This story is a collaboration with Chatelaine, which has been publishing award-winning journalism on issues that matter to Canadian women for over 90 years.

On a snowy day last November, Indigenous land defenders head out to hunt on Wet’suwet’en territory in northwest B.C. with hopes of catching a moose to feed their families and Elders. They still haven’t secured any moose meat this season and are starting to stress.

Soon after the small group arrives at their traditional hunting blind, which looks like a tree house, workers from TC Energy’s Coastal GasLink pipeline project move in on them and threaten to call the RCMP. It’s fight or flight.

The construction of the controversial natural gas pipeline across northern B.C. is opposed by Wet’suwet’en Hereditary Chiefs but supported by all 20 elected band councils along the route. It has led to a series of tense confrontations on the territory over the past few years. In February 2020, just over a month after the B.C. Supreme Court granted Coastal GasLink an injunction against land defenders blocking work on the pipeline, heavily armed RCMP raided several camps and arrested 28 people. This sparked the Shut Down Canada movement, which brought Canada’s rail system to a near standstill, just before the COVID-19 pandemic really shut things down. Despite ongoing opposition, the pipeline pushes ahead, even during the pandemic. 

Howilhkat (Freda Huson) stands in ceremony while police arrive at the Unist’ot’en Healing Centre on Wet’suwet’en territory to enforce Coastal GasLink’s injunction against land defenders blocking work on the pipeline on Feb. 10, 2020. Photo: Amber Bracken / The Narwhal

Karla Tait, a psychologist and director of clinical services for the Unist’ot’en Healing Centre, is arrested on Feb. 10, 2020. RCMP eventually arrest 28 land defenders over five days of raids. “We are a matrilineal culture, so our women are our strength,” Tait previously told The Narwhal.”So it really feels like it’s a deep responsibility for us as women to make sure there’s territory intact, there’s a safer future for our children that are coming and that these lands will remain here and remain a sanctuary for our people.” Photo: Amber Bracken / The Narwhal

Police officers stand guard as Coastal GasLink workers take down red dresses that signify Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls near the Unist’ot’en Healing Centre. Canada’s National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls found “work camps, or ‘man camps,’ associated with the resource extraction industry are implicated in higher rates of violence against Indigenous women at the camps and in the neighbouring communities.” Photo: Amber Bracken / The Narwhal

The workers are at the hunting blind to clear the trees — and the people — along the pipeline right-of-way.

“I’d like you to leave the area,” an unmasked worker in a bright-yellow jacket and white hard hat says as he approaches a young female land defender.

“Don’t get close to me. There’s a pandemic!” she yells, filming the incident. “Step back away from me!”

“We have the authority to work here,” he continues.

“You don’t have any authority,” the woman interjects.

“I can feel your breath right now. This is a pandemic. Step away from me!”

As the pandemic gripped Canada in spring 2020, provinces and territories announced that only “essential services” that preserve life, health and basic societal functioning were allowed to continue operations. Across the country, the majority of industrial projects got the green light. Since then, there have been repeated calls from health-care professionals, Indigenous leaders and environmental groups to shut many of them down.

Such critics point out that industrial projects bring hundreds — even thousands — of transient workers from across Canada into remote communities, where they typically live in shared accommodations. Meanwhile, Indigenous workers on such projects often go home to their families.

This has all put Indigenous people at higher risk of catching COVID-19 when they’re already more vulnerable to the disease due to long-standing health inequities, including disproportionate exposure to polluting industries and lack of access to health care. And, as predicted, there have been several outbreaks at industrial work sites across Canada, including at two Coastal GasLink camps. Some have spread to the Indigenous communities nearby.

“It’s like purposefully infecting our people with this disease that’s killing off our most sacred knowledge holders and language keepers,” says Sleydo’ (Molly Wickham). A supporting chief in the Cas Yikh House of the Gidimt’en Clan, one of five Wet’suwet’en clans, she has just attended the memorial of an Elder, one of several to have died from COVID. “We’re never going to be able to recover from those losses. I’m so angry because it was 100 per cent preventable.”

Critics say allowing industrial projects to press on with full knowledge of how Indigenous people could be affected is exposing and exacerbating environmental racism. That’s what it’s called when governments and corporations disproportionately locate polluting industries and hazardous sites in Indigenous, Black and other racialized communities — particularly those that lack the economic, political or social clout to fight back.

Environmental racism has long exposed people to a wide range of health-harming pollutants that have been linked to serious illnesses, including cancer, lung disease and heart conditions. Those ailments, in turn, make people more vulnerable to COVID-19. Now, as industrial projects continue on during the pandemic, COVID-19 itself can be seen as yet another pollutant being circulated by industry. And experts warn we’ll see more pandemics if we continue to exploit our natural environment. 

Canada’s toxic divide

Sleydo’, her husband and their three kids, aged one, five and 10, live in a cabin the couple built deep in the wilderness on Wet’suwet’en territory. Over the past decade, several land defenders have reoccupied the land and built traditional infrastructure, a healing centre and camps. The goal is to live a traditional lifestyle and protect the territory from industrial development and the people from environmental racism.

“We are the land and the land is us,” says Sleydo’, who is the spokesperson for the Gidimt’en Checkpoint, one of the camps that was raided by the RCMP. “And one is not well without the other.”

In 2019, Baskut Tuncak, then the United Nations special rapporteur on toxics and human rights, visited Canada and documented an epidemic of environmental racism. “There exists a pattern in Canada whereby marginalized groups, and Indigenous peoples in particular, find themselves on the wrong side of a toxic divide, subject to conditions that would not be acceptable in respect of other groups in Canada,” he wrote in his report.

There are plenty of examples. In Alberta, oilsands development has encroached on two dozen Indigenous communities ­— home to about 23,000 people — since extraction began in the 1960s. In Ontario, more than 60 oil refineries and chemical plants have surrounded Aamjiwnaang First Nation since the 1940s, creating what’s known as “Chemical Valley,” one of the most polluted places in the country. In Nova Scotia, politicians plunked a dump in the heart of Shelburne’s Black community in the 1940s; it closed in 2016, but people are still worried about its lingering effects. And there have long been concerns that the pollution from these projects is causing serious health issues and killing people: environmental racism also involves failing to meaningfully consult communities about such developments in the first place and then taking a long time to address issues that arise.

Baskut Tuncak’s 2019 visit to Canada as United Nations special rapporteur on toxics and human rights included a stop in Ontario’s “Chemical Valley,” which borders the Aamjiwnaang First Nation. “The environmental injustice is an ongoing tragedy,” he wrote in an end-of-visit statement. Photo: Garth Lenz

Residents of Sarnia, Ont., have long raised concerns about the cumulative effects of the pollution from “Chemical Valley” on their health. Many people have lost loved ones to cancer, and research shows rates in the region are higher than in other parts of Canada. A local cemetery is shown here. Photo: Garth Lenz

Ada Lockridge, a member of the Aamjiwnaang First Nation, stands in a traditional burial ground with a Suncor refinery in the background. She has been fighting for her community’s right to a healthy environment for decades. Photo: Garth Lenz

In 2012, Ingrid Waldron founded the Environmental Noxiousness, Racial Inequities and Community Health (ENRICH) Project to study environmental racism in Nova Scotia. In 2016, ENRICH created an interactive map of the province’s waste disposal sites, toxic industries and thermal generating stations juxtaposed with Mi’kmaq and African Nova Scotian communities. A clear pattern emerged.

A sociologist and associate professor in the faculty of health at Dalhousie University, Waldron says the map shows “the audacity of government to select certain communities to put something that’s not desirable.”

When the ENRICH Project plotted polluting industries and racialized communities on a map of Nova Scotia, a concerning correlation emerged. Map: Carol Linnitt / The Narwhal

Waldron eventually turned her research into a book, There’s Something in the Water: Environmental Racism in Indigenous and Black Communities, and then a 2019 Netflix documentary co-directed by Elliot Page.

She says environmental racism is rooted in colonial policies that allowed settlers to extract resources from Indigenous lands without permission — policies that continue to inform government decision-making today.

