On July 30, Kwakwaka’wakw hereditary chiefs held a press conference in Vancouver announcing their application for a judicial review of Canada’s decision to allow ocean-based fish farms to through 2029. Representatives from ‘Namgis and Kwikwasutinuxw Haxwa’mis First Nations shared their reasons for launching the court action, including lack of consultation, their inherited obligation to the environment, and precautionary stories from those now in the spirit world.
We spoke with Kwakwaka’wakw hereditary chief Ernest Alfred at his dock on northern Vancouver Island. With his phone in one hand, tinkering with his boat with the other, Alfred is heading to a reported collision with a humpback within his traditional territory. “It’s not my job, it’s just something we do. It’s a responsibility.” He says this is what separates the volunteer ocean-protectors from hired monitors such as DFO – “[Whales] are part of us. Not just the marine environment, but part of who we are as people.”
Alfred takes a moment to recount a memory from early childhood, the moment he fell in love with orca – or max̱’inux̱ in kwak̕wala, the language of Kwakwka’wakw people). He describes waking up to the sound of orcas surrounding his father’s boat. From the porthole, they were barely visible under the moonlight; however, at the boat’s bow, phosphorescence illuminated the sea and the orcas dipping below him. “I was really young, but it had a huge impact, and that took me and my love for Orca.”
Respect for the web of life
Fish farms were first introduced to British Columbia’s coast in 1971, rapidly expanding to over one hundred farms in the 2000s. Industry giants such as Mowi Canada West, Cermaq Canada, and Grieg Seafood took advantage of the pristine conditions of the open ocean and promoted an image of an industry that facilitates food security and economic benefits.
“Our people were told stories that if you were to abuse anything, or if you don’t give thanks, things could be taken away,” Alfred says. “If you’re going to show disrespect to the salmon, they’re going to react. And sure enough, we almost lost them.”
“The salmon will come back if we just get out of their way. We know that removing fish farms works.”
Alfred describes the Hada River, nestled in the territory of the Musga’magw Dzawada’enuxw. The river was once known to see annual salmon returns between 40 and 50,000 – however, at one point only 27 salmon returned. “We were seeing those numbers go down. That’s why we got involved, because it was so urgent.”
Following the removal of farms in the Broughton Archipelago, Hada River was blessed with the return of more than 10,000 salmon. And salmon weren’t the the only ones to return – they brought with them a “staggering” presence of whales, bears, birds, and herring. “As a keystone species, everything falls apart once you remove [salmon], that sacred species,” Alfred notes.“It’s not just the health of the forest, bears, or the whales, it’s all of us. Everything relies on salmon, from the biggest whales to the biggest trees, the smallest of insects. It’s the web of life that our people understand. You can’t put a dollar amount on that.”
Unity in resistance
Back at the press conference in Vancouver, Dan Lewis of Clayoquot Action weighs in on fish farms and what led him to take action. “Lots of boat traffic, viruses, fish die-off, fish escapes, sea lions being murdered – it’s a terrible industry.”
Between Cermaq and Creative Salmon, Clayoquot Action says up to 20 open-net fish farms are still operating in Clayoquot Sound.
“Wild salmon are the backbone of the coast,” says Lewis. “They sustain ecosystems. They fertilize the trees that make the air we breathe.” He lists the effects of fish farms: “They’re pushing wild salmon to the brink of extinction … through pathogens, parasites, pesticides, and pollution. They’re harming the clam beds, they’re harming crustaceans like crabs, shrimp and prawns – those are affected by the pesticides that attack the sea lice.”
Lewis recalls stories from local Indigenous members. “You could walk across the river on the backs of salmon without getting your feet wet.” But today, “you can see the bears going hungry. It used to be, when you got to the mouth of a river, there were gulls, eagles, and bears and a cacophony of exuberant feeding. Now it’s just silent.” He draws hope from positive changes in areas that removed fish farms from their territories. “The salmon will come back if we just get out of their way. We know that removing fish farms works.”
The impact of fish farms can also be seen within the pens. Lewis notes instances of catastrophic die-offs of farmed fish. Hundreds of thousands of farmed fish have succumbed to their environment – deaths attributed to viruses, delousing agents, and algae blooms. Through Clayoquot Action’s investigations, Lewis says he’s seen the destruction of countless herring trapped in the pen. Lewis says he’s “thrilled” about the Nations’ court action, understanding that “salmon farming is a transboundary issue. Salmon swim, they don’t stay in one territory. I hope they win.”
A common theme at the Vancouver press conference was moving aquaculture out of the ocean. Alfred refers to Kuterra, ‘Namgis First Nation’s land-based salmon farm – “We’re trying to protect our salmon, but also proving a point: that we can do things in a different way.”
While the future health of British Columbia’s coast is largely in the hands of the government, it is clear that people from all walks of life are uniting to advocate for the protection of those who cannot speak for themselves.
[UPDATE: On Sept. 20, the federal government quietly released their Draft Salmon Aquaculture Transition Plan for British Columbia. The plan is short on details, but our friends at Watershed Watch Salmon Society have a good summary.]
Pa̱x̱a̱la, Desiree Mannila is a proud member of the Da’naxda’xw Nation and staff reporter for the Watershed Sentinel.
