“Where do we begin—on land that has held names longer than we’ve been alive?”
Where Do You Begin?
I stepped off the plane into the halls of Vancouver International Airport, eyes still heavy from the flight. I was excited. Nervous. Mostly overwhelmed. I was finally joining my wife again after months apart.
But what stayed with me most that day wasn’t the customs line or the cold air outside.
It was the art.
Carved forms, woven patterns, a towering presence of cedar and stone.
These were works of the Musqueam people—whose land this airport rests on.
In this modern space, glowing with screens and fast footsteps, the art was still. It waited for me. Or perhaps, for someone else. It wasn’t trying to explain itself.
It just was.
The Shoes That Stayed
Since my wife came here before me, we talk about lots of things about life in Canada. About jobs. Housing. Groceries. But also about grief.
She told me about the rows of small shoes placed in front of churches and public buildings. Memorials for the children whose unmarked graves were found at former residential school sites.
We both cried that night.
The residential schools—those state- and church-run institutions that aimed to erase Indigenous identities—were more than just a dark chapter. They were an ongoing wound. One that still bleeds through generations.
From Panay to the Prairies
Back in the Philippines, we were taught some things. The Aeta. The so-called “Indones” and “Malays.” Categories passed down from colonial anthropologists—neat, convenient, but incomplete.
But we didn’t grow up learning about the Ati people in Panay, even though they live just mountains away. Nor did we sit long with the Panay Bukidnon—those who still chant the sugidanon, the epics of our land.
Sometimes I think I could be a settler in my own country, too.
We often inherit the categories that colonizers gave us. We forget the names that were once spoken in the forests, by rivers, on trails now turned into roads.
Coming here—migrating to Alberta—has made me think about that more than ever. How fragile memory is. How easy it is to call somewhere “home” without asking whose home it was before.
June is Filipino Heritage Month in Canada. It’s also National Indigenous History Month.
I hold both truths in my hands—one a celebration of who I am, the other a memorial of what’s been lost. And I think maybe we, as Filipino migrants, are asked to do more than just wave our flag. Maybe we’re also called to look around and ask, “Who was here before us?”
The Silence Between Us
I haven’t met many Indigenous people since I arrived.
Maybe I have, but didn’t know it. Maybe I’ve passed by someone whose story could teach me something if I only knew how to ask.
Still, I feel their presence.
It’s in the names of places—Maskwacis, Kainai, Siksika.
It’s in the wind that moves through these endless skies.
It’s in the uncomfortable questions that rise when I think about land, about migration, about survival.
I am a guest here. A welcomed one. And for that, I’m thankful.
But even as a guest, I am learning that gratitude must come with responsibility.
To listen. To be quiet when needed. To not claim understanding but to hold space for truth.
Names on the Land
Alberta is home to many nations.
The Blackfoot Confederacy. The Cree. The Dene. The Saulteaux. The Nakota Sioux. The Métis Nation of Alberta. Many more—each with languages, ceremonies, memories, and laws that existed long before this province was drawn on a map.
Canada signed treaties with many of these nations—Treaty 6, Treaty 7, and Treaty 8 cover all of Alberta. These agreements were meant to be nation-to-nation. But they were not always honored. And the consequences echo to this day.
I live on Treaty land now.
That means something.
Even if I didn’t grow up here.
Even if I come from a different story.
It still means something.
A Personal Vow
So today, on Indigenous Peoples Day, I make a vow—not to speak for anyone, but to speak with care.
- To remember the children.
- To believe the stories.
- To learn the names.
- To hold space for grief.
- To question the comfort I inherited—and to learn from the discomfort that follows.
- To read, to listen, and to ask better questions.
- To notice.
- To resist erasure.
- To not forget that this land has always had a heartbeat.
- And I vow not to walk past it.
The Work is Ours Too
This isn’t just history. It’s now.
It’s the clean water that some communities still don’t have.
It’s the murdered and missing women still waiting to be named.
It’s the land still being taken.
You don’t need to be Indigenous to care.
You just need to be human.
And if you’re a newcomer like me—someone building a new life here—then let that life begin with humility. With curiosity. With a deep, quiet listening.
Not to fix.
Not to lead.
But to walk beside.
This land has welcomed us.
Let us walk gently on it.
Land Acknowledgment:
I acknowledge that I live, write, and reflect on Treaty 6, 7, and 8 territory, home to many First Nations, Métis, and Inuit communities. I am a settler from the Philippines, grateful for the chance to live on this land.
Note: This reflection is written from the perspective of a Filipino settler and newcomer to Alberta. It is not meant to represent, define, or explain Indigenous experience, but simply to reflect on my personal encounter with the truth of this land. I offer these words with humility and openness to correction, learning, and continued listening.
