Photo by byNRQEMI; Design by Valerie Thai

Over a century since their introduction, cars dominate the streets of cities and towns across Canada to such a degree that many people feel there is no real alternative. In January 2022, Turo Canada in partnership with Léger found that 83 percent of Canadians have their own or lease a vehicle and 81 percent of vehicle owners feel it would be impossible not to. There’s a reason for that: car-dependent communities are the product of decades of collaboration between industry and government.

Today, the supremacy of the automobile can feel like an immutable reality—but it wasn’t always that way. In 1913, there were only about 50,000 motor vehicles on Canadian roads, but the year prior, the Canadian Highway Association had already started pushing for a national highway system. By 1919, they were starting to get their way. The government of Robert Borden passed the Canadian Highway Act that year, directing highway funding to the provinces, followed by even more during the Great Depression. Finally, in 1949, the government of Louis St. Laurent passed what became known as the Trans-Canada Highway Act to set federal standards and provide federal funding, which reached up to 90 percent on some segments. The Trans-Canada Highway was considered complete, as per the Act, in 1971.

The history of highway funding is one example of the central role that governments have played in enabling the automobile-dependent society we live in today, but it is not the only one. Over the years, federal and provincial governments expanded road networks, provided incentives for automotive manufacturing, and created the Canadian Mortgage and Housing Corporation to make mortgages more accessible to people, while setting standards that encouraged suburban development. This partnership between industry and government was mutually beneficial, but it hasn’t been without consequences.

Vehicle ownership costs on average between $8,600 and $13,000 a year, according to the Canadian Automobile Association, and that was before recent inflation. Meanwhile, 1,762 people were killed by motor vehicles in 2019, and another 8,917 people were seriously injured. The environmental toll is also significant, with suburban living having a bigger carbon footprint than urban dwelling, and transportation accounting for 25 percent of national emissions in 2019, second only to the oil and gas sector. Those emissions grew by 54 percent between 1990 and 2019, in part because of the increased number of large trucks and SUVs on Canadian roads.

To address the transport sector’s contribution to climate change, the Canadian government and its provincial counterparts have coalesced around a plan to accelerate the adoption of electric vehicles, with a goal of reaching 100 percent of passenger car and truck sales by 2035. To incentivize that shift, the federal government is offering rebates of up to $5,000 for the purchase of a zero-emissions vehicle, subsidies for the construction of electric vehicle chargers, and is working with industry to ensure production facilities are in place.

On its face, electrification seems universally positive since it will be essential to any transition in the transportation sector—but it also signals a lack of vision. “Automobility as a technology and as a set of desires is never fundamentally challenged,” explains James Wilt, the author of Do Androids Dream of Electric Cars? Public Transit in the Age of Google, Uber, and Elon Musk. Instead, Wilt says, the government’s policy assumes “all you need to do is get people out of an internal combustion engine vehicle and into an electric battery vehicle.”

That is in part because of a common assumption that electric vehicles are without environmental cost since they do not produce tailpipe emissions. It can be seen in the language of “zero emissions.” Yet, as Memorial University of Newfoundland (MUN) professor John Sandlos says, “To conceive of those vehicles as being ‘green,’ wholly green, and without cost, that would be a mistake.” In most scenarios, an electric vehicle has a lower emissions footprint than one powered by gas or diesel, but that does not mean they do not have an adverse impact of their own. A greater share of their emissions are generated in the production stage rather than from their use, and their batteries account for a significant portion of that environmental cost.

As part of the federal government’s push to grow electric vehicle production, it wants Canada to become a key node in the mineral supply chain for the batteries that power them. Former Minister of Innovation, Science, and Industry Navdeep Bains calls this Canada’s “competitive advantage,” explaining that “we are the only nation in the western hemisphere with an abundance of cobalt, graphite, lithium, and nickel, the minerals needed to make next-generation electric batteries.” The 2021 federal budget was praised by the Mining Association for introducing new funding and tax incentives under the government’s Mines to Mobility initiative. U.S. officials have also referred to Canada as a “51st state” for minerals after a concerted push by the Liberals for an integrated supply chain.

For government, the expansion of domestic mining is positioned as a significant economic opportunity, while “the mining industry sees that as an opportunity to portray themselves as clean and green,” says Sandlos. But in order to lay the groundwork for increased extraction, the costs are being downplayed. “Part of the problem goes back to our measures of what is economic success,” explains MiningWatch Canada communications and outreach coordinator Jamie Kneen. “The reason that these things look like good economic options to governments is that there are big dollars invested and high-paying jobs are created, but not that many jobs, and a lot of the real costs of mining are externalized.”

According to Wilt, such a plan “is premised on the continued dispossession and underdevelopment of Indigenous nations, especially in the North.” While mining can provide opportunities like high-paid jobs and training, it also comes with many consequences, and communities—be they Indigenous or non-Indigenous—are not always able to effectively assert their rights to ensure mining developments minimize the harms and deliver the promised benefits.

The government is championing its strategy, but it’s still early days. Kneen explains that opposition to lithium and graphite projects in Quebec is already mounting, and most existing Canadian mining is still for minerals that wouldn’t be going into batteries. That means there’s time to ensure mining projects must meet a more rigorous standard. “It’s a question of having much stricter and much more effective regulations in place,” says Kneen, “including things like free, prior, and informed consent for Indigenous communities and processes that provide meaningful democratic engagement and that respect Indigenous authorities and their decision-making, so that people are not being asked to sacrifice beyond what’s already been stolen from them.”

Sandlos warns against “a Wild West rush” for battery minerals and asserts the need to learn from the mistakes made during the oil boom earlier in the 2000s. In her book Fossilized: Environmental Policy in Canada’s Petro-Provinces, University of Waterloo professor Angela Carter describes that period as one in which provinces were “neglecting the environmental risks and impacts of oil extraction in their rush to capture the spoils.” In her research, Carter outlines how, in seeking to capitalize on high oil prices, governments subsidized oil companies, rolled back environmental regulations, and even stifled environmental research. Those actions not only had impacts on local environments and the climate, they were also accompanied by the oil industry having greater influence over policy and growing inequality, particularly in the provinces where that extraction was taking place.

As we look forward to a potential mining boom driven by electric vehicles, an environmental assessment process that gives people real power over resource developments could be one way to avoid a similar fate. “If there are communities near a mining development, those communities should be involved in the planning,” Sandlos explains, “especially if this mining is happening in the proximity of Indigenous communities which have particular rights to land, and culturally I think they would say they have certain obligations to the land as well.” In his view, that process could require companies to sign agreements that create community-controlled oversight bodies to audit the mines.

Each of these projects should also have to do a full accounting of their costs, says Arn Keeling, an MUN professor and collaborator with Sandlos on the Toxic Legacies Project. “If we’re going to talk about electrification, what’s the true cost?” he asks. “Well, the true cost means paying every dime” of the social, environmental, and infrastructural costs, not being distracted by “promises of windfall profits that usually get privatized anyway.” There will be opposition to higher standards for mining projects, but they are essential to responsible development. “The neoliberal way of thinking about this is to see all this as red tape,” says Sandlos, but “it’s the way of imposing a land ethic on doing this kind of development and being willing to put the brakes on developments that don’t make sense.”

Beyond ensuring mining is done in a more responsible way, the government’s transport policy needs a broader rethink. “The first of the three Rs is reduce,” says Kneen. “Reducing demand through efficiency and technology is great, but we also need to look at the structures of the way we do things.” The suburban, auto-oriented communities we have today are the product of decades of government policy that encouraged us to live that way, and a transport policy that meets the scale of the climate crisis requires a similar level of ambition. “I wouldn’t want to see electric vehicles become an excuse for more suburban development,” says Sandlos.

