'A dream come true': Heiltsuk Nation voting to adopt written constitution
Waterfall was taken to residential school at age 12, she says and had to spend years relearning her culture, language and history.
Now a knowledge-keeper and Order of B.C. recipient, she is one of the people who drew on her learnings to help shape the new constitution, which is being voted on by members of the Heiltsuk First Nation on British Columbia's Central Coast.
A statement from the nation says the historic referendum follows nearly two decades of development and consultation, including six months of engagement with more than 2,000 Heiltsuk members in Bella Bella, Nanaimo and Vancouver.
If approved, it says the constitution will help the nation "reclaim its power."
"Prior to [colonization], we had a really vibrant infrastructure that included our oral constitution," Waterfall said in an interview with CBC Radio West host Sarah Penton.
"We had a justice system where we had our own laws... built by consensus. Everybody, even children, knew what their roles and responsibility were."
Much of this was wiped out, she said, by the imposition of the Indian Act and the outlawing of those cultural traditions.
But, she said, "we're now at a place" for it to be restored.
Marilyn Slett, elected Chief of the Heiltsuk, says the nation is proud of the work that has gone into "reconstituting" its governance system with the written constitution, which lays out a legal framework for Heiltsuk governance, rights, responsibilities and law-making.
The statement says the constitution would help provide clarity for the nation and those it chooses to do business with, clearing up questions around decision-making in Heiltsuk territory that had previously been left to the courts.
It says the constitution also enshrines collaboration between elected Heiltsuk officials and ancient forms of governance, such as hereditary chiefs.
"We have never ceded, surrendered or extinguished our inherent right to govern the Hailzaqv people and our [territory]," hereditary chief Frank Brown says.
The written constitution reflects the nation's "paramount values," he says. "It is intended to support and guide current and future generations in the governance of our nation, and we eagerly await the outcome of this historic referendum."
Other nations to adopt written constitutions include the Nisga'a Lisims and Haida, both of which have taken control over much of their self-government including education systems, child care and management of natural resources.
Waterfall says just as in the past, much of the constitution is focused on the role of consensus-building when it comes to making decisions.
"Everybody would come together and talk about it until we came to a foundational understanding," she said of the past. "That process is embedded in our constitution."
Also key, she said, is the importance of women in the community for building and reinforcing traditional laws.
The Heiltsuk Nation's membership received voting packages on Jan. 6.
Voting opened Thursday and it's set to continue until Feb. 20, says the statement issued Thursday.
If it is approved by a majority of members, the statement says a ratification feast will be held in Bella Bella before the constitution takes effect.
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Winnipeg Free Press
4 days ago
- Winnipeg Free Press
Indian Act's ‘second-generation cut-off' poses an existential threat to treaty people in Canada
Lou Moodie is gesturing at an easel with a golf club. On the paper behind his makeshift pointer is a set of unconventional math formulas, including 6(2) + 6(2) = 6(1) and 6(1) + 6(1) = 6(1). 'I call this 'Indian arithmetic!'' pronounces the 61-year-old from Nisichawayasihk Cree Nation. With that, Moodie starts quizzing the group of 15 or so people assembled at a hotel on Long Plain First Nation's urban reserve in Winnipeg, for this April training session on the intricacies of Indian status. Moodie is the retired recreation superintendent for Nisichawayasihk, some 850 kilometres northwest of Winnipeg, who, with the enthusiasm of a camp counsellor, runs a game of Simon Says and jokes about the foibles of technology. ('This mouse did not eat today!' he quips when a file won't load.) Despite moments of levity, the topic Moodie has driven nearly 20 hours round-trip to talk about — a particularly convoluted section of the Indian Act — is not a lighthearted one. Lou Moodie wants to see the cut-off repealed; in the meantime, he's trying to help families get around its limits. (Mikaela MacKenzie / Free Press) Written into law in 1876, the Indian Act has long sought to control the lives of First Nations people in Canada, including the very question of who — as far as the federal government is concerned — is an 'Indian.' And though that term is considered offensive when used by non-Indigenous people, it remains the signifier lodged in Canadian law. The part of the act Moodie is concerned with is a more recent addition — it became law on April 17, 1985. After this date, whenever a First Nations child is born to two parents with Indian status, they can be registered under Section 