“Environmental racism is a visible manifestation of environmental policy,” says Waldron. “And environmental policies are created by members of the elite, mostly white people, who hold perceptions about who matters and who does not matter.”

Ingrid Waldron, founder of the ENRICH Project, has been studying environmental racism for nearly a decade. She says it’s an important topic to tackle because it has profound effects on racialized people’s health and well-being. Photo: Darren Calabrese / The Narwhal

Sleydo’ agrees. “Environmental racism is based on this idea that we aren’t human enough to deserve a clean environment. Nobody cares if we get sick and die because we’re just Indigenous people. And industry and government are banking on that.”

The 22,000-square-kilometre Wet’suwet’en territory — which is about four times the size of Prince Edward Island — has already been irreparably damaged by industrial projects. In the 1950s, Alcan dammed a river, leading some caribou to drown as they attempted to cross new bodies of water en route to their usual habitats. In the 1980s, toxic tailings from a silver mine seeped into a lake, decimating salmon populations. And throughout the decades, logging companies have scarred the landscape with clearcuts, destroying moose habitat. 

“Elders that have come out to the territory don’t even recognize it anymore,” Sleydo’ says.

Now, construction on the 670-kilometre Coastal GasLink pipeline — which is set to slice through old-growth forests, wetlands, rivers and habitat for endangered caribou — threatens Wet’suwet’en people’s food and water sources, their cultural sites and their ways of life.   

Coastal GasLink workers have cleared hundreds of trees along the 670-kilometre pipeline route. On Jan. 4, 2020, Wet’suwet’en Hereditary Chiefs representing all five clans issued the company an eviction notice, saying it has “bulldozed through our territories, destroyed our archaeological sites and occupied our land with industrial man camps.” Photo: Amber Bracken / The Narwhal

Mike Ridsdale, an environmental assessment coordinator for the Office of the Wet’suwet’en, examines a culturally modified tree. Several such trees — which show signs of being used for traditional practices such as making clothing or shelter — have been cut down to make way for the pipeline, despite opposition from Hereditary Chiefs and land defenders. Photo: Amber Bracken / The Narwhal

In 2019, Wet’suwet’en Elders sent a small group of people to examine an area Coastal GasLink had cleared to construct a work camp. The group discovered several lithic stone tools, two of which are shown here. The Elders thought the discovery would deter construction at the site. It didn’t. Today, the area is home to Coastal GasLink’s 9A Lodge. Photo: Amber Bracken / The Narwhal

Sleydo’ says work on Coastal GasLink is not only racist, it’s also illegal: the Wet’suwet’en never ceded their territory to the federal government. The Hereditary Chiefs have jurisdiction over it, according to Wet’suwet’en law. This is backed by the 1997 Supreme Court of Canada Delgamuukw decision, which stated that provinces can’t extinguish Aboriginal Title (which includes rights to natural resources) and that oral history is legitimate evidence of land claims. According to the Hereditary Chiefs, the construction of the Coastal GasLink pipeline is a violation of their law and, as such, they’ve issued the company an eviction notice.

It’s also a violation of international human rights law, according to watchdogs. In December 2019, the United Nations Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination called on Canada to halt work on the Coastal GasLink pipeline — as well as two other industrial projects in B.C. — until it receives free, prior and informed consent from Indigenous Peoples. It also urged the country to stop removing Wet’suwet’en people from their lands and start removing police and security forces.

Yet while the pandemic offered the perfect opportunity to hit pause on these projects, they continue on with the blessing of the government and, in the case of Coastal GasLink, the help of the RCMP.

‘The economy cannot come before Indigenous lives’

At a media conference soon after B.C.’s essential services list was released, Provincial Health Officer Dr. Bonnie Henry explained why industrial projects made the cut. “I think it’s important to recognize you can’t just abandon a large mine or industrial site. That’s not safe; it’s not safe for the community or for the environment, as well,” she said.

Three weeks after the province released initial COVID-19 safety guidelines for industrial work camps, Henry issued a public health order requiring specific safety protocols. It didn’t limit the number of workers, although many projects, including Coastal GasLink, voluntarily reduced their workforces — at least for a while.

The number of workers at Coastal GasLink camps went from about 1,130 at the end of February 2020 to 130 at the end of March. However, the number of workers on industrial projects fluctuates seasonally, and Coastal GasLink described the reduction as a “scheduled ramp-down.” By November, in the midst of the second wave of the pandemic, there were more than 4,000 people working on the pipeline. 

While governments said it was safe for work to continue on industrial projects, some said, paradoxically, that environmental monitoring was unsafe. The Alberta Energy Regulator gave the entire oil and gas industry a months-long break from a long list of environmental activities, such as most ground and surface water monitoring and almost all wildlife monitoring. At a media conference, Alberta NDP leader Rachel Notley called the move “a cynical and exploitative use of this pandemic” and also tweeted, “So, people can get haircuts in most of the province right now, but we can’t test the water supply for cancer-causing agents?”

Critics questioned why industrial projects that don’t provide any essential services to Canadians (and never will) got the go-ahead. The Coastal GasLink pipeline, for instance, is being built to transport natural gas across the province to be exported overseas. LNG Canada, the export facility, is also under construction.

To many, the risks seemed unnecessary. Just over a week after B.C. declared a state of emergency, David Bowering, former chief medical health officer of northern B.C.’s health authority, released an open letter to Henry calling work camps “landlocked cruise ships” and “COVID-19 incubators” and urging her to shut them down.

“Landlocked cruise ships.” Industrial work camps across the country have been housing hundreds, even thousands, of workers during the pandemic. LNG Canada’s 1.2 million-square-foot Cedar Valley Lodge, shown here, can accommodate 4,500 workers. Photo: LNG Canada

In November 2020, there were at least two COVID-19 cases at Coastal GasLink’s 9A Lodge, shown here, according to Sleydo’ (Molly Wickham). The company has reported a total of 85 cases across work sites as of March 16, 2021. Photo: Amber Bracken / The Narwhal

Other letters followed: front-line health-care workers, Indigenous leaders and environmental groups all asked Henry to put people before profit. One of those letters was from Sleydo’ and her fellow female chiefs. “The economy cannot come before Indigenous lives,” they wrote.

Despite the pleas, Henry didn’t take any action until the end of December, after a series of cases, clusters and outbreaks at work sites in northern B.C., some of which spread to Indigenous communities. She then issued a public health order outlining a gradual return of the workforce to the sites following the Christmas holidays. Between November and January, there were outbreaks totalling 56 cases at Coastal GasLink sites and 72 cases at LNG Canada sites. (Henry was not available for an interview.)

Sleydo’ (Molly Wickham) and other land defenders have had several ceremonies on their territory interrupted by unmasked Coastal GasLink workers and RCMP officers during the pandemic. “They have no moral compass, no understanding of us as a nation and our practices, and no respect,” she says. Photo: Amber Bracken / The Narwhal

Sleydo’ says Coastal GasLink workers and RCMP officers aren’t always following basic safety protocols, such as wearing masks and maintaining a distance of two metres from others. This can be seen in several incidents captured on camera and posted to social media, in which workers and officers approach land defenders who are hunting, holding ceremonies and patrolling the territory.

“They’re taking advantage of a global pandemic to further destroy our lands and put our people at risk, which I think is really disgusting,” Sleydo’ says.

Coastal GasLink did not reply to several interview requests. In an email, an RCMP spokesperson said officers should be wearing masks when interacting with the public.

The health effects of environmental racism

After Yellowknife emergency room doctor Courtney Howard had her first daughter in 2011, she spent a lot of time breastfeeding and staring out her window at Great Slave Lake, which is downstream from the oilsands. She decided to do some research into how they affected community health. She figured she’d find a ton of peer-reviewed studies, but she turned up zero.

“The lack of research into the local health impacts of the oilsands is astonishing,” says Howard, who is past-president of the Canadian Association of Physicians for the Environment. “It is so far beyond what any of us should consider acceptable as members of this country.”