As an alternative to requiring most Canadians to buy electric vehicles, Wilt argues for a “radical decommodification of transportation” where governments prioritize policies and investments that encourage people to ditch their cars—whether gas, diesel, or electric—in favour of taking public transit, riding a bicycle, or walking where it’s feasible. In practice, that means directing significantly more funding to expand transit systems and cycling infrastructure in urban, suburban, and even rural communities across the country. It also requires federal and provincial governments to not just pay the capital costs of buying new buses or building new subway lines, but subsidize the daily operating costs usually shouldered by cash-strapped municipal governments.

Finding success with such a transport policy requires thinking about the broader community too, in the same way the automobile incentivized suburbanization. “All levels of government are focused on profit opportunities for shareholders,” explains Kneen, “and it’s not a policy that’s really responding to people’s needs.” Instead, Wilt argues such a shift “requires densification and socialization of housing” to ensure investments in transit, cycling, and pedestrian infrastructure don’t just serve to further gentrify cities with new condo developments and prices that many people can’t afford. “It really does revolve around understanding mobility as a fundamental right and responsibility for all of us to collectively share,” he says.

The government is embarking on a project that continues to centre automobiles, while requiring a significant increase in resource extraction at home and abroad—extraction that will have consequences for communities and local environments. It’s a policy that doesn’t fundamentally challenge the status quo, other than swapping internal combustion engines for batteries, even as our reliance on automobiles has created inequities and harms that this transition offers us the chance to address. The transition away from fossil fuels will require minerals, but the amount depends on the path we ultimately pursue—and one that reorients mobility toward public transit is far less resource-intensive than one where many Canadians continue to rely on automobiles.

As Wilt puts it, “The question is not so much whether the policy can or will be effective, it’s more, ‘Is this the future that we want?’” We have a rare opportunity to think seriously about how we want to live in the century to come. It would be a shame to let mining and automotive companies make that decision for us.

Photo courtesy of Dana Prieto.

Glazed in black, the beauty of Dana Prieto’s hand-crafted ceramic vessels forces the viewer’s attention—but what they wouldn’t be able to tell at first glance is that the artwork may contain traces of arsenic, cadmium, and mercury.

Prieto, an Argentine visual artist based in Toronto, describes the vessels as an “inhospitable gift,” made with soil from the contaminated territories of Belén and Hualfín, in the province of Catamarca. The vessels will be gifted to the CEOs and corporate social responsibility executives of Canadian mining companies operating in the South American region.

Contaminants to the land and water in Belén and Hualfín seep from Bajo de la Alumbrera, the country’s first open-pit gold and copper mine that has been in operation since 1997. Although the mine had been set to close in March, it will now remain open for another decade. Bajo de la Alumbrera is owned by Glencore, headquartered in Switzerland, and two Canadian companies: Goldcorp and Yamana Gold.

The vessels, titled 1:10000 (the scale of the vessel in relation to the mine), are 3D models of the mine, created to scale. A disclaimer at the bottom of each cup reads: “Handmade with soil affected by Bajo la Alumbrera mine.”

“They can fill out the rest of the narrative,” says Prieto.

The soil was provided by Silvia Delgado, a Buenos Aires-based ceramic artist and activist. Delgado has extracted clay from Belén for many years and mentored Prieto in the construction of the vessels. “I consider ceramics to be part of that ancestral time where domestic and ritual uses of objects had a strong social bond,” says Delgado. Unlike most ceramics, however, the luxury aesthetic of the vessels is intended to appeal to a CEO.

The act of sending these vessels is more important to Prieto than what actually happens to the gift itself. In the gallery space, the vessels are displayed on wooden boxes under a spotlight. The lights are dimmed, and the walls painted a dark grey. Inside each box is a quote engraved in gold leaf from the 2017 book Arts of Living on a Damaged Planet: “Death may not, after all, be the end of life; after death comes the strange life of hauntings,” it reads.

To illustrate the immediacy of the gift, 150 boxes with Canadian postage surround the gallery, accounting for all potential recipients across the country. On the wall, a stencil made with ink made from the contaminated soil reads: “Handmade with soil affected by Canadian mining companies.”

“I hope that works like this can make a call to the heart, because such profound devastation has wounded our land, corrupting the human soul and our existence,” says Delgado.

When people talk about fantasy worlds, they often mean worlds populated with dwarves, elves, and magic. But in a way, stepping onto the convention floor of the Prospectors and Developers Association of Canada (PDAC) conference did feel like a fantasy. As the biggest mining conference on Earth, it’s frequented by some of the wealthiest in the world. It’s a place where smoked salmon and fancy cheeses lie heaped on trestle tables, free for the taking. Where dark-suited white businessmen modestly acknowledge the opportunities they create for “the Indigenous.” Where mining companies advertise investments in their projects by offering up entire countries like they’re new brands of kombucha. Try Ecuador!

Standing in crowds of laughing, mingling geologists, mining engineers, CEOs, and government representatives, it was genuinely hard to remember where they got their power and wealth, thousands of miles away.

The Mining Injustice Solidarity Network seeks to do just that. MISN brings attention to the aspects of mining many would rather not think about: human rights abuses, environmental destruction, and lawsuits and tax evasion. 

And this year, they did it through a treasure hunt. Participants showed up to a bar near the event, and coordinators from MISN handed them a series of questions to ask specific company representatives. The “hunters” then plunged into the conference.

“It’s a very different world than my own,” said Clay Barnett, who participated in the hunt.

While MISN organized the treasure hunt to function as a “creative disruption,” Barnett said he wasn’t out to antagonize. “I’m not an obtrusive person. I was in some ways just trying to understand the world that those people are inhabiting. I think I shook them up more by wearing my jeans than by asking my questions. They’re all wearing these suits… you know, the ‘I have money, so do you, let’s make more together’ look. That vibe is very strong. I don’t hate that. It’s interesting.”

On the floor at PDAC, the world’s largest mining conference. Photo by Caitrin Pilkington.

The hunt directives ranged from asking lighter questions to more challenging, complex inquiries. “I think the most fucked up thing isn’t what is seen here, but what is absent,” said Emily Green, collective member of MISN. “For example, there was a big spill last year, [but the company involved] is not here this year. One of the questions in our treasure hunt is to look for a mention of that oil spill. And it’s a trick question, because you will not find that anywhere.”

But why use a treasure hunt to push these issues to the fore?

“Public actions can become empty rituals,” says Green. “In our four years of attending PDAC, our strategy has included rallies, but we don’t want to default into an activism ‘formula.’ We want to think strategically about what our goals are.”

The questions were an invitation to consider the challenges of those impacted by the mining industry, and show that people are paying attention.

Emmet McAleer is from Greencastle, Ireland, a place officially designated as an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. It’s ecologically unique, home to rare species such as the parrot mussel. It’s also soon to be affected by a major gold mine project. McAleer travelled from Ireland to the PDAC out of his own pocket. He explained that the cyanide processing plant and waste dump for the project will be located less than a kilometre from his community’s local primary school and playground.

He strongly disagrees with widely touted notion that mining benefits the areas where it happens. “The financial rewards will go almost exclusively to this company. There’s a small tax that will go to the Queen, but almost nothing that will go back into the local economy,” he said.

“We’ll be left with this wasteland. This toxic dump. We’re a place with a lot of rural agriculture, a lot of families. It will be a massive threat to our way of life if this company is allowed to come in and do what they want here. It’s frustrating when you’re arguing a point that feels so clear, to be made to feel like your worries mean nothing.”

It was easy to get the sense at PDAC that not all mining offences come as a result of outright cruelty, but a lot of ignorance. An executive involved in a mine in Ecuador said in a talk: “We arrive in these places where there’s nothing but trees. We leave with fully functional mines and business opportunities. And that’s something I feel good about.” He smiled, nodded, and stepped down to rapturous applause.

The treasure hunt felt like a powerful way to ask the questions affected communities want asked, and include their voices in a place where their worries are too-often disregarded, overlooked, and explained away. In places where the truth can feel so different depending on who you ask, the most important thing we can do is to keep asking the questions.

