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Indigenous child welfare win at Supreme Court celebrated

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First Nations leaders speaking after an historic ruling from the Supreme Court say their self-government, inherent rights must be recognized.

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Stefania Giesbrecht was hoping that by the time she finished her studies, she could move back to her community of Saugeen First Nation.

But after nine years on a wait-list, the single mother of three said she has no idea when she will be able to make the move to the community on the shores of Lake Huron near Owen Sound, Ont.

"I put myself onto the waiting list, and my mother went on the waiting list and my sister went on the waiting list," she said.

"And none of us have got any updates."

Giesbrecht said she wants to live on-reserve to immerse her children in their culture. That is something her mother couldn't do as a child of the Sixties Scoop, when Indigenous children were forcefully removed from their families and placed in foster homes by child-welfare authorities.

Giesbrecht said she doesn't blame the community leadership, often referred to as band office officials, for the lengthy wait.

But she does hold the federal government accountable for chronic underfunding that has affected generations, and makes it difficult for First Nations communities to grow in size.

"When the Canadian government intended to assimilate Indigenous people into the body politic, they had no intention of providing us housing for a bigger populace," she said.

Canada's housing shortage has become a major issue in federal politics as people struggle to afford home prices and rent.

But in some Indigenous communities, inadequate housing is nothing new.

Billions of dollars worth of investment needed: AFN

The Assembly of First Nations (AFN) had said last year there was a need for $44 billion to address current on-reserve housing needs alone, plus another $16 billion to account for projected population growth to 2040.

Indigenous Services Minister Patty Hajdu noted that figure when she told the Globe and Mail ahead of last year's budget that she had made an "ambitious" request, although she did not detail the specific amount she had wanted to see.

The 2022 federal budget ended up committing $4 billion over seven years for building and repairing housing in Indigenous communities, including $2.4 billion over five years for housing on First Nations reserves.

Communities say the investments fall far short of what they need.

Only a few thousand people live on-reserve in Peguis First Nation, north of Winnipeg, but there is a shortage of 800 homes.

Chief Stan Bird said families are forced to live in overcrowded homes and the situation is becoming more dire.

One family of 11 is sharing a three-bedroom home, he said. Two of the people living there have chronic health conditions.
LISTEN | How immigration interacts with housing affordability:
"We're in a housing crisis," said Bird. "We've been in this position for a number of years."

"People are tired - I'm tired," he said. "People are growing angry."

Still, the AFN is hoping it can close the gap before 2030.

The Indigenous advocacy organization is working with the federal government to co-develop and implement a national strategy for First Nations housing and related infrastructure.

As of August, the estimated cost to bring housing and infrastructure on reserves up to general Canadian standards is more than $342 billion, with housing alone accounting for $135 billion of that.

The lack of adequate federal investment in Indigenous housing is also a concern off-reserve.

A report by the parliamentary budget officer in 2021 found that after taking into account current programs, there was a $636-million annual gap between what Indigenous households in urban, rural and northern areas can afford to pay for adequate shelter, and the cost of obtaining it.

This year's federal budget earmarked $4 billion over seven years, starting in 2024-25, to implement an urban, rural and northern Indigenous housing strategy through the Canada Mortgage and Housing Corp. that is co-developed with First Nations, Inuit and Métis. That was on top of the $300 million over five years in the 2022 budget.

But that is less than what the National Housing Council, an advisory body to the federal government, had said was needed. The council had recommended at least $6.3 billion over two years beginning in 2022-23.

In June, the federal government also announced $287.1 million of "immediate funding" to address the critical need for safe and affordable Indigenous housing projects.

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Federal underfunding of Indigenous housing leads to years-long wait-lists, frustration | CBC News

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The housing shortage has become a major issue in federal politics as people struggle to afford home prices and rent. But in some Indigenous communities, inadequate housing is nothing new. The Assembly of First Nations has said $44 billion is required to address current on-reserve housing needs.

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Cecelia Brooks remembers a time when the deep forest of New Brunswick was so cold, snow could still be found in its depths in August.

That rarely happens anymore, says Brooks, a traditional knowledge keeper with Wolastoqey, Mi'kmaw, Mohawk and Korean bloodlines who has been foraging and harvesting foods and medicines all of her life.

These days, Brooks says, plants like the mayflower will come up, "you'll see the buds ... then all of a sudden they get hit by that heat and it shrivels."

