Bias and Reconciliation

Truth and Reconciliation with a sense of hope and positivity, while also grappling with the feeling that the narrative is heavily biased. Challenging this article from a philosophical standpoint, especially when discussing historical injustice, is not only valid but necessary.

Truth and reconciliation, by nature, require an honest confrontation with uncomfortable truths.

The Philosophical Dilemma: Bias and Reconciliation

From a philosophical perspective, reconciliation is meant to bridge the past and the future, helping both victims and oppressors come to terms with the realities of history. However, it’s natural to question whether this process can be fair and unbiased when so much of the narrative feels like it swings heavily in one direction—either in a sense of overwhelming guilt or in an oversimplified version of suffering.

Philosopher Hannah Arendt, in her discussion of truth and politics, notes that truth can be uncomfortable and rarely sits in harmony with power. The truth, particularly about historical events, often seems to be too weighted—it is either overly focused on one group’s suffering or another group’s misdeeds. This imbalance doesn’t necessarily stem from intentional bias, but from the fact that narratives, especially those involving cultural trauma, are inherently difficult to present without feeling emotionally charged.

Positivity in the Midst of a Complex Reality

It’s challenging to balance positivity with these realities. There’s a tension between acknowledging the magnitude of the injustices committed and moving forward with hope. But it’s possible to do both. The process of reconciliation itself doesn’t require forgetting the past but, ideally, should involve constructively addressing it. As Indigenous leaders often say, it’s not just about truth, but about making that truth transformative. This is where you can find the space for positivity—healing is forward-looking.

A way to challenge your article without losing its integrity is to explore multiple dimensions of truth:

1. Acknowledge the complexities of colonization and its ongoing effects without suggesting that blame is the sole tool of reconciliation. Colonization affected both Indigenous and non-Indigenous communities, though the impact was vastly disproportionate. Both sides have to grapple with that.

2. Question the narrative of victimhood and guilt. Instead of viewing Indigenous peoples solely through the lens of victimhood, emphasize resilience, cultural revival, and the strength of their contributions to reconciliation today. Balance is found in recognizing the resilience and strength that helped them survive and recover.

3. Recognize that reconciliation is not just a state, but a continuous process. It’s about living in the tension between recognizing past wrongs and being committed to mutual growth.

Critical Challenge and Optimism

It’s possible to challenge the historical bias and still move forward in a positive direction. To do that, this article (that your reading) is an attempt and should embrace this tension and openly explore the ambiguities within the narrative. Philosophers like Jacques Derrida spoke of the importance of deconstructing binary oppositions (good/bad, victim/oppressor) to find truths within contradictions. This is especially relevant in reconciliation efforts—where there’s a need for both guilt and hope, responsibility and recovery.

The language gets thick—colonizers, colonoscopies, words strung together like barbed wire fences around the mind. Loaded like the back of a wagon, heavy with history, but we’re supposed to dance through it? They say "colonizer" and it sticks like wet clay on the boots, weighs you down in a swamp of ideas. But I say, let’s make it light, throw the whole mess in a blender and hit ‘puree.’

Words like that don’t make friends, but they sure do make enemies, don’t they? So let's spin it sideways.

Colonizer, colossus, colossal—something too big to fit into the small cracks where truth hides. Colonoscopy, scope out the damage deep inside, check the guts of a nation, see where it’s all bleeding and whether there’s something still digesting in there. And when you think you’ve found the root of it all, guess what? The root’s laughing back at you, saying, “you’re looking for the thing that’s already changed while you were staring.”

Why not paint it in reverse? The syntax gone off the rails, let the train fall into the valley of metaphors that don't care if they fit. It’s a game of dodgeball, and you're standing there—caught between language and meaning, holding a word that might explode if you throw it.

That’s the game we play.

Totem poles are perhaps one of the most powerful and enduring symbols of Indigenous art and culture, particularly among the First Nations of the Pacific Northwest Coast. These towering structures, carved from large cedar trees, serve not only as remarkable artistic achievements but also as significant cultural markers that embody family lineage, spiritual beliefs, and historical events.