Inside the First Nations’ fight for a piece of north Ontario’s $60 billion mega mines

Deep in Ontario’s north sits the Ring of Fire, an as-yet undeveloped cluster of mineral claims worth an estimated $60 billion—but only if you’re being conservative. Some industry experts, including James Franklin, former chief geologist with the Geological Survey of Canada, believe an additional $140–$190 billion in economic value exists there from gold deposits alone. For a region with little economy to speak of, the potential for multi-generational mineral riches has been deemed a godsend. Many in the province have called it Ontario’s oilsands, and meant it as a compliment. Others have dubbed it the new Klondike, a reference to its hoped-for ability to shape the region. In truth, the Ring of Fire has the potential to be the single largest mineral deposit in Canadian history, and could far outstrip the economic and social impact of both iconic Canadian developments.

Yet, the region is also home to many other things besides precious metal buried miles underground. Tucked into the northern boreal forest, the Ring of Fire is primarily First Nations land, full of bogs and fens, roaming caribou herds, stunted tamarack and black spruce trees, all of it growing among thousands of shallow rivers and lakes dotting the landscape. This is the North, and the North is not a quiet place. As Ontario’s headlong rush to develop the Ring of Fire begins now in earnest, it’s about to get louder—just not in the way many might assume. This time, the region’s First Nations leaders don’t want to halt development: They want to make sure they get their share.

To say the Ring of Fire is off the beaten path is an understatement. While the area is home to more than 4,300 on-reserve First Nations residents in nine communities, it doesn’t exist on any map you’ll find save for specialty mining documents. The closest towns and cities are strung out along the concrete ribbon of the Trans-Canada Highway running east-west along the north shore of Lake Superior. Smaller roads branch out in all directions, but even these routes have to end, often well short of remote First Nations communities dependent on winter roads or small aircraft to get in or out. Instead, you’ll find the Ring of Fire roughly 500 kilometres north-east of Thunder Bay—5,120 square kilometres of northern Ontario’s 450,000 square kilometres of peat, wetlands, and forest. The Ring of Fire is half-way between DeBeer’s Victor diamond mine and Goldcorp’s Musselwhite gold mine, with no way to get miners and equipment in, or valuable resources out.

With few other economic options, mining casts a long shadow in this part of the province, and not all of the history is pleasant. First Nations blockaded the ice road leading to the Victor mine numerous times in early 2013, for instance, because they felt tricked by the impact benefit agreement they signed with the company in 2005. The mine began construction in February 2006 has been in production since summer 2008. Still, few expected the Ring of Fire region to be such a bonanza. After a small group of geologists and junior mining company executives came across small nickel and copper deposits in 2002, further exploration would slowly begin to unveil the expanse of mineral wealth in the region: chromite, nickel, copper, platinum, zinc, gold, and vanadium metals. Rumour has it an employee of one of those early companies noticed the minerals formed a crescent shape—but not quite a full ring—and, being a Johnny Cash fan, choose the nickname “Ring of Fire” after the Man in Black’s 1963 song. Today, in terms of economic potential, the Ring of Fire discovery ranks second only to deposits found around Sudbury in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Currently, more than 20 companies hold about 9,000 claims in the Ring of Fire area.

It seems almost certain the Ring of Fire will be developed—even its most vocal critics want development slowed to allow for further study, rather than halted completely. The big question is: When? And, perhaps more importantly: Who will profit? The answers depend largely on infrastructure capacities; northern Ontario’s lack of roads, bridges, schools, and other key resources is staggering.

Until recently, the company most likely to help push such huge infrastructure development was Cleveland-based mining giant Cliffs Natural Resources. A few years ago, Cliffs began touting the benefits of an all-weather, north-south road over the competing rail transportation plan of joint venture partner, KWG Resources Inc. The road would connect Cliffs proposed drill site and camp at the Black Thor deposit to Nakina, a town to the south, near the Aroland First Nation. The Ontario government supported the proposal in principle, and the company hinted it expected provincial taxpayers to heavily subsidize road costs because of the purported benefits for local First Nations, including construction and operations jobs and improved access in and out of communities. Investment hinged on First Nations involvement in specific aspects of resource development—any community building that happened along the way would be a bonus. While Cliffs never stated publicly what it hoped taxpayers would cough up, rumour was Ontario may be on the hook for at least $700 million.

Critics of the road scoffed at the cost, and also Cliffs’ motivation. “This single purpose road would do nothing to improve the social and economic development for First Nation’s communities in the region,” said Brian Kelly, spokesperson for the General Chairperson’s Association, a labour group representing the unionized northern rail workers at the Ontario Crown corporation Northland Transportation, in September 2013. Kelly’s organization argues the road would be a more expensive and less environmentally responsible alternative to building a rail link to the Ring of Fire, and would provide more employment and commuting opportunities for First Nations. Moreover, “maintenance of the road would be extraordinary,” says veteran mining analyst Stan Sudol. “And who would be responsible for that 30, 50, 60 years of maintenance? Would it be the company, or would it be the province and the taxpayers?”

Years of wrangling with rival companies over what projects in the Ring should be developed— and how—have taken their toll. On November 20, 2013, Cliffs announced it would “indefinitely” suspend all its development in the Ring of Fire, blaming “risks associated with the development of necessary infrastructure.” The company won’t sell its stakes in the region’s big deposits, or even leave the Ring of Fire, said a Cliffs spokesperson, but will halt the flow of exploration money while it waits to see what shakes out from talks between the government, First Nations, and other mining companies over how to develop the area. In the meantime, Cliffs’ plan to build a $1.8 billion chromite processing facility near Sudbury as part of its larger $3.3 billion mine investment, along with the promise of creating hundreds of post-recession jobs, seems to have disappeared overnight. It’s a heavy blow to the Ontario government, which has long held Cliffs’ interest in the Ring of Fire as an example of the region’s potential and the government’s ability to attract investment from global companies.

In the beginning, no one bothered asking any of the nine Matawa First Nations what they wanted out of the resource push in the Ring of Fire. This is nothing new, even though the duty-to-consult concept has been enshrined in Sec. 35 of the Canadian Constitution since 1982. Thinking back to Sudbury’s last mining boom, for instance, “No one ever thought to reach out to all the many First Nations communities,” says Sudol. For many, the Ring of Fire is a second chance to do things right—to guarantee First Nations benefit from development in their backyards. This is one of the primary reasons the Matawa First Nations Management Inc., a partnership between the nine Ojibway and Cree communities, was formed in 1988.

Primarily invested in the well-being of their member communities—including economic development, health and education, financial advising and non-profit housing—the community representatives who sit on the board of directors realized the scope of the Ring of Fire could transform their traditional territory (not necessarily for the better) unless they got involved. On March 6, 2013, the Matawa chiefs held their first meeting with a sitting Ontario Premier since 1975. By the end, newly minted Premier Kathleen Wynne had agreed to negotiate a framework agreement that would govern any future development in the area. Ontario New Democratic Party Premier and former interim federal Liberal leader Bob Rae became Matawa’s chief negotiator.

Rae says he understands the litany of issues facing aboriginal communities in the Ring of Fire: a lack of clean drinking water, no all-season roads to their communities, food up to seven times more expensive than in cities, substandard housing and education opportunities, and high suicide rates. “It’s a completely different world from the communities we live in in southern Ontario,” he adds. The requested framework agreement outlines what Matawa wants from any mining claim on its territory: quality land management that respects environmental protection; resource revenue sharing; capacity building through employment and training opportunities; and improved infrastructure to an area that otherwise has none. These pillars form the basis of negotiations between Rae and former Supreme Court Justice Frank Iacobucci, retained by the province to negotiate on the people’s behalf. In late March, the provincial government and Matawa signed the regional framework agreement to move the development forward. Rae has called it a landmark move that will ensure the communities benefit from the Ring of Fire development—whenever it happens—and also one that lays a framework for “respect and deep consultation.”

