Indian Residential Schools
In 1894, the Canadian government formalized a policy that would shape — and shatter — generations of Indigenous lives. That year, attendance at government- and church-run Indian Residential Schools became mandatory for Indigenous children across the country. Over the following century, more than 150,000 First Nations, Métis, and Inuit children were taken from their families and sent to one of 139 of these schools. The system was not about education — it was about erasure.
The phrase that guided this policy came from the mouth of a man named Duncan Campbell Scott, the deputy superintendent of Indian Affairs. He declared that the goal was to “get rid of the Indian in the child.” It was not a secret, nor a metaphor. It was an official mission to strip Indigenous children of their languages, cultures, and identities — to make them “civilized” according to the standards of the colonial state. The schools were meant to replace tradition with obedience, spirituality with Christianity, and pride with shame.
The government partnered with Christian churches — mostly Catholic, Anglican, Methodist, and Presbyterian — to operate the schools. These institutions often stood far from Indigenous communities, separated by forests, rivers, and fences. Children were taken from their homes by force or coercion, sometimes traveling hundreds of miles away. When they arrived, their hair was cut short, their traditional clothing confiscated, and their Indigenous names replaced with English ones. The first lessons they learned were about loss.
Inside the schools, life was harsh and regimented. Days began with prayer and chores, followed by long hours of labor disguised as education. Many students spent more time scrubbing floors or tending crops than learning to read. Speaking their native language was forbidden — punishable by beatings, isolation, or worse. The sound of an Indigenous child whispering in Cree or Ojibwe was treated like rebellion. Instructors told them their heritage was sinful, their ceremonies were evil, and their families were heathens in need of salvation.
The emotional and psychological damage was immense. For children as young as four or five, separation from family meant the loss of the first bond every human needs — love. Letters home were censored or never delivered. Visits were rare. The children grew up learning that the world they came from was something to be ashamed of. For many, the greatest tragedy was forgetting how to speak to their own parents when they finally returned home.
The physical conditions were equally devastating. The schools were overcrowded and unsanitary, with little medical care and inadequate food. Disease spread quickly. Tuberculosis alone killed thousands. Malnutrition and neglect took countless others. Some children simply disappeared — their names never recorded, their bodies buried in unmarked graves behind the schools. For decades, communities asked what happened to their sons and daughters, only to be met with silence.
While the government and churches claimed to be “saving” Indigenous children, the truth was clear: residential schools were tools of cultural genocide. They sought not to educate but to assimilate — to dismantle nations by destroying the bond between children and their ancestral ways. When Indigenous languages stopped being spoken, ceremonies stopped being practiced, and family ties were broken, the government believed it could finally control the land without resistance.
But the spirit of Indigenous people was never fully extinguished. Even in the darkest years, children held onto fragments of their identity — a song remembered, a word whispered, a story told under a blanket at night. Survivors carried those fragments back to their communities, piecing together what had been torn apart. The resilience of those who endured the schools became the foundation of a long and painful journey toward truth.
By the late 20th century, the truth could no longer be ignored. Survivors began to speak publicly about what had happened — the abuse, the hunger, the deaths. Their testimonies cracked open the myth of benevolent education and exposed the cruelty beneath. In 2008, the Canadian government issued an official apology, acknowledging that residential schools were a grave injustice. But apologies could not erase the trauma passed down through generations.
The discovery of unmarked graves in recent years — hundreds of them across former school sites — reignited a national reckoning. Each discovery told a story that survivors had been telling all along: that many children never came home. Communities gathered to honor the lost, placing tiny shoes and orange ribbons in remembrance. “Every Child Matters” became more than a slogan — it became a vow to never forget.
Today, the legacy of residential schools continues to shape Indigenous communities. The pain is still present, but so is the strength. Language revitalization programs, cultural education, and truth and reconciliation efforts are working to rebuild what was nearly destroyed. The children who survived passed down not only their trauma, but their courage — and that courage has grown into a movement for healing and justice.
The history of the Indian Residential Schools is not just a Canadian story; it’s a human one. It reminds the world of what happens when power seeks to erase identity in the name of progress. It is a history written in sorrow, but also in survival. For every child who lost their voice, there are now thousands who are finding it again — speaking the languages once forbidden, dancing the dances once condemned, and teaching the world what true resilience looks like.