Brooks, who lives on St. Mary's First Nation in Fredericton, is one of many Indigenous people in the Wabanaki region who say climate change is threatening traditional plants and medicines.

Those changes, Brooks says, could alter their way of life.

Rising temperatures, flooding and coastal erosion

In the past 30 years, the province has seen an increase to the mean annual temperature of 1.1 C, prompting rising sea levels, increased flooding, increased coastal erosion risks and extreme weather events, according to the New Brunswick government.

The province has implemented a climate action plan, and the Department of Environment and Local Government is in discussions with First Nations organizations about climate change.

But in the meantime, the changes are taking a toll.

Sophia Sidarous, a 19-year-old from Metepenagiag Mi'kmaq Nation, about 30 kilometres west of Miramichi, sees the effect of those changes all around her.

Sidarous is a traditional harvester whose work takes her deep into the woods to collect medicines and foods.

"We see ourselves as part of the land, we are interconnected with the land," she says. "It's where we're from and it's who we are."

Sidarous says the threat that climate change poses to the health of the Mi'kmaq, the planet and the sacred plants that inhabit it - particularly the four sacred medicines of cedar, sage, tobacco and sweetgrass - concerns her.

She is particularly worried about sweetgrass, a tall, grassy herb that represents "the hair of Mother Earth."

"Sweetgrass is going to become very rare," Sidarous says.

"If our marshes are flooded, we won't be able to pick sweetgrass. It'll erode the banks."

Cedar will also be affected.

Already, Sidarous says, there's been a noticeable browning of cedar trees that are close to roads radiating heat from rising temperatures.

She fears that rising temperatures will also jeopardize cultural activities such as sweat lodge ceremonies and powwows, which will become harder to hold safely without risking heat exhaustion.

"If we want a healing sweat and we want cedar, we can't go collect cedar along the road," she says. "That concrete will fry the cedar and [other] trees along the road."

Pollution, clearcutting are also concerns

Industry practices are also changing how the forest cares for itself, Sidarous says.

She and her uncle have sometimes travelled more than 60 kilometres from home just to ensure the sweetgrass they pick isn't absorbing pollutants from the water.

"If our medicine isn't clean, we can't clean ourselves," she says.

Brooks, who also holds a bachelor of science degree, agrees.

Practises such as clearcutting are destroying the protective canopy that old growth forests provide for delicate plants below, she says.

A responsibility to protect nature's rights

For Mi'kmaw Elder Albert Marshall, 82, these are all signs that humans have forgotten their role in the ecosystem.

"In our beliefs we're constantly reminded - nature has rights, humans have a responsibility," he says.

As an elder adviser for Nova Scotia's Unama'ki Institute of Natural Resources, Marshall has spent more than 20 years helping the institute blend western science with Mi'kmaw knowledge, a merger he calls Etuaptmumk, or "two-eyed seeing."

He thinks that if more people adopted Mi'kmaw ways of knowing and began to see soil, air and water as essential elements of life - and even better, protected them by granting them legal protection - it would go a long way toward combating climate change.

Getting industry to adopt this mindset will be a tough ask, Marshall concedes.

But with enough public pressure, and enough hopefulness, he says, perhaps this too can change.

"As hard as things may be, we have to constantly inject hope," Marshall says. "Hope will be the mover and shaker in the future."

A legacy of resilience

As the simmering climate crisis rises to a boil, many things may be lost, Brooks says. But she knows that the history of the Wabanaki people is one of resilience.

"Whenever there is a gap in nature, something else comes and fills that role," she says.

She hopes that more people will adopt Indigenous knowledge and a holistic outlook, that they will see the need to "protect the family" of growing things rather than simply seeing them as "resources."

Sidarous, meanwhile, is taking a legal route.

She is part of a youth-led lawsuit that seeks to force the federal government to develop a climate recovery plan, saying Ottawa's inaction is stripping youth of "the opportunity to learn our culture."

The case, launched by 15 young Canadians in 2019, was dismissed by Federal Court in October 2020 when a judge ruled that the claims didn't have a reasonable cause of action or prospect of success.

The case is now before the Federal Court of Appeal.
This story was produced in partnership with the Journalists for Human Rights Indigenous Media Collaborative, a collection of Indigenous media members focusing on solutions journalism and human rights stories across the country.

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Heat warning: How climate change is threatening the way of life of Indigenous people | CBC News

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Cecelia Brooks remembers a time when the deep forest of New Brunswick was so cold, snow could still be found in its depths in August. That rarely happens anymore.