The carving of a totem pole is an art form passed down through generations, and it requires exceptional skill and spiritual connection to the subject matter. Totem pole carvers, often referred to as master carvers, are highly respected individuals in the community. The art of carving reflects deep cultural knowledge, and the materials chosen—typically Western red cedar—are integral to the process. The figures on the pole might represent animals, humans, spirits, or mythological creatures, and the skill of the carver is reflected in how these figures interact and tell the intended story.

Each figure carved into the pole represents something specific. Raven, for example, is a common figure on Haida poles, representing the trickster and creator figure in their mythology. Eagle is another frequent motif, symbolizing strength and leadership. Other symbols, like bears, wolves, and frogs, also carry specific meanings depending on the cultural and spiritual significance they hold for the particular First Nation.

For many First Nations, totem poles are emblems of identity. The figures on the poles symbolize familial lineage and clan crests, representing the deep connection between the family and their totemic animal or spiritual being. These figures link families to their ancestors, their territories, and their place in the natural and spiritual world. Raising a totem pole, especially in the past, was a significant act of status and power, asserting claims over territories and symbolizing the interconnectedness of family, community, and land.

Totem poles, like many aspects of Indigenous culture, were affected by colonial policies aimed at suppressing Indigenous identities. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, anti-potlatch laws were introduced, which criminalized the potlatch and by extension, the creation and raising of totem poles. Many poles were stolen or destroyed, and entire communities lost these important cultural artifacts as part of efforts to assimilate Indigenous peoples.

However, there has been a strong resurgence in the carving and raising of totem poles. Artists like Bill Reid (Haida) and Ellen Neel (Kwakwaka’wakw) have played crucial roles in the revitalization of the art form. Today, totem poles continue to be carved and raised, symbolizing cultural resilience and the ongoing connection between Indigenous peoples and their traditions. Modern carvers often blend traditional techniques with contemporary themes, making totem poles not only a form of cultural preservation but also a living art form that evolves with time.

Some poles may tell stories of creation, like the Raven bringing light to the world, a common theme in many Pacific Northwest Indigenous cultures. Other poles may record territorial claims, genealogies, or important social alliances between families.

What’s crucial to understand is that totem poles are never just decorations—they are deeply intertwined with social, spiritual, and political life. To view a totem pole is to engage with the history and identity of a people.

When looking further into the origins of totem poles, the evidence becomes more challenging to pin down with certainty. The precise age of the tradition is difficult to determine, mainly due to the organic materials used in their construction. Western red cedar, while ideal for carving, is also prone to decay, which means that very few ancient poles have survived in a physical form. This has left scholars to rely primarily on oral histories, cultural records, and archaeological evidence to trace their origins.

One of the oldest confirmed poles dates back to approximately 1700, based on remains found in British Columbia. However, oral histories suggest that the practice of carving poles goes back much further, likely pre-contact with Europeans. There are also mentions in some early explorer accounts from the 18th century, describing towering carvings near Indigenous longhouses. For example, Captain James Cook, during his exploration of the Northwest Coast in 1778, made observations of large carved wooden structures, indicating that the practice was well-established by that time.

The Haida of Haida Gwaii and the Tlingit people have particularly strong traditions of totem pole carving, and it’s widely believed that the art form likely originated with these nations before spreading to other Indigenous groups along the Pacific Coast. The Haida poles are renowned for their intricate designs and have been particularly well-documented, both by early European settlers and in more recent archaeological work.

While there is no written record from pre-contact times to verify exactly how far back the tradition goes, the totem poles’ presence in oral histories, some of which are said to date back millennia, suggests that they have been an integral part of the culture for far longer than the physical evidence can prove. These poles were more than just artistic expressions—they were spiritual markers, political statements, and cultural records all carved into the wood of the towering cedar trees that dominate the Pacific Northwest landscape .

Thus, while the earliest surviving poles date back to the early 18th century, the tradition itself is undoubtedly much older, rooted deeply in the cultural practices of the Indigenous peoples of the region. This complexity and the richness of the totem pole tradition make them not only significant historical artifacts but also living symbols of cultural resilience and continuity.

Totem pole production reached its height during the 19th century, benefiting from the introduction of iron tools by European traders, which made carving faster and easier. However, this period of artistic flourishing was followed by an intense era of cultural suppression. Beginning in the late 19th century, colonial policies—including the banning of the potlatch ceremony in 1884—targeted Indigenous cultural expressions, including the raising of totem poles. Many poles were stolen, destroyed, or sold to museums and private collectors as the federal government and missionaries pushed for assimilation into European-Canadian society.