Unfortunately, Howard says, that’s the norm for research into what effects resource extraction industries might have on the health of those who live nearby. She can think of a few reasons for the data gap. Communities that are “out of sight, out of mind” may not attract the attention of researchers. Remote communities often lack continuity of care, so health-care providers may not notice things like a cluster of a rare type of cancer. And they may face environmental racism. “When the communities raise the alarm, it is not always acted upon the way that it should be,” Howard says.

A decade ago, Yellowknife emergency room doctor Courtney Howard couldn’t find any peer-reviewed studies on the local health effects of the oilsands. Since then, she says, there have been a few studies, but none of adequate scale or scope, leaving a potentially deadly data gap. Photo: Pat Kane / The Narwhal

What is known about the local health effects of heavy industry isn’t good. For instance, a 2019 study in the journal Cancer found the rate of acute myeloid leukemia in one area of Sarnia, Ont., near Chemical Valley, is three times higher than the national average and suggested pollution from local oil refineries and chemical plants may be to blame.  

And while there’s a lack of studies on communities affected by environmental racism, there’s ample research on the impacts of the pollutants they’re exposed to. Waldron recently combed through decades of research to pull together a report on the health effects of toxins found in waste sites, thermal generating stations, and pulp and paper mills. She found that the toxins — heavy metals, volatile organic compounds, fine particulate matter and mobile gases — are associated with a long list of health issues, including cancer, birth defects and damage to most of the major organs.

Air pollution has also been well studied and has been linked to heart, breathing and lung conditions. It contributes to an estimated 14,600 premature deaths in Canada every year. Emerging research from around the world also suggests that chronic exposure to air pollution makes people more likely to catch COVID and die from the disease.

Physicians may be scared to speak out when they notice concerning health trends in areas beset by industry. In 2007, after Dr. John O’Connor raised concerns that high rate of cancer in Fort Chipewyan, Alta., could be linked to the oilsands, Health Canada doctors accused him of causing “undue alarm.” Two years later, he was cleared of any wrongdoing and in March was awarded the inaugural Peter Bryce Prize for whistleblowers. Photo: Kris Krüg

In March, during an online ceremony for the Peter Bryce Prize, Athabasca Chipewyan First Nation Chief Allan Adam said more people in his community have died of cancer than of COVID-19 during the pandemic. The local cemetery is shown here. “People are being diagnosed still with cancer, but nobody’s sayin’ nothin’ about it, nobody’s doin’ nothin’ about it,” he said. “When it comes to development, it seems like government and industry work hand in hand.” Photo: Kris Krüg

Environmental racism can also lead to stress and mental illness, which can, in turn, result in physical harm. Waldron says many chronic diseases that were once thought to be primarily genetic, like diabetes, are largely influenced by structural inequities such as environmental racism. “We know now that racism gets under your skin and actually changes your biology,” she says.

In Canada, COVID-19 data on race is not being systematically collected at the federal level, but some provinces, cities and health authorities have started to crunch the numbers. In the United States, data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention shows Black and Indigenous people are about five times as likely to be hospitalized for the disease as white people. Environmental racism is but one reason for the chasm.

Research shows that racialized people in Canada have worse health outcomes and higher rates of chronic diseases due to a number of social and economic factors, including poverty, food insecurity and unstable housing. They’re also more vulnerable to the effects of climate change, such as extreme weather and new diseases.

“There’s overlapping systemic discrimination that leads to overlapping health impacts,” Howard says. “It would be difficult to tease out what the exact impact of environmental racism would be—and that’s a frequent excuse we hear from industry.”

Another layer of discrimination is in the health-care system: when Indigenous people do get sick, whether it be with COVID or another illness, they often face racism when trying to get treatment. In September 2020, Atikamekw mom of seven Joyce Echaquan died in a Quebec hospital after she livestreamed staff saying she was “stupid,” “only good for sex” and “better off dead” as she cried out in pain. In B.C., just two months later, an independent investigation found that 84 per cent of Indigenous people have experienced racism in the province’s health-care system.

“Every way you look, it’s like, ‘You don’t matter, we don’t care about your life, we don’t care about your land, you have no rights. You don’t even have the right to live,’ ” Sleydo’ says. “And then, when you do get sick, you’re put into this system that’s racist against you and you’re expected to somehow survive. And people aren’t surviving.”

COVID-19: the climate connection

Scientists are still trying to pin down the origin of the coronavirus that causes COVID-19. But they know one thing for sure: it’s zoonotic, meaning it jumped from an animal to a human. It’s just the latest in the rising trend of zoonotic diseases, following the likes of Ebola, SARS and Zika.

Three-quarters of emerging infectious diseases are zoonotic, and scientists warn that we’ll see more pandemics if we continue to exploit nature. Here are some of the top human drivers of zoonotic diseases, according to the UN Environment Programme.

Climate change

Climate change can have a huge influence on organisms that cause diseases and the animals that carry and transmit those diseases. It can affect where they live, how long they survive and how much they reproduce. For instance, as temperatures rise, ticks are marching into new parts of Canada and enjoying a longer season.

Climate change is also causing more frequent and more intense extreme-weather events, which scientists have linked to infectious disease outbreaks. Heavy rainfall, for example, creates more breeding grounds for mosquitoes and more crops for rodents, allowing them to grow their armies.

As the world warms and Arctic permafrost melts, humans and animals that have been buried for centuries are becoming exposed. Perhaps the most terrifying disease prospect is that long-dormant “zombie” viruses and bacteria may rise from the dead and infect us again.

Resource extraction

Resource extraction in remote areas often destroys wildlife habitat. When people are working in these areas, they’re more likely to have interactions with the animals that live there and be exposed to zoonotic diseases.

Factory farming

The growing demand for animal protein has led to an increase in factory farming. Companies often breed genetically similar animals that yield more meat and keep them in close quarters. Both factors make them more vulnerable to disease. Swine flu, for instance, first spread among pigs housed in factory farms and then jumped to humans.

Tackling environmental racism

In February 2020, in the midst of the Shut Down Canada movement, Teck Resources withdrew its regulatory application for its controversial Frontier oilsands project in northern Alberta. When explaining why in a letter to Environment and Climate Change Canada, Teck president and CEO Don Lindsay said Canada needs to reconcile resource development, climate change and Indigenous Rights.

While Lindsay said the decision had nothing to do with a “vocal minority” opposed to the project, Alberta Premier Jason Kenney and then federal Conservative leader Andrew Scheer were quick to blame opponents, who were happy to take credit. The group Indigenous Climate Action, which campaigned against the project, called it “a win for Indigenous Rights, sovereignty and the climate,” while adding that the fight against environmental racism is far from over.

For years, affected communities, environmental advocates and other groups have been pushing the federal government to update the Canadian Environmental Protection Act, including amending it to legislate the right to a healthy environment. More than 150 countries have already done so, and it’s one of 87 recommendations that came out of an extensive review of the act in 2016 and 2017 (many of which are also echoed in the UN report that called out Canada’s environmental racism). While Prime Minister Justin Trudeau has asked the ministers of health and environment to work on strengthening the act, it could be yet another issue sidelined by the pandemic.

Nova Scotia MP Lenore Zann says her private member’s bill to redress environmental racism is designed to address long-standing systemic inequities in Canada. “My hope is that we can put some teeth into the rights of humans to clean air and clean water and being safe on their land,” she says. Photo: The Canadian Press / Andrew Vaughan

Mi’kmaw artist Melissa Labrador runs her hand through the grass where she harvests medicinal plants in the Wildcat community of Acadia First Nation near Kejimkujik National Park in Nova Scotia. Photo: Darren Calabrese / The Narwhal

Meanwhile, Nova Scotia Liberal MP Lenore Zann has introduced a private member’s bill calling for a national strategy to redress environmental racism. The bill, which Waldron collaborated on, suggests collecting data on the problem as a prelude to amending laws, engaging communities in policy development and compensating individuals and communities for harms they’ve suffered.

“Grassroots warriors across the country have been fighting this fight for so long, but they were ignored,” Zann says. “It’s time that we listen and that we act.”

