The Problem With the Term “Indian Residential School Denialism”
And should we criminalize denialism?
In recent years, a new phrase has entered Canada’s political and cultural debates: “Indian Residential School Denialism.” It appears in media headlines, government speeches, and academic writing. The intent is clear — to name and shame those who challenge or question the stories surrounding residential schools and unmarked graves.
But the term is deeply flawed. It is misleading, politically loaded, and ultimately harmful to reconciliation.
What Denialism Means — and How It Changed
The word “denialism” has weight. It is most often associated with Holocaust denial — the outright refusal to acknowledge one of history’s most documented atrocities. To call someone a “denier” is to brand them as someone who rejects truth itself.
But here’s the strange part: even the CBC has admitted that “residential school denialism” does not mean denying the existence of the schools or the harm they caused. Instead, it refers to people who downplay, excuse, or question certain facts about that history.
In other words, the term doesn’t match its plain meaning. It takes the power of a word like denier and applies it to people who, in most cases, fully acknowledge that residential schools existed and caused harm — but who raise questions about specific claims, especially around unmarked graves.
That’s a serious problem.
When Words Become Weapons
Redefining a loaded term doesn’t clarify the debate; it weaponizes it. Calling someone a “denier” when they are not actually denying the existence of residential schools creates confusion and distrust. It shuts down conversation instead of opening it.
It’s like calling someone a murderer, then later saying, “Well, by murderer, I mean anyone who has ever killed a bug.” You would be right to see that as manipulative and in bad faith. Yet that is exactly what happens when critics of the Kamloops story or readers of the book Grave Error are lumped in with Holocaust deniers.
The result? Instead of building consensus, the conversation hardens into trenches. Survivors, leaders, journalists, and citizens stop listening to each other. Reconciliation becomes less about truth and more about silencing one another.
The Push to Criminalize Denialism
This tension grew sharper in 2023 and 2024 when some politicians began calling for “residential school denialism” to be criminalized. Former Crown-Indigenous Relations Minister Gary Anandasangaree argued that questioning whether children died or were buried at residential school sites was “hatred” comparable to Holocaust denial, and therefore should warrant criminal review.
NDP MP Leah Gazan has echoed this call, saying a new law is needed to prevent people from “denying or minimizing” residential school harms. Draft proposals suggested penalties of up to two years in prison for those who, outside of private conversation, are found to “condone, deny, downplay, or justify” the system.
On its face, this may sound like protection for survivors. In practice, it risks creating a chilling effect where even honest debate or requests for evidence are criminalized. A journalist, academic, or even a chief like myself could be accused of “denialism” simply for pointing out the difference between a ground-penetrating radar anomaly and a confirmed burial.
That is not justice — it is censorship.
Free Speech and Reconciliation
As a Chief, I’ve spoken with people across the spectrum — survivors who carry intergenerational trauma, journalists who challenge media narratives, and citizens who are simply confused about what is proven versus what is claimed. I tell them the same thing: reconciliation cannot be built on censorship.
If we criminalize questions, we make the truth look weak. If we refuse to provide evidence for public claims, we fuel distrust. True reconciliation requires both honesty and open debate.
What’s at Stake
The real tragedy is that this debate distracts from the undeniable facts. Residential schools did exist. Children did suffer. Many died and never came home. Survivor testimony, government records, and the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s Volume 4: Missing Children and Unmarked Burials make this painfully clear.
But when the conversation gets reduced to name-calling and criminal threats, we lose sight of the human reality. Survivors’ stories risk being overshadowed by political battles over language. Everyday Canadians, who might otherwise support reconciliation, grow skeptical when they see exaggeration or censorship.
The TRC itself warned of this vulnerability. Testimony matters, but so does evidence. Without both, the truth can be picked apart.
A Better Way Forward
Instead of throwing around the label “denier” or threatening prison sentences, we need to do something harder: engage with one another in good faith. That means:
Listening to survivors while also respecting the demand for transparency.
Protecting free expression so that skepticism can be debated, not criminalized.
Clarifying evidence when public claims are made, so Canadians do not feel misled.
Avoiding exaggeration, because overstating the facts risks undermining the credibility of the entire story.
Conclusion
The story of Indian Residential Schools is too important to be reduced to slogans, labels, or criminal charges. Survivors deserve better than political point-scoring. Canadians deserve better than weaponized language. And reconciliation deserves better than censorship.
We cannot afford to confuse criticism of a claim with denial of history itself. Words matter. Laws matter even more. If we get them wrong, we risk losing both trust and truth.
Reconciliation cannot be built on half-truths, nor can it survive on silencing dissent. It must be built on evidence, compassion, and courage — the courage to tell the whole story, even when it is messy, painful, or incomplete.
Nuance is not denial. It is the only way to honor survivors and to move forward together.