nisg̱a’a people. We went in with our hearts and our minds working as one in unity together.”

“It’s our ancestor, our great-great grandmother,” Sim’oogit Ni’isjoohl said, explaining why it was so important for the pole to return to Nisg̱a’a soil.

Nox̱s Ts’aawit said all Nisg̱a’a have been impacted by the Indian Act, as she stood with generations of Matriarchs beside her for strength. “It’s a process that we’re still working on healing through. That’s why today is so important.” 

The Scottish museum, Giblin said, has been putting a larger focus on reconciling the institution’s colonial legacies in recent years — which has included updating displays and labels to address historical biases and updating research behind the scenes. In some cases, those discussions result in returning items in the collection to their original owners.

When the museum eventually agreed to give the pole back to Nisg̱a’a in December 2022, they still had to figure out how to get it safely home.

Andrew Robinson was part of the 2022 delegation. While in Scotland, the group travelled to the University of St. Andrews where Nox̱s Ts’aawit gave a lecture. On their way back to Edinburgh, Sim’oogit Ni’isjoohl said they needed to stop and pause for a moment on Nisg̱a’a lands. 

“We stopped at McDonald’s,” Robinson said, laughing. “We’re Nisg̱a’a, it’s part of our territory.”

While they were inside, the building started shaking. 

“We heard this big rumble and we were sitting there going, ‘Oh, what’s that?’ We’ve seen these big fighter jets taking off from St Andrews Air Force base and Earl looks at Amy and goes, ‘Wonder if those are Canadian? Maybe we could get the totem pole on that and they could just fly it home,’ ” he said.

“That’s exactly what happened.”

After supporters in Ottawa reached out to the federal government, the Canadian military agreed it would support the rematriation and worked with the Nisg̱a’a delegation to make arrangements.

Members of the Canadian military who helped facilitate the transport of the pole joined the crowd in celebrating the return of the ancestor.

Less than a year later, the Nisg̱a’a delegation visited Edinburgh again, this time to bring the ancestor home. On August 28, a closed ceremony was carried out to put the pts’aan to sleep in preparation for its journey out of the institution and into the belly of a military plane.

To see the pole off, the Nisg̱a’a leaders gathered with officials from the museum and the Scottish government, and also requested that a group of Scottish children be present to share their culture — reminding them to hold the story for future generations.

“We felt it was important to emphasize to the Scottish people we were interacting with … our shared history of colonization,” Nox̱s Ts’aawit said. “We understand that we have some common experiences with the British and what it means to try to free ourselves from these colonial shackles.”

Scottish people have also historically experienced dispossession at the hands of the English — such as the infamous Stone of Scone, an ancient sandstone artifact that was stolen during the English invasion of Scotland in 1296. The British government returned the stone to Scotland in 1996.

Nox̱s Ts’aawit explained that although these shared histories created a path forward, it wasn’t an easy process, and included some misunderstandings and cultural clashes along the way. However, the two parties have managed to meet in the middle and set a new precedent.

In February, Giblin and the museum’s head of collections Chanté St Clair Inglis travelled to Nisg̱a’a territory to directly experience the culture. Nox̱s Ts’aawit humorously recalled Inglis driving a big Ford pickup truck “on the wrong side of the road” and Giblin participating in a totem pole raising ceremony “in the freezing cold” without proper snow gear.

Bringing Giblin and Inglis to Nisg̱a’a territory bridged a divide in a way that couldn’t be done without a connection to the land and the stewards of that land.

“They saw where we came from, they felt the relationships, they saw our culture and that we weren’t just a totem pole or something behind a piece of glass,” Nox̱s Ts’aawit said. “They saw hundreds of us, thousands of us dancing, and they saw all these different aspects of who we are. And then people started talking to them. And they understood how much it meant to us.” 

“There’s always going to be a clash, when we’re engaging with settler colonial institutions and their worldviews,” she added.