Waldron first approached Zann for political support in 2014, when Zann was a provincial MLA. The politician suggested developing a private member’s bill to redress environmental racism. She cautioned Waldron that private member’s bills rarely pass but said it would generate a ton of political debate, media attention and public awareness, which is exactly what happened.

“It got people talking about the issue, which was our main goal,” Zann says. “Environmental racism is like a wound. You have to bring it out into the light of day, dig out whatever is in there and clean it in order for it to heal.”

When Zann moved to federal politics, her first order of business was working on a national bill. At press time, the continuation of the bill’s second reading was scheduled for late March. Zann says she’s “cautiously optimistic” the bill will move to the next stage.

Recent action to address environmental racism in the U.S. may give Zann’s bill the boost it needs. In January, President Joe Biden signed an executive order directing federal agencies to develop programs and policies “to address the disproportionate health, environmental, economic and climate impacts on disadvantaged communities.”

The spiritual and physical strength to keep fighting

A month after the incident at the hunting blind, on Sleydo’’s son’s 10th birthday, her husband burst into the cabin and told his family to get ready: he’d caught a moose. They loaded into the car and radioed people at the Gidimt’en Checkpoint, giving them the coordinates and asking them to meet there without explaining why.

After the family arrived, two carloads from camp showed up frantically, expecting an incident with Coastal GasLink workers or the RCMP. Then they saw the moose. After a collective moment of relief and excitement, they paid their respects to the animal through ceremony, with the kids putting medicines in its eyes and ears, and then harvested it.

Sleydo’ (Molly Wickham) says special moments on the land with her kids — including one-year-old Winïh, shown here — keep her going. “I want a safe, healthy territory — yintah — for them and for their kids,” she says. Photo: Amber Bracken / The Narwhal

Back at the cabin, the family had an outdoor fire, cooked up the organs and played games. Sleydo’ felt a deep sense of satisfaction, security and reciprocity.

“I always tell the kids, ‘If you take care of the land, the animals know that and they give their lives up for you,’ ” she says. “I really believe that when we eat animals from the territory, it gives us the spiritual and physical strength to keep fighting.”

And the fight to protect Wet’suwet’en lives — during the pandemic and beyond — is far from over.

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.

As David Suzuki cradled his twin grandbabies and gazed at their perfect, innocent, squishy little faces, he was suddenly overcome with emotion. He started to weep — quietly at first.

His youngest daughter, Sarika, mom of the babies, and his wife, Tara, rushed over and each grabbed a twin.   

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” they asked.

But he couldn’t speak. Instead, he started to wail.

Two years later, as he sits in the kitchen of his Vancouver home, the memory is still raw.

“I was absolutely inconsolable because looking at them and loving them and … I … I can’t do it now even.” His familiar, confident voice fades. 

“To realize that they don’t have a chance,” he continues, more forcefully than before. “They’re not going to live out a rich, full life. They won’t. I just was overwhelmed with the realization that it’s happening.” 

Tara Cullis and David Suzuki co-founded the David Suzuki Foundation in 1990. Photo: David Suzuki Foundation

Suzuki went through a period of climate grief after realizing that climate change was threatening his grandchildren’s lives. Photo: Jennifer Roessler / David Suzuki Foundation

“It” is climate change, a subject Suzuki has been speaking about for decades as host of The Nature of Things. As the show celebrates its 60th anniversary today, the world-renowned geneticist and environmentalist says he’s not backing down from the battle for future generations. Fittingly, in tonight’s season premiere, “Rebellion,” he takes us to the frontlines of the climate revolt to meet the activists leading it, including Swedish teenager Greta Thunberg.

“I had to go through the period of grief,” he says. “Now I’ve gotten over that, and I’m more determined than ever to bang away. We can’t afford to sit around saying, ‘Oh, it’s too late. I’m so sad.’ We’ve got to do everything we can to lessen the impact. We can’t avoid it, but we can reduce the risk of how much it’s going to hit us.”

We sat down with Suzuki — virtually — to talk about the impact of The Nature of Things and what needs to happen to address the climate crisis.

The Nature of Things is turning 60 and you’ve been the host for more than 40 years. Congratulations! Why do you think the show has been so successful?

I think it has touched something very deep. Increasingly, we live in cities, so nature has become less and less familiar and people love to learn about nature. I’ve always said we could do a show on the sex life of an oyster and I’ll bet people will love it because we know so little about the world around us.

We’ve raised a lot of issues about how science and technology and corporations are affecting our lives and we’ve stayed very relevant. The Nature of Things takes an issue and then probes it further and says, “What are the implications of this? What does the science tell us? What is the economics of it?” 

We did our first program on climate change in 1989. And since then, we have done literally dozens and dozens of shows on climate change — how it’s affecting the salmon in the Fraser River, how it’s affecting the polar bears and so on. We raised issues before they became popular — and we had to fight to do it. Now, of course, everybody has jumped on climate change because it’s no longer something you can deny.

Before joining The Nature of Things, Suzuki was host of CBC Radio’s Quirks & Quarks. Both programs have been at the forefront of covering climate change in Canada and in the world. Photo: CBC

Why do you think it’s taken us so long to act on the climate crisis?

1988 was a crucial year. There was a conference in Toronto with more than 300 climatologists, scientists, environmentalists and politicians. It was a big deal because it was opened by prime minister Brian Mulroney.

The conference ended with a press release that said global warming represents a threat to human survival, second only to an international nuclear war, and they called for a 20 per cent reduction in greenhouse gas emissions in 15 years.

Mulroney never committed to it. Why? Because the report said in order to achieve a 15 to 20 per cent reduction in 15 years, you have to spend tens of billions of dollars upfront, but you will realize a net saving of over $100 billion. Mulroney knew he would take a beating from corporations and someone else would be in office to say, “We’ve reached the goal and we’ve saved all this money.” So, it made no political sense to do the right thing.

“We’ve got this terrible situation where politics trumps everything.”

Now look at what’s happened. The issue is much more serious. 

[Prime Minister Justin] Trudeau signed the Paris Agreement and we celebrated. Then he bought a pipeline.

Trudeau’s argument for buying a pipeline is that we’ve got to increase the oil coming out of the tar sands in order to make the money to afford to reduce our emissions. Like, what the hell is that but an absolutely crazy political argument? 

A mural of David Suzuki in Vancouver, which has since been painted over, left passers-by wondering if everything was going to be OK. Hint: it’s not. Photo: Matt Boulton / Flickr

At the last COP meeting in Madrid last December, [Jonathan] Wilkinson, our environment minister, came back and said, “Canada is going to go for carbon net zero by 2050.” That is not a commitment at all — it means we’re not going to do anything.

Why do I say it doesn’t mean anything? Governments will change and no politician in office today will still be in office by 2050. So, when they don’t meet the target, who’s accountable? You can’t throw anybody or a party in jail for a commitment that was made in 2020. It’s a totally meaningless commitment. And over and over again, that’s what Canada has done. 

We’ve got this terrible situation where politics trumps everything. 

It’s been very, very slow winning over the public on an issue that’s so loaded with economic implications. My fear now is that the fossil fuel industry and corporations have so much momentum that calling for a shift is really going to be difficult.

Climate commitments without regulated targets are meaningless, Suzuki says. Photo: Kevin Van Paassen / CBC

Where do you see hope for that shift?

This is what makes me so excited about Seth Klein’s new book, A Good War. His whole point is that when you have a time of crisis, everything can shift, and he looks to World War Two as an example. Climate change is an existential challenge, and it’s a much greater threat to human survival than World War Two ever was. If we make the commitment, I guarantee all kinds of opportunities will arise.

Many episodes of The Nature of Things have made a major impact on people, places and politics. Can you tell me about the show that has made the most significant impact on your life?

The show that we did on the Amazon changed my life and changed my family’s life.

[“Amazonia: The Road to the End of Forest” aired in 1989 and explored deforestation and industrial development in the Amazon.]

My problem has always been I do these shows, but then I go, “Oh god, we gotta do something,” and I keep getting involved.

One day, I called Tara and said, “The Amazon forest is on fire. We can’t even take off in our plane today because there’s so much smoke.” She said I was crying, but I don’t remember that. 