One particularly poignant story is that of the G’psgolox Pole, carved in 1872 to commemorate a chief’s deceased family members. This pole was later stolen in 1929 and taken to Sweden, where it remained in a museum until efforts for repatriation finally led to its return in 2006. This and similar stories underscore the complex history of cultural appropriation and loss, while also highlighting the deep efforts to reclaim and revitalize Indigenous heritage in the modern era.

At the time of European contact, most Indigenous languages in what is now Canada existed within cultures deeply rooted in oral traditions. These oral traditions were the foundation of how knowledge, history, spiritual beliefs, and social structures were passed from generation to generation. The over 70 distinct Indigenous languages spanned 11 major language families, such as Algonquian, Iroquoian, Siouan, Dene, and Inuit-Aleut, among others. Each language carried a unique worldview, intertwined with the specific lands, ecosystems, and communities they represented.

Oral traditions in these cultures were not merely practical—they were revered. Storytelling, songs, ceremonies, and rituals played a central role in encoding and preserving the laws, history, and beliefs of the people. Knowledge wasn’t written down but was instead maintained and shared through intricate memory techniques and communal recitations. Elders and storytellers were particularly respected for their role in safeguarding this oral knowledge, ensuring that it remained unchanged and passed down accurately.

Although formal written systems were rare, some cultures employed pictographic or symbolic systems to assist in remembering complex stories or teachings. For example, the Anishinaabe used birchbark scrolls, inscribed with pictographs to record their sacred Midewiwin teachings—spiritual knowledge passed down within their society. These scrolls served as mnemonic devices, helping to recall longer oral narratives and guiding ceremonies. Similarly, the Mi’kmaq developed a hieroglyphic writing system, often used to record prayers or ceremonial knowledge, showing that while oral tradition dominated, certain cultures had evolved symbolic writing systems to support it.

In contrast, totem poles from the Pacific Northwest Coast didn’t serve as “writing” in the Western sense but acted as another form of symbolic communication. These poles were carved to represent family crests, spiritual beings, and historical events. They were visual representations of a community’s lineage, teachings, and important life events. The symbols and figures on these poles acted much like the pictographs used in other regions, helping to encode stories and guide memory, rather than directly representing written words or sounds.

The use of birch bark as a medium for recording important cultural knowledge among Indigenous peoples, particularly the Ojibwe and Mi’kmaq, holds deep historical and spiritual significance. The Ojibwe birchbark scrolls (called wiigwaasabak in Ojibwe) are perhaps the most well-known example of this practice. These scrolls were used by the Midewiwin, the spiritual society of the Ojibwe people, to record and preserve sacred knowledge, including ceremonies, healing practices, spiritual teachings, and oral histories. The scrolls were not writing in the Western sense, but they served as mnemonic devices, helping the Midewiwin members remember the details of complex rituals and stories that were critical to maintaining cultural continuity.

The scrolls were often inscribed with pictographs—symbols that represented specific teachings, stories, or songs. For example, animal figures such as the turtle, bear, or bird could represent different spiritual guides or beings that were central to Ojibwe cosmology. Lines connecting these figures often symbolized pathways or journeys—literal or spiritual. Each scroll was carefully created to ensure that the teachings were passed down correctly from generation to generation, allowing the Ojibwe to maintain their culture even in the face of colonization and the pressures to assimilate.

The Mi’kmaq people also used birch bark for ceremonial and spiritual recordings. The komqwejwi’kasikl writing system, a form of hieroglyphic symbols, was inscribed on birch bark for prayers, spiritual knowledge, and important community messages. For the Mi’kmaq, birch bark was a sacred material, symbolizing life and connection to the Earth. The written symbols were often used in wampum belts or to pass on teachings about the natural world, governance, and ethical living.

To explain how the Ojibwe birchbark scrolls and Mi’kmaq hieroglyphs serve as mnemonic devices rather than writing, it’s important to differentiate between the functions of oral tradition and written language in these cultures.

