Taxpayers federation fears MLAs sleeping through debt-clock alarm
'We're seeing the debt go up about $4,000 a minute, $231,000 an hour, about $5.5 million a day, and taxpayers don't understand how those numbers are going up until you actually see it on the side of the truck,' the federation's Gage Haubrich said.
The electronic clock showed Manitoba's provincial debt ticking past $35 billion and each Manitoban's share totalling more than $23,000.
MIKE DEAL / FREE PRESS
The Canadian Taxpayers Federation brought their the Debt Clock to the Manitoba legislature to launch its provincial debt clock tour and sound the alarm about the growing provincial debt.
By the end of the year, the province is expected to be in the red by about $36.5 billion, or $24,215 per Manitoban, the non-profit organization said.
The debt clock is travelling across the province with the federation suggesting Manitobans urge their MLAs to call on the government to control spending.
'We're hoping that (MLAs) can see (the clock) from the window,' said Haubrich, who is based in Saskatoon.
'The bottom line is that, as the government borrows more money, they actually have less money to spend on services because almost 10 per cent of the entire budget is spent on debt interest.'
Interest charges on the debt are estimated to cost $2.3 billion this year — more than $6.4 million every day, and close to $1,550 per Manitoban. Taxpayers in this province pay the second-highest per person debt interest charges in the country, according to the federation.
'If they keep borrowing and kicking that can down the road, that number is only going to go higher,' Haubrich said.
Premier Wab Kinew and Finance Minister Adrien Sala have promised to balance the province's books before the end of the NDP government's first term.
The premier was in Ontario Tuesday attending a first ministers meeting. Sala said he'd respond to the taxpayers' federation later Tuesday.
carol.sanders@freepress.mb.ca
Carol Sanders
Legislature reporter
Carol Sanders is a reporter at the Free Press legislature bureau. The former general assignment reporter and copy editor joined the paper in 1997. Read more about Carol.
Every piece of reporting Carol produces is reviewed by an editing team before it is posted online or published in print — part of the Free Press 's tradition, since 1872, of producing reliable independent journalism. Read more about Free Press 's history and mandate, and learn how our newsroom operates.
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Lou Moodie is gesturing at an easel with a golf club. On the paper behind his makeshift pointer is a set of unconventional math formulas, including 6(2) + 6(2) = 6(1) and 6(1) + 6(1) = 6(1). 'I call this 'Indian arithmetic!'' pronounces the 61-year-old from Nisichawayasihk Cree Nation. With that, Moodie starts quizzing the group of 15 or so people assembled at a hotel on Long Plain First Nation's urban reserve in Winnipeg, for this April training session on the intricacies of Indian status. Moodie is the retired recreation superintendent for Nisichawayasihk, some 850 kilometres northwest of Winnipeg, who, with the enthusiasm of a camp counsellor, runs a game of Simon Says and jokes about the foibles of technology. ('This mouse did not eat today!' he quips when a file won't load.) Despite moments of levity, the topic Moodie has driven nearly 20 hours round-trip to talk about — a particularly convoluted section of the Indian Act — is not a lighthearted one. 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They might include the pride of being part of a collective group, with a protected birthright; the right to live in one's community; and even in death, to be buried on-reserve and remain there with the ancestors of their First Nation, Opekokew explained. The 6(1) and 6(2) delineations were added to the Indian Act in 1985 as a result of legislation known as Bill C-31, which ended the federal government's practice — over more than 150 years — of stripping status from First Nations women who married non-status men. (First Nations men who married non-status women did not receive the same treatment; in fact, their spouses were given status). While Bill C-31 enabled tens of thousands of First Nations women and some of their descendants to receive status, it quietly implemented a more restrictive system for passing on status than had existed before. The current system, which has seen several piecemeal amendments since 1985, is often described with words like incomprehensible and nonsensical — or, as an act of 'retaliation.' For children born after April 16, 1985 Today, of the 1.1 million status First Nations people in Canada, nearly 325,000 — or 29 per cent — are registered under Section 6(2). With