To challenge those worldviews and push back against colonial and patriarchal ideas, she said they consciously chose to use the word rematriation. It also just made more sense — Nisg̱a’a society is matrilineal.

After the pole arrived in the town of Terrace, it was driven in a family procession through a winding valley onto Nisg̱a’a lands and to the village of Lax̱g̱altsʼap. The pole was held in a protective box but opened to the air and sun during the public arrival ceremony on Sept. 29. The pole was raised inside the Nisg̱a’a Museum in early October and is available for the public to view until the end of the month.

Around 260 years ago, a volcanic eruption from Wil Ksi-Baxhl Mihl created the Laxmihl (lava beds), destroying two Nisg̱a’a villages and killing more than 2,000 people. The vast lava beds serve as a memorial to those who lost their lives.

The pole was returned to the village of Lax̱g̱alts’ap, a few kilometres from where it was originally raised in Ank’idaa.

At the ceremony, two kids jogged after their dad as he walked to get something from their truck.

“You’re a wolf — why are we frogs?” one of the kids asked.

“You follow your mother’s clan, that’s why,” their dad replied.

“The more that we learned about the story and about our ancestral grandmother and her strength and everything that she did in her time, it seemed ill-fitting to call it repatriation,” Nox̱s Ts’aawit explained. “Recognizing that we are a matrilineal society, it’s important for us to return to that and also to look at the complexity of what that means now in a modern era, after the residues of the Indian Act.”

She said reclaiming this identity is part of a healing process. 

“It requires all of us — our men, our women, our Two Spirit — working together to create balance by honouring each other’s roles and responsibilities and supporting our children.”

At a feast held by Wilps Ni’isjoohl following the ceremony, Sim’oogit Duuḵ’ also highlighted the importance of language. 

“Artifacts belong to extinct civilizations,” he said. “We are not extinct.”

Eva Clayton, president of Nisg̱a’a Lisims Government who holds the name Sigidimnaḵ’ Yats’, called the moment historic. 

“It brings a lot of emotions to our nation, emotions that are filled with happiness, filled with grief, filled with tears,” she said. “We’re so very happy to have our ancestor home. We are on a journey together to show the world what reconciliation in action looks like.”

Completed in the mid-1800s by Nisg̱a’a carver, Oyee, and his assistant, Gwanes, the pole depicts several figures, crests and names that live today.

The pole was returned with an understanding that once it was back on Nisg̱a’a lands, the family would make decisions for its future.

Theresa Schrober, director of the Nisg̱a’a Museum, said this is an important distinction, explaining the museum has over 300 cultural belongings that have been returned by settler institutions — but those returns were conditional. 

“The nation was required to construct a … facility to house those belongings,” she said, standing under a pole that was returned from the Royal BC Museum in Victoria after the Nisg̱a’a Museum was built in 2011. “That is very much a reach into the future: ‘we’ll return but we’re not letting go.’ It’s shrouded in a colonial way of thinking about how those belongings need to be conserved, treated, the kind of space they need to be in.”

She said the only condition Scotland included in the final negotiations was the pole had to go to a “like institution.” 

“Should the family have made other choices, the museum would have facilitated those other choices,” she said. “That is really critical because I think it’s a learning moment for other institutions, about respecting that the people whose belongings they have should be making the decisions about those belongings’ care and futures, and that they should not be infiltrated with the belief systems of the people that were inappropriately housing them for all that time.”

The rematriation of the Wilps Ni’isjoohl pole from a European institution was preceded by the return of the Xenaksiala/Haisla Gʼpsgolox pole from Sweden in 2006. That, too, had conditions attached initially. 

The pole was to be returned only if the nation could house it in a climate-controlled building — something that didn’t exist, nor did the funding to build one. After the family of Gʼpsgolox offered to carve a replica pole for the Stockholm museum, the Swedish negotiators eventually conceded the original. After spending six years in Kitimaat Village, the pole was taken back to the Xenaksiala village of Misk’usa, where it was first raised and where it is slowly returning to the land.