And then I met this remarkable Indigenous [Kayapo] leader, [Paulinho] Paiakan, who was leading the fight against the logging and gold mining in his territory. The Kayapo actually killed people that were coming into their territory, so Brazilians are really afraid of them. Paiakan saw that [the state-owned power company was] going to build a big dam that was going to flood his territory. And so he asked me to help. I called Tara and said, “We need help.”

And that began a whole phase of activism. We raised a lot of money for them and brought Paiakan here to live with us for six weeks because he had been threatened with death. It’s a very long story! But Paiakan and I stayed in touch all these years. He died while we were in lockdown of COVID-19, so we’ve just been heartbroken about that. But the dam that we stopped in 1990 is now built. And the fight goes on.

An aerial view of the Amazon rainforest, which Suzuki described as “the planet’s greatest gathering of life” in the 1989 show “Amazonia: The Road to the End of Forest.” Photo: Neil Palmer / CIAT / Flickr

How does it make you feel to see projects you warned about and fought against go ahead?

Well, we delayed things. But what happened there is happening right here in British Columbia. We fought against the Site C dam back in the 1970s. I was invited up there by a group that was fighting against the dam to do a talk. We went out fishing and because [BC Hydro engineers] suddenly lowered the water, we hit a bunch of rocks and turned over. I almost drowned up there fighting against the dam. We stopped it, but now we have a government [the NDP] that was against the dam, but it’s being built nevertheless. 

Suzuki has been opposed to the Site C dam, shown here under construction, since it was first proposed in 1970. The dam will put habitat for more than 100 vulnerable species, Indigenous burial grounds and traditional hunting and fishing areas under water. Photo: Jayce Hawkins / The Narwhal

Morning mist rises from the Peace River Valley. More than 120 kilometres of the Peace River and its tributaries are slated to be flooded by the Site C dam, which will destroy some of Canada’s richest agricultural lands. Photo: Garth Lenz / The Narwhal

If we’re taking climate change seriously, that area should not be flooded because it should be the breadbasket of the north. We’ve got to change our food system. We can’t be importing it all from 5,000 miles away. We’ve got to grow our own food up there.

In the past year, we’ve seen the youth climate action movement sweep across the globe. In “Rebellion,” you say, “I’ve seen many protest movements in my day, but not like this.” Why this and why now?

In the 1980s, we had this explosion of young people across Canada called the Environmental Youth Alliance. Thousands of kids across the country were just as passionate, just as involved. The problem with youth is sustaining that drive. They’re at that cusp when their whole lives are going to change — they’re going to university, they’re getting sexually involved — and all kinds of things are distracting them.

I think the difference now is the issues now are far less controversial than they were back then and we’ve got this remarkable person in Greta. When she was here in Vancouver [for the climate march in October 2019], every young person wanted a piece of her. She is such a hero. Even an adult would be destroyed by that kind of pressure. I wouldn’t have been able to take it. But she’s not distracted by all of this publicity and celebrity. She just keeps saying her message over and over again.

I think that Greta is a very unique person for this moment. She has galvanized the youth and all kinds of groups and elders. People like Jane Fonda are getting up there and supporting the youth. I think that is a very powerful force that is quite different and will sustain itself.

How has your world view changed as a result of working on The Nature of Things? 

What I’ve come to realize through Indigenous people and The Nature of Things is that what is driving us on a destructive path is our anthropocentric way of seeing the world, where it’s all about us. 

For most of human existence, we had what we call an eco-centric way of seeing the world. We see that we live as one small part of a web of relationships with animals and plants, with air, water, soil, sunlight — that whole web is what allows us to live. But when we cut some of the strands, we destroy the integrity of what allows us to be a part of it. Whether or not we survive or die out isn’t the issue. If human beings go extinct, the rest of life will flourish. We are the cause. And so we’ve got to see ourselves as part of that web and protect it.

Ultimately, what do you want people to take away from The Nature of Things?

An understanding that everything is connected and what you do has consequences. That’s the heart of environmentalism. And if we keep putting these human-created things — like the law, or the economy, or politics — above the very web of life that sustains us, then we’re screwed. And I hope that out of The Nature of Things, the interconnectedness of everything comes out and the ways that we are so destructive comes out.

Suzuki says Indigenous people have helped him understand our intimate connections to the natural world. Photo: Kris Krüg / Flickr

The pandemic has certainly illustrated our connection to nature and how destructive we are, and a lot of learning can come from that. What have you personally taken away from this time?

For six months, Tara and I were at our cabin on Quadra with Sarika and her husband and their three kids. We were just planning to be there for four days, and then the lockdown came and we never left. It was the happiest six months of my entire life. No flying, no television, no newspapers, no cellphones. I just got to hang out with my grandchildren day after day and see the world through their eyes.

Rain or shine, out we went. We looked for snakes and salamanders and frogs and we even found an alligator lizard. I didn’t realize there were lizards on the island. And the tide pools are just wonderful with sand dollars and shrimp and crabs and oysters and clams. The kids are like sponges, I couldn’t believe it. They soaked up the lab names for the animals. What better way to learn about nature. And that went on day after day. They were such a joy. I was so happy and had a purpose in life.

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Robert Bateman turns 90 today, and it will be a day like any other. He will wake up at 6:45 a.m., turn on CBC Radio and look out the window at the birds brunching at the feeders while he enjoys breakfast in bed (four scoops of yogurt, seeds and fruit, in case you were wondering). He will then reach for the binoculars his wife, photographer Birgit Freybe Bateman, tossed in the middle of their bed and see if there’s anything of interest in or around Ford Lake, which his Saltspring Island, B.C., property overlooks. By 10 a.m., he’ll be at his easel.

“Every day is the same as every other day,” he says from his studio the week before his birthday. “I virtually never get bored.”

Above the Rapids – Gulls & Grizzly, 30 x 48, acrylic on canvas, 2004“Pacific salmon form an important part of the many bounties of North America’s wild west coast. Although I have not shown a salmon in this painting, you know that they are there. Some are in the quiet water above the falls and others are still fighting their way upstream. It is a far-ranging crime against nature and against ourselves to jeopardize the spectacular wild salmon.”

How could he? The iconic Canadian artist and naturalist has five to 10 paintings on the go and a long list of requests. Every year, he does between 10 and 15 major works, adding to the approximately 700 he’s completed in his career. He’s a member of nearly 50 naturalist clubs and conservation organizations and has been bestowed umpteen honours, including more than a dozen honorary doctorates. He donates his artwork and limited edition prints for fundraising efforts that have provided millions of dollars for environmental and social causes over the decades. The Bateman Foundation, a non-profit that connects people to nature through art, operates the Gallery of Nature, a permanent home for the artist’s work in Victoria’s Inner Harbour. The foundation also runs several programs and events in which Bateman is involved. Retiring has never crossed his mind. 

Robert Bateman gets his wife’s opinion on a work in progress in 1997. “I’m lucky I’m married to an artist, Birgit, who has a good sense of taste. I like lots of opinions on my paintings. I’m not private about it. Part of family gatherings is coming to look at what grandpa’s working on. And then I’m interested in everybody’s opinions on it — even the grandkids.”

“I don’t know of any creative people that retire because their life is their art. It sounds a bit simplified, but that’s it,” he says as he sits at his easel, the morning light pouring in through the high windows of the cathedral-ceiling studio that was purpose built for him and Birgit. “My default position is to be sitting here with a brush in my hand.”

Today, that brush is painting a scene in Biddulph, a town in Staffordshire, England. It’s twilight, and a barn owl is cruising past a crumbling stone wall — all that’s left of a Catholic home that was pummelled with cannonballs during the English Civil War. The story behind the painting is perhaps as evocative as the work itself.

Robert Bateman spent four years working in Algonquin Park in Ontario in his late teens and early 20s. In his spare time, he painted en plein air like the Group of Seven. “All artists worth their salt paint what is in their heart, and what’s deepest in my heart is nature, especially mammals and birds.”