their descendants at risk of being excluded from their rights, the second-generation cut-off has triggered a disquieting question: without treaty people, what happens to treaty lands? Even Ottawa has previously stated that the status populations of First Nations are expected to decline in the coming generations because of its restrictive rules, which could impact federal government funding. Virtually since the cut-off was enacted, there have been calls for its repeal. They've come from a Senate committee; from First Nations political bodies like the Southern Chiefs' Organization; legal scholars and advocates like Sharon McIvor, whose landmark case in 2009 forced Ottawa to remedy some of the lingering discrimination against women in the Indian Act; and recently, the United Nations Committee on the Elimination of Discrimination against Women. 'I think we have inadvertently invited in an evil that threatens our very existence as treaty Indians,' wrote Jack Grieves of the Keewatin Tribal Council, which represents 11 First Nations in northern Manitoba, in a 1992 open letter. Predicting that Bill C-31 would ultimately lead to a declining treaty population and 'empty and unowned' reserves, Grieves went on to ask: was it already too late? 'Is there anything we can do to remedy this situation confronting our treaty people and those who thought they were getting their treaty rights back for future generations?' Growing up on the south side of Berens River in the 1960s, Carrie Whiteway Prystupa was taught to be self-reliant. Still decades before a road would eventually come to the community on the eastern shore of Lake Winnipeg, homes were built with logs, water was hauled from a hole in the ice and light came from coal-oil lamps or gas lanterns. Across the river was Berens River First Nation. In the winter, Whiteway Prystupa's family would travel there by snowmobile, and in the summer, by boat. And that's the name of where Whiteway Prystupa grew up: 'agamiing,' meaning 'across' in Saulteaux, which she grew up speaking. This isolated piece of land, cleared by her Whiteway family, was also known as the 'Métis side' of the river. As far as Whiteway Prystupa was aware at the time — and, as far as the federal government was concerned — she and her family were Métis. When Whiteway Prystupa and her family visited relatives and shopped for essentials on the reserve, that separation was clear. Some people referred to them as 'ozagamoog,' or, 'outsiders.' Carrie Whiteway Prystupa poses for a photo in the early 1960s on the 'Métis side' of Berens River, along with five of her eight siblings. From left to right (lower) is Carrie, Eileen, Diane (held by Eileen), Myrna and Jo-Ann. At top is Whiteway Prystupa's maternal grandfather Jacob, who is holding Gilbert, and grandmother Alice. Not pictured is her sister Nancy, while siblings Jackie and Stan hadn't yet been born. Alice was the granddaughter of the first chief of Berens River First Nation. (Supplied) It hadn't always been that way. Nearly a century ago, Whiteway Prystupa's grandmother, Sarah, a status member of Berens River, married a non-status man. Her Indian status erased, Sarah left the reserve and went agamiing, where, with her husband, she raised 10 children, including Whiteway Prystupa's father — none of whom held status growing up. Thirty-odd years later, in 1955, Whiteway Prystupa's mother, Helen, who also was a status member of Berens River, married her father, Fred. Helen had attended an Indian day school run by Roman Catholic nuns and her great-grandfather was a signatory of Treaty 5. Nonetheless, with their marriage, Helen also lost her status and went to live agamiing. Several years after Bill C-31 passed, Whiteway Prystupa, who was then in her early 30s and married with three kids, became a status member of Berens River for the first time. Four decades later, she explained what it meant: 'Maybe, I am not 'ozagamoo,' an outsider, after all.' But for her descendants, this reclamation of status could prove brief. Carrie Whiteway Prystupa grew up believing she was Métis. She is among those calling for a repeal of federal legislation that she says is discriminatory and fails to recognize her heritage. (Mikaela MacKenzie / Free Press) With Whiteway Prystupa's marriage to a non-status man, the second-generation cut-off has begun to loom over their family. Her first son, who was born in 1982 before C-31 was passed, was ultimately able to be registered under Section 6(1). But her younger two sons, born in 1986 and 1991, were registered under Section 6(2). Though all of her three sons have non-status spouses, their dates of birth are critical. The children of Whiteway Prystupa's oldest son have 6(2) status, while the future children of her