Finally home, the Wilps Ni’isjoohl memorial pole was draped with cedar boughs, welcomed and honoured by its kin. The family decided the pole would live at the Hli G̱oothl Wilp-Adoḵshl Nisg̱a’a (Heart of Nisg̱a’a House Crests, also known as the Nisg̱a’a Museum) where it will stand in soil gathered from Ank’idaa.  

Sim’oogit Luudisdoos walked slowly forward to stand next to the pts’aan as he shared a song and said a prayer.   

“We’re gathered here on such a special occasion to bring healing to our people,” he said, his clear voice wavering with emotion. “This is one of our ancestors that has been brought home and all our ancestors are here today.”

“Great spirits, grandmothers, grandfathers: so grateful for bringing us together in a good way with a good open heart and open mind. Guide us well.”

Nox̱s Ts’aawit said when news of the ancestor’s return was announced on the Wilps Ni’isjoohl Facebook page, house members began sharing emotional responses. “They started posting pictures of their family members who [had] passed away and talking about how their mom had been a Matriarch or their father had had a specific role in our house, and how they never had the chance to know that this was going to happen, they never got to see the pole. There’s a lot of grief, but also pride, in terms of thinking about our family members and how proud they would be to know that we’ve done this.”

The day after the ceremony and feast celebrating the pole’s return, community members gathered on a street outside a house in Lax̱g̱alts’ap to honour a family member who had passed away. When someone dies, the house holds a settlement feast and, roughly one year later, the headstone that was created for them is taken to the graveyard and a stone moving feast is held.  

To accommodate the return of the ancestor, stone movings and feasts had been postponed. Now, with many of the same Simgigat (Chiefs) and Sigidimhaanaḵ’ (Matriarchs) who spoke at the ceremony standing in the cold outside the house, proper protocol was observed. One by one, each Sim’oogit walked up to the headstone and spoke softly in the Nisg̱a’a language as kids, aunties and uncles, cousins and friends listened.

Later, standing in a temporary tent set up to protect the pole before it’s raised in the museum, Nox̱s Ts’aawit spoke about the deep connections between the ancestor and the Nisg̱a’a today. 

“Many of the crests on here represent particular names in our house,” she said, gently resting her hand on the pole. “Those names are tied to pieces of land that are within what we call our ango’oskw, our house territory. In each generation, these names are passed down so the names never die, the people do and the people get replaced. We are living descendants of these names that are carved in this pole.”

For the Nisg̱a’a, she said, bringing the ancestor home is the first part of a long journey.

“In the spiritual realm, I don’t know what that’s going to mean,” Nox̱s Ts’aawit said. “I think it’s going to mean a gift in terms of our healing. I think there will be a transformation. But I don’t know what that’s going to feel like until we go through it.”

Until then, she’s relieved the pole made it safely home.

“Welcome home, dear ancestor. It’s been a journey.”

During the reporting of this story, The Narwhal’s Matt Simmons and photographer, Marty Clemens, made a mistake that resulted in a breach of protocol. Protocol specifies no one but family members of Wilps (House) Ni’isjoohl is allowed to touch the ancestor. While taking photos of the ancestor from above, the ladder Marty was standing on gave out and he fell, touching the pole. We are working with Nox̱s Ts’aawit and Wilps Ni’isjoohl to make things right. For transparency and teaching, we wrote about what happened and why it’s important for journalists to decolonize their work.

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This story is published courtesy of the Guardian as part of the ongoing series This Land is Your Land.

After a violent clash over lobster fishing on Canada’s east coast last year, a First Nations Chief says he will request United Nations peacekeepers to keep his people safe on the water this summer – predicting tensions will reach a boiling point.

When the Sipekne’katik First Nation sought to harvest lobster outside of the fishing season defined by federal authorities, commercial harvesters launched a series of protests that turned physical when traps were removed, harvesters assaulted and lobster pounds vandalized.

The conflict was a microcosm of a larger trend of Indigenous communities attempting to uphold their historic rights to manage, harvest and sell fish in Canada.

