Through the years: How Gitxsan women fought to assert child welfare jurisdiction away from MCFD

This is the second story in a three-part series about child welfare jurisdiction in Gitanmaax. You can read the first part here.

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Ayawasw (Audrey Woods) sits at the end of a large grey table in the boardroom of Wila Dildilsdi’m — the new Gitanmaax family services department. 

She reflects on how, back in the 1980s, she, her aunt Charlotte Sullivan, and then-chief councillor Marjorie McRae made a decision that would change the way child welfare unfolded in their community. 

On their own time — without pay or formal recognition — the three Gitxsan women put themselves on call for every home visit the Ministry of Child and Family Development (MCFD) made. Day or night, they showed up.

“It was just an impromptu thing,” said Ayawasw, a soft smile in her eyes.

About 40 years ago, she recalled, a young Gitxsan mother lost her life in a car crash, leaving behind her child. The child’s non-Indigenous father fought to take her out of the community — but Ayawasw and the other women knew who her people were.

“We were like social workers,” Ayawasw said. But their role was much different than government agents. They weren’t there to remove children, but to support families — to make sure as many kids as possible could stay safely in their homes.

In this case, the young mother was Gitxsan, affirmed Ayawasw: “We knew who the child belonged to.”

‘We should always have had the decision-making’

Gitxsan society is matrilineal. Children are born into their mother’s Wilp (house group) and Pdeek (clan), and inherit names, land, and responsibilities through her lineage, ensuring connection to place is carried forward through generations.

So Ayawasw, Sullivan and McRae travelled to court in Tk̓emlúps (Kamloops) to fight for the child’s place in their community, with Gitanmaax covering the legal costs.

Ultimately, the child was placed with her mother’s relatives, igniting a new chapter for Gitanmaax, proving that the community could assert its authority and fight for its children in the face of colonial systems.

By the late 1980s, Gitanmaax had formalized an agreement with MCFD, setting protocols that recognized the role of the three Gitxsan women on frontline calls. They carried that responsibility like a torch, lighting the path for Wila Dildilsdi’m to continue their work.

“It takes the burden off of us, because, when we first started in the ‘80s, there was only three of us,” said Ayawasw. “It really is a relief.” 

Ayawasw remembered how the atmosphere in family courts shifted as the landmark Delgamuukw v. British Columbia case went through the courts from 1984 to 1997, culminating in the Supreme Court of Canada affirming the legitimacy of Gitxsan and Wet’suwet’en adaawk (oral histories) and ayook (laws).

Finally, she said, the communities felt listened to.

“We knew as grandparents and as parents that we should always have had decision-making rights with regards to the care of our children,” she said.

Looking for support and cultural guidance, Ayawasw, Sullivan and McRae turned to Gitanmaax Elders. The women invited representatives from each of the three Pdeek most strongly rooted in the community — lax seel (frog), lax gibuu (wolf) and giskaast (fireweed).

The work often took them far from home — as far north as “Mackenzie,” a seven-hour drive north-east from Gitanmaax, and to “Vancouver,” 14-hours south — to ensure Gitxsan children were placed with relatives, whenever possible.

In one case, Ayawasw recalled, seven siblings had been apprehended and brought to “Vancouver.” The children faced serious medical challenges, and after a long discussion the women made a difficult decision that the siblings should be placed in non-Indigenous homes — so they could remain close to the specialized hospital care they needed.

But about a year into that agreement, tensions began to emerge. MCFD requested an amendment to the protocol, proposing that the three women only be notified for children who were direct Gitanmaax members — not simply “affiliated” with the community, as the agreement stated. The ministry argued that reaching affiliated members was too costly.

“We said absolutely not,” Ayawasw laughed, dismissing the idea. She has relatives in the Nass Valley who would be considered affiliated, but not necessarily band members. 

“If they wanted us to intervene,” she said, “we wanted the right to do that.”

Still, it was the first sign the protocol was only as strong as the people committed to enforcing it.