Written language, in the Western sense, is a system where symbols (letters or characters) represent sounds or words. These symbols combine to form sentences and complex ideas, independent of spoken memory. Writing allows for communication across time and space, where the reader doesn’t need prior knowledge of the context or meaning beyond understanding the language.

However, the pictographs used by the Ojibwe and the hieroglyphic symbols used by the Mi’kmaq do not function in the same way as alphabetic writing. Instead, they act as mnemonic devices, meaning they are tools to aid memory and recall rather than to encode detailed, stand-alone written narratives. These symbols serve as prompts or reminders for people who already have deep knowledge of the stories, rituals, or teachings they represent.

For example, in the case of the Ojibwe birchbark scrolls, the symbols might depict animals, plants, or abstract shapes that correspond to elements of a ritual, a spiritual teaching, or a story. A figure of a turtle might remind a Midewiwin spiritual leader of a particular story involving the turtle or its role in cosmology, while a series of connected lines could represent a journey, path, or narrative sequence. The scrolls themselves do not contain all the details of the story—they instead act as guides for oral recitation. Only someone who knows the full context of the tradition could interpret and expand upon what each symbol represents.

In the Mi’kmaq tradition, the komqwejwi’kasikl symbols similarly served to encode religious prayers or teachings, but they were not used for everyday communication or detailed writing. They provided key visual prompts that allowed someone familiar with the practice to recall the prayer or ritual accurately, but they didn’t replace the oral component of knowledge transmission. The symbols did not describe sounds in a phonetically detailed way, as written language does; instead, they acted as cues for the spoken words and practices that accompanied them.

In both cases, the mnemonic nature of these systems is key: they are designed to work alongside oral tradition, not replace it. Oral transmission was and remains central in these cultures, and the symbols serve as visual aids for keeping that oral knowledge intact across generations. The ability to recall and interpret these symbols relies on a deep cultural and spiritual knowledge, passed down through teaching and ritual, rather than on the ability to read in the sense that we understand it in written language.

These symbols preserve the integrity of oral knowledge in a way that ensures it can be transmitted correctly, while still relying on the speaker’s memory and understanding of the broader cultural context to bring the stories, rituals, and teachings to life. Thus, they act as memory aids rather than a self-contained system of writing.

In both cultures, birch bark was much more than a practical material—it was a sacred medium, connecting the physical and spiritual worlds. The bark itself was harvested with care, following rituals that respected the trees from which it came, reflecting the deep respect Indigenous peoples had for the natural world and its resources.

Today, many of these traditions have been lost or fragmented due to colonization and the suppression of Indigenous cultures, but there are ongoing efforts to revitalize these practices. Birchbark scrolls and Mi’kmaq hieroglyphs are being studied, taught, and passed down again, preserving not only the material knowledge but the spiritual and cultural integrity they carry. These symbols and the stories they represent are more than artifacts—they are living links to a worldview that sees the Earth, its creatures, and its people as interconnected in ways that Western perspectives often fail to grasp.

For a deeper dive into the specifics of the Ojibwe birchbark scrolls and Mi’kmaq hieroglyphics, the work of scholars like Basil Johnston (Ojibwe historian) and Ruth Holmes Whitehead (Mi’kmaq studies) can offer valuable insights. Their research continues to unearth and celebrate the intricate cultural knowledge embedded in these ancient practices.

It’s important to clarify that most Indigenous languages in Canada traditionally did not have formal written systems prior to European contact. They were primarily oral languages, with knowledge, culture, and history passed down through generations via storytelling, songs, ceremonies, and spoken word. However, zero does not apply across the board, as some Indigenous languages developed pictographic forms of recording information, such as Anishinaabe birchbark scrolls, which used symbols to convey stories, laws, and cultural practices.

Over time, written systems were introduced, often by missionaries and linguists who adapted Indigenous languages into syllabic or alphabetic systems. For instance, the Cree and Inuktitut syllabics are among the most well-known examples of Indigenous languages adopting a written form, which were introduced in the 19th century. Today, there are significant efforts to preserve and revitalize these languages, many of which now have written components, but they remain deeply rooted in their oral traditions.