The Sipekne’katik Chief, Mike Sack, said his First Nation is moving forward with plans to again open a self-regulated lobster fishery in Nova Scotia this June in defiance of the commercial season enforced by Canada’s fisheries department.

“We’re going to send a letter off to the United Nations and hope that they can come and keep the peace … and just ensure that our people are not mistreated,” Sack said during a press conference last week.

Sipekne’katik first opened its self-regulated lobster fishery in St Mary’s Bay last September, citing their right to support themselves through fishing under a treaty from the 1700s. This right was affirmed in a Supreme Court of Canada case more than two decades ago and interpreted as a right to fish for a “moderate livelihood,” although that has never been properly defined.

In a statement this March, the fisheries minister, Bernadette Jordan, was supportive of rights to a moderate livelihood fishery, but said all lobster fisheries must operate within the established season, ending in May, for conservation reasons.

“All harvesters will see an increased and coordinated federal presence on water and on land this spring, including fishery officers, supported by Canadian coast guard vessels,” her statement said, in part.

“Fishery officers have the difficult job of enforcing the Fisheries Act equally to all harvesters, in very complex and evolving conditions.”

Read more: How an Indigenous fishery is charting a new path forward amid Nova Scotia’s lobster wars

Sack said working in those established bounds has not worked for Sipekne’katik, and noted that while the commercial fishery only employs about 20 to 25 people from the community, the self-regulated fishery could employ as many as 200. He said the community will offer to return its nine existing commercial lobster licenses and will move forward with its plans for its own fishery.

“Once [Minister Jordan] came out and said no fishing out of season, to me she empowered commercial fisherman. What happened last year, it’s going to be a lot worse,” Sack said.

“The biggest thing we’re trying to do is have it so our people can fish and come out of poverty without being in danger,” he said. “The species are the last thing we want to harm, it’s not going to happen, our ancestors wouldn’t be happy with us.”

Sipekne’katik’s plan includes launching its own “extensive” conservation studies to ensure lobster stocks stay healthy, he said. Megan Bailey, a marine scientist with Dalhousie University, will be leading that research in coming months.

She said her team will focusing on collecting data about lobster populations between June and November – outside the commercial fishing season. She said there are also plans to look at best practices in places such as Maine where lobster fishing does take place year-round.

“I think what happened last fall, no one wants to see,” she said.

“So how do we have collaborative coexistence of a commercial and a treaty fishery? In [St Mary’s Bay] specifically, but I think this is obviously a much larger conversation.”

Meanwhile, the Unified Fisheries Conservation Alliance, a group of commercial fishery stakeholders in Atlantic Canada, put out a statement that said it is “concerned” by Sipekne’katik’s plan.

“[The Department of Fisheries and Oceans] has hundreds of dedicated and respected fisheries and conservation scientists and invests millions of dollars annually to underpin the science-based rules and regulations that govern the sustainability of fisheries,” it said.

“UFCA will continue to advocate for the government of Canada to maintain clear, lasting, responsible regulatory oversight for all fisheries.”

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This story is published courtesy of the Guardian as part of the ongoing series This Land is Your Land.

First Nations and conservationists are warning that Pacific herring populations are “collapsing” off Canada’s western coast, and are appealing for a moratorium on commercial fishing until the critical species can rebuild.

Emmie Page, a marine campaigner with the organization Pacific Wild, said in the past, five large commercial herring fisheries opened each year on the coast.

“Four have since closed because they have very little to no spawn,” she said.

A recent report by Pacific Wild concludes that the Pacific herring fishery is unsustainable and warns that if the government continues to allow fishing at the current level, “herring along Canada’s west coast will teeter on the edge of complete collapse.”

“Currently, we are managing herring to economic and biological decimation,” the report argued.

The small, oily fish are a key food source for various species along the coast including chinook salmon, which are in turn the main food source for endangered southern resident killer whales. According to Pacific Wild, up to 88 per cent of the commercial catch is reduced to meal and oil to feed farmed Atlantic salmon. Herring roe, equaling about 12 per cent of the catch, is sold, but declining in value, the group’s analysis states.