Robert Bateman is currently working on a piece inspired by a Victorian artist by the same name. “I work from photography — five to 50 photos for every painting. I record nature shows on TV and then sometimes for reference, which I’ve done in this case, I’ll play the show and freeze frame it. So, this is a freeze-frame TV barn owl flying by this old wall in northern England. The barn owl signifies wisdom.” Photo: Birgit Freybe Bateman

Several years ago, Bateman’s assistant, Kate Brotchie, was searching online for references to Bateman and came across a book entitled The Lost Pre-Raphaelite: The Secret Life and Loves of Robert Bateman, published in 2014. The book traces author and house restorer Nigel Daly’s attempts to uncover information about the scandalous life of Victorian artist Robert Bateman, who lived on Daly’s property. Birgit ordered her husband the book as a gift, and he devoured it. Today’s Robert Bateman had been aware of yesterday’s Robert Bateman and had even seen one of his pieces — a dead knight in a meadow at dusk with his faithful dog lying at his head — but had filed it away in the back of his mind.

“In the book, there’s a paragraph where Nigel Daly says they searched high and low for anything about this Robert Bateman, even to the furthest reaches of the internet, and they kept coming up with this irrelevant Canadian artist of the same name,” Bateman says with a laugh. “I read the book and enjoyed it so much, I wrote a fan letter to Nigel Daly: ‘I am the irrelevant Canadian artist and I absolutely loved your book. Could we come and visit sometime?’ So, we did, and that’s the setting of this painting.”

Robert Bateman has travelled around the world to see the species he paints in real life. Here, he hangs out with a friendly penguin in Antarctica. “To me, great art should have verisimilitude. It can be very loose and abstract, like Picasso, but it should still have the ring of truth to it and not look cooked up like a cartoon. When I teach workshops, I discourage doing art out of one’s mind. I believe in doing it out of one’s eye.” Photo: Birgit Freybe Bateman

The painting, entitled Barn Owl at Biddulph Old Hall, is destined for the Birds in Art exhibition at the Leigh Yawkey Woodson Art Museum in Wausau, Wisconsin, an annual showing of the world’s foremost avian artists. Even prior to the pandemic, Bateman was planning to skip this year’s gathering but send a piece.

“I like to show the flag and show that I’m still alive and support the cause,” he says. “I also like to do it for the stimulation of doing something that is fresh and perhaps surprising — something other than a commission. I particularly like the way this one is going, so I’ll be happy to share it.”

Robert Bateman was a high school teacher for two decades before his art took off in the mid-1970s, and he decided to pursue it full time. “I’ve always been a teacher. One of the reasons I went into teaching was to share knowledge, excitement and joy. My art is a branch of that.”

Robert Bateman works on Chief, a six-by-eight-foot canvas, in 1997. It was too large for his studio, so he set it up in an outbuilding. “We need to pay attention to the particularity of the planet. This is not just to save it. Paying attention to nature is a joy in itself and has measurable benefits for a person’s body, mind and spirit. Of course, nature art does not have to be detailed. It can inspire wonderful paintings in a variety of styles, flat or three dimensional, bold or detailed.” Photo: Birgit Freybe Bateman

The Return – Bald Eagle, Pair, 36 x 48, acrylic on canvas, 2001“I started birding in the 1940s. At that time, we had certain bald eagle nests and sites to visit. By the late 1950s and ’60s, these disappeared due to the effects of DDT. In fact, the eagle was wiped out over most of its eastern range. Since DDT use in North America was banned in 1972, the bald eagle has become a hopeful symbol because the populations are springing back. There are, however, troubling signs for the future, once again due to human activities. This is one reason why I showed the male eagle returning to the nest without a fish. Industrial fishing is mopping up populations of herring, salmon and even less commercially interesting fish.”

If Bateman reaches an impasse on the barn owl painting today, he will likely move on to one of his other “front-burner” pieces. Perhaps the painting of 100 sandhill cranes on the Platte River in Nebraska or the scene of the winding Li River, a UNESCO World Heritage Site in China, with a fisherman in a dugout boat using a captive cormorant with a ring around its throat to catch fish, a practice that continues today.

He might glance at that long list of requests — a raven or a warbler, a crane sketch, a downy woodpecker, a pair of evening grosbeaks, a bald eagle’s nest with two bald eagles coming into it, a raccoon, a rabbit — and smile at the Leonard Cohen quote he jotted down while listening to the radio, albeit slightly inaccurately: “I’ve dealt a lot in various religions, but cheerfulness kept breaking through.”

Bateman always has several pieces on the go so he can pivot when artist’s block hits.

“I think of the muse up on top of Mount Olympus in Greece. She decides, ‘Well, Bateman’s been tortured enough. I guess I’ll reach out and touch him with my finger and give him a thought that he can carry on.’ Then the thought comes to me and I carry on for a while, and then kind of get stuck in the snow like I used to do in Ontario, so I start another painting.”

If the muse doesn’t reach out, he will likely stare out his window at the blooming heritage apple trees in hopes of a visitor showing up at one of his bird feeders to distract him, which, in fact, has just happened.

“A very rare and drab little bird has just arrived on the scene,” he says. “It’s a tit. I’ve only ever seen them once or twice in my life before this year. It’s a little grey job, a bit bigger than a wren.”

Queen Anne’s Lace & American Goldfinch, 11 x 16, acrylic on board, 1982“The goldfinch is found all over North America in open country, particularly where there are weedy meadows and small trees. In a sense, the main subject of the painting is the meadow. It is an undistinguished little piece of the world, which we all too readily take for granted. In fact, meadows with their multitude of plants are often considered “wasteland” and are cut, or even worse, sprayed with poisons. My aim is to give a feeling of life, movement and air to this bit of nature. In a sense, I am glorifying a neglected corner of our planet.”

Bateman has been birdwatching since he was a teenager and welcomes the news that more people are trying it out during the pandemic. “If people change their behaviour and actually get out in nature and go for a walk in a park and go and sit in the harbour and look at the ocean, I think that that will make them better when this is all over,” he says, adding that he and Birgit get out for a hike on their property every day after lunch. “Just take some deep breaths — your cells rejoice.”

While he’s strolling through the bucolic land that surrounds his property, he’s taking note of the species he sees — and doesn’t see. “What I do myself and recommend other people do is get to know your neighbours of other species, and particularly get to know their names,” he says. “I think it’s insulting to say, ‘I love birds, they’re so sweet and cute, but I don’t want to know their names. It’s sort of like being a teacher and saying, ‘I love young people, but I don’t want to know their names.’ It’s superficial and it’s not engaging.”

Learning species’ names leads us down the path of learning more about them, Bateman says, and noticing troubling changes. “You can say to yourself, ‘How come I haven’t been seeing any fox sparrows for the last two years? What’s going on? Is there something going on in British Columbia or is there something going on where they migrate? And is it something I could get involved with by helping with a conservation cause?’ ”

Red-winged Blackbirds & Rail Fence, 36 x 48, acrylic on board, 1978“In the early spring, the red-winged blackbirds move north to their nesting territory. I did field sketches of the birds and rendered plasticine models based on the sketches. Then I did paintings from the models on bits of card to the scale of the picture which had been roughed in. I tried the cutout birds in various positions using masking tape. This particular arrangement pleased me most, artistically. The fluffed-up bird on the left is the dominant one. The sleek bird in the upper right is the fleeing loser. After I had finished the painting an ornithologist friend informed me that the dominant bird would not normally allow himself to get below the subdominant bird. This scientific flaw bothers me, but not enough to change the composition. I always try to reconcile art and nature in my paintings, but if I had to choose between them, I would choose art.”

Departing Bonaparte’s, 36 x 48, acrylic on canvas, 2018“One of our joys in life is vacation time with the family at our cottage on Hornby Island. This will most likely be the gathering place for our family for many years to come. Our boat is an inflatable zodiac. With it we take little expeditions to areas that are good for snorkelling. Returning from one of these trips we encountered a flock of Bonaparte’s gulls and tried to get close enough for photography. Often wildlife photos are of the back side of the creature getting away. I thought that this image made a good composition, capturing that moment of departure.”