Therefore, while historically there may have been no widespread use of written language as we know it in the Western sense, some Indigenous groups used forms of symbolic representation, and later adapted to written systems introduced during colonization

However, with colonization, efforts were made—often by missionaries or colonial administrators—to transcribe these languages using Latin-based alphabets or syllabics. For example, Cree syllabics were introduced by missionary James Evans in the 19th century, which remain one of the most well-known Indigenous writing systems today. Similarly, Inuktitut adopted a syllabic writing system, though it was also introduced by missionaries.

Indigenous languages in Canada tell a complex and rich story, especially when it comes to the role of writing systems in cultures that were primarily oral traditions before European contact. The Mi’kmaq are one of the rare exceptions, with evidence of a hieroglyphic writing system that existed before colonization. This system, known as komqwejwi’kasikl, was used for ceremonial and educational purposes, often inscribed on birch bark. The Mi’kmaq system combined logographic symbols with some phonetic elements, serving both as memory aids and as a way to record prayers and significant cultural teachings. The French Jesuits later adapted this system to further introduce Christian teachings to the Mi’kmaq

Another example of early symbolic writing in Indigenous cultures is the use of birchbark scrolls by the Ojibwe, who employed these scrolls for recording laws, spiritual knowledge, and historical events. These scrolls functioned not as a fully-fledged writing system in the Western sense but as a complex and intricate mnemonic device

It’s important to note that while most Indigenous languages were predominantly oral, certain groups, like the Mi’kmaq and Ojibwe, developed early forms of symbolic communication. This distinction becomes crucial in understanding that writing in many Indigenous cultures took forms beyond the alphabetic systems that colonizers brought, and they had sophisticated methods for preserving knowledge and culture long before European influence.

Today, as part of the language revitalization movement, many Indigenous communities, including the Mi’kmaq, are reclaiming and reintroducing these symbols into educational settings, bridging traditional methods with modern applications. These efforts, such as the ones led by interdisciplinary artists like Michelle Sylliboy, continue to breathe life into these ancient forms of communication, ensuring they remain relevant for future generations

This reclamation reflects the resilience of Indigenous peoples, whose languages—whether oral or written—continue to endure despite the efforts of colonial systems to suppress them. As the Truth and Reconciliation process highlights, the preservation and revitalization of Indigenous languages are integral to healing and cultural continuity in Canada.

The symbols used by Indigenous cultures in Canada, like the Mi’kmaq hieroglyphics, are fascinating and deeply meaningful. These symbols, often called komqwejwi’kasikl, were used to represent prayers and important cultural knowledge on birch bark. Unlike the alphabetic systems most of us are used to, the Mi’kmaq hieroglyphs were more like pictographs or ideograms, where a single symbol could represent an idea, a concept, or even a sound. For example, a figure might represent a physical object, like an animal, or an abstract idea like balance or spiritual power.

For the Ojibwe, they used birchbark scrolls with pictographs that acted like memory aids, helping them remember spiritual teachings, laws, or stories. These weren’t “writing” in the way we think of it, but they were crucial for passing down knowledge. Symbols of animals or plants might represent different spirits or forces in nature, with lines and shapes serving as guides for ceremonies or stories.

And then there’s the Inuksuk, built by the Inuit as stone markers across the land. They weren’t “writing” but they communicated messages, marking important places or serving as guides. Each Inuksuk had meaning, from guiding travelers to commemorating a place or event.

All these symbols were ways for Indigenous peoples to pass down knowledge, culture, and identity long before colonization. They weren’t just functional—they were spiritual, connecting people to the land, to each other, and to the past. Today, these systems are being revitalized as part of the movement to preserve Indigenous languages and traditions, showing the incredible resilience and depth of these cultures.

The challenge Indigenous languages face now is largely due to the residential school system and assimilation policies, which aimed to eradicate Indigenous languages by forcibly preventing children from speaking their mother tongues. Today, many Indigenous languages are endangered, though there are substantial revitalization efforts underway. According to the 2021 Census, around 237,000 people in Canada reported being able to speak an Indigenous language, but most of these speakers are concentrated in a few languages, like Cree and Inuktitut, while others have only a handful of fluent speakers left.

The push toward revitalization—through both oral teaching and modern written forms—has gained momentum, particularly as part of Truth and Reconciliation efforts. Indigenous communities are embracing both traditional oral methods and newly developed writing systems to ensure their languages survive for future generations