The Tsawout hereditary chief, Eric Pelkey, said his community enjoyed a healthy herring fishery for generations, and it was a staple food in his community as well as a valued trading item. He added that his nation hasn’t been able to fish for herring for about two decades because the stocks have been decimated.

“There’s no availability to us in our area, our people haven’t been accessing the fishery, there’s been very little herring in our territory,” he said in an interview.

“It is pretty apparent to everybody that it’s collapsing.”

Pacific herring play a crucial role in the ecosystem off the coast of B.C. The small fish are a key food source chinook salmon and other coastal species. They are also a staple food for many First Nations. Photo: Ian McAllister / Pacific Wild

The W̱SÁNEĆ Leadership Council, which represents Pelkey’s nation and two others, has written letters to the fisheries minister asking for a moratorium on commercial Pacific herring fishing since February 2020, but has never received a response, Pelkey said.

The fisheries department said it was committed to responsibly managing the commercial Pacific herring fisheries to ensure the sustainability of the stock. It says that herring populations have long been stable in the remaining major fishery, which opened this year at a 20 per cent harvest rate.

Read more: B.C.’s last great herring fishery

“Herring populations naturally fluctuate from year to year,” it said. “The department’s management approach is designed to respond to a varying abundance of herring by adjusting fishing opportunities accordingly to protect the stock.”

Another First Nation, the Gwa’sala-’Nakwaxda’xw Nations, recently filed an injunction application in federal court seeking to stop the fisheries department from granting a smaller commercial herring fishing license in its territories. It was denied.

Seine net fishing boats harvesting herring in the Strait of Georgia, the location of B.C.’s last commercial herring harvest. Photo: Ian McAllister / Pacific Wild

The nation said in a statement that for the third year in a row, community members will need to purchase herring roe from other nations instead of harvesting it themselves, out of concern for dwindling herring numbers.

“We continue to be surprised by the way the Department of Fisheries and Oceans ignores our input and concerns,” said Patty Walkus, elected chief.

“We have been fishing these waters for thousands of years … We are extremely disappointed that, once again, our traditional laws and knowledge have not been taken into account.”

Pacific herring is a coastal schooling species that can be found from Alaska to Mexico. In the U.S., scientists have also marked declines in certain Pacific herring populations, but did not consider them significant enough to warrant listing herring under the Endangered Species Act, according to the U.S. National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.

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The B.C. government is not taking advantage of a crucial opportunity to protect the coast from a potential oil spill, according to critics of the province’s recent report regarding a pending environmental certificate for the $12.6 billion Trans Mountain pipeline expansion project. 

As B.C.’s environment and energy ministers consider issuing a certificate for Trans Mountain related to marine shipping, the province has an opportunity to require more detailed information on oil spill response capacities along the coast from the company.

It’s an opportunity onlookers say the province is not acting on.

Andrew Radzik, an energy campaigner with Georgia Strait Alliance, said the issuing of the new certificate is “the last chance” for B.C. to ensure everything is done to protect the west coast from the expansion project and the potential impacts of a spill.

But rather than require a rigorous response plan for a worst-case-scenario spill, Radzik and others say the province appears to be accepting a plan that it previously argued is inadequate and not aligned with international best practices.

Since their 2017 election campaign, the B.C. NDP have vowed to use “every tool in the toolbox” to stop the Trans Mountain pipeline expansion, which would involve twinning the 1,150-kilometre pipeline that runs from near Edmonton, Alta., to export terminals in Burnaby, B.C. The expansion project is anticipated to nearly triple the flow of diluted bitumen as well as other petroleum products in the pipeline, leading to a sevenfold increase in tanker traffic in the Burrard Inlet beside downtown Vancouver and out to shipping routes along the coast.

