On a cool September morning in Montreal, the sound of drums rolled through the streets like a heartbeat, steady and insistent, calling people to gather. It was the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation, a day set aside to honour the children who never returned from residential schools, the survivors who carried their pain in silence for decades, and the families whose lives were forever altered by a system designed to erase Indigenous identity. And yet, as the crowd grew, there was a heaviness in the air that went beyond the weight of memory. Across the country, denialism was rising—voices questioning the history, minimizing the harm, and dismissing the very idea of reconciliation as something unnecessary or even divisive. But here in Montreal, the annual march was not just a commemoration; it was a declaration. Our reporter Savanna Craig moved through the crowd, listening to the stories, the hopes, and the frustrations of the people who had come to walk together, to bear witness, and to insist that the truth cannot be buried again.
The National Day for Truth and Reconciliation was established in response to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s calls to action, particularly Call to Action 80, which asked the federal government to create a statutory holiday to honour survivors, their families, and communities. It is a day to reflect on the legacy of the residential school system, which for over a century forcibly removed Indigenous children from their homes, severed their connections to language and culture, and subjected them to neglect, abuse, and death. The TRC’s final report, released in 2015, documented the devastating impact of these institutions and issued 94 calls to action to address the ongoing harms. But in recent years, denialism has crept into public discourse, often disguised as skepticism or “both sides” rhetoric. Some have questioned the findings of the TRC, others have downplayed the scale of abuse, and still others have attacked the very concept of reconciliation as a form of ideological indoctrination. For the people at the Montreal march, this denialism is not an abstract political trend. It is a painful reminder that the truth remains fragile, that the stories of survivors are still contested, and that the work of healing is far from complete. As one Elder told Savanna Craig, “We are not asking anyone to feel guilty. We are asking them to remember. Because if they forget, we are erased all over again.”
Savanna Craig spent the morning speaking with attendees, and their thoughts painted a vivid picture of what this day means to those who live it. An elderly woman, wrapped in a blanket embroidered with the names of residential schools, spoke quietly about her own experience. She had been taken from her family at six years old, forbidden to speak her language, and punished for every act of childhood defiance. For decades, she told Craig, she never spoke about it, not even to her children. “I thought if I didn’t say it, it didn’t happen,” she said. “But it did. And now I come here every year so that my grandchildren know that I survived, and so that the ones who didn’t are not forgotten.” Nearby, a young Indigenous man held a sign that read “Honour the Children” and explained that he was walking for his grandmother, who had never received an apology. “She passed away before the government ever said sorry,” he said. “I carry her with me. This march is for her, but it’s also for the next generation. I want my kids to grow up in a country that tells the truth.” A settler ally, a middle-aged woman wearing an orange shirt, told Craig that she had come because she felt a responsibility to learn. “I didn’t know about residential schools until I was an adult,” she admitted. “That’s not something I’m proud of. But I’m here now, and I’m not going to look away.”
The march itself was a sensory experience, a living tapestry of grief and resilience. Orange shirts were everywhere—on children riding on their parents’ shoulders, on teenagers walking in groups, on elderly people leaning on canes. Some shirts bore the words “Every Child Matters,” while others were hand-painted with names and dates, personal memorials to those who never came home. The crowd carried signs demanding justice, calling for the release of unmarked burial records, and urging governments to fully implement the TRC’s 94 calls to action. Drummers led the way, their rhythms echoing off the buildings, and at times the crowd fell into a profound silence, broken only by the sound of footsteps and the occasional sob. Savanna Craig noticed a woman weeping as she held a photo of a young girl in a school uniform. “That was my auntie,” she said. “She never made it home. I never met her, but I feel her with me every day.” The march was not a celebration, exactly, but it was not purely mournful either. There was laughter among friends, children playing, and moments of warmth and connection. It was a community coming together to say: we are still here, we remember, and we will not be silent.
Denialism, as many attendees pointed out, is not a new phenomenon. It has existed since the first residential schools were established, in the form of indifference, ignorance, and willful blindness. But in recent years, it has taken on a more organized and public shape. Politicians have questioned the credibility of survivors, commentators have dismissed the concept of “intergenerational trauma,” and social media has amplified voices that claim the residential school system was a benevolent effort to “civilize” Indigenous children. For the people at the Montreal march, this denialism is not just an insult to survivors; it is a threat to the future. As one speaker from the stage put it, “Denial is a choice. And every time someone chooses denial, they are choosing to hurt us again.” The crowd responded with applause and cheers, but also with a sense of urgency. Reconciliation, they said, is not a single day of orange shirts and solemn speeches. It is a daily commitment to truth-telling, to listening, to changing the systems that continue to harm Indigenous communities. It is about clean drinking water on reserves, fair funding for education, an end to overrepresentation of Indigenous children in foster care, and justice for missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls. The march was a reminder that these issues are not separate from the history of residential schools—they are the living legacy of that history.
As the march wound its way through the streets of Montreal, Savanna Craig spoke with a young woman who had traveled from a northern community to attend. She was studying social work, she said, because she wanted to help her people heal. “My grandfather was a survivor,” she explained. “He never talked about it, but he carried it in his body. He died young. I used to be angry about that. Now I understand that he was doing the best he could with what he had. This day is for him, but it’s also for me. It’s for all of us who are still learning how to live with this history.” Her words seemed to capture the spirit of the march—a spirit that was not about dwelling in pain, but about transforming pain into purpose. The crowd eventually gathered in a park for a closing ceremony, where elders offered prayers, singers performed traditional songs, and people were invited to share their thoughts. Some spoke of hope, others of frustration, but all spoke of the need to keep going. “We will be here next year,” one man said. “And the year after that. And the year after that. Because the truth doesn’t go away just because some people don’t want to hear it.”
By the time the march came to an end, the sun had broken through the morning clouds, casting a warm light over the crowd. Savanna Craig stood at the edge of the park, watching as people embraced, took photos, and slowly began to drift away. A group of children ran past, their orange shirts bright against the green grass, laughing and shouting. It was a simple moment, but it felt profound—a reminder that the purpose of this day is not only to mourn, but to ensure that the next generation grows up in a world where the truth is known, where Indigenous cultures are honoured, and where reconciliation is more than a word. The denialists may continue to spread their falsehoods, but here in Montreal, on this day, the truth was louder. It was in the drums, in the songs, in the tears, and in the voices of the people who refused to be silenced. As the crowd dispersed, one woman stopped to speak to Craig one last time. “You know,” she said, “my grandmother always told me that the truth is like the sun. You can try to hide from it, but it will always rise again.” And on that September morning, standing in the warmth of that truth, it was impossible not to believe her.