On a cool October morning in Lethbridge, a student wearing a Centre for Public Safety Applied Research T-shirt crosses campus, pausing to talk with classmates. It is an unremarkable scene, but it is also a small symbol of something important: research does not have to live in an ivory tower. It can grow out of everyday encounters, shared meals, and honest conversations. That is the spirit behind a new Indigenous-led project called Ihtsitomaniista’po’tako’p — a Blackfoot word that means “working together.” Launched by the Ninastako Cultural Centre in partnership with Lethbridge Polytechnic’s Centre for Public Safety Applied Research, the initiative is designed to confront a persistent and painful problem: the spread of misinformation about Indigenous people, cultures and communities. For too long, false narratives have shaped how Canada understands its First Nations, Métis and Inuit neighbours. Those narratives have been used to justify policies, to silence voices, and to wound generations. They appear in textbooks that leave out whole chapters, in news stories that reduce complex people to stereotypes, in social media posts that go viral without context, and in casual comments that go unchallenged at work or school. The damage is not abstract. It shows up in the way Indigenous children are treated by classmates, in the way families are judged by service providers, and in the way communities must constantly defend their rights and their humanity. This project asks a different set of questions. Instead of asking what is wrong with Indigenous communities, it asks how misinformation works, who it hurts, and what can be done to stop it. Over the next ten months, Elders, knowledge keepers, educators, students, researchers and community members will come together to explore those questions. The answers will not come from a single report or a single expert. They will come from many people, in many rooms, sharing many experiences. That is what “working together” means in practice. It means making space for the wisdom that has always been there, and letting it guide the way forward.
Kirsten Fantazir, chair of the Centre for Public Safety Applied Research, put it plainly: it is more important than ever for institutions to look at Indigenous issues through an evidence-informed lens and to give facts rather than perpetuate misinformation. Her words carry weight because universities and research centres have not always been allies. In the past, academic research was often done on Indigenous communities, not with them. Studies were published, careers were built, and communities were left with little benefit — or worse, with harm. This project is an attempt to break that pattern. By centring Indigenous leadership and community knowledge, it treats research as a tool for healing rather than extraction. Fantazir’s statement also reflects a growing recognition that misinformation is not just a problem of the internet. It is embedded in systems and institutions. It is in the assumptions that police officers, teachers, health-care workers and judges may carry into their work. It is in the absence of Indigenous perspectives in curricula and policies. And it is in the silence that follows a harmful joke or a misleading statistic. The project’s focus on public safety is especially relevant. Misinformation can shape how law enforcement responds to a call, how a courtroom interprets testimony, or how a social worker assesses a family. When those decisions are based on falsehoods, the consequences can be devastating. By studying how misinformation spreads and how it lands in people’s lives, the project hopes to give communities and professionals the tools to recognize it, challenge it, and replace it with understanding. This is not about policing speech or punishing ignorance. It is about creating the conditions for truth to be heard. And it is about acknowledging that facts alone are not enough — they must be delivered with respect, context and relationship.
At the heart of the project is a practical commitment: over ten months, the team will create digital tools that are rooted in community engagement and informed by Indigenous community. These are not meant to sit in a library or a database. They are meant for teachers preparing a lesson, for parents answering a child’s question, for community leaders facilitating a difficult conversation. The tools will be co-designed with the people who will actually use them. That means educators will help shape the content, Elders will guide the cultural framework, and students will test the materials and offer feedback. This collaborative process is essential. A website or a video can be accurate and still feel distant; the goal is to make resources that feel alive, relevant and trustworthy. The project also recognizes that learning happens in many places. A classroom is one place, but so is a kitchen table, a community centre, a workplace training session, or a social media feed. By creating tools that can be used in all of those spaces, the project hopes to reach people where they are. It also hopes to model a different way of talking about Indigenous issues — one that is curious rather than defensive, humble rather than certain, and grounded in relationships rather than headlines. The process itself is part of the message. When people are invited to share their experiences and cultural knowledge, they are not just providing data. They are shaping how their communities are seen and understood. That is a form of sovereignty. It is also a form of repair. For generations, Indigenous people have been the objects of other people’s stories. This project tries to return the pen to the hands of the people who have always had the right to tell their own stories.