two younger sons will not be entitled to it. It was about five years ago when Whiteway Prystupa first learned there are two different types of status — and what that could mean for her descendants. And Whiteway Prystupa is not alone; she notes many First Nations people aren't aware of the cut-off. But Whiteway Prystupa is not giving up. Whiteway Prystupa written a book called Neen Ozagamoo, or Me an Outsider, which she self-published earlier this month. (Mikaela MacKenzie / Free Press) Last summer, she heard Lou Moodie talk at a Treaty 5 summit. That meeting led to her to join Moodie and other grassroots organizers on a cross-country trip to Ottawa, where they spoke with federal politicians and staff, calling for the repeal of categories 6(1) and 6(2). Whiteway Prystupa has also written a book called Neen Ozagamoo, or Me an Outsider, which she self-published earlier this month. 'I feel I'm being discriminated against and targeted,' she said. 'That's our inheritance.' Like Whiteway Prystupa, Joy Budd grew up without status, thinking she was Métis. After Bill C-31 passed, Budd became a member of Cumberland House Cree Nation in Saskatchewan. When she was signing her first status card as a teenager, Budd remembers a membership clerk telling her she held 6(2) status — and couldn't pass it on to her children. 'At that time, I didn't know what it meant — I'm 16 years old. And now the complication has come,' said Budd, who goes by Glenda, and now lives in Thompson. For Budd's family, the story of their loss of status began with the Second World War. Like other First Nations men, Budd's biological grandfather was 'enfranchised' — removed from the Indian registrar — as a result of his service in the Canadian military. While he was away at war, Budd's grandmother married a Métis man, losing her status as a result. In the next generation, Budd's father married a Métis woman and then when Budd, with 6(2) status, had children with a Métis man, the second-generation cut-off came to pass. Her kids weren't eligible. Budd raised her kids as a single mother — and despite her working consistently, there were financial challenges associated with her children being non-status, such as saving up for costly dental work. 'We were struggling just to try and have basic needs met. That means my children, I could never afford college or university for them,' she said. Joy Budd gained 6(2) status following the passing of Bill C-31 in 1985. However, her children and grandchildren currently lack status.(John Woods / Free Press) Budd lived for two years on the Cumberland House reserve when her kids were younger, but because they were non-status, they were not allowed to go to the treaty school. Her children are now 32 and 28 years old. Even though her son had children with a woman who has 6(2) status, his three children remain ineligible for status. Two have specific medical needs, but, because they are non-status, they aren't eligible for support from Jordan's Principle for medical appointments, she said, referring to the federal government's legal obligation to ensure First Nations children have access to proper health care, among other supports. Because of amendments to the Indian Act in 2017, known as Bill S-3, Budd is likely eligible to have her status changed to 6(1). If successful, her son could receive 6(2) status and her grandkids could receive 6(1). For years, Budd has been asking questions about whether she might be eligible for 6(1) status, but she never received concrete answers. First Nations advocates point out that because of the law's convoluted nature and Ottawa's failure to communicate its far-reaching implications, only a fraction of the people eligible to register as a result of Bill S-3 have actually done so. For people who were born before April 17, 1985 (or whose parents married before that date), and whose grandmother had their status taken away through marriage, S-3 means that they are eligible for 6(1) status. In the meantime, Budd wants Section 6(2) repealed. 'What's at stake is our Indigenous culture, our treaty rights, our rights as Indigenous people,' she said. As Budd pointed out, the treaties signed between Indigenous peoples and the Crown were meant to be in place for 'as long as the sun shines, the grass grows and the rivers flow.' 