Not everybody in the Matawa has been equally enthusiastic about the so-called “opening up” of the area governed by Treaty 9, signed in 1905-06 with the Crown. The “for” and “against” camps are typically divided into those older or younger than 50, says Matawa CEO David Paul Achneepineskum. People in the older age bracket are primarily concerned with the health of their land, lakes, and rivers and are keen to keep them pollution-free, he says. Hunting, fishing and trapping are very much the way of life, and any resource extraction project could threaten that livelihood. But the opinion of those under 50 tells a different story, according to Achneepineskum. This cohort of young aboriginals, the fastest growing demographic in Canada, are faced with incredibly high unemployment rates: In 2011, Canadian off-reserve aboriginals between the ages of 35-54 had unemployment rates as high as 14 percent—and the number is significantly higher for those aged 24 and under, plus higher still for those living on-reserve. Development means the construction of all-weather access roads or rail linking the now fly-in communities with southern towns and beyond. Nobody denies the possibility of negative consequences: things like increased access to drugs and population drain to the south. But these things things can be minimized—with resource revenue more jobs and social services can be created in-community—and for many the risk is deemed worth it.

Besides, says Achneepineskum, young people are already leaving the community.  For him, the chance to see whether mining dollars can reverse the trend can’t come soon enough. “The hope is young people can live on their own lands and still have opportunities to work here and be closer to their communities.  And if it’s done right,” Achneepineskum says, there is an “opportunity to enhance the economic opportunities for our people.”

The big question, of course, is whether it will be done right. When it comes to mining development on or near aboriginal land, the mantra of government, environmentalists and aboriginals has become: “Consult early and consult often.” In fact, “stakeholder engagement”—a fancy term for the often messy but necessary work of actually talking to people affected by development—is often worth its weight in gold for companies at risk of investing fortunes in projects where local opposition is strong enough to halt production. Even Prime Minister Stephen Harper, addressing the Prospectors and Developers Association of Canada convention in March 2014, urged mining industry leaders to engage with aboriginal communities “not just [from] the standpoint of legal and process requirements for engaging,” he said, “but [because] it’s always better to do business when all lines of communication are open and local people understand the advantages that are there for them.”

Yet for all the sentiment, industry engagement with aboriginal communities can easily be little more than window dressing as companies attempt to explore, permit, and operate a claim as quickly as possible to bring in cash. “There is still a mentality where companies are just looking at communities as checkboxes,” says Canadian Aboriginal Minerals Association president Hans Matthews, “and not actually genuine partners in development, [and] that has been the stumbling block.” From Ontario’s Wahnapitae First Nation, Matthews is no stranger to aboriginal consultations, having recently sat as member of the National Energy Board’s joint review panel on the Northern Gateway pipeline proposal in northern B.C. The fundamental problem never addressed when talking about aboriginal-to-government or aboriginal-to-industry consultation, he says, is that no one will ever define the term ‘consultation.’

“You will not find a definition from government, industry or an aboriginal community on what consultation means,” Matthews adds. “And that’s the problem.” Letters, phone calls, emails, and voicemail may constitute engagement to some, while others define it as nothing less than protracted face-to-face talks, design input and veto rights over a project. The result is often not open communication, as Harper promotes, but miscommunication, frustration, delays and a breakdown of whatever trust may have existed as companies and government feel—legitimately, from their perspective—that they have fulfilled their duty to consult. In the end, instead of feeling as if they’ve participated in shaping development on their lands, many aboriginal communities feel disrespected at the lack of meaningful discussion, says Matthews. “We are not opposed to development, but we must be involved,” said Matawa member and Neskantaga Chief Peter Moonias in March 2013. “First Nation rights and inherent responsibilities to the land demand that we are full partners in discussions about exploration, ownership, participation in production and long-term sustainability of our environment, our communities, and our futures.”

To date, mining companies with a presence in the Ring of Fire have had mixed results when it comes to the duty to consult. According to Anna Baggio, director of conservation planning for environmental non-profit Wildlands League, Cliffs never seemed fully comfortable attempting to operate in the Canadian mining world with its numerous levels of government, strenuous and lengthy permitting processes, and emphasis on aboriginal involvement. “I don’t think they fully understood the First Nations context. I don’t think they understood that they had a responsibility to show due diligence and get a social license,” she tells me. The negotiation process with Matawa’s First Nations is incredibly important, adds Ontario’s Northern Development Minister Michael Gravelle, even if that means slower development. “We all know there is a history of various projects where First Nations have not only not been able to support projects,” he says, “they’ve taken significant measures to oppose them.” When it comes to the the Ring of Fire, Gravelle maintains, the government is taking its duty to consult seriously.

Some companies appear to be taking that responsibility seriously, too. Many industry analysts have independently told me Noront, operator of the Eagle’s Nest nickel and copper project in the Ring, has been a “textbook example” of how aboriginal consultations should be run. (Noront CEO Alan Coutts, however, passed on the opportunity to speak with This about their Ring of Fire project and work with local First Nations.) In December 2013, the company released its draft environmental impact statement for its Eagle’s Nest project, covering topics such as: human health and wellbeing, changes to the fabric of First Nations life, and issues regarding substance abuse. The report also detailed how much species-at-risk—such as Woodland Caribou, bald eagles, and Peregrine Falcons—and their habitat will suffer from mine construction. Caribou, a provincially-threatened species, Noront reported, will see an estimated 1,000 hectares of high suitability habitat eliminated as a result of mine construction, plus lose access to a further 100,000 hectares of prime habitat as they try to avoid mine sites and roads.

The report also outlines what Noront identifies as numerous socio-economic benefits to the local aboriginal populations in the Ring of Fire, and those across the entirety of northern Ontario through the Ring of Fire Aboriginal Training Alliance, a joint initiative of Matawa, the Kiikenomaga Kikenjigewen Employment Training Services, Noront and Confederation College in Thunder Bay. Such opportunities, the company says, include: the Mikawaa Scholarship program to help local aboriginals continue their education off-reserve (the monetary amount is dependant on application numbers and need); the creation of 780 direct construction jobs and a further 390 operation positions, all paying an average of 60 percent higher than traditional industrial jobs in Ontario; and the potential for tourism and recreation dollars to flow into the community from hunting and fishing expeditions.

Noront seems to have realized having access to a trained local workforce will be good for business—not only to tap into a rich vein of workers with regional experience and knowledge, but to gain the social license within the community it needs to operate. The company brought the federal government onboard in August 2013, receiving a $5.9 million investment for the training alliance, noting 196 of the 260 trainees they’ll teach will gain employment with the company later on. Being the furthest along in developing its mine in the Ring, Noront stands the most to gain immediately from whatever revenue sharing, training and environmental guidelines Matawa and the province decide on, a framework that will go a long way toward making sure what companies say they’ll do to help First Nations communities move out of poverty actually gets done. But until the promised benefits arrive, a healthy skepticism is a good thing. Remember, we’ve heard this all before.

One way to tell the regional framework Rae and Iacobucci negotiate is worth the time it’s taken to hammer out will be if the promised jobs and community benefits remain long after the mines close. Yet for all the benefits aboriginal communities may get from mining, CAMA’s Matthews continues to recommend First Nations look past the traditional boom-and-bust mining cycle for economic wealth. Too many of mining’s opportunities, he warns, are short-term benefits. “You don’t know how many chiefs have come up to me and said, ‘Four of our band members got laid off [at the local mine],’” Matthews told me. “Being involved in a mining industry is not sustainable for a community.” Industries such as environmental management, on the other hand, can bring long-term social and economic chances—whether a mine is open or not.