6(1) of the Indian Act. But when a child is born to one parent with status and one without (or where the child's father is not identified), they can only be registered under Section 6(2). People with 6(2) status are faced with a harsh reality: unless they parent with another person with status, their children will no longer be eligible for status. This is known as the 'second-generation cut-off.' Moodie describes the cut-off as genocide 'in paper form' — a discriminatory, assimilationist policy designed to legally get rid of First Nations people, akin to earlier iterations of the Indian Act, which forced First Nations children into residential schools. He wants to 'take a flamethrower to this entire sub-section' and see it repealed. In the meantime, he's trying to help families get around its limits. 'We want to determine who our members are. We, First Nations, not you,' Moodie says. 'We don't want this category 6(1), 6(2). We're not numbers — we're human beings.' Indian status is the vehicle for First Nations people to access the rights and benefits to which they are entitled. And while many First Nations people see the concept of status as offensive and paternalistic, there's also the sense that without it, the federal government could skirt the responsibilities, obligations and promises it has made to First Nations people. As far as its significance, holding status can give a person the right to hunt and fish on their treaty lands; to reap (often minuscule) treaty payments; receive financial aid for post-secondary education; and a tax exemption for income earned on-reserve. It also provides insurance for certain health-care costs, such as counselling, dental work and medications. As trailblazing Cree lawyer Delia Opekokew said in 1986, the reasons for someone desiring status are not just legal, but social. They might include the pride of being part of a collective group, with a protected birthright; the right to live in one's community; and even in death, to be buried on-reserve and remain there with the ancestors of their First Nation, Opekokew explained. The 6(1) and 6(2) delineations were added to the Indian Act in 1985 as a result of legislation known as Bill C-31, which ended the federal government's practice — over more than 150 years — of stripping status from First Nations women who married non-status men. (First Nations men who married non-status women did not receive the same treatment; in fact, their spouses were given status). While Bill C-31 enabled tens of thousands of First Nations women and some of their descendants to receive status, it quietly implemented a more restrictive system for passing on status than had existed before. The current system, which has seen several piecemeal amendments since 1985, is often described with words like incomprehensible and nonsensical — or, as an act of 'retaliation.' For children born after April 16, 1985 Today, of the 1.1 million status First Nations people in Canada, nearly 325,000 — or 29 per cent — are registered under Section 6(2). With their descendants at risk of being excluded from their rights, the second-generation cut-off has triggered a disquieting question: without treaty people, what happens to treaty lands? Even Ottawa has previously stated that the status populations of First Nations are expected to decline in the coming generations because of its restrictive rules, which could impact federal government funding. Virtually since the cut-off was enacted, there have been calls for its repeal. They've come from a Senate committee; from First Nations political bodies like the Southern Chiefs' Organization; legal scholars and advocates like Sharon McIvor, whose landmark case in 2009 forced Ottawa to remedy some of the lingering discrimination against women in the Indian Act; and recently, the United Nations Committee on the Elimination of Discrimination against Women. 'I think we have inadvertently invited in an evil that threatens our very existence as treaty Indians,' wrote Jack Grieves of the Keewatin Tribal Council, which represents 11 First Nations in northern Manitoba, in a 1992 open letter. Predicting that Bill C-31 would ultimately lead to a declining treaty population and 'empty and unowned' reserves, Grieves went on to ask: was it already too late? 'Is there anything we can do to remedy this situation confronting our treaty people and those who thought they were getting their treaty rights back for future generations?' Growing up on the south side of Berens River in the 1960s, Carrie Whiteway Prystupa was taught to be self-reliant. Still decades before a road would eventually come to the community on the eastern shore of Lake Winnipeg, homes were built with logs, water was hauled from a hole in the ice and light came from coal-oil lamps or gas lanterns. Across the river was Berens River First Nation. In the winter, Whiteway Prystupa's family would travel there by snowmobile, and in the summer, by boat. And that's the name of where Whiteway Prystupa grew up: 'agamiing,' meaning 'across' in Saulteaux, which she grew up speaking. This isolated piece of land, cleared by her Whiteway family, was also known as