Us and Them: Facing the hard truth about reconciliation

I grew up in a rural community where life looked much the same from one family to the next. We ate the same foods, went to the same churches, spoke the same way. Difference wasn’t something we encountered much, and if it did appear, it often made people uncomfortable. Looking back, the possibility for racist ideas could quietly take root, since we were an almost entirely White, English-speaking community. When there is only one culture dominating daily life, anything outside of it becomes suspect.

We may not call it racism outright; it’s not always obvious. Instead, it shows up in small judgments; snarky comments about food that “smells funny,” suspicion toward a new person whose English sounds different, or sideways looks at clothes that don’t match what “we” wear. A different style of hair, or skin tone, and that person is judged as an outsider. In ways both big and small, we divide the world into “us” and “them.” Once we draw those lines, our sense of responsibility follows suit: if something affects “us,” it matters a lot; if it affects “them,” we feel less urgency.

This mindset is painfully obvious when it comes to how we have historically treated Indigenous people in Canada. Many of us want to think we have empathy, but we need to ask, how genuine is it? We wear orange shirts once a year, we share social media posts, we lower our heads during a moment of silence on September 30^th, the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation, but what happens now when the headlines fade? Do we sit with the hard truth, or do we let it drift away, back into the comfort of our own little world?

I’ll never forget a dinner from years ago. One of my boys, who has Indigenous heritage, was sitting with us. Someone at the table was sharing stories about working in the North. Then came the comment, “It was fine—except for the dirty Indians.” The words dropped like poison into the room. Silence, and then my son, quiet but sharp, said, “Well, that’s awkward.” He shouldn’t have had to say a word, but that’s the reality, remarks like that are still tossed around as if they’re acceptable.

The truth is stark. For generations, Indigenous children were taken from their homes and placed in residential schools, taken away from families who loved and wanted them. These schools were not places of learning; they were institutions of abuse and control. The goal was, in the cruel language of the time, “To take the native out of them.” Children were forbidden to speak their language, practice their traditions, and, in many cases, even keep their given names. They were told to be ashamed of who they were. The damage from this cultural purge and theft still ripples across families and communities today. Far too many children never found their way home.

Many of us have traced our family trees in some way. In eastern Canada, various parts of England, Ireland, and other areas of Europe are where the roots of many originate. When European settlers came to this land, they did not come to share. They came to take over, to occupy territory, and to claim resources. For Indigenous peoples across Canada: Cree, Algonquin, Dene, Mi’kmaq, Inuit, Anishinaabe, Haudenosaunee, and countless others—this was the beginning of centuries of displacement, violence, and cultural destruction. In some cases, like the Beothuk of Newfoundland, it meant extinction. Our ancestors, the ones on our family trees, bear that responsibility, carrying out those atrocities. That is their legacy.

The National Day for Truth and Reconciliation was meant to confront that truth. It is a recognition of loss and an attempt to restore what was stolen. It is about Indigenous people reconnecting with languages, traditions, and identities that were systematically stripped away. It is also about non-Indigenous Canadians facing the fact that this is not ancient history. Survivors of those residential schools are alive today. Their children and grandchildren live with the consequences.

Here’s the harder part: reconciliation isn’t just for Indigenous people to work out on their own. It isn’t about us offering sympathy from a distance and then moving on. It requires us, especially those of us who grew up with privilege we didn’t recognize, to examine: our comfort zones, our blind spots, and our complicity. It asks us to do more than just nod; it asks us to listen, to learn, and to take action even when it is unsettling.

It’s not only Indigenous peoples who are treated as outsiders in rural Canada. Immigrants who arrive in small towns with different foods, languages, or faith traditions often face the same labeling: strange, different, not quite belonging. They, too, encounter suspicion and exclusion simply for being themselves. This same “us and them” thinking that once justified residential schools is alive today in how we judge newcomers in our own communities.

In small rural towns like the one I know well; the challenge is even greater. When you are used to a single culture, difference can feel like a threat, but that is precisely why the work is so important. If reconciliation is to mean anything, it must move us past “us and them.” It must remind us that Indigenous suffering is not their problem alone, it’s ours too, because here’s the truth: when generations of Indigenous families are robbed of their children, that loss is not just theirs. It diminishes us all. When immigrants are treated as “strange,” it weakens the very fabric of the community, and when we look away, choosing the safety of silence, we become complicit.

The work of repair is not theirs alone. It belongs to all of us, and until we embrace it fully, the line between “us” and “them” will keep tearing us apart.