‘We just need to teach the outside world what jurisdiction means’

James Woodworth and Julie Muldoe were among the social workers who faithfully upheld the protocol from the ‘80s. Today, they lead Wila Dildilsdi’m, as director of family services and project lead for jurisdiction.

“The relationship was strong, and we all knew that if a Gitanmaax child was involved we needed to call the committee,” Muldoe said. “Marj was the first person I’d reach out to.”

But over time, funding cuts — as well as staff recruitment and retention issues — meant the community no longer had MCFD social workers, like Muldoe, who lived on reserve and were Gitanmaax members. 

For years, Gitanmaax had travelling social workers from larger centres like “Smithers,” or fly-in social workers working alternating weeks.

“There hasn’t been consistent leadership in the ministry for years,” explained Muldoe, who worked on the frontlines for decades. That instability, she said, has eroded relationships between the community and MCFD.

“I can speak as a former ministry worker when I say: the community is the richest resource,” she said, “for information, for alternate caregiving plans, for understanding who’s safe and who’s not safe.”

But if social workers aren’t based in the community, or at least collaborating closely with it, those deeper relationships never form. 

“And so that protocol probably hasn’t been followed — or even looked at — for years,” Muldoe added.

Having both her and Woodworth in leadership at Wila Dildilsdi’m gives peace of mind to Ayawasw. “We’re beginning to see the rewards of what we started in the ‘80s.” 

Now they can see the bigger picture, said Ayawasw, in which Huwilp (house groups) “will take the responsibility, and we will work with them to do so.”

Ayawasw, now 75 and the eldest surviving sibling of nine, spent much of her childhood at her grandmother’s side. 

It was her grandmother’s role to teach the eldest, who would then pass knowledge down to younger siblings. 

Whenever she was summoned to the family’s regular dinner meetings, Ayawasw would sigh. 

“What did we do wrong?” she remembers joking. But those gatherings weren’t about discipline; they were about preparing her to carry knowledge forward.

Through these teachings, her grandmother sparked a lasting interest in her ancestry and cultural connection. 

“Now,” Ayawasw said, “we just need to teach the outside world what jurisdiction means in our mind.”

System ‘based on taking children away … and then turning their backs’

Today, Ayawasw is one of a handful of Elders on the Elders Advisory Committee for Wila Dildilsdi’m, helping shape her community’s new family services department — so its direction remains firmly rooted in traditional knowledge and teachings.

The committee meets monthly, adding extra meetings if there are upcoming events planned, or if they need to share feedback about particular programs, events or family cases.

Wing-chief Dimdiigibuu (Ardythe Wilson), from Wilp Gutginuxw, also sits on the committee. 

Commanding and assertive, Dimdiigibuu carries a presence that fills the room, persuasive in the way of a seasoned and respected community leader. 

Dimdiigibuu believes federal Bill C-92 — which affirms Indigenous jurisdiction over child and family services — was born less from innovation than from the government running out of ideas.

“They’ve made a mess of things,” she said of the federal government’s role in removing Indigenous children from their homes. 

“The whole child welfare system is based on taking children away, giving someone else money to care for them, and then turning their backs on the original family. That makes no sense to me whatsoever.”

Even decades later, she said, the same problems persist. 

“They’re still happening. Nothing has changed.”

To her, jurisdiction is less about empowerment and more about governments offloading responsibility back onto Indigenous communities. 

“They’re not going to send the children back with the same kind of resources they used to take them away, right?” she asked.

While C-92 promises to return jurisdiction to Indigenous communities, Dimdiigibuu sees it as largely superficial. 

In practice, she said, the government grants jurisdiction through band councils — governing bodies created by the colonial system — rather than recognizing nations’ authority on their own terms. 

“Even though they’re saying ‘jurisdiction,’ it’s jurisdiction according to them,” she explained. “They’ve created boilerplate templates, defined community agreements, and laid out exactly how you’re supposed to exercise your jurisdiction. 

“To me, it’s not anything different than what we’ve seen in years past.”