the 'Métis side' of the river. As far as Whiteway Prystupa was aware at the time — and, as far as the federal government was concerned — she and her family were Métis. When Whiteway Prystupa and her family visited relatives and shopped for essentials on the reserve, that separation was clear. Some people referred to them as 'ozagamoog,' or, 'outsiders.' Carrie Whiteway Prystupa poses for a photo in the early 1960s on the 'Métis side' of Berens River, along with five of her eight siblings. From left to right (lower) is Carrie, Eileen, Diane (held by Eileen), Myrna and Jo-Ann. At top is Whiteway Prystupa's maternal grandfather Jacob, who is holding Gilbert, and grandmother Alice. Not pictured is her sister Nancy, while siblings Jackie and Stan hadn't yet been born. Alice was the granddaughter of the first chief of Berens River First Nation. (Supplied) It hadn't always been that way. Nearly a century ago, Whiteway Prystupa's grandmother, Sarah, a status member of Berens River, married a non-status man. Her Indian status erased, Sarah left the reserve and went agamiing, where, with her husband, she raised 10 children, including Whiteway Prystupa's father — none of whom held status growing up. Thirty-odd years later, in 1955, Whiteway Prystupa's mother, Helen, who also was a status member of Berens River, married her father, Fred. Helen had attended an Indian day school run by Roman Catholic nuns and her great-grandfather was a signatory of Treaty 5. Nonetheless, with their marriage, Helen also lost her status and went to live agamiing. Several years after Bill C-31 passed, Whiteway Prystupa, who was then in her early 30s and married with three kids, became a status member of Berens River for the first time. Four decades later, she explained what it meant: 'Maybe, I am not 'ozagamoo,' an outsider, after all.' But for her descendants, this reclamation of status could prove brief. Carrie Whiteway Prystupa grew up believing she was Métis. She is among those calling for a repeal of federal legislation that she says is discriminatory and fails to recognize her heritage. (Mikaela MacKenzie / Free Press) With Whiteway Prystupa's marriage to a non-status man, the second-generation cut-off has begun to loom over their family. Her first son, who was born in 1982 before C-31 was passed, was ultimately able to be registered under Section 6(1). But her younger two sons, born in 1986 and 1991, were registered under Section 6(2). Though all of her three sons have non-status spouses, their dates of birth are critical. The children of Whiteway Prystupa's oldest son have 6(2) status, while the future children of her two younger sons will not be entitled to it. It was about five years ago when Whiteway Prystupa first learned there are two different types of status — and what that could mean for her descendants. And Whiteway Prystupa is not alone; she notes many First Nations people aren't aware of the cut-off. But Whiteway Prystupa is not giving up. Whiteway Prystupa written a book called Neen Ozagamoo, or Me an Outsider, which she self-published earlier this month. (Mikaela MacKenzie / Free Press) Last summer, she heard Lou Moodie talk at a Treaty 5 summit. That meeting led to her to join Moodie and other grassroots organizers on a cross-country trip to Ottawa, where they spoke with federal politicians and staff, calling for the repeal of categories 6(1) and 6(2). Whiteway Prystupa has also written a book called Neen Ozagamoo, or Me an Outsider, which she self-published earlier this month. 'I feel I'm being discriminated against and targeted,' she said. 'That's our inheritance.' Like Whiteway Prystupa, Joy Budd grew up without status, thinking she was Métis. After Bill C-31 passed, Budd became a member of Cumberland House Cree Nation in Saskatchewan. When she was signing her first status card as a teenager, Budd remembers a membership clerk telling her she held 6(2) status — and couldn't pass it on to her children. 'At that time, I didn't know what it meant — I'm 16 years old. And now the complication has come,' said Budd, who goes by Glenda, and now lives in Thompson. For Budd's family, the story of their loss of status began with the Second World War. Like other First Nations men, Budd's biological grandfather was 'enfranchised' — removed from the Indian registrar — as a result of his service in the Canadian military. While he was away at war, Budd's grandmother married a Métis man, losing her status as a result. In the next generation, Budd's father married a Métis woman and then when Budd, with 6(2) status, had children with a Métis man, the second-generation cut-off came to pass. Her kids weren't eligible. Budd raised her kids as a single mother — and despite her working consistently, there were financial challenges associated with her children being non-status, such as saving up for costly dental work. 'We were struggling just to try and have basic needs met. That means my children, I could never afford college or university for them,' she said. Joy Budd gained 6(2) status following the passing of Bill C-31 in 1985. However, her children and grandchildren currently lack status.