Wildebeest, 30 x 40, acrylic on board, 1964“The wildebeest is an odd creature. It has the face of a mule, the horns of a cow, the beard of a goat and the body of a horse. The rather freaky appearance is augmented by the fact that they will suddenly break into unexplained gambolling, almost like a bucking bronco. These animals occur in vast herds in East Africa. I have stood on a hill in Kenya and seen tens of thousands stretching to the horizon in all directions. Another evidently senseless bit of behaviour I have observed is that a procession of hundreds of animals will be walking single file following some unknown leader. The line, however, will wind in all directions, even going back on itself.”

That spirit of getting involved and helping out is another promising sign Bateman has seen in the wake of the pandemic. “There are thousands and thousands of inspiring examples of people tackling tough jobs and going in to help people and make the world a better place,” Bateman says, adding that we can do the same for nature.

The pandemic has postponed the birthday bash Bateman had planned with his family, which includes five children and 10 grandchildren, but he’s hoping to reschedule for the fall. “I’ve got to keep living and keep upright at least until that happens,” he jokes.

So, tonight will be a quiet one with his wife. “Birgit is one to make things special for occasions, so I’m not sure if we’ll have shrimp or crab or something more exotic.”

“You asked for roast chicken,” she calls from the other room.

Roast chicken it is. Followed by strawberry shortcake, one of Bateman’s favourite treats (with whipped cream and a couple of scoops of ice cream, in case you were wondering). 

Self-portrait, 12 x 9, oil on board, 2015“I love painting people. I’ve done more Homo sapiens than any other mammal.”

Robert Bateman canoes on Ford Lake, which is right next to his property on Saltspring Island, B.C., in 2013. “Becoming engaged with one’s place not only has personal benefits for body and mind, it has important benefits for the future of the place.” Photo: Birgit Freybe Bateman

After digesting over a British crime drama, it’s back to the studio until 10 p.m., just like any other evening. “I have a routine and I really like routine because I feel like I accomplish more.”

And for 90-year-old Robert Bateman, there’s still much to accomplish.

The new nonagenarian laughs when asked his secrets to a long, healthy, meaningful life before sharing this: “Find a piece of nature — could be a tree, could even be a dandelion — take a deep breath, smile and say thank you.”

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Internships are a vital part of any journalist’s career. Just like you can’t learn how to fly a plane in a simulator, you can’t learn how to produce journalism in a classroom.

At The Narwhal, we feel a strong sense of moral and professional responsibility to help train the next generation of journalists. It’s also an honour and a privilege. That’s why we’re thrilled to welcome our very first intern, Zoë Yunker, to our pod.

Zoë, a master’s of journalism student at the University of British Columbia, started last week, just in time to join our second birthday party. Unfortunately, while we were celebrating on Zoom with silly dances and toasts to our generous donors, other media outlets were cancelling internships and laying off thousands of journalists due to the trickle-down effects of the pandemic.

It’s clear the traditional media model isn’t working and we need innovative people with fresh ideas to help us make the transition to sustainable models of journalism. After working with Zoë for a week, we’re confident she’s one of them. Not only did she nail her first assignment, an interview with our founders, and submit it before deadline (who does that?), she also impressed us with her insight into the media industry, her knowledge of the climate impacts of pension funds (a passion of hers) and her ability to slow down and appreciate the little things.

Why did you want to become a journalist?

About midway through high school, I started getting glimpses into the fact that everything isn’t right with the world. I was starting to get the download about climate change, and the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq were happening, which was really shaking up my ideas of justice. I decided I wanted to do something about these multiple intersecting challenges I was starting to see by becoming a journalist. 

I’m just circling back to that dream after going to university and working on climate and environmental politics through research. I was really enjoying my research work, but I wanted to be interacting with people more — one of my favourite things to do is have a conversation that expands my view of the world.

The kicker that ultimately led me to journalism was that I was getting increasingly concerned about the polarization of our public discourse. I started to become quite enamoured with journalists who are beautiful storytellers and can talk about issues in ways that bring out the common denominators of our shared experience. I think that skill is essential to breaking down some of these silos, and I really wanted to learn how to do that. 

Why did you want to do your internship with The Narwhal? 

It’s funny: as soon as I started journalism school, they asked us where we might like to intern and I was like, “The Narwhal.” I knew immediately.

First of all, I care deeply about the issues The Narwhal covers. I also think the journalists are incredible storytellers. When I read Narwhal articles, I feel like I’m having a conversation with the people who are featured. You also write about issues in a way that doesn’t try to smooth over complexity or nuance. I appreciate and value these skills a lot, and I wanted to learn from these journalists.

What sparked your interest in the natural world?

When I was five years old, my family moved from Vancouver to the Sunshine Coast — a small coastal community a short ferry ride from the city. I remember suddenly being surrounded by so much nature. I spent my first year living there mapping out all of the trees and plants on our property and getting a sense of when they would bloom. I remember this beautiful mock orange that would make our entire property smell incredible. I was an only child and pretty quiet and introspective, so I spent a lot of time with those plants. I started associating having a familiarity with the nature around me as feeling at home. I still feel that.  

Then when I moved to Vancouver Island after high school, I started going on trips to old-growth forests. Those giant trees would dwarf me but make me feel like I was part of a bigger ecosystem. At the same time, I was learning how precarious that ecosystem is. The injustice of that spurred me to get involved in environmental work.

What gets you so jazzed about the climate impacts of pension capital?

In Canada, our pensions are larger than our annual GDP, meaning that they hold over $2 trillion. They’re major building blocks in our economy. They’re also heavily invested in fossil fuels, both in terms of company shares and in fossil fuel projects like pipelines. Pension capital is part of what’s keeping the fossil fuel industry afloat. It’s such an irony because we’re paying into pensions to make our futures more secure and yet the things that our pensions are investing in are endangering our futures. I think this is happening because the financial sector is so opaque. It’s almost by design: in Canada, you can’t see what most public pensions are invested in. I think there’s a potential to galvanize people to take ownership of their pensions and use that huge amount of capital to invest in the energy transition. I see a lot of challenges, but also a lot of potential opportunities in our pension funds. 

What do you think — or hope! — the future of journalism holds? 

I think and hope that there’s a growing appetite for journalism that’s complex and nuanced and that doesn’t talk down to its readers. I also think and hope that there’s an increased awareness and acknowledgement that we need to support that journalism both through sharing it on social media and also financially through reader support. The Narwhal model is really exciting because it suggests that when you do the stuff that people want, people are willing to support it. 

I see a lot of really hopeful signs that things are changing in the right ways, but I am also very concerned about the consolidation of news, the loss of local news outlets and mass layoffs, especially in the wake of the pandemic. I think we’re on that razor’s edge of wonderful things happening in unprecedented ways and really concerning things happening. Sometimes it’s hard to know where to look.

Journalism can be a stressful business. What do you do to relax? 

I’ve been practising Ashtanga yoga for 13 years, and I’ve taught it on and off, so that’s a big part of my life. Getting out of my head and getting into my breath and being in my body is a really invaluable thing to do on a daily basis. 

Since the pandemic, I’ve rediscovered just going for walks without listening to music. I’ve been getting a sense of my neighbourhood, enjoying all the flowers and the plants and the smells and getting in touch with that sensory experience. I always find that I’m in a better mood when I come back.

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.

Natalia Balcerzak was out for an evening run in Ottawa in 2017, when she came upon a perturbing scene on Parliament Hill. Police officers were trying to stop about a dozen First Nations activists from carrying a log onto the grounds to erect a teepee to draw attention to Indigenous issues during Canada’s 150th birthday celebrations.

Natalia, who was working in tourism following several international posts as a journalist, went into reporter mode, filming on her phone as activists were arrested and dragged away. She shared her footage with a television station and connected activists with other news crews, helping them share their story with a wider audience. When she left the scene at 3 a.m., she was exhausted but exhilarated. She knew she wanted to — no, had to — return to journalism. 

