Residential School Denialism: A Battle Over History or a Dangerous Label?

Examining the Fine Line Between Remembering History and Silencing Debate

Imagine trying to have a serious discussion about history, only to be brushed off without anyone giving your perspective a fair shake. That's where we seem to be with this whole "residential school denialism" conversation. These days, the term is being thrown around with a heavy hand, often shutting down any nuanced discussion. For those who aren't familiar, residential school denialism is about outright dismissing or downplaying the brutal realities of residential schools in Canada—those institutions where Indigenous kids were taken to be, let's be real, forcibly assimilated. But while it's absolutely vital to remember and recognize these painful truths, there's something troubling about the way things are going. Are we truly preserving the memory of what happened, or are we bulldozing any legitimate questions into a single, sanitized version of events? For example, can we talk about the varied experiences of different residential schools, or the intentions of certain individuals who might have genuinely believed they were helping, without instantly being labelled denialists? Is this a reckoning or just dogma in a justice disguise?

Let's get one thing straight: the horrors of residential schools—the abuse, the deaths, the cultural destruction—aren't up for debate. These things happened, and they left deep scars on Indigenous communities that you don't just brush off. These scars stretch across generations, shaping the identity, struggles, and resilience of Indigenous people today. But now, there's this push to call any questioning, any attempt at nuance, "denialism." And that's dangerous. Most of us like to think we're better off when we can challenge history—put all the evidence on the table, ask uncomfortable questions, and see where the truth leads us. That's how an open society works: you poke at the past, examine it, even when it doesn't fit with the accepted version. Without that freedom, history stops being a living, breathing story and becomes a frozen monument—something untouchable and unable to teach us anything new as our understanding evolves. And, honestly, monuments aren't great at teaching much of anything.

Nobody's saying we should hand the mic to people who want to whitewash the horrors of residential schools. The trauma is real, the pain is real, and it deserves to be acknowledged. But academic freedom—the right of scholars and educators to explore, debate, and provide context without fear of censorship or retaliation—is at risk when dissent, even if awkwardly expressed, is met with immediate accusations of denialism or conspiracy. It can end up criminalizing genuine curiosity, pushing those with legitimate questions into the shadows, or worse, turning them into anti-establishment martyrs. Instead of leaving room for honest historical debate, we risk creating an echo chamber that doesn't serve the truth or reconciliation. It ends up feeling like there's only one story we're allowed to tell, and any deviation is heresy.

The way the term 'denialism' is thrown around feels like a blunt instrument. Question a part of the narrative that's a bit more complex? That's not denialism. Bring up an academic study that takes a different angle? That's not denialism. Denialism is when one outright rejects or downplays the established facts, not when one seeks to understand the full complexity of a historical event. It's become a way to shut down conversations instead of engaging with them. And that's not just unproductive—it's backfiring. Yes, misinformation about sensitive historical events can harm communities. False narratives are damaging, especially for marginalized groups still dealing with intergenerational trauma. But suppressing dialogue has its own set of dangers: it breeds suspicion, resentment, and distrust. People don't become more empathetic or better informed when they feel they're being silenced; they tend to react the opposite way, and quickly. When people feel like they can't ask questions, they're more likely to fall for alternative, sometimes even extremist, narratives.

So, instead of tightening restrictions and slapping on labels, why not push for more education and open dialogue? For instance, we could hold community forums where survivors, historians, and the public come together to discuss different perspectives openly, or create educational programs that include multiple viewpoints on the history of residential schools. Let's create spaces where uncomfortable questions can be asked and answered, like 'What were the motivations of the individuals who ran these schools?' or 'How did the experiences of children in different schools vary? '—without defensiveness, without fear, and without judgment. The truth about residential schools is strong enough to stand up to scrutiny; it doesn't need the shield of censorship. Ironically, the more you try to enforce one narrative, the more you feed opposition to it. History isn't something to be locked away—it's a conversation we all need to be part of, for better or worse. History grows and thrives when we look at it from all sides, when we allow tough questions, even if things get messy or uncomfortable.

And let's face it, history is complicated. People are complicated. The residential school system was undoubtedly a tool of cultural genocide, but it was also part of a broader, messy historical reality involving countless people, motivations, and unintended outcomes. If we shut down discussion, we miss out on understanding that complexity. Real understanding demands nuance. It means letting people confront uncomfortable truths without instantly jumping to conclusions or slapping on labels. It means letting people make mistakes, ask awkward questions, and learn from them.

So, what's the way forward? It's about having the guts to confront history honestly while respecting the value of free inquiry. It's not easy—history never is. It's messy, it's painful, and it's uncomfortable. But shutting down debate, branding any deviation as denialism, weakens our collective understanding. It makes reconciliation feel like a dictated obligation rather than a genuine, shared journey. The key is balance: recognizing the horrors of the past while leaving space for debate. True reconciliation isn't about stifling inquiry—it's about deepening understanding, learning, and engaging together. Let's tackle our collective past in a way that honours the truth, respects the pain, and leaves room for genuine growth. There is hope in this balanced approach, a hope for a more inclusive and understanding future.

The actionable step here? Next time someone asks an uncomfortable question, don't shut them down. Engage. Listen. Educate. It's the only way we move forward together. Your active participation in these conversations is crucial for our collective growth and understanding. Let's take responsibility for our shared history and shape a more inclusive future.