(John Woods / Free Press) Budd lived for two years on the Cumberland House reserve when her kids were younger, but because they were non-status, they were not allowed to go to the treaty school. Her children are now 32 and 28 years old. Even though her son had children with a woman who has 6(2) status, his three children remain ineligible for status. Two have specific medical needs, but, because they are non-status, they aren't eligible for support from Jordan's Principle for medical appointments, she said, referring to the federal government's legal obligation to ensure First Nations children have access to proper health care, among other supports. Because of amendments to the Indian Act in 2017, known as Bill S-3, Budd is likely eligible to have her status changed to 6(1). If successful, her son could receive 6(2) status and her grandkids could receive 6(1). For years, Budd has been asking questions about whether she might be eligible for 6(1) status, but she never received concrete answers. First Nations advocates point out that because of the law's convoluted nature and Ottawa's failure to communicate its far-reaching implications, only a fraction of the people eligible to register as a result of Bill S-3 have actually done so. For people who were born before April 17, 1985 (or whose parents married before that date), and whose grandmother had their status taken away through marriage, S-3 means that they are eligible for 6(1) status. In the meantime, Budd wants Section 6(2) repealed. 'What's at stake is our Indigenous culture, our treaty rights, our rights as Indigenous people,' she said. As Budd pointed out, the treaties signed between Indigenous peoples and the Crown were meant to be in place for 'as long as the sun shines, the grass grows and the rivers flow.' 'And, you know, the sun is still shining, even though it's smoky over Thompson. I know there's a sun out there somewhere,' she said. The idea for the second-generation cut-off appears to have originated in a federal committee hearing in 1982. A now-defunct First Nations organization suggested a kernel of the policy, though specified that any child with less than 50 per cent First Nation ancestry should have their status determined by their band. According to Indigenous Services' website, to request a status category amendment you must compile the following: Your First Nation's office may be able to receive your application, or these documents can either be brought in-person to Manitoba's regional office at 361 Hargrave St. in Winnipeg, or mailed to: Application Processing Unit Indigenous Services Canada Box 6700, Winnipeg, MB R3C 5R5 The committee weighed the proposal warily: '(this) would probably create another series of inequities regarding children who do and do not have status in the same family.' Still, it became law soon after. Nearly four decades later, in 2019, a report on the lingering gender discrimination in the Indian Act flagged the cut-off as the inequality of 'greatest concern.' Smaller, non-isolated communities with a higher rate of 'marrying out' were set to see the negative effects more quickly, some in a single generation, wrote Claudette Dumont-Smith, a special representative to the Crown-Indigenous relations minister. She recommended the federal government launch a consultation process over the cut-off, which began in late 2023. A committee of Indigenous organizations was appointed to advise on how to proceed. According to an initial report, these organizations emphasized the need for First Nations people to have support conducting geological research. The Assembly of First Nations Manitoba also suggested the creation of a records office that would allow people to trace how their family lost status. Indigenous Services has also published a fact-sheet for each First Nation detailing the number of members who hold 6(2) status. (In Manitoba, this group represents 15 to 45 per cent of First Nations' overall status membership — see data for each First Nation in a chart below.) The same disclaimer is found on each fact-sheet: 'even as your Nation's population grows over time, (your Nation's) total registered populations are likely to decrease in size,' however in a comment this week, an Indigenous Services' spokesperson said their latest projections show the status population continuing to grow until the end of the modelling period in 2066. Public-facing consultation events and engagement sessions have yet to begin, the spokesperson, Eric Head, confirmed. Minister of Indigenous Services Mandy Gull-Masty leaves a caucus meeting on Parliament Hill in Ottawa. Despite repeated requests, Gull-Masty was not made available for an interview by press time. (Sean Kilpatrick / The Canadian Press files) Despite repeated requests, beginning a month ago, Indigenous Services Minister Mandy Gull-Masty was not made available for an interview by press time. Head said the department is committed to working with First Nations to address the cut-off, and added that the current consultation process is not focused on 'whether to address the issue, but on how to address the issue.' Claire Truesdale, a non-Indigenous lawyer who has helped around 50 people apply for status, believes more urgency is needed. She pointed to the fact the federal government has known for years — at least since the McIvor case in 2009 — how problematic the cut-off is. 