He has a point: While it’s understandable that many aboriginal communities are desperate for any sort of economic boost, mines are notoriously up-and-down. Eagle’s Nest, which Noront has invested over $150 million in already, is expected to remain operational for 11 years after its anticipated opening date in 2016. The controversial Victor diamond mine near Attawapiskat, after having spent approximately $167 million with aboriginal businesses and joint venture partners, plus more than $1 billion to get the mine operational, employed fewer than 450 workers total at the mine in 2011 to produce 779,000 carats that year. DeBeers expects Victor to have a shelf life of 10-plus years with the possibility of expansion.

Jobs in the environmental field, on the other hand, could be anything from working with government on reclamation of orphaned mines to using traditional knowledge in the development of Geographic Information System technologies. Or it could mean paying First Nations groups to leave land valuable as a global carbon sink untouched.  And these jobs aren’t dependent on commodity prices. “We have lots of experience in what community expectations are from mining projects,” says Matthews, explaining the association’s shift in focus. “We have seen a lot of disappointment where communities are asking, ‘What did we get out of it?’”

It is clear Matawa wants to be the exception to Matthews’ rule, perhaps if only because they see no other choice. But as Matawa lead negotiator Bob Rae told a group of reporters in November 2013, “Minerals don’t go stale.” Eventually, the Matawa First Nation Corporation believes, their land will be transformed to wrench mineral wealth from the ground. The goal this time, as Rae points out, is to ensure companies and government’s learn to share power so First Nations don’t lose out when the mining begins. Indeed, Matawa CEO Achneepineskum believes development in the Ring of Fire is inevitable—an outcome he welcomes when his people are satisfied the environmental impacts will be minimal and the economic opportunities abundant. “There is a willingness for a partnership,” he says. “Our people certainly want to be involved.” But, he adds, maybe everyone should take a step back and not let all that resource potential overwhelm them. The Ring of Fire will only proceed so long as there are benefits for everybody, he says, especially the aboriginal people living on the land.

]]> https://this.org/2011/10/24/bc-instant-towns/ Mon, 24 Oct 2011 13:24:46 +0000 http://this.org/magazine/?p=3069

Kinuseo falls in Tumbler Ridge, B.C.

British Columbia introduced its Instant Towns Act in 1965 during the height of an industrial boom. The policy’s purpose was exactly what the quirky name suggests: to allow the government to instantly grant municipal status to the many informal settlements surrounding its natural resources. The idea was that instant towns could prevent some of the problems of company towns, which had a habit of becoming ghost towns, by empowering local governments to create real communities.

Not everything went as planned. Four decades and a dozen such towns later, many once-vibrant communities were near death as mills and mines shut down or shipped out. The government was, however, right about one thing: towns aren’t so quick to grab the tombstone. Here’s how four post–Instant Towns are embracing their abundant resources, natural and artificial, in hopes of a greener second life.

Hudson’s Hope

Industry: Hydroelectricity
Incorporated: 1965
Population: 1,012
Hudson’s Hope was incorporated in 1965 when it became the second-largest municipality in B.C. Dubbed the “Land of Dinosaurs and Dams,” the town is rich with fossils. There are more than 1,700 dinosaur tracks in the area dating back to the Early Cretaceous Period. They even have their own dinosaur—the Hudsonelpidia—that was named for the town.

Mackenzie

Industry: Pulp and paper
Incorporated: 1966
Population: 5,452 (2006)
Mackenzie is home to the world’s largest tree-crusher. Indeed, in 1968 the 175-tonne behemoth flattened a 1,773-square- kilometre patch of woodland that would become Williston Lake, the province’s largest reservoir. The town has since incorporated the tree-crusher, which sat idle for years, as a central attraction in the town’s push for tourism.

Tumbler Ridge

Industry: Coal
Incorporated: 1981
Population: 2,454
Tumbler Ridge bills itself as the “Waterfall Capital of the North.” Kinuseo Falls is taller than Niagara at nearly 200 feet. The Cascades are 10 waterfalls that are all located within a few kilometres of each other. The community also holds an annual music festival—Grizfest—which this year hosted April Wine, Platinum Blonde, and children’s entertainers Sharon & Bram.

Elkford

Industry: Coal
Incorporated: 1971
Population: 2,463
Elkford may be a coal town, but nature still dominates. Indeed, the town’s website calls it a place where “humanity borrows a bit of space.” Currently, Elkford is repositioning itself as a good getaway for photographers. If would-be tourists are brave, they can try to snap some of the area’s grizzlies, elk, lynx, or wolves. If not, there’s always the Elkford webcam.

Photographs by José Luis Aranda

The Wirikuta mountain range in the Chihuahua desert in central Mexico. Photo by José Luis Aranda.

Under a heavy afternoon sun, the desert landscape in central Mexico lays long into the horizon, interrupted only by railroad tracks, roadrunners racing beside cars, and every once in a while, a cluster of houses and shops. But towards what some consider the sacred heart of the desert, new features begin to emerge: new age hippies and fellow travellers compete for rides on the side of the road, and in the distance, a dramatic mountain range rises from the plane.

Stretching from Arizona to San Luis Potosí, the Chihuahuan desert wraps around two of Mexico’s largest mountain ranges, laying claim to over 450,000 square kilometers of territory. While at first glance the topography might appear dry and barren, it is in fact home to a fifth of the world’s species of cacti, as well as a host of birds and other creatures.

But there’s one plant in particular that’s an essential part of the region’s draw: peyote. A small, circular cactus, divided into sections that look like a light green cross section of a mandarin orange, it pushes its way out from under the hard dry earth, sometimes into the direct sun, other times under the sparing shade of gobernadora plants.

In the southern reaches of the Chihuahuan desert is an area known as Wirikuta, a sacred site for the Huichol people. Every year, hundreds of Huichol people, whose name for themselves in their own language is Wixáritari, leave their communities in Jalisco, Nayarit and other parts of Mexico and begin a pilgrimage to Wirikuta.

“For us it’s like a temple,” says Marciano de la Cruz Lopez of Wirikuta. He’s one of the few Huichols making a home in the small, mining-cum-tourist town of Real de Catorce.

Wirikuta’s 140,000 hectare site was recognized by the state government as a Natural Protected Area and Sacred Site in 2000. It also includes a 146-kilometre path through the landscape named the Historic Route of the Wixárika People. In 1998, UNESCO declared Wirikuta as one of the world’s 14 natural sacred sites in need of protection.

“It’s a sacred site where we can leave our offerings when we do ceremonies there in the mountains, or when the pilgrims come,” says de la Cruz. “It means everything to us, as Huichol people.”

Alberto Hernandez Gonzales, a Huichol guardian of Wirikuta. Photo by José Luis Aranda.

The Huichols are among the few indigenous groups in Mexico who were never successfully converted to Catholicism by Spanish colonizers, and their fidelity to their traditions is celebrated throughout the country. “I congratulate all of you, the traditional governors, the Wixárica union from the ceremonial centres of Jalisco, Durango and Nayarit, to all of you, for defending these holy places, these marvellous places,” President Felipe Calderón said in a 2008 speech, while dressed in a traditional Huichol pullover and feathered hat.

Huichols believe that Cerro del Quemado, the stunning mountain range that rises from Wirikuta, is the birthplace of the sun and of all life. At the mountain’s summit is a structure where the Huichols leave offerings of thanks as part of their ceremonies: feathers, arrows, water from sacred springs, and other precious objects.

But this historic spiritual site is now at risk, its ancient landscape threatened by modern industry. And for the Huichol people, the stakes couldn’t be higher: the prospect of mining for silver under their holy mountain not only endangers the safety of their water supply; it represents a spiritual affront. Imagine drilling for oil under the Vatican, or bulldozing Eden to make room for a golf course.

Miners working at the former La Luz mine owned by First Majestic Silver. Photo by José Luis Aranda.

First Majestic Silver, a Vancouver-based mining company, holds a series of concessions that overlap with Wirikuta, and the company’s plans to develop the mine have already been controversial locally and around the world.