A 92.1 community agreement — or “pathways to jurisdiction,” as it’s also known — is an arrangement between the province and an Indigenous community that allows the community to take on certain family services responsibilities. 

Historically, these agreements were limited in scope and guided by government templates. But they’re now being presented as a pathway for communities to exercise more local control, while still holding MCFD accountable if it oversteps. 

Wila Dildilsdi’m has been advocating for funding from the ministry to develop its own 92.1 agreements, grounded in Gitxsan laws and traditions — rather than relying on government-provided agreement templates. 

But it has been told it will get no financial support for that.

When IndigiNews asked MCFD about available funding for 92.1 community agreements, it did not answer the question, but sent a statement explaining the function of the agreements. 

“Section 92.1 agreements enable First Nations, the Nisga’a Nation, Treaty First Nations and other Indigenous governing bodies to participate in decision-making around child and family services in their communities,” a ministry spokesperson said in a statement. 

“These agreements are a pivotal step on the path to full self-determination.”

But Dimdiigibuu sees it differently. 

As she sees it, if the province were actually serious about its commitments under the Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples Act (DRIPA), “they would sit down with nations to define what jurisdiction truly means,” she said. “But they’re not going to do that.”  

Growing up in a close-knit matrilineal system, surrounded by influential grandparents, gave Dimdiigibuu a strong foundation — and enabled her family to protect her from the ministry for much of her childhood.

“My mother really just fought hard to keep us away from all that,” she said. But it wouldn’t last; eventually, she was removed from high school and sent to an Indian boarding home program in “Surrey.” 

“It was such an alien experience for me,” she recalled.

When Dimdiigibuu entered “Surrey’s” settler community, she quickly recognized the stark differences in how families cared for their own relatives. She saw how many seniors became isolated in care homes, rather than staying entwined in the lives of their k’ubawilxsihlx (grandchildren) to pass on knowledge.

“And so I noticed right away the differences between Canada and the Gitxsan community,” she said. From that point forward, she has sought “any opportunity to correct Canada’s definition or interpretation of who we are and how we live,” she said.

“So that’s been my life’s journey.”

With this mission guiding her, Dimdiigibuu says much of her career path has been unplanned — she rarely needed to apply for positions, but found herself sought out for her expertise and perspective.

After narrowly avoiding a career in social work — she was too young when she applied, “and thank God,” she joked — Dimdiigibuu took a three-month typing and bookkeeping course. That foundation carried her through what came afterward.

“Doing proposals, begging for money,” she recalled, “that’s one of the things I did during the court case.”

In 1987, hereditary chiefs named her among five communications coordinators during their ground-breaking legal battle, the Delgamuukw v. British Columbia case. 

Along with handling public relations, she also reported back to the community — often chairing meetings as a multilingual translator, interpreting the proceedings from English into Gitxsanimx (the Gitxsan language). 

Following the court case, she worked for other jurisdictions, including in “Manitoba,” helping First Nations there develop their own child and family legislation. 

After retiring in 2022, Dimdiigibuu stayed busy as an advisor for Wila Dildilsdi’m, transcribing and translating Gitxsan systems and processes.

“Not just the words, but the thinking behind them,” she reflected, “the Gitxsan way of being, really.”

For Dimdiigibuu, that’s what makes Gitanmaax’s work so compelling: translating their jurisdiction in a way the outside world can understand.

“That’s all it is,” she said, simply and confidently.

Having faith in the Gitxsan hereditary system

But doing this important work for her nation’s families, Dimdiigibuu said, can’t happen without faith in the Gitxsan hereditary system.

That ancient system, she explained, even makes space for Gitanmaax members who aren’t Gitxsan, for instance those historically enrolled in the First Nation through marriage. 

Under since-repealed clauses of the Indian Act, non-Indigenous women gained Indian status if they married a status Indian man — and her children, whether biologically his or not, also became members. (The same law also revoked Indigenous women’s Indian status for marrying non-status men).

“The federal government tried to mess that up,” she said of the former rules, which were repealed in 1985, “but the hereditary system still accommodates it.”