'They've acknowledged that this is a problem but they have been incredibly slow to do anything about it,' she said. The government's stance — that there is not agreement among First Nations on how to proceed — is a poor reason for failing to act with urgency, she said. 'Kids are being excluded now,' she added. Drew Lafond, president of the national Indigenous Bar Association, said the question of Indian status has essentially become a 'red herring.' 'The debate over who is — and who is not — a status Indian, I think, ignores the fundamental, or foundational question of when did Indigenous peoples, if ever, relinquish their jurisdiction over determining who is and who is not a citizen of their nation?' Lafond said. 'To my knowledge, that has never taken place,' added the lawyer, who has long worked on issues surrounding status and citizenship, and is a member of Muskeg Lake Cree Nation in Saskatchewan, though he points out he maintains kinship relationships throughout Western Canada. A federal government that 'facilitates and authorizes' the disenrolment of Indigenous people without their consent is a violation of the human rights of Indigenous people, Lafond said, referencing Article 9 of the United Nations' Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, which states Indigenous people have the right to belong to their community or Nation in accordance with that group's traditions and customs. 'To say nothing of how ridiculous the formula has become over the years,' he added. In the past, the federal government has taken an ominous tone when discussing the possible effects of repealing the cut-off. During a Senate committee hearing in 2022, Christiane Fox, then a deputy minister with Indigenous Services, warned the move would lead to 250,000 more people with status, 'at minimum,' which, she added, 'will substantively impact the registration process and, of course, programs and services that are offered.' According to demographic projections by Statistics Canada, which had been produced just days before Fox's Senate appearance, the cut-off's repeal would lead to 173,000 extra registrants by 2041 in a medium-growth scenario. More recent modelling projects an even lower number: 121,800 extra registrants by 2046, according to Statistics Canada records obtained through an access-to-information request. What's clear from the records is that the federal department is closely tracking the financial implications of changing its registration criteria. (The Free Press filed a similar request with Indigenous Services nine months ago; after requesting a lengthy extension and failing to meet that deadline, the department has yet to provide the files.) The records give a sense of the possible population impacts facing First Nations — if changes are not made. In a medium-growth scenario, the annual rate of growth of the status population is projected to take a nosedive: from 2.05 per cent in 2021 to 0.05 in 2066. In a low-growth scenario, the growth rate is projected to 'turn negative' by 2055, indicating a decline in the overall population size. What's also clear from these records is that the federal department is closely tracking the financial implications of changing its registration criteria. In an email last fall, a project leader for Indigenous Service's registration reform team wrote: 'The team and I would like to begin costing out the differences in costing between keeping the registration provisions as is versus remedying the second-generation cut-off.' Seated in a Winnipeg hotel restaurant booth, Lou Moodie places a file on the table that speaks to his mission — it shows a family's successful journey in getting their child's status changed from 6(2) to 6(1). Because the father wasn't initially listed on the child's birth certificate, the child had been registered under section 6(2). Lou Moodie has made it his mission to educate First Nations peoples on how to reclaim status. (Mikaela MacKenzie / Free Press) While the federal government has taken some steps to make it easier for children to acquire status when their father is not listed on their birth certificate or is not known, the Indian Act still assumes the father is non-status if not identified. (Moodie often points out that there are many reasons for a woman not identifying the father, from relationship breakdowns to high-risk scenarios like rape or domestic violence.) In this child's case, the process involved ordering a new long-form birth certificate — not a copy — with the father included; filling out a statutory declaration from Indigenous Services, which has to be signed by a notary; and then mailing the package with copies of the parents' ID, along with, Moodie suggests, a letter of intent, reiterating the father's information. It's easy to use the wrong form or miss a spot for an initial, which can lead to lengthy delays. One of Moodie's pieces of advice is to avoid using correction tape and instead, cross