“The only thing I fear the most is that the industrial zone will be successfully constructed,” 

“It only takes 50 steps to walk from my house to the beach. When I was a kid, I had fun building sandcastles, searching for shells to make toys, and just play,” Khairiyah recalls. “On a calm day, we can see dolphins swim around in front of my house. The fishermen see them almost every day so they don’t think it’s special. But visitors always like to take photos.” 

“The ocean not only provides food to our communities, but also feeds people all over the region and different countries. Fishing vessels sell seafood to markets and restaurants, which later is transported to Bangkok and other provinces. If the catch is at the port in Songkhla, it will be exported to Malaysia, Singapore, Japan, and South Korea,”

“While there were only 50 villagers, there were 500 police officers armed with shields and sticks. We came peacefully to submit the letter to the PM, but our villagers were sentenced, and my father was arrested. I saw 10 police officers gathering to stop my father. A woman tried to help him, but she couldn’t fight against those strong officers. At that time, I was small and was hit. I tried to go on Facebook live to help save our villagers, but one of the police officers knocked my phone away,” 

“When my father was released from the prison, I saw metal chains fastened to his arms with other villagers,” Khairiyah painfully recalled. “It looked as if they were being sentenced for killing hundreds of people, but the truth was we just wanted to submit a letter to the PM. Besides, we were accused of assaulting police officers and blocking the roads. They said we were carrying concealed weapons in public. We marched with a green flag as a symbol to protect the environment and to protest against coal-fired power plants. That was the only weapon we had.” 

“I have been raised and surrounded by a healthy environment. I want to pass these fortunes to younger generations. This is what I always hold on to.”

I’m not sure I’d ever call myself an activist – I think it’s fair to say that in this day and age, what it means to be an “activist” is different for everyone. For some this work is a choice, for others, a necessity.  Activism should be an inherent part of what it means to be alive right now, or you’re on the wrong side of history.

My parents gave me a beautiful history. My school showed me where those things lived – not what they looked like presently but how we were seen on a global stage, or at least how we were portrayed in history textbooks. The falsehoods I was forced to navigate as a native child in a predominantly white institution in Mandan, North Dakota made me forge a truth of my own to hang onto, to build, to learn from. It felt like magic to be able to educate my own teachers, even if I was told I was wrong or as most often, simply ignored. It felt righteous all the same.

I came to understand that America’s heroes were not my own. That to teach of the heroes I’ve known – Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull, Red Cloud, Black Elk, Nellie Grey Hawk – would crack the facade of the doctrines which allow education in the U.S to pass as fact. It is an injustice. To uncover the face of racism as a child is a vulnerable process. 

 From 1830’s to the 1980’s, native children were kidnapped from their families and sent to church-funded and founded boarding schools. These places are entirely comparative to internment camps. This was state sanctioned violence. It was intended to be the dregs of genocide. Those who went either assimilated or were killed. Languages have been lost, borders have been drawn, but our prayers have remembered us. We end each with the phrase mitakuye oyasin, which loosely translated means “we are all related.” That all is all encompassing, transcending binaries, rejecting boundaries – we belong to each other. From oceans to creeks, trees to flowers, roots and stones, we claim them as relative, as kin. The word for children in Lakota is wakhanyeza which means “sacred beings.” These ideas are not new, we have always known. 

“Knowing the punishment handed down on those who participated in the heinous crime against Indigenous leader Berta Cáceres is a key moment in the search for truth, justice and reparation for her family, who have endured a wait of more than six years for this. The Honduran authorities must show themselves equal to the task and ensure that the sentence, including its implementation, is in line with the highest human rights standards, ensuring that Berta’s killing does not go unpunished,” said Erika Guevara-Rosas, Americas director at Amnesty International. 

“Unfortunately, this process does not end here. Around the world, the wait continues to know the full truth about the killing of Berta Cáceres so that all those responsible can be held accountable. Berta Cáceres’ case must set a precedent for access to justice for human rights defenders in Honduras who continue to lose their lives in order to save our planet.”

“The youth of Banshkhali must resist injustice and support development through fearless writing.” 

For 50 years, the Canadian government has ignored the devastating impact of mercury contamination on the Indigenous community of Grassy Narrows in Ontario. But the community’s young people are rising and making it impossible for the government to keep turning away.  

Darwin Fobister, aged 22,  is one of many young people who have challenged the Canadian government, demanding justice for a decades-long wrong that has blighted their community. 

“It’s Canada’s worst health crisis, but the government wants to keep it quiet. We’re not going to let them.” 

In the 1960s, the Canadian government allowed a pulp mill to dump an estimated 10 tonnes of mercury into the English-Wabigoon river system. The Indigenous Anishinaabe people of Grassy Narrows, who live downstream from where the plant once stood, rely on the river for their livelihood, sustenance and culture. With their rivers and fish poisoned by mercury, they have suffered decades of serious health problems. 

“I have many health conditions that I shouldn’t be dealing with at my age.” I have trouble speaking. I have speech impairments. I have learning disabilities.”

Mercury poisoning attacks the nervous system, causing numbness, coordination problems, loss of vision, learning disabilities, anxiety and many other health conditions. 

“What makes it worse is that the government knew about the poisoning for decades but chose to ignore it.There’s been a half a century of denial and inaction.” 

The impact of mercury contamination has crossed generations of community members. For much of the last five decades, Canada’s federal and provincial governments have withheld crucial health information from the people of Grassy Narrows, refused to clean up the river system, failed to provide specialized health care, and even denied that there was a threat from mercury poisoning.

Kenny and Janet compete at the fish derby during the Grassy Narrows’ summer powwow. The community has had to work hard to keep their traditions alive in the wake of mercury pollution. 

The summer powwow is one way that the young people of Grassy Narrows stay connected to their traditions – vital for a community that has been robbed of its health and livelihood by a negligent government. 94% of Grassy Narrows members get no compensation for the serious impacts of the ongoing mercury crisis. 

In 2017, the Ontario government promised to fund a clean-up of the river system and the Canadian government promised to build a specialised care centre at Grassy Narrows to support people suffering from mercury poisoning. Neither promise has been met.  “I want the youth to have the best future they can ever have,” says Darwin. “Better than our future.” 

In June 2019, over 40 members of the Grassy Narrows community travelled 1,700km from their home to demand that the government make good on its promise to build a care centre for survivors of mercury poisoning. Since 2012, the youth of Grassy Narrows have held an annual rally for mercury justice. Today their cries for justice have been taken up by people across Canada and beyond. 

“I’m not just… a climate statistic,” My story is only one of many, and I’m here to speak on behalf of the vulnerable and the marginalized communities — may our voices be heard.”