A Small Reflection (Part II)

A few years ago, I published an article called A Small Reflection/The Inequity of Language Acquisition: Niwî gikendân. In the article, I wrote about the racist policies of the 1867 Indian Act that brought about severe consequences, such as the loss of language, culture, unique perspectives, and political identity.

The article examined Indigenous Peoples’ access to language acquisition and identified barriers that stemmed from the geographical limitations imposed by virtue of the Indian Act, which delineates lands for Indians as reserves. Often, services are limited to on-reserve First Nations, and off-reserve First Nations face unique challenges in accessing critical cultural revitalization training. I reflected on how modern technology could help improve access but does not replace the community-based learning that comes from in-person teaching—a practice that spanned millennia.

We are now in the middle of the United Nations’ International Decade of Indigenous Languages—a ten-year survival plan to protect Indigenous languages—and challenges remain. I view language as a bridge to identity and community. My personal journey toward accessing my Indigenous language has been transformative, highlighting how language connects us to our cultural roots. My recent enrollment in a virtual class titled Anicinape icikic8e8in, which means “the anishinabe way of speaking”, through the Minwashin organization, offered an opportunity to learn my language even though I was not situated physically in my community.

Learning alongside family members, Elders, and relatives across generations shows that language is not just about words—it is about relationships, shared history, and collective identity. This connection to community through language reinforces the idea that language revitalization is essential for healing and reconnecting with our heritage. Since the Anishinabe language alphabet that was being taught is one of the oldest written forms, it accommodates to some degree the variation of dialects that exist between neighbouring Algonquin communities.

Learning Anishinabe for the first time through Zoom has been a profoundly moving experience. Sitting in a virtual classroom alongside relatives, parents, and Elders—from Vancouver to Montreal and other small towns and reserves—reminded me that language learning is not just about vocabulary, but about relationships and identity. Each session felt like we were piecing together something that had been interrupted, reclaiming stories and ways of seeing the world that live within the language. For me, hearing Anishinabe spoken across generations carried both healing and hope, showing that the language is alive, resilient, and meant to be carried forward. With each class anew I found a deeper connection to my community. As I looked at the screens and listened to the sharing of the Anishinabe language and their root words, I realized why today’s generation longs to revitalize the language.  

As I was reflecting on my experience for this article, I recalled how my mother asked me and my sister how it felt to connect with our relatives through the language class. We both immediately acknowledged that the class brought a profound realization of the depth of knowledge that was lost through the assimilation policies. The colonial system was designed to create this inequity by banning the use of our languages, creating an impoverished reserve system, and distinguishing between services on and off reserves. 

The Indian Act sets out in most cases the policies that impact language, health, and education. It defines even who is entitled to be First Nations. Despite remaining a key governing document for many First Nations, it has never been translated into the languages of the people it impacts most. There are over 70 Indigenous languages in Canada.

In this modern day of fast communication, online language courses, and language apps, why has our Anishinabe language not been made accessible in a way that works to foster language speakers? My experience in the Anishinabe language class reinvigorates this question a hundred-fold. Although my advancement in the course is slow and steady, I have realized that the language offers a richness and depth of knowledge that reaches back to our ancestors, accessible only through the expressions of our stories. My experience leads me to acknowledge the deep connection between language, culture, and identity, as well as the ongoing challenges and the hope of revitalization through personal and collective efforts.

The virtual classroom experience is moving, but it also reinforces the importance of face-to-face interaction in language transmission. The community aspect of learning—sharing stories, traditions, and experiences—remains essential for preserving the depth of cultural knowledge embedded in language. The language is seen as a vessel for stories, perspectives, and worldviews that are integral to understanding the past and shaping the future. One example came when my mother asked the Anishinabe language instructor if she could translate the inscription on the back of an old photo of my great-grandmother. My mother had the photo but could not read the words. As it happened, the alphabet we were learning was the same. This experience reinforces that language is an essential repository of ancestral wisdom that needs to be preserved and passed down.

The Indian Act continues to impose geographical constraints on First Nations communities regarding reserve lands. Unequal access to the land and diminished connection to culture and protocol continue to result in prohibitive outcomes regarding access to language acquisition and core practices related to identity. This experience highlights that the impact of colonialism is not just historical. It’s present in the everyday challenges faced by Indigenous communities today. Our language holds the stories, perspectives, and worldviews that are integral to understanding the past and shaping the future. Language is an essential repository for ancestral wisdom that needs to be preserved and passed down. Niwî gikendân (I want to know).

It is with gratitude that I thank my mother Dr. Jocelyne Robinson - Kokomisminan Dibik-kakizis Nésaywin (Grandmother Moon’s Breath), siblings, extended relatives and Anicinabe language instructor Anna Mapachee, as well as Project Director Şükran Tipi for their contributions of time and expertise that greatly assisted in developing this article.