09/16/2025
They tried to make us forget —
with silence in the classroom,
with shame woven into uniforms,
with scissors that severed more than hair.
But memory cannot be undone.
It lingers in the roots of birch and cedar,
in the heartbeat of the drum,
in stories that rise with the smoke
when the sun bows low.
Even when our tongues were bound,
and our names stolen like winter breath,
the land held our truth.
The ancestors sang beneath the snow.
And somewhere, deep within,
our spirits kept listening.
The teachings were never lost —
only waiting.
Waiting for the ones brave enough
to listen between the lines.
To feel the old songs rise again
like a wind through the lodge poles.
To walk barefoot where our grandmothers once prayed.
We are that generation.
Carriers of sorrow, yes —
but also of strength,
of flame,
of return.
And now, we braid what was broken —
not in grief,
but in honour.
Not in whispers,
but in the bold, rising voice
of a people who always remembered.
We are still here.
And we remember.