Megan Gros Ventre Boy, a fourth-year student in Lethbridge Polytechnic’s Bachelor of Criminal Justice Program, knows how important this is. For her, the project is not just an academic exercise. It is a chance to ensure that Indigenous voices are heard in spaces where they have too often been absent — including the criminal justice system. “Research like this allows us to have access to accurate information when working with Indigenous communities,” she said, “while also learning how to bring that information and those ways of knowing into academic spaces.” Her words point to a deeper truth: students are not just future professionals; they are future carriers of culture. When they learn to see Indigenous knowledge as valid and valuable, they will carry that understanding into courtrooms, police stations, classrooms and boardrooms. The project is also open to community members who want to be part of the work. Anyone willing to share their experiences and cultural knowledge can contribute to the creation and evaluation of the digital tools. This open invitation is deliberate. It acknowledges that expertise does not only come from degrees and titles. It comes from lived experience, from memory, from language, from ceremony, from the everyday wisdom of people who have navigated a world that is often hostile to their existence. By inviting people to share their stories, the project creates a record of resilience and resistance. It also creates a network of people who are invested in the outcome. The more voices that are included, the richer the tools will be — and the harder they will be to dismiss. The project’s website, workingtogether.info, offers a simple way to get involved. A click of the “Get Involved” tab opens the door to participation. It is a small gesture, but it is an important one. It says that this project does not belong to a few researchers. It belongs to everyone who wants to work together.
This project arrives at a moment when truth and reconciliation are on many people’s minds, but action often lags behind. There is no shortage of statements and apologies; there is a shortage of sustained, respectful collaboration. Ihtsitomaniista’po’tako’p offers a model of what that collaboration can look like. It brings together an Indigenous cultural centre and a public safety research centre — two institutions that might not normally work side by side. Their partnership is itself a lesson in bridge-building. It shows that meaningful change happens when different kinds of knowledge are allowed to meet. It also shows that reconciliation is not a one-time event. It is a daily practice of listening, learning and unlearning. For non-Indigenous people, the project is an invitation to do some of that work. It asks them to examine the stories they have absorbed, to question the sources of those stories, and to make room for other perspectives. For Indigenous people, it is an opportunity to be seen and heard on their own terms. The name of the project — working together — is not just a description of the method. It is a vision of the future. In that future, a teacher does not have to search for accurate resources because they are already in the curriculum. A parent does not have to brace for a child’s question about why Indigenous people are treated differently. A police officer does not rely on stereotypes when making a decision. A student sees their culture reflected in the classroom and in the research that shapes policy. None of that will happen overnight. But it can begin with a project like this one: small enough to be personal, ambitious enough to matter, and humble enough to listen.
Ultimately, this is a story about people — about the student who wants to learn, the Elder who wants to share, the parent who wants to protect their child, and the neighbour who wants to understand. It is about the quiet moments when someone chooses to correct a falsehood, to ask a better question, or to sit with discomfort instead of turning away. The project’s success will not be measured only in reports or resources. It will be measured in the conversations that happen after the tools are used. A teacher who finds a new way to teach history. A young person who feels proud of who they are. A community member who sees their experience reflected in a public document. Those are the outcomes that matter. The invitation is open. The website, workingtogether.info, is more than an address; it is a doorway. Anyone who has an experience to share, a question to ask, or a skill to offer can step through. The “Get Involved” tab is not a formality. It is an act of trust. It says: your voice belongs here. In a world that often feels divided, that is a radical offer. It is also a hopeful one. Misinformation may be powerful, but it is not invincible. It thrives in silence and isolation. It weakens when people come together, when stories are told honestly, and when knowledge is shared across lines of difference. Ihtsitomaniista’po’tako’p — working together — is a reminder that no one has to do this alone. The work of truth is collective. The work of healing is collective. And in Lethbridge, that work has begun.