Last week, I attended an event on Tla’amin Territory, colonial Powell River, featuring Leah Gazan, Member of Parliament for Winnipeg Centre. The intention of her presentation was to address Residential School denialism and provide updates about her proposed bill to criminalize it. Her talk was powerful, but what struck me most was the kindness, gentleness, and generosity of the speakers, especially those who opened the event—residential school and intergenerational survivors. These were people who had lived through the violence and trauma of residential schools and its aftermath, standing before a room that included those who still deny the truth of what happened. Their courage was humbling.
Gazan's bill seeks to amend the Criminal Code to make it an offence to deny, downplay, condone, or justify the Indian residential school system in Canada. Repeatedly, she articulated that residential school denialism is violence. And she’s right—how can anyone deny the lived experiences of survivors?
The event ended with a standing ovation for Gazan’s advocacy. As I rose to clap, I glanced around the room and noticed the people seated to my left. They remained in their chairs, arms crossed, faces stern. The contrast was stark—one side of the room united in applause for justice and truth, the other resolute in their resistance to it. This moment continues to dominate my thoughts.
Residential school denialism, as Dr. Daniel Heath Justice and Dr. Sean Carleton describe, is not about denying the system’s existence but rejecting or distorting facts to undermine truth and reconciliation efforts. It is an active refusal to acknowledge the horrors faced by First Nations children and their families—a refusal that perpetuates harm.
I think often about how little I knew growing up about the true history of this country. It wasn’t until 2014, when I began working in First Nations communities, that I started to learn the devastating truths from survivors themselves. These truths have always been there, spoken by those who lived them, but ignored, dismissed, and silenced by a country unwilling to face its past.
The announcement in 2021 of 215 unmarked graves at Tk'emlúps te Secwépemc First Nation shook the nation. For those unfamiliar, Tk'emlúps te Secwépemc is a First Nation located near Kamloops, British Columbia, and this discovery confirmed the oral histories shared by survivors about missing children. For many non-Indigenous Canadians, it was the first time they began to grapple with the enormity of the harm inflicted on Indigenous peoples. And yet, even now, denialists persist, trespassing onto sacred grounds with shovels to "prove" their refusal to believe.
As Leah Gazan said, this denialism is violence. It’s a continuation of the very harm that survivors have fought to expose. Centering uninformed opinions over the voices of those who endured these atrocities is not just harmful—it’s deeply unjust.
I stand in solidarity with residential school survivors and their families. I honour their truths and their strength in sharing stories that are unimaginably painful. I acknowledge that there are countless voices we will never hear, accounts forever lost to the silence imposed by a colonial system.
As I reflect on this event, I am reminded of how much work still needs to be done. Reconciliation is not a destination but a journey—one that demands unwavering commitment to truth, justice, and the centering of Indigenous voices. We cannot let denialism take root. We must remain vigilant, lending our voices and standing firm in allyship, no matter how uncomfortable it may feel.
There are moments when progress feels tangible, and others when the path forward seems impossibly long. But for the sake of survivors and future generations, we must keep moving forward—together.
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