At the heart of the NDP government’s resistance to the pipeline project is the threat the movement of diluted bitumen presents to coastal ecosystems and, in particular, B.C.’s treasured shorelines over which the province has jurisdiction. The federal government, which purchased the pipeline in 2018, has authority over energy infrastructure that crosses provincial borders.

Yet while B.C.’s Environmental Assessment Office considers granting new permits to the Trans Mountain project, Radzik points out the province is now ignoring the very same shoreline protection issues it flagged during the National Energy Board’s additional round of hearings for the pipeline in 2019.

Because of B.C.’s own assurances to use every tool to protect the coast, “we have an expectation that the province will try to defend B.C.’s interest,” Radzik said.

The route of the Trans Mountain pipeline. Map: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

B.C. NDP criticized lack of spill response detail in previous Trans Mountain assessment

The National Energy Board’s review of the pipeline expansion project has been the subject of political and legal controversy for nearly six years.

After the project was greenlit by federal cabinet in 2016, the Federal Court of Appeal overturned that decision, criticizing the National Energy Board for omitting marine shipping from the project’s initial review.

The board was ordered to produce a reconsideration report that would take a closer look at some of the issues not adequately addressed in the project’s original environmental assessment. That report, which included details of an enhanced spill response plan from Trans Mountain, was delivered in early 2019 and notes that the potential socioeconomic and environmental impacts of an oil spill could be dire and the potential impacts to endangered southern resident killer whale populations could be “potentially catastrophic.”

Read more: Trans Mountain vs. killer whales: the tradeoff Canadians need to be talking about

The reconsideration report provided the province with a fresh opportunity to respond to the potential risk of the Trans Mountain pipeline expansion project. 

But in its draft analysis of the reconsideration report, released mid-January, which details the province’s response to the National Energy Board’s assessment of Trans Mountains marine shipping impacts, the B.C. environmental assessment office proposes only one new condition for the project, which would require Trans Mountain to produce an expert report outlining the potential human health impacts of a marine spill. It also proposes an amendment to expand the list of groups being consulted on bitumen research to include potentially impacted coastal governments. 

Environmental groups and First Nations who offered feedback on B.C.’s analysis report are frustrated with the province’s limited engagement with the key issues of oil spill response capacity and shoreline protection.

“The reason the shorelines are the big concern here is because that fits into the very narrow area that the province can regulate in terms of this project,” Radzik said.

Radzik points out that B.C.’s analysis lacks transparency about existing measures and plans.

In a written response submitted as part of a public feedback process, Georgia Strait Alliance argues there still are currently “no good answers” in B.C.’s analysis to key questions about a worst-case-scenario oil spill.

According to the organization’s 25-page letter, lingering questions include who would actually clean up the oil when it hits B.C. shorelines, how many people would be needed to clean it up and where those people would come from.

“There is no specific standard for cleanup. There is no publicly available analysis of what differences there might be in shoreline cleanup between diluted or weathered bitumen and standard shoreline cleanup techniques,” their response states.

“There is no modelling presented for how cleanup will proceed or what the rate and intensity of cleanup will be. We do not know what types and amounts of equipment are required. There is nothing to indicate how testing and verification of plan assumptions will occur.”

Pipe stored near Hope, B.C., for anticipated work on the Trans Mountain pipeline expansion project. Photo: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

British Columbians left ‘vulnerable’ to Trans Mountain spill: Tsleil-Waututh First Nation

In its written response to the province’s analysis, the Tsleil-Waututh Nation outlined similar concerns and asked the province to hold true to what it had said during the National Energy Board hearings in 2019.

During those hearings, the B.C. government pointed out examples of specific shortfalls in Trans Mountain’s spill response plan, including inadequacies in Transport Canada’s standards as well as in the federal government’s $1.5 billion Oceans Protection Plan, which includes $12 million for enhanced protection of killer whales and an additional $9 million to reduce collisions between ships and whales.

