By Emily Stonehouse

As we wade the waters of National Day for Truth and Reconciliation – a day for reflection, for pausing, for honouring – it’s difficult to look past the muddy riverbeds of the world.

The day was established to recognize the thousands of Indigenous children who never came home; whisked away to residential schools, their spirits and souls stripped from their bright eyes before they saw a new season take shape.

And we will remember them. Not because we knew them, but because child-like whimsy and wonder lives on in our own children, who we safely tuck into bed each night.

Sending my children elsewhere against my will would rip my heart to shreds, their uncertainty would be my demise.

So as we spend this day remembering them, thinking about the pasts they had and the futures they were never given, we must think about the core of the day’s purpose: Truth.

In a world where we canonize characters whose sole purpose was to tear others down; dividing populations in the process and banning books that inspire thought, is that Truth?

A world where we comfortably stick our heads in the sand, knowing full well that children are dying, innocent people are seeking an escape from the nightmare of their lives, while we aimlessly scroll though targeted Instagram ads, is that Truth?

A world where we take medical advice from retired reality TV hosts who have weasled their way onto the political stage, flippantly bypassing decades of scientific research and education in the name of sensationalized propaganda, is that Truth?

It is not my intention to take attention away from Indigenous communities on this day of remembrance. We’ve already taken too much.

But what I do ask, is that while we sit on this day and navigate Truth, we get to the heart of the term.

When those children were sent away, not all that long ago in our bloodied Canadian past, we were not told the Truth.It wasn’t until recently, when stories of the literal skeletons began to fall from the closets, that the Truth began to snake its way into our lives.

Suddenly, we had to face it head-on. The stories of the survivors, the ones who came home. The ones who didn’t. Countless lives shifted, changed, altered, twisted against their will. Some horror stories found their closure, while other books remain open; a dangling cliffhanger that straddles the lines of hope and hatred.

But the Truth found its way to light. Some of it, at least. Bits and pieces continue to take shape, as we poke holes in the history of our country.

We sit in a world that washes over us with actively placed disinformation; the Truth harder to grasp through the rippling waters of propaganda that we all actively gurgle, an effort to quench our thirst.

A dangerous path is being carved out, and we must take caution before taking foot. We must be mindful of the generations who came before us; the ones with leaders whose ‘Truth’ consisted of removing anyone who was different, anyone who used their voice, anyone who waded against the waters that were shoved down their throats.

It could be argued that Truth is subjective; open to interpretation, depending on your core values. Are we following those same leaders of the past, or are we going against the flow of the stream, to seek our own Truth, fighting to bring it to light.