First Majestic already owns three producing silver mines, in Durango, Coahuila, and Jalisco, and is preparing to bring a fourth mine online. The project at Real de Catorce is the earliest-stage project the company owns, and they have yet to begin the permit process. If First Majestic receives all the permits needed—which have not yet been acquired—they expect to start producing silver at the property in 2014. Technical studies carried out by the previous owners of the concessions at Real de Catorce indicate that mining the silver laden tailings left over from historic mines combined with opening up new mine shafts in Real de Catorce could net 33 million ounces of silver, as well as substantial quantities of lead and zinc. The company says they’ll employ at least 600 locals by the time production begins, and the mine could operate for as many as 15 years.

The common thread that unites the company and many of those opposed to the project is something that’s sorely lacking in the region: water.

“There’s a limited amount of water here,” says Humberto Fernandez, owner of the Hotel Real, perhaps the most prestigious accommodation in Real de Catorce. “The aquifer here is disappearing,” he says. We met Fernandez and his wife Cornelia over lunch in the restaurant of the hotel that he’s owned and operated for almost 35 years. From the right angle, with his grey hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing a green corduroy shirt and a peyote charm on his necklace, Fernandez bears a slight resemblance to Fidel Castro, and he talks a mean streak, too.

“Water is the main cause for concern that we’ve noticed among the local population,” he says, sitting straight up in his chair and talking over a steaming plate of pasta. “There’s been weeks without any water in the village.”

The local aquifer providing what scarce water there is in the region, is classified as “over-exploited” by the National Water Commission. The water problem isn’t new: when the local mines were operating at full tilt in the 19th century, there wasn’t enough water to run a mill in Real de Catorce.

“The water supply is still in the planning phase,” says Todd Anthony, head of First Majestic’s investor relations department, from his office in Vancouver. “but its not going to disrupt any supply to the local community there. We’ve got other plans in mind,” he says. He refused to elaborate on what those possible alternatives might be, however.

Interior of the former Santa Ana mine. Photo by José Luis Aranda.

The anti-mining fight in Wirikuta and Real de Catorce is far from the first flashpoint of resistance against Canadian mining companies in the Mexican state of San Luis Potosí. In fact, it is in many ways mirrors a struggle that has been going on in the equally picturesque village of San Pedro. Also a colonial mining town, the Cerro de San Pedro was of such importance in the region that it is featured to this day in the centre of the state’s official emblem.

Except the Cerro de San Pedro hardly exists anymore. Over the past four years, the hill has been blown to pieces and trucked to a cyanide treatment plant. Instead of rising like a tiny, stand alone colonial mecca half an hour by car from the city of San Luis Potosí, San Pedro today is surrounded by growling dump trucks and mountains of cyanide treated waste rock, by-products of a large scale, open pit silver and gold mine operated by Vancouver-based New Gold.

The abundance of new mining projects popping up across Mexico have generated enough problems throughout the country to prompt the creation of a Special Commission for Mining Conflicts in the national congress. Anti-mining activists and industry groups alike trace surge in investment in the mining sector back to the North America Free Trade Agreement.

“To facilitate what’s happening now, the pillaging of our country and the arrival to our country of a large quantity of companies— especially mining companies—it was necessary to have a working free trade agreement,” says Mario Martínez, a spry septuagenarian anti-mining activist from San Luis Potosí. Among the key changes in legislation NAFTA wrought were adjustments to Article 27 of Mexico’s constitution, which defines the legal framework for the ownership of land and the use of natural resources.

But Enrique Flores, an engineer working with First Majestic Silver, says things have changed for the better in the world of mining. I caught up with him on the company-owned hacienda in the village of La Luz, which lies just a few kilometres outside of Real de Catorce. He was animated and talkative, having just returned from a workshop at the Canadian Embassy in Mexico City on Corporate Social Responsibility.

“Mining investment is made for profit, but at the same time it provides work for people, and raises the standard of living here,” says Flores, who took the time to show me images of the proposed mining project, pointing out on a map where the company is going to work, and how. “For example, in the case of Canadian mining companies, the government of Canada follows very closely what their companies are doing in other countries,” he says.

But though corporate social responsibility and Canadian government oversight might sound like progress, there are no binding international standards through which Canadian mining companies can be held accountable for their actions around the world, says Jennifer Moore from Canadian mining watchdog group MiningWatch Canada.

This fact didn’t seem to ruffle Flores, who took me on a tour through the historic Santa Ana mine. A few dozen locals are already working for First Majestic to transform the abandoned mine into a museum—part of the company’s promise of long-term jobs to the community. Deep inside the hills, the cool, dark mineshaft widened in places and exposed large galleries that once featured the most upto-date technology in the country. In other places, traces of more primitive mining were visible, sometimes overlaid with red spray paint indicating that there’s still silver in the walls after all these years.

Humberto Fernandez, owner of the Hotel Real and opponent of First Majestic Silver's mining plans. Photo by José Luis Aranda.

Just how sacred is Wirikuta? “Wixárika culture is about living for ceremony, because that is the form of life, there is no other form of living,” says Javier Ignacio Martínez Sánchez, an anthropologist originally from Chiapas who has lived in the heart of Wirikuta, for more than a decade. “It breaks your heart to see how they dance, to see the corn that they come and leave here, or the blood of the deer, how much it took to go hunt it, how much it all takes,” he says.

Martínez cuts an eccentric figure: he pays the rent on the tiny adobe igloo in which he lives by giving massages, and his only possessions are a bed surrounded by musical instruments, a few neat stacks of books, an empty plastic cooler, and a smattering of feathers and other ceremonial items.

With a masters’ thesis on the use of peyote under his belt, Martínez has worked hard to integrate himself into desert society, and to help build links between the Huichol pilgrims and the communal owners of the land they must travel. He’s the first to point out that Huichols’ annual trek through the desert also carries great significance for others living in the area.“The [landowners] here already made the link between the presence of the Huichols and the arrival of the rains,” says Martínez from his perch on the edge of his bed. “They say that when the pilgrims arrive on foot, it meant that there would be a good harvest.”

The use of peyote at the end of the pilgrimage is of supreme importance to the Huichols, who are considered the guardians of the spiritual tradition of peyote use. Only after weeks of fasting and celibacy and a long walk through the desert armed with the blood of a freshly sacrificed deer, can the mythic cactus—more often referred to as “medicine,” or hikuri in the Wixárika language—be consumed.

The fact that there’s mineral wealth under such a special site didn’t come as a surprise to Marciano de la Cruz’s wife, Yolanda. “The shamans always said that where there are sacred things, there are mines,” she interjected, looking up for just a moment from the intricate combination of thread and beads between her fingers.

“Our medicine is like a teacher, because it teaches us many things,” says de la Cruz. While we talked, Yolanda continued with her beading, while his children shifted their attention between a plastic bowling set on the floor and a cartoon on the family’s small television set.

De la Cruz is also among those concerned about impacts on the water from the proposed mining operation, but for a more particular reason. “Here there’s not much water, they say it takes lots of water to wash the rocks in mining, for silver, after they do that the water can run underground and it can contaminate our medicine,” he says. “And then we’re going to eat the medicine, and it could affect us.”

The Huichol people are, of course, not the only ones to take advantage of the powers of peyote. The cactus, which contains the psychedelic alkaloid mescaline, is used by Indigenous peoples throughout the northern part of the hemisphere. The Native American Church is a registered organization in the US whose members have the right to use and transport peyote.

But its use by non-Indigenous people throughout the 1960s and 70s might just be that which has brought the most attention to the sacred plant. Peyote was a cornerstone of the beat generation’s hallucinogenic trips, inspiring part of Allen Ginsberg’s epic Howl, and figuring into the writings of other such as William S. Burroughs and Ken Kesey. Rock stars got in on the game too: Jim Morrison, legendary front man for the popular American rock band The Doors, was known to experiment with peyote.