So, after working as a reporter in Israel, a radio news writer in Australia, an editor in Toronto and a TV news production assistant in London, England — and travelling to 38 countries — Natalia decided to move to the small northwest B.C. city of Terrace to work at the community newspaper and live in a tiny home. Two years later, she joined The Narwhal as our northwest B.C. reporter — a position funded through the federal government’s Local Journalism Initiative. While it may seem surprising that a jetsetter like Natalia landed in northwest B.C., it makes perfect sense once you get to know her.

Q: What inspired you to become a journalist?

A: I’ve always thought my life purpose was to be a storyteller, so I devoured books, pursued theatre and asked everyone too many intense questions growing up. In poetic terms, I wanted to live 1,000 lives, so I was eager for any opportunity to get out of my comfort zone and journalism allows me to do just that.

I was also inspired by being brought up in the Polish immigrant community in Toronto. Stories of the Communist era, the World Wars and the hardships of trying to make a life in a foreign country were constantly told. I couldn’t ignore the reminders of what was lost and sacrificed for me to live comfortably in Canada — I had to give back somehow. I was also frustrated with how my family was mistreated and pushed down because of our “foreign” identity, which is all too common for a lot of people, so I felt compelled to challenge the world on that front. 

I see journalism as a responsibility to instil a balance of meaning and good into our lives, while also scribbling down those first drafts of history.

Q: Why does northwest B.C. need a Narwhal reporter?

A: There is a lot of energy in northwest B.C. right now as people from across the country move here, but that creates problems as it often feels like the Wild West. Rules can seem more like suggestions.

I think it’s important for The Narwhal to have a reporter in this region because lots of projects and issues have gone under the radar for too long, but that doesn’t mean the impacts won’t be felt eventually.

Q: Why did you decide to live in a tiny home community?

A: It’s the perfect middle point between having a space to myself, living among nature and being surrounded by like-minded company. I’d like to say it’s for the minimalist lifestyle, but I’m a thrift store enthusiast, which contradicts that. What I really value though is the constant creativity required to make everything fit (such as stuffing my bean bag chair with winter coats) and the coziness of my loft, which feeds my childhood dream of living in a treehouse. 

The village is surrounded by mountains and forest with a river and lakes nearby, so I’m fortunate to literally have that as my backyard. We also have bonfires, potlucks and a small community garden with chickens, so it’s super fun to have this unique social aspect of my home life.

Q: What did you learn from travelling that influences your work as a journalist?

A: That we really aren’t that different as humans, no matter where we’re from. Sure, there’s a variety of culture, languages and physicalities that give us distinction, but at the core, we’re all just trying to make it through life. It was so humbling to connect with people from different backgrounds to share a joke or meal.

I also couch surfed, hitchhiked and always looked for the least luxurious travel options to get me a close-up view into people’s lives, which required a lot of trust and good faith in strangers. Those rich (and sometimes emotional) experiences propelled me to search for that human aspect in people through my stories. 

Q: How has the COVID-19 pandemic changed your outlook on life?

A: This pandemic has made me realize how much we rely on social gatherings as human beings and the importance of the arts to get us through this. Although I enjoy living alone and having that time to myself, it’s strange to not have anything social to look forward to in the coming months. I think we all crave those connections, even if it’s just a casual chat at the store, to add that zest to our lives. 

With that said, I do think it’s an incredible moment to absorb what we can through books, films, music, comedy and talks. I’m also seeing more appreciation for long-form journalism beyond the 24-hour news cycle. 

Q: What are three fun facts about you? 

A: During my childhood, my sisters and I brought home a Jack Russell Terrier against my mother’s wishes. A month later, on my sister’s sixth birthday, we received a frantic call from my mom (who ironically used to be a midwife) that our dog had unexpectedly given birth to six puppies. We went from “no dogs allowed in this house” to seven canines … guess who was the coolest kid on the block that summer?

I recently went through military screenings to apply for an imagery technician role with the Canadian Armed Forces, which involves taking photos and videos of the troops at home and abroad. I’ve always wanted to pursue foreign correspondence, so thought this would be a neat middle ground.

I have no middle name, which makes me sad sometimes as I wish I had another alias to go by.

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.

As a child, Julien Gignac looked forward to visiting his family on the Six Nations of the Grand River reserve, an hour outside of his hometown of London, Ont. One of the highlights of those visits was sitting on his great-grandmother’s porch and listening to her stories. Themes of interconnectedness, respect for the natural world and the importance of giving back ran through her narratives, laying the foundation for Julien’s work as a journalist, which has recently brought him to The Narwhal as our new Yukon reporter — a position funded through the federal government’s Local Journalism Initiative. 

“She had this wealth of knowledge,” Julien says of his late great-grandmother, a residential school survivor. “She was my connection to my culture.”  

After graduating from Carleton University’s School of Journalism, Julien, who is Mohawk, landed coveted roles at Canada’s top legacy newspapers. He had a year-long Indigenous fellowship at The Globe and Mail before joining the Toronto Star as a breaking news reporter. Then one day he up and left “The Six” for Yukon, where he had never stepped foot before. Here he tells us about his path to The Narwhal and his work as a journalist.

Q: Why did you move to Yukon?  

A: I wanted a beat, I wanted to cover politics and a job came up at Yukon News. The paper is really scrappy and has an investigative bent to it — much like The Narwhal — so that was a definite draw. I wanted to get my feet wet and study how the governments work, including First Nations. Yukon First Nations are trailblazers. How they operate is totally different from how First Nations operate in the south. They have far more jurisdiction over their own matters, which is really fascinating to me, and I wanted to learn more about it. I also wanted an adventure. I wanted to be in a new place unlike any I’d been before and get really far out there. Having a little bit more space to think and learn and be close to nature has been great. Now being at The Narwhal, I’m able to focus exclusively on environmental and First Nations issues, which have always lit a fire under me. I’m looking forward to bringing more awareness to issues here that might otherwise not be on people’s radar and having more impact with my stories.

Q: What challenges and opportunities do you have as an Indigenous journalist?

A: Some topics can feel deeply personal, whether I’m covering or reading about them — racism and oppression, for example. It can be a tough slog sometimes. I’ve realized my place in it all, though, and the type of power I have, which, historically, wasn’t there. This translates to more reporting on underrepresented communities, to giving back. Running through it all is a big dose of responsibility and care for the people and places I report on in order to effect what could be positive change. This last bit is the greatest thing about journalism, in my opinion. 

Q: What’s the biggest compliment you’ve received as a journalist?

A: On my last day at Yukon News, Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation Chief Dana Tizya-Tramm said, “Wow, you’re one of the guys I trust out there.” This meant a lot to me, more than he probably knew. I don’t think he was even fully aware of my background. It didn’t matter. Hearing he trusted me to tell stories that affect his community, given the rocky relationship between journalists and First Nations in the past, made me think I must be doing something right. As a Native person, it made me feel like I am contributing in some way despite being so far away from my home. 

Q: What’s the toughest story you’ve ever covered? 

A: Recently, it was the inquest into the death of Cynthia Blackjack, a 29-year-old First Nations woman. Blackjack had contacted the community health centre in Carmacks, Yukon, several days in a row due to dental pain. The day before she died, she was tentatively diagnosed with alcohol-induced gastritis. She was told to find a ride to the hospital in Whitehorse. When her condition worsened, she was medevaced to hospital but died on the flight due to organ failure. The whole case centred on whether there were systemic failings. The jury deemed it an accident. The people who felt it the most were her family, members of Little Salmon/Carmacks First Nation. It was a tough two weeks — the arguments, reams of paperwork and deadlines, and the emotional toll that was, at times, palpable in the room. 

Q: You’re also a photographer. What can photos do that words can’t?

A: Photos can slow everything down. Everything is super-fast nowadays, and people can get a bit swept up in the news cycle. Photos allow you to present an issue in a really concise, accurate and raw way that words can’t. I try to tell a story in one frame. That’s part of the reason I’m happy to be working for The Narwhal, which does long-form, investigative work. Images can really help with features like that. People are drawn to visuals.

Q: What hobbies have you picked up since moving to Yukon?

A: All of the outdoor “hobbies” I had when I lived in the South have now become actual ones — fishing, hiking, ice skating on frozen lakes. I want a canoe. Nature is just so accessible here. 

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.