In the Gitxsan hereditary system, a non-Indigenous mother can be formally ts’imilguudit (adopted) into her Indigenous spouse’s Pdeek.

This arrangement covers most situations — although Wila Dildilsdi’m’s executive director Jim Woodward notes a small number of Gitanmaax children have been born to two non-Indigenous parents, yet retain status, because their mother’s ex-husband was Gitanmaax.

“When you come to a feast hall, nobody stops you at the door and asks you what your band number is,” Dimdiigibuu said. 

“They’ll ask you who your mother is and what Wilp you belong to. And if you don’t belong to a Wilp, there’s a table for visitors, so you would still get accommodated.” 

For Dimdiigibuu, band membership is just a recent imposition — a small blip in the thousands of years of daxgyat (Gitxsan power and authority).

‘Know who they belong to, who they’re connected to’

This summer, Wila Dildilsdi’m hosted a culture camp for Gitanmaax children in the child welfare system, culminating in a feast. 

Trying to culturally support children who were removed from the community feels “like a bandage situation” to  Ayawasw, “but at least they can come and know who they belong to, who they’re connected to.”

For those who didn’t yet know which Pdeek they belong to, the organization set up a table labelled “hummingbird” — an honorary Pdeek for guests, which has been used before at Gitxsan feasts. That table turned out to be the largest one.

Dawamuxw (Larry Patsey), who attended the feast, spoke in the Wila Dildilsdi’m boardroom in thoughtful reflection next to his wife, Christine. The longtime caregivers are both Elders on the committee. Dawamuxw is a sim’oogit, or hereditary chief, of Wilp Dawamuxw, and member of the gisk’aast (fireweed) Pdeek. 

Youth hold a special place in feast protocol, said Dawamuxw. In the feast hall,  tradition dictates that young people are addressed directly by speakers, alongside the chiefs and matriarchs. 

“We say ‘simgigyat [chiefs], sigidimhaanak [matriarchs], ganhl k’ubawilxsihlx [grandchildren]’ to address the young people coming up that are being taught the way,” Dawamuxw explained. 

Colonialism has tried to disrupt these teachings, he said, but he hopes the respect for Youth can once again awaken through the efforts of Wila Dildilsdi’m.

In the 1950s, when Dawamuxw was young himself, he remembered his uncle telling creation stories and other Gitxsan legends in his living room. 

His storytelling was so captivating, the family radio was rarely on. Instead, the uncle held the minds of the younger generation as he passed on cultural knowledge about the Great Flood, important figures, and the origins of different communities.

“He told me night after night,” Dawamuxw reminisced, “and they just stuck in my head.”

Children today might have shorter attention spans for storytelling than in his youth, but he still tries to pass on the stories etched in his memory to the ganhl k’ubawilxsihlx (grandchildren), whenever he can.

“If we’re driving up the road or have some time together, I’ll drop little nuggets about how I grew up, what I remember, and about the language,” he said. 

“And it’s amazing how they react; it kind of piques their interest.”

In moments like that, Dawamukw knows, like his uncle, he’s captivated young people’s attention. 

“I hope that when I say something — when it’s a voice from the past — it’s something that they can hang onto, something that anchors their identity,” he reflected. 

”That they can learn the language, learn the infrastructure of the Gitxsan society and their place in it.” 

He believes Wila Dildilsdi’m provides an opportunity for young people to better understand their Gitxsan identity. 

The knowledge is there, he said, but “We’ve just got to brush it off and bring it back to the foundation of our society.” 

He shared one more story.

For Gitxsan people, he explained, family revolves around the children — who he referred to as majagalee (flowers), because he sees them as needing the community’s care and attention to blossom, just like in a garden.

“So when we talk about jurisdiction,” Dawamukw said, “it’s really about our way of life: looking after our majagalee — nurturing them, and teaching them the Gitxsan way.”

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Editor’s note: This story was produced as part of Spotlight: Child Welfare, a collaborative journalism project that aims to improve reporting on the child ‘welfare’ system. Tell us what you think.