The cultural legacy of psychedelic art influenced by mescaline still resonates today. Tourists from around the world, inspired by the far-out message of the beat writers, flock to the desert, and to Wirikuta, to sample the effects of the button-like cactus on their own consciousness.

Sol Rak is one such visitor to the region, who has made the trek from his home in Chiapas more than 10 times in order to participate in ceremonies in the mountains that separate Real de Catorce from the desert below. “I love going to Quemado,” says Rak, who travels with fire sticks and a Temascal drum.

But mass cutting and overuse of peyote by outsiders has led to its near extinction in some regions, and it’s forced the Huichol people to set up a system to oversee who enters and leaves Wirikuta.

One of these Huichol look outs is a simple cement house on the edge of Las Margaritas, where Alberto Hernandez Gonzales lives with his wife and two teenage sons. “My job is to be here watching to make sure there is no pillaging [of peyote],” says Hernandez, whose Huichol name is Mukieri Kuayumania, which means “from the feather of an unknown bird.”

The first time we tried to meet with Hernandez he was dead tired, having done a 24 kilometer patrol of the area on foot. He was appointed to the post for a three-year term by a community assembly in his home village. And though he says he’s managed to stop some peyote thieves from entering Wirikuta, he quickly adds that he and guardians like him are severely lacking in resources. There’s only three of them working when there should be six, he says, and he doesn’t even have a mule upon whose back he could more easily safeguard the area.

Under a strong wind that moved through the plastic notches hanging from Hernandez’s traditional hat, he recounted the five points of the Huichol universe from a notebook containing carefully written notes.

“We really need to take care of these sites, they are the historical patrimony of our ancestors,” says Hernandez, referring to the threat posed by First Majestic Silver. “The Wixárika communities don’t want these places to be destroyed.”

Flores, speaking on behalf of the mining company, says First Majestic will do its best to leave the Huichol’s sacred sites alone. “The company is, what do you call it, promising to respect the ceremonial centres of the Huichols,” he says. “In fact in a meeting with the Huichol gentlemen we’re going to propose that they take over this part, and we won’t touch it,” says Flores, pointing his finger onto a section of the map that includes part of Wirikuta.

But company’s claims that they won’t touch Cerro Quemado and will work underground instead of open pit mining don’t comfort Hernandez, who likens Wirikuta to his own body.

“The mountain, in any case, is ourselves,” he says. “Right now we’re alive because we are complete. If someone comes along and splits my stomach open and rips out my insides, I’m no longer alive.”

Site of the now-rejected Kanata gravel mine on land owned by the Elizabeth Metis Nation. Satellite imagery via Google.

A project that would have provided hundreds of Metis with jobs and affordable housing was quashed on Tuesday, with a 7-6 vote by the Edmonton City Council. And though it may not seem so at first glance, that decision was likely for the best. While the project’s benefits were appealing, there were some deeper problems with the proposal, especially its environmental toll. But whether you agree with the Edmonton councillors’ decision or not, the case raises a host of important questions: how to address the pressing social and economic needs of Canada’s aboriginal communities, for instance, and how to balance economic prosperity with environmental sustainability. These are thorny, complicated, politically charged issues, so it’s important to pay attention to decisions like this and how they’re getting made.

Here’s the background: Kanata Metis Cultural Enterprises Ltd., which is owned by the Elizabeth Metis community, proposed a gravel mining operation to be started up on land it bought in 2009.  According to  the  corporation’s proposal, the mine would have been operated for three to five years, created up to 300 jobs for members of the Metis nation, and yielded 1.7 million tonnes of gravel, the profits of which would have been used to fund Metis-focused social programs such as building affordable housing.

Opposition to the mine sprung up because the proposed site was right beside the North Saskatchewan River and, according to local conservationists, better left untouched. The North Saskatchewan River Valley Conservation Society posited that a gravel mine in the river valley could damage nearby wetlands and kick up large amounts of dust, harmful to area residents.

The argument against the mine was bolstered by the fact that the Edmonton Municipal Development Plan of 2010 specifically prohibits the harvesting of resources in the North Saskatchewan River Valley.

The task of the Edmonton City Council was to determine whether an exception could be made to the prohibition. Normally such a decision would be based on the potential value of the proposed project. But this particular case gave councillors much more to think about, as it raised questions about environmental protection, self-government, and aboriginal land rights (The Kanata Metis appeared to have taken on the role of standing in for Metis people across Canada, the term “our people” having been used frequently by proponents of the mine).

At a very basic level, the case could be made that Kanata Metis Cultural Enterprises should be allowed to mine the land because they own it. And although the city has prohibited activities such as mining in that area, the question of land ownership and use is complicated when it involves Aboriginal groups, self-governance being a stated priority of the Canadian government’s relationship with Aboriginal peoples. Although the mining proposal isn’t a cut and dried analogue, aboriginal communities’ autonomy is part of the mix of issues here.

Another major argument in favour of granting the Kanata Metis corporation exclusive mining rights to the area, was that the Metis nation, like many Aboriginals in Canada, are in need of assistance, and owed some form of compensation.

The 2006 census reported that the Metis employment rate amongst adults was 74.6 percent. Although this was a four percent improvement over 2001’s figures, it still placed Metis behind the non-Aboriginal population, whose employment rate was 81.6 percent. The 2006 census also reported that, as of the previous year, the median income for Metis was $5,000 lower than it was for non-Aboriginals. This inequity was even greater in Alberta, where the median Metis income was $6,600 lower than non-Aboriginals’.

Evidently a job-creation project with a focus on Albertan Metis deserves some thought, especially if it is also going to contribute funding to housing and training programs, as the Kanata Metis corporation said the mine would have.

But while the local Metis population would have benefited from the gravel mine, how should that be weighed against the environmental costs?

While campaigning in favour of the mine, Archie Collins, a councillor of the Elizabeth Metis settlement, described the Metis people as “stewards of the land,” a cliché about indigenous peoples often invoked by interested parties, aboriginal or otherwise, that portrays aboriginals as inherently protective and understanding of the earth and environment.

There are already conservation laws to which aboriginals are exempt because of their cultures’ unique relationships to nature. Hunting and fishing regulations, for example, do not apply to aboriginal Canadians, on the grounds that their cultural traditions, which include hunting and fishing, supersede Canadian laws.

Gravel mining, however, is not part of the Metis cultural tradition. It would have been undertaken only as a commercial opportunity, which makes it quite different from the hunting and fishing examples. Collins’s “stewards of the land” image, while romantic, does not exactly jibe with digging up a river’s watershed in search of gravel.

There is no doubt that the Kanata Metis Cultural Enterprises mine would have brought some needed material prosperity for Edmonton-area Metis. There is even less doubt that the Metis — like all Canadian aboriginal peoples — are owed some manner of reparations after a long history of oppression and marginalization. But there are better ways to help than the North Saskatchewan River gravel mine. There are definitely less environmentally damaging options. In the end Edmonton City Council made a tough choice, but it was the right one.

Child miners are forced to work the mines by the warring groups in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Photo courtesy: ENOUGH Project, Flickr Creative Commons.

As I type this, I am complicit in the funding of rape and war.  You probably are too–sitting on your laptop, listening to your mp3 player, texting on your smartphone–even if you don’t know it.

But that could all change with the passing of Barack Obama’s sweeping financial reform legislation by Congress in July. While the story made headlines across the United States and pundits and politicians debated its potential ability to clean up Wall Street, largely lost in the 2,300 page document was a landmark piece of U.S. legislation that is geared towards transforming a place as far removed from Wall Street as possible—the Democratic Republic of Congo, the rape capital of the world.

Tucked into the “Miscellaneous Provisions” section of the bill, the new U.S. law will require all publicly-traded and electronics companies to disclose the source of the minerals contained in their products and the steps they are taking to ensure that they are “conflict free.”

