One year ago today, the bitter Edmonton winter bit deeper than usual as I found myself in handcuffs – arrested for doing my job as a journalist covering a police raid on an Indigenous homeless encampment. The irony was stark: an Indigenous journalist detained on ancestral lands while documenting the displacement of her own people.
That January morning marked the beginning of what would become one of the darkest chapters of my career. The physical discomfort of the cold concrete cell floor paled in comparison to the psychological weight that settled over me in the weeks that followed. I questioned everything – my purpose, my choices, my future in journalism. Some nights found me curled in the fetal position, my thoughts spiraling as I looked at my six-year-old daughter and wondered what kind of mother I had become.
When an officer had demanded that I leave the scene that day, I could have walked away. It would have been easier, and safer. But walking away would have meant abandoning my responsibility as a witness to truth. Our people face disproportionate police violence, yet accountability remains elusive. Each story left untold is another thread of justice frayed.
Some nights found me curled in the fetal position, my thoughts spiraling as I looked at my six-year-old daughter and wondered what kind of mother I had become.
The devastating toll of police violence against Indigenous people has only escalated since my arrest. This past summer and fall unleashed a wave of tragedy that rippled through Indigenous communities across Canada. Among the lives lost was 15-year-old Hoss Lightning-Saddleback from Maskwacis, AB – a youth whose future was cut tragically short by police violence. Within mere weeks, nearly a dozen Indigenous people across the country had their lives taken in encounters with law enforcement. Each death represents not just a personal tragedy, but a systemic failure that demands witness and accountability.
These losses underscore why journalists must remain present, even when ordered to leave, even when threatened with arrest. Every lens turned away, every notebook closed, every journalist silenced means critical incidents go undocumented, patterns of violence remain hidden, and families are left without witnesses to their truth. The cost of such silence is measured in lives lost.
The charges against me were eventually dropped, thanks to support from fellow journalists and press freedom organizations. I remember the moment my lawyer’s text arrived with the news – my relief erupting in piercing wails that released months of pent-up anguish. But this victory wasn’t just personal; it was a testament to the essential role of journalism in a democratic society, particularly at a time when police violence against Indigenous people has reached crisis levels.
Looking back now, I recognize that what tried to break me only forged me stronger. This experience fortified my resolve of why I do this work. Every time I document police raids in Wet’suwet’en territory and other Indigenous frontlines, every time I witness matriarchs being dragged from their traditional lands, every time I expose tactical lies meant to control the narrative – I’m carrying forward a sacred responsibility to truth-telling. This responsibility has become even more crucial as we witness an alarming surge in police-involved deaths within our communities.
The patterns I’ve witnessed across the country remain disturbingly consistent: corporations securing injunctions from colonial courts, militarized police operations against unarmed Indigenous people, media access restricted to control the story. But now I understand more deeply than ever that my presence isn’t just about reporting – it’s an act of resistance against centuries of silencing. It’s about ensuring that no Indigenous death goes unnoticed, no pattern of violence goes undocumented.
The attempt to silence me has only amplified my determination to speak louder, see clearer, and fight harder for justice through journalism.
Today, standing on the other side of that darkness, my resolve has never been stronger. The system may have tried to intimidate me into silence, but instead, it reinforced why my voice – and the voices of all Indigenous journalists – are so crucial. We are the witnesses to ongoing colonialism, the chroniclers of both injustice and resistance, the storytellers ensuring that truth survives. In a year that has seen so many Indigenous lives lost to police violence, this role has become more vital than ever.
As I mark this anniversary, I’m no longer that frightened journalist in a cold cell. I’ve emerged as a warrior armed with words, carrying the prayers of my ancestors and the hopes of future generations. The attempt to silence me has only amplified my determination to speak louder, see clearer, and fight harder for justice through journalism. Every story I tell honors those we’ve lost – young Hoss Lightning-Saddleback and the many others whose lives were cut short. Their stories demand to be told, and I will continue to tell them, no matter the personal cost.
This isn’t just about my story – it’s about every Indigenous person facing systemic violence, every land defender protecting sacred territories, every voice that the system tries to silence, and every life lost to police violence. One year later, I stand firm in my conviction: I will not back down, I will not look away, and I will not be silent. Too many lives depend on the truth being told.
