Music is more than sound. It is survival, resistance, and truth-telling. For Indigenous artists in Canada, it has long carried stories that colonial systems tried to erase. Songs keep memory alive, transforming grief into strength and calling listeners into accountability.
On National Day for Truth and Reconciliation, we pause to honour Survivors of the residential school system, remember the children who never came home, and confront the painful legacies of colonialism. These works by Indigenous musicians are not just art; they are part of the broader movement for truth, cultural revitalization, justice, and healing.
Born from a dream, “Boogeyman” grew out of Adrian Sutherland’s effort to imagine himself as a child inside the brutal reality of residential schools, a process he has described as heavy and haunting. Sung from the perspective of a young boy, the song evokes stolen traditions, cut braids, and hidden graves, images that expose the violent history of residential schools in Canada. In this telling, the “boogeyman” is no childhood myth but the government and the church, the very real sources of fear Indigenous children were forced to endure.
They’re gonna come and try to steal my ways
They’re gonna come and try to cut my braids
They’re gone try to hide all those graves
Deantha Edmunds’ “Song of the Whale” is inspired by her father’s home in Hopedale, Nunatsiavut, once called Arvertok, “the place of whales.” Drawing on the wisdom of whales, whose songs warn of danger and call for care of the ocean, the land, and one another, Edmunds reflects on the harm done to the world’s waters and to Indigenous peoples. Urging listeners to respond with respect and reciprocity, the piece closes with the words “carry the song on, evolve” in Inuktitut and English — a reminder that change must continue.
âllop nipinga (whale song)
nâla (listen)
nilliatiginnalugu ikKasomilautta! (continue the song on, let us care more)
Carry the song on
Evolve
Aysanabee’s debut album Watin named after his grandfather weaves his grandfather’s memories of residential school into his own reflections on identity and survival. In the opening track, “Interlude 1,” Watin’s voice recalls being taken from his family as a child and questioning what he had done to deserve it. The recording is stark and immediate, reminding us that these stories are not distant history but lived experience. By preserving and amplifying his grandfather’s words, Aysanabee ensures they continue to be heard, unfiltered and unforgotten.
We had no choice
It was over three hundred kids that went to school
And I used to cry, I was lonesome
I was wondering why I was, uh, sent here
And I didn’t, I didn’t know why
What did I do wrong?
Jeremy Dutcher’s music is deeply tied to the revitalization of the Wolastoqey language, which was severely threatened by the impacts of colonialism and the residential school system. In “Pomawsuwinuwok Wonakiyawolotuwok,” translated as “the people are rising,” he expands on a traditional Wolastoq melody, moving between Wolastoqey and English in a call for collective resistance and resurgence. Its affirmation of language and cultural survival resonates deeply on a day dedicated to truth, memory, and the ongoing work of reconciliation.
matonoltimok ma-tew
pemskutehkuk
awtik iyuwok.
pomawsuwinuwok wanakiyawolotuwok
Translation:
our struggle isn’t
in the fields [as it once was]
it’s in the streets
the people are rising
Julian Taylor’s “Seeds” honours the resilience of Indigenous peoples in the face of centuries of erasure, describing how growth can emerge even from attempts at burial. Through the imagery of seeds, fragile yet powerful, the song conveys how culture and identity persist under pressure, continuing to take root and flourish despite efforts to silence them. It is both a remembrance of the struggles endured and an affirmation of the strength that carries forward.
They knocked you down, erased your name
You stood your ground and wouldn’t change
They tried to bury us, but they didn’t know we were seeds
Logan Staats’ “Deadman” is about asking for the return of a love that was taken, not romantic love, but the love of culture, pride, and self that was stripped away by colonial systems. Written during a time of struggle, the song channels a personal plea into a broader demand for healing and survival. Its music video was filmed at the Mohawk Institute Residential School in Brantford, where members of Staats’ family were forced to attend, connecting the work to both personal history and the wider legacy of residential schools.
Today, that same building has officially been reopened by the Woodland Cultural Centre as an interpretive historic site and educational resource, ensuring its history is preserved and its lessons carried forward. Find out more: https://woodlandculturalcentre.ca/
And give me back my love
And I think she’s had enough
And give me back my love
And I think she’s had enough
And so have I