out and initial any mistakes. But in this case, just a few weeks later, a letter arrived saying the child's registration category code had been amended. Since his retirement two years ago, Moodie has been travelling to First Nations to train their staff on how to convert children with 6(2) status to 6(1), as well to register non-status kids, when possible, while running a TikTok channel, where, with his daughter's help, he's amassed roughly 10,000 followers. He's also been hosting two-day conferences, with help from his family, including his wife, Edna; his son, Lou, Jr.; and his 'Irish son' Garrett, whom he adopted as an adult. He has no funding source behind him, whether from the federal government or his First Nation, which is what he tells people irritated by the $800 cost of his conferences. With nearly 325,000 people holding 6(2) status in Canada, Moodie points out that this problem isn't a theoretical one, it's already here. Depending on with whom these people parent, 'That's 325,000 treaties gone — just like that,' Moodie says, snapping his fingers. But there's another reason for Moodie's urgency. He wants his own grandchildren to be free to choose who they grow up to love, marry and have children with. 'I don't want (my granddaughter) to ever come to say to me, say, 'Papa, can I go out with this Anglo Saxon?' Don't ask me that question, if you love the man, go ahead. I'll never, ever say to you, 'no, no, you stick with your own,'' Moodie says. 'I've never agreed with that — never will.' Marsha McLeodInvestigative reporter Signal Marsha is an investigative reporter. She joined the Free Press in 2023. Read full biography Our newsroom depends on a growing audience of readers to power our journalism. If you are not a paid reader, please consider becoming a subscriber. Our newsroom depends on its audience of readers to power our journalism. Thank you for your support.
CTV News
6 days ago
- CTV News
B.C. Coastal First Nations issue open letter to Carney opposing suggested pipeline
Chief Marilyn Slett speaks during a news conference in Vancouver, Tuesday, June 25, 2024. THE CANADIAN PRESS/Ethan Cairns
National Observer
21-07-2025
- National Observer
Carney strides into Northern Gateway minefield
Prime Minister Mark Carney set off alarm bells across British Columbia when he told a journalist at the Calgary Stampede that a new bitumen pipeline to BC's north coast is 'highly, highly likely.' Nowhere have those bells been ringing more strongly than in the dozens of First Nations communities who spent a decade fighting the Northern Gateway pipeline proposal. 'Our position hasn't changed,' Marilyn Slett, chief of the Heiltsuk Nation and president of the nine-member Coastal First Nations Great Bear Initiative, told Canada's National Observer. 'An oil pipeline and tankers is something that we cannot support.' The proposal is perhaps the starkest example of a central tension stemming from Carney's signature legislation, Bill C-5 — that appropriate consultation with First Nations is incompatible with the time scales being put forth. That, in turn, sets up the question hanging over the whole country: What will Carney do if a project he strongly favours fails to win Indigenous support? 'Consent shouldn't be an option,' said Terry Teegee, chief of the BC Assembly of First Nations. Back in the Northern Gateway years (the pipeline was proposed in 2006 and cancelled in 2016), Teegee was chief of the eight-nation Carrier Sekani Tribal Group; the proposed pipeline route went straight through their territory in the centre of BC, and was opposed by all of them. 'Those First Nations haven't changed their mind either,' he said. None of the Indigenous leaders contacted for this article have heard anything about a new pipeline directly from the federal government, and the subject did not come up during Carney's meeting with First Nations from around the country in Gatineau last week. But a government source recently confirmed to Canada's National Observer that a Northern Gateway-style pipeline to BC's north coast is indeed likely to make the list of 'major projects' to be streamlined under Bill C-5. If history is any guide, it's hard to overstate the scale of opposition and public outrage such a decision would provoke in BC. Nine years after it ended, the Northern Gateway saga has faded from many Canadians' minds; a global pandemic and two Trump administrations have eclipsed it in our collective memory. But few projects in Canadian history have generated such intense blowback. Its blatant disregard of First Nations rights and protection of an iconic Canadian landscape united two of the most powerful protest blocs in the country; protests convulsed BC for years on end, generated endless terrible headlines, and consumed an enormous amount of the Harper government's time, energy and political capital. The Conservatives lost every one of the nine West Coast ridings they won in 2011. It also contributed significantly to the distrust of government among First Nations that Carney is reigniting today. Prime Minister Mark Carney set off alarm bells across British Columbia when he told a journalist at the Calgary Stampede that a new bitumen pipeline to BC's north coast is 'highly, highly likely.' Rewriting history Whether he realizes it or not, Carney is tiptoeing straight into the same political minefield Harper trudged through a decade ago. Many see his soft embrace of it as a concession to Alberta Premier Danielle Smith, whose demands for such a pipeline have ramped up dramatically in recent months. 