A Letter to Mazina Giizhik: The One Who Speaks of Pictures in the Sky
Sarah Green, EdD Student
University of Calgary
We have a lot of ground to cover, and we have a short time to do it. I want to be able to leave this life, this earth, thinking I have moved the conversation along a little bit, and I hope you will commit your life to the same thing, that when you are done whatever it is you do, you will feel that you have moved the conversation along a little bit.
(Sinclair, 1997)
I lay these words as an offering, each syllable weighted with gratitude, carried on the breath of the teachings Murray Sinclair — Mazina Giizhik in Ojibway — has shared with us.
Dear Mazina Giizhik,
Your journey has been one of courage and clarity, of holding truths so heavy they could break the strongest amongst us. You have held those truths with an effortless grace that invites us all to bear witness; to carry the stories forward. Your leadership with the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) was transformative in the collective story of the land. In breaking the silence of Canada’s history of residential schools you empowered Survivors to share their stories, braiding narratives so strong they are impossible to ignore. You have taught us that truth is not just a prerequisite for reconciliation — it is reconciliation in action. To sit with the pain, with patience and persistence, is the first step in the reconciliatory journey. The weight of the world was upon you as you held the stories of residential school Survivors. The grief and resilience embedded in those testimonials undoubtedly echoed in your heart long after that last word was spoken. And yet, you continued to show us what it means to remain fully present — fully human — in the face of profound heartbreak. You will forever stand as a reminder that leadership is not about power, but about presence, humility, and a commitment to the collective good.
Your words, “if it is education that created this mess, it will be education that gets us out of it” (Sinclair, 2024, p. 4), are etched on the hearts of educators who seek to do better; to be better. You challenge all of us to confront the ways in which various educational contexts have perpetuated harm, and to transform them into spaces of healing and resistance. This is a call to action that reverberates in the lives of those who are working to hold space for truth and transformation. As a Kanien’kehà:ka woman, I feel your legacy in the marrow of my being. Mazina Giizhik, your work has created pathways for Indigenous scholars, artists, and storytellers to reclaim historically exclusionary spaces. You have shown us that Indigenous ways of knowing and being are not just valid but vital. They are acts of reclamation, acts of resistance, and acts of love.
Mazina Giizhik, you embody a profoundly relational way of being, one that reminds us that we share our lives with those of others, with the land, and with the stories that surround us. Your stories of growing up on the former St. Peter’s Reserve in Manitoba — of navigating spaces where you were often the first or the only Indigenous person in the room — carry the strength of generations. Your stories remind us that resilience need not be born in isolation; rather, it is a communal act, rooted in the strength of our ancestors. I carry the image of you as Chancellor of Queen’s University, standing in regalia that speaks to the meeting of worlds. It is the epitomical vision of what is possible when we honour multiple ways of knowing and create space for Indigenous voices to lead. This image serves as a reminder that decolonization is not a metaphor (Tuck & Yang, 2012), but a daily practice of continuous commitment to unsettling and rebuilding.
Mazina Giizhik, your life’s work is a love song to this land and its peoples — a song of truth, accountability, and hope. It is a song that calls us to action, that refuses complacency, and one that believes in our collective capacity for change. As I write these words, I think of my ancestors who tell me that words are offerings; that they carry spirit. I hope these words reach you, Mazina Giizhik, as an expression of my gratitude — not only for what you have done, but for who you are: a storyteller, a visionary, and a bridge-builder. Thank you for reminding us that reconciliation is not a place we arrive at, but a journey we navigate together. Reconciliation is about relationships, the stories we carry, and the stories we create. Reconciliation is grief and gratitude held in the same breath. Reconciliation is love.
Chi miigwetch, Mazina Giizhik, for your courage, your wisdom, and your strength. Thank you for the gift of your presence in this world. May we honour your legacy by continuing the work you trailblazed with open hearts and steady hands.
With profound gratitude and deep respect,
Sarah
Kanien’kehà:ka Daughter, Educator, and Fellow Traveller on the Path to Reconciliation
References
Sinclair, M. (1997, April 17). Elders policy makers academics constituency group meeting. [Unpublished speech transcript].
Sinclair, M. (2024). Who we are: Four questions for a life and a nation. McClelland
Tuck, E. & Yang, K. W. (2012). Decolonization is not a metaphor. Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education and Society, 1(1), 1–40.
