This is about protecting our ancestors, our way of doing things.
In late March, Prime Minister Trudeau traveled to Williams Lake First Nation to bear witness to the discovery of 93 potential burial sites near the former St. Joseph's Mission residential school — a place where children were sent and, too often, did not return. The visit was framed as reconciliation, yet the ground itself complicated that framing: only a fraction of the site had been searched, a neighboring nation declined to attend in protest of exclusion, and the federal government's own minister acknowledged that $320 million pledged for this work would likely fall short. Canada finds itself, again, confronting the distance between the language of reckoning and the architecture of genuine repair.
- 93 potential burial sites have been identified near a former residential school, but searchers have covered only 14 of 470 hectares — the full scale of what lies beneath remains unknown.
- The Tŝilhqot'in Nation refused to attend Trudeau's visit, not out of indifference, but because they insist the investigation cannot belong to one community when the dead belong to many.
- Chief Joe Alphonse's absence was itself a demand: a multi-nation committee, rooted in each people's own protocols for honoring the dead, must guide what comes next.
- Trudeau arrived with words of grief and witness, but the harder question — whether the federal government can genuinely step back and let Indigenous nations lead — went unanswered.
- Minister Miller's admission that $320 million is likely insufficient landed with quiet gravity, a concession that the scope of this harm resists any financial ceiling.
Prime Minister Trudeau arrived at the Williams Lake First Nation administration building on a Wednesday morning in late March, greeted by drummers, elders, and the weight of what the community had recently announced: 93 potential burial sites identified near the ruins of St. Joseph's Mission residential school. Of the 470 hectares available for investigation, only 14 had been searched. No one could say what the remaining ground held.
Chief Willie Sellars had invited Trudeau and Minister Marc Miller not only to acknowledge what had been found, but to understand what Canada's role would be in what came next. Trudeau spoke of grief and generational loss, positioning himself as a listener. But the Tŝilhqot'in Nation — whose children had also been sent to St. Joseph's Mission — declined the invitation entirely. Through Chief Joe Alphonse, they made clear that the investigation could not proceed as a single-community affair. The ground was sacred, the dead belonged to multiple nations, and each people held distinct protocols for honoring their ancestors. Alphonse had asked repeatedly for a more inclusive process; instead, his nation had been invited only to occasional update meetings. What the Tŝilhqot'in proposed was a committee drawing together all communities whose children had passed through those doors.
Sellars acknowledged that the second phase of the work — excavation, identification, years of searching — could not move forward without exactly that kind of collaboration. The federal government had committed more than $320 million toward residential school searches and survivor support, but Miller, standing in Williams Lake, admitted the figure would likely prove insufficient. The acknowledgment carried its own weight: at least 4,100 children are confirmed to have died in Canada's residential schools, and the true number is almost certainly higher.
Trudeau had come to listen. Whether that listening would translate into the structural change the Tŝilhqot'in Nation was asking for — the kind that steps back far enough to let Indigenous nations lead according to their own values — remained, at the end of the visit, an open question.
Prime Minister Justin Trudeau arrived at the Williams Lake First Nation administration building on a Wednesday morning in late March, greeted by drummers, dancers, and elders. He had come to listen—or so he said—to a community grappling with the discovery of 93 potential burial sites near the ruins of St. Joseph's Mission residential school. The visit was framed as a moment of national reckoning, though the ground beneath it was far more complicated than the official welcome suggested.
In January, Williams Lake First Nation had announced the findings from ground-penetrating radar surveys of the former school's grounds. Of the 470 hectares available for investigation, only 14 had been searched when the announcement came. The numbers were staggering in their incompleteness—93 potential graves, a search barely begun, and no one could say how many more might lie undiscovered. Chief Willie Sellars, who led the nation through this process, had invited Trudeau and Minister of Indigenous-Crown Relations Marc Miller to understand not just what had been found, but what Canada's role would be in what came next.
Trudeau's remarks in the administration building struck the tone of a nation in mourning. He spoke of grief, of loss stretching back generations, of his presence as witness to the "legacy of residential schools." He positioned himself as a listener, someone here to learn what the path forward should look like. But listening, as it turned out, was not what everyone wanted from the federal government. The Tŝilhqot'in Nation, whose people had also attended St. Joseph's Mission, declined the invitation entirely. Through Chief Joe Alphonse, they made clear that the investigation could not proceed as a single-community affair. The ground was sacred. The bodies belonged to multiple nations. The protocols for honoring the dead varied from one people to another. To conduct the search without them was to dishonor both the ancestors and the living.
Alphonse had asked repeatedly for a more inclusive approach. He and his nation had been invited only to occasional update meetings, he said—consulted but not truly included. The Tŝilhqot'in proposed a committee that would bring together representatives from all communities whose children had been sent to St. Joseph's Mission. This was not obstruction; it was a statement about what respect looked like. "This is about doing our part to protect our ancestors, our Tŝilhqot'in way of doing things," Alphonse said. The implication was clear: reconciliation could not be performed by the federal government alone, and it could not erase the distinct obligations each nation held toward its own dead.
Sellars acknowledged that the work ahead would require exactly this kind of collaboration. The second phase of investigation—involving excavation and projects that would stretch across years—could not move forward without multiple nations at the table. The first phase had barely scratched the surface. What lay beneath those 456 unsearched hectares remained unknown.
The federal government had committed more than $320 million in August toward residential school searches and support for survivors and their families. Miller, standing in Williams Lake, admitted the figure was likely insufficient. "That most likely will not be enough," he said, offering the government's readiness to provide additional financing and whatever other resources it could muster. The acknowledgment carried its own weight: the scale of what had been done to Indigenous children in Canada's residential schools—at least 4,100 confirmed dead, though the true number was certainly higher—could not be measured in dollars, and no amount of money could undo it.
What remained was the work of excavation, identification, and the slow process of returning the dead to their families and communities. What remained was the question of whether the federal government could step back far enough to let Indigenous nations lead their own investigations according to their own values. Trudeau had come to listen. Whether he would hear—and whether listening would translate into the kind of structural change the Tŝilhqot'in Nation was asking for—remained to be seen.
Notable Quotes
I am mostly here to listen, to learn, to hear from elders and community members on what the path forward looks like.— Prime Minister Justin Trudeau
It can't be handled by just one community. It's sacred ground as far as we're concerned because of the number of bodies that are there.— Tl'etinqox Chief Joe Alphonse, Tŝilhqot'in Nation
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why did the Tŝilhqot'in Nation refuse to attend if they're also affected by what happened at this school?
Because being invited to occasional meetings isn't the same as being part of the decision-making. They're saying the investigation can't be done right if only one community is leading it.
But wouldn't more people at the table slow things down?
Probably. But they're arguing that speed isn't the point—respect is. These are their ancestors. They have their own protocols for handling sacred ground.
What does that actually mean, their own protocols?
It means different nations have different ways of honoring the dead, different spiritual practices, different relationships to the land. Doing it "right" means honoring all of those, not just one.
So when Trudeau says he's here to listen, is he actually listening to that?
That's the question, isn't it. He's listening to Williams Lake. But the Tŝilhqot'in are saying the real listening would be stepping back and letting all the affected nations design the investigation together.
And the $320 million—is that enough?
The minister himself said it probably isn't. But money alone won't solve this. The deeper issue is whether the federal government can actually cede control of the process.
What happens if they don't?
Then you get what you have now—one community leading, others on the margins, and the work proceeding in a way that doesn't fully honor everyone's relationship to the dead.