'The whole purpose of the exercise we're going through is to expand to new markets,' Smith told CBC on July 2, referring to Bill C-5. 'The best opportunity is in expanding to the West Coast.' In Smith's telling, Northern Gateway was well-received by Indigenous communities and the only reason it failed was that Justin Trudeau decided to cancel the project. 'There could have been a pathway to 'yes,' and he chose the opposite approach,' she said in that interview. According to her, 'Northern Gateway actually showed a pathway where you could have Indigenous ownership. I think there were 35 Indigenous leaders who were very enthusiastic about it. So I would hope we could enter into some kind of process where we would have a similarly positive outcome.' That's a dramatic rewriting of history. Enbridge did sign financial agreements with an undisclosed number of First Nations in return for their support of Northern Gateway, but the names of those nations were never publicly released. Meanwhile, more than 130 First Nations publicly opposed the project. Among them were the nine coastal First Nations represented by Chief Slett – it was their court challenge that led the federal court to overturn the project's approval. Justin Trudeau decided against appealing that decision, and formally cancelled the project instead. Reviving it today runs a powerful risk of reigniting the same opposition, both in the courts and on the streets. Even if Carney and Smith find a number of First Nations to support it, the inevitable opposition of a far greater number of First Nations would be political kryptonite for a government whose relationship with First Nations is already under huge strain. 'It's not going to be the path that they envision,' Slett said. Oil versus gas Phil Germuth is the mayor of Kitimat, the same terminus where Northern Gateway was originally proposed. He was a city councillor and staunch opponent of Northern Gateway 10 years ago; today, he's delighted by all the LNG traffic coming through Douglas Channel. Earlier this month, LNG Canada began its first shipment of liquefied natural gas out of Kitimat; several more LNG projects are coming online in the coming years. Germuth remains extremely wary of transporting bitumen through the same waters. 'They're two completely different projects when it comes to the potential environmental impacts,' he told Canada's National Observer. 'If you're proposing Northern Gateway the way it originally was, I think there would just be so much opposition.' By 2030, Slett expects to see 600 LNG tankers ply her territorial waters and those of her fellow coastal nations every year. She and others have made their peace with that — and think this sacrifice — not a small one, should be enough. 'British Columbia is doing their part in terms of national interest projects with these LNG projects,' she said. Plus, oil is far more dangerous to transport than natural gas, Slett pointed out. 'There is no technology that exists that could sufficiently clean up any oil spill in these deep waters and along the narrow rocky coastlines,' she said. 'We're not going to bear the risk of an oil spill in our waters.' While opposition to transporting bitumen along the north coast hasn't changed in the last 10 years, other things have. One of them is the creation of a huge new marine protected area known as the Great Bear Sea. This is one of the largest conservation projects of its kind on Earth, encompassing 10 million hectares off the north and central coast of British Columbia. Last year, the federal government gave $200 million to kickstart the initiative, which is led by 17 First Nations, including all the ones that defeated Northern Gateway in court 10 years ago. When Trudeau decided not to appeal that loss, he passed Bill C-48 banning oil tanker traffic from the region. Federal Conservatives, multiple Alberta premiers, and Enbridge have all been calling for that ban to be repealed ever since, as a precondition for reviving Northern Gateway. If that happens, it would almost certainly be a sign that a new pipeline battle is coming next. Transport Canada, under whose jurisdiction the tanker ban falls, did not reply to a request for comment on the future of C-48. Neither did the environment ministry. The question, then, is whether Carney appreciates the situation's flammability. According to BC AFN Chief Teegee, the prime minister promised First Nations chiefs in Gatineau that no projects would be approved without Indigenous consent. If he holds true to his word, he'll undoubtedly enrage Danielle Smith and the federal Conservatives. But now that Bill C-5 is law, they no longer have the power to kill the prime minister's signature legislation. The people who can are First Nations.