The DRC is a resource-rich nation with large deposits of tantalum, tin, tungsten, and gold, all of which can be found in every cell phone, laptop, iPod, digital camera and most other pieces of modern technology in the world. If it stores a charge, vibrates, or has gold-coated wiring, chances are it’s got these four minerals in it.  The provision, then, will affect thousands of U.S. companies, including technology giants Apple, Hewlett Packard and Dell.

Activists, U.N. experts and non-governmental organizations have become increasingly vocal about concern that armed Congolese groups—including the Congolese army, rebel militias, and groups from Uganda and Rwanda—are financing themselves with minerals from eastern Congo.  In what’s been called Africa’s World War, the DRC has been mired in violence for more then a decade.  The war began following the 1994 genocide in neighbouring Rwanda and has claimed the lives of roughly 5 million Congolese, displacing another 2 million from their homes. Hundreds of thousands of women and young girls have been raped, as soldiers on all sides of the conflict have utilized systematic sexual violence as a weapon.

As with conflict diamonds, the legislation recognizes the direct correlation between our consumer appetites and the violence plaguing the Congo. While it stops short of placing an embargo on the purchase and use of the minerals, American manufacturers must now be forthright if they do so, essentially saying: “this cell phone helped fund rape and war.”

One U.K.-based advocacy group is taking the initiative to distance our consumer goods from conflict minerals one step further. Global Witness filed suit against the British government last week for failing to recommend that U.K. companies face United Nations sanctions for purchasing conflict minerals from the DRC. UN Security Council Resolution 1857, passed in 2008, calls for a travel ban and asset freeze on all individuals and entities supporting illegal armed groups in the DRC through illicit trade in natural resources. Resolution 1896 strengthened this by calling on UN member states to bring individuals and corporations forward for sanctions.

While the British government has refused to recommend the companies accused by advocacy groups for sanctions and has disputed the evidence brought against them, it has affirmed their countries commitment to the UN resolutions and to ethical mining.

The U.S. and U.K.’s support for due diligence and ethical mining relations with the DRC—lip-service though it may turn out to be—is more then we can say for our country. Canada has not only opposed valuable mining reform but has worked to undermine the DRC itself.

Canada delayed the World Bank and International Monetary Fund’s proposed $12.3 billion debt relief for the DRC, intended to mark the country’s jubilee anniversary of its independence. The decision was delayed following a request from Canada due to a legal dispute between Kinshasa and Vancouver-based mining company First Quantum Minerals Ltd. over mining rights. The proposed debt relief eventually went through, despite Canada’s tacit opposition as the lone abstaining vote.

While Harper claims that the DRC’s transfer of operating licenses violated international law and he used the podium of the G20 to frame the blocking of debt forgiveness as his stand for good governance, the actions of Canadian mining companies in the DRC has largely gone unquestioned by our government.  A UN Security Council report on the illegal exploitation of natural resources of the DRC found that First Quantum, along with several other Canadian corporations, were in violation of OECD guidelines of ethics and that their actions had led to an “economy of war”. That the Canadian government would stand alone on the world stage and hold Congo’s debt relief in limbo in defence of the mining rights of a company found to be acting illegally to pillage the natural wealth of the DRC makes it clear that our government is closer aligned with the mining sector then the international community.

Our government’s opposition to accountability within the mining sector is not without its own calculus—we are, more so then most other nations, particularly invested in global mining projects. The world’s largest source of equity capital for mining companies undertaking exploration and development can be found in the financial markets in Toronto and Vancouver; in 2008, exploration and mining companies based in Canada accounted for 43 percent of global exploration expenditures and 75 percent of the world’s mining companies were headquartered in Canada.

Canadian policy therefore has a vested interest in the mining sector, since Canadian companies play a major role in it globally.

But that doesn’t mean that Canada can’t follow the suit of our neighbours to the south and legislate for more ethical mining practices. When our MPs return to the House of Commons for the fall session, among the first bills on the agenda will be Private Member’s Bill C-300, the “Responsible Mining Bill.” Introduced by Liberal MP John McKay in 2009, the bill seeks to implement stricter guidelines for corporate social responsibility, to ensure that mining companies receiving funding from the federal government comply with internationally agreed-upon standards of human rights and environmental protection.

It comes down to responsibility: holding companies responsible for the goods they produce and the way they produce them. Of course, this is simply one small step to end the violence in the DRC—the war did not begin over minerals and this will not bring about its end. Every dollar in our society is a vote, though, and the the idea behind initiatives like Bill C-300 and the legislation in the U.S. is that civilian purchasing power, combined with government pressure, can enforce corporate accountability to stop funding the militarization of the region. This action is merely one in the arsenal that is required to stabilize the DRC. But it is an important one.

Monday‘s events were focused on Migrant Justice and Economic Justice, but the message that came out of the day was a mixed bag. A rally at Allen Gardens featured United Food and Commercial Workers (UFCW) and anti-poverty activists speaking on behalf of workers affected by G8/G20 policies in the global south. They also spoke about the failure of all levels of government in Canada to provide meaningful support to low-income people during the current economic crisis. 50-100 demonstrators made their way along Dundas, where an Esso station was briefly occupied to show disdain for government bailouts (Esso was one of the 70 corporations that received money from the US government). The march progressed up Yonge Street and ended at  Children’s Aid Society headquarters to emphasize that the well-being of children is being threatened by all levels of government in Canada, due to unfriendly policies and funding structures for women’s organizations and organizations that deal with maternal health.

Things got steamy on Tuesday when the crushing humidity and the political sexiness of the Gender and Queer Justice march collided at Queen and Yonge. A crowd of 100-200 people took up all lanes on Queen street and stopped at various points to engage in a kiss-in, a declaration from lesbian bankers about Pride funding, and a little bit of good old fashioned street theatre—”Harper Don’t Preach,” sung and danced to Madonna’s “Papa Don’t Preach.” Even Perez Hilton took note.

The atmosphere on Wednesday morning was tense, but resistance was fertile. The unusual 5.0 earthquake literally underscored the theme of Environmental and Climate Justice. Groups including the Council of Canadians, the Rainforest Action Network (RAN) and the Canadian Youth Climate Coalition (CYCC) led a toxic tour of the city.

Oil dragon at toxic tour in Toronto. Copyright flickr user onlyandrewn 2010.

300-400 people marched with the tour, which was filled with floats, rebel clowns, smiling banner-toters, and others who simply got swept into the crowd as it progressed throughout the city. The crowd stopped first at a Royal Bank branch, where speakers noted that RBC is the biggest funder of the poisonous and destructive Tar Sands project.

The route continued along until the tour arrived at the doorstep of the U of T mining building, which had recently been given a gift from Gold Corp, the second-largest gold producing company in the world. Gold Corp routinely engages in mining operations that create environmental destruction and human rights abuses—in fact, they were just told by Guatemala to stop operating the Marlin mine because of such issues. Speakers from communities affected by mining companies took a moment to call out the corporation and the government of Canada, which has little or no regulations in place to prevent Canadian companies from causing such damage.

The toxic tour ended in front of the courthouse at University and Armory, where progressive lawyers spoke about suits brought against the TSX and the Copper Mesa mining company by three Ecuadorean villagers.

Huge banner and hundreds of protestors block road on Thursday. Copyright Oren Ziv/Activestills 2010

Thursday saw the biggest turnout yet. Indigenous Sovereignty was the theme of the day, and groups from across the country converged in the city to bring a firm message to the leaders of the G20. Two thousand people marched in the event, which was planned by Defenders of the Land, to protest Canada’s record on the treatment of Indigenous people. One purpose of the march was to call attention to Canada’s refusal to sign on to the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples.

Today, the Themed Days of Resistance  have ended, and the days of action have begun. A rally and march held by several groups including Ontario Coalition Against Poverty and No One Is Illegal started at 2:30 pm at Allen Gardens. “Justice for Our Communities” is the concept, and the march will culminate in a tent city and night-long party. More to come over the weekend!