But despite the significant focus placed on the Oceans Protection Plan in the National Energy Board’s initial review of the project, B.C. criticized the lack of specifics, saying the province only found “vague, high-level information on an assortment of initiatives.” In particular, B.C. noted that the board pointed to the use of chemical spill treating agents as a potential response to an oil spill on the B.C. coast, despite the fact that Canada does not allow the use of these chemicals, which can have additional ecological impacts. 

B.C. also previously raised questions about Trans Mountain’s reliance on Western Canada Marine Response Corporation, a private contractor, to respond to an oil spill. Despite Trans Mountain’s enhanced oil spill response plan, which notes Western Canada Marine Response Corporation’s increased capacity to address an oil spill, B.C. argues Trans Mountain’s standards and plans fall short of oil spill preparedness offered by responders in the Salish Sea just across the Canada-U.S. border.

Despite these previously raised concerns, B.C.’s latest analysis report does not demand improvements to or greater details regarding these elements of Trans Mountain’s spill response regime.

“Tsleil-Waututh reminds the province that in your own words to the NEB … you outlined in detail how these jurisdictions and programs did not address risk,” the nation’s letter states.

“Shoreline protection from the risk of spill and from erosion from marine shipping has not been adequately addressed.”

Tsleil-Waututh’s statement goes on to say how the province continues to shift responsibility to other jurisdictions rather than doing what is within its own powers to protect B.C.’s coast.

“Without revisions, this report will leave the coast of British Columbia vulnerable to the risks of a spill from this project,” the letter continues. “The province must ensure provincial resources are sufficiently protected and hold Trans Mountain and the federal government agencies to account.”

A statement sent to The Narwhal from B.C.’s Ministry of Environment said it received 619 responses to the province’s analysis of the reconsideration report during the public comment period which ended March 1. These responses, the statement said, are currently being analyzed and will inform potential updates to the analysis.

The province will continue to urge the federal government to ensure “the strongest protections possible” are put in place to protect the environment and public safety, according to the ministry’s statement.

“Our government remains concerned about the risks posed by diluted bitumen and the potential of a catastrophic oil spill on our coast,” it said. 

“Those responsible for spills should also be responsible for fixing the environmental damage they’ve caused.”

Participants gathering in canoes during a Tsleil-Waututh Nation water ceremony in 2017. The Westridge refinery can be seen in the background. Photo: Zack Embree / Tsleil-Waututh Nation Sacred Trust

Calls for stronger shoreline protections as B.C. considers Trans Mountain permits

The Environmental Assessment Office is expected to release another draft version of the province’s analysis report in April to summarize feedback received during the public comment period, and will then continue with further engagement with First Nations and other affected parties, according to the province.

The ministry said it expects to finalize its reconsideration report this summer and provide it to ministers, who will look at adding or amending conditions in Trans Mountain’s environmental assessment certificate.

Eugene Kung, a staff lawyer with West Coast Environmental Law whose work has focused on Trans Mountain, said if the point of the Environmental Assessment Office’s report is to provide information for ministers to make an informed decision about whether or not to approve the environmental assessment certificate, there needs to be more analysis.

“That to me includes an informed analysis of the existing [spill response] regime and conditions,” he said. “Shouldn’t it include an analysis of the effectiveness of those measures?”

The province should work to maximize and overlap environmental protections as much as possible, Kung said, but “unfortunately that’s not what we’re seeing.”

Kung noted the province is faced with a key opportunity to enhance the protection of the coast and act on the critiques that the province itself identified during the National Energy Board hearings. 

“I think ultimately the question is how confident do they feel in the existing measures and if and when there is a spill, will they feel like they did everything they could to be prepared?” he said.

Radzik said if B.C. doesn’t take the opportunity to add protections, it will look like it’s not just passing the buck, but is “closer to surrender.”

“This is squarely something the province could do something about, but now it’s not acting,” he said.

“This is them saying, ‘We’re going to leave certain tools in the toolbox,’ ” Radzik said. “ ‘And we’re going to leave them because the feds have tools, we don’t know if they work, but we know that they’re there.’ ”

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