'And, you know, the sun is still shining, even though it's smoky over Thompson. I know there's a sun out there somewhere,' she said. The idea for the second-generation cut-off appears to have originated in a federal committee hearing in 1982. A now-defunct First Nations organization suggested a kernel of the policy, though specified that any child with less than 50 per cent First Nation ancestry should have their status determined by their band. According to Indigenous Services' website, to request a status category amendment you must compile the following: Your First Nation's office may be able to receive your application, or these documents can either be brought in-person to Manitoba's regional office at 361 Hargrave St. in Winnipeg, or mailed to: Application Processing Unit Indigenous Services Canada Box 6700, Winnipeg, MB R3C 5R5 The committee weighed the proposal warily: '(this) would probably create another series of inequities regarding children who do and do not have status in the same family.' Still, it became law soon after. Nearly four decades later, in 2019, a report on the lingering gender discrimination in the Indian Act flagged the cut-off as the inequality of 'greatest concern.' Smaller, non-isolated communities with a higher rate of 'marrying out' were set to see the negative effects more quickly, some in a single generation, wrote Claudette Dumont-Smith, a special representative to the Crown-Indigenous relations minister. She recommended the federal government launch a consultation process over the cut-off, which began in late 2023. A committee of Indigenous organizations was appointed to advise on how to proceed. According to an initial report, these organizations emphasized the need for First Nations people to have support conducting geological research. The Assembly of First Nations Manitoba also suggested the creation of a records office that would allow people to trace how their family lost status. Indigenous Services has also published a fact-sheet for each First Nation detailing the number of members who hold 6(2) status. (In Manitoba, this group represents 15 to 45 per cent of First Nations' overall status membership — see data for each First Nation in a chart below.) The same disclaimer is found on each fact-sheet: 'even as your Nation's population grows over time, (your Nation's) total registered populations are likely to decrease in size,' however in a comment this week, an Indigenous Services' spokesperson said their latest projections show the status population continuing to grow until the end of the modelling period in 2066. Public-facing consultation events and engagement sessions have yet to begin, the spokesperson, Eric Head, confirmed. Minister of Indigenous Services Mandy Gull-Masty leaves a caucus meeting on Parliament Hill in Ottawa. Despite repeated requests, Gull-Masty was not made available for an interview by press time. (Sean Kilpatrick / The Canadian Press files) Despite repeated requests, beginning a month ago, Indigenous Services Minister Mandy Gull-Masty was not made available for an interview by press time. Head said the department is committed to working with First Nations to address the cut-off, and added that the current consultation process is not focused on 'whether to address the issue, but on how to address the issue.' Claire Truesdale, a non-Indigenous lawyer who has helped around 50 people apply for status, believes more urgency is needed. She pointed to the fact the federal government has known for years — at least since the McIvor case in 2009 — how problematic the cut-off is. 'They've acknowledged that this is a problem but they have been incredibly slow to do anything about it,' she said. The government's stance — that there is not agreement among First Nations on how to proceed — is a poor reason for failing to act with urgency, she said. 'Kids are being excluded now,' she added. Drew Lafond, president of the national Indigenous Bar Association, said the question of Indian status has essentially become a 'red herring.' 'The debate over who is — and who is not — a status Indian, I think, ignores the fundamental, or foundational question of when did Indigenous peoples, if ever, relinquish their jurisdiction over determining who is and who is not a citizen of their nation?' Lafond said. 'To my knowledge, that has never taken place,' added the lawyer, who has long worked on issues surrounding status and citizenship, and is a member of Muskeg Lake Cree Nation in Saskatchewan, though he points out he maintains kinship relationships throughout Western Canada. A federal government that 'facilitates and authorizes' the disenrolment of Indigenous people without their consent is a violation of the human rights of Indigenous people, Lafond said, referencing Article 9 of the United Nations' Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, which states Indigenous people have the right to belong to their community or Nation in accordance with that group's traditions and customs. 'To say nothing of how ridiculous the formula has become over the years,' he added. In the past, the federal government has taken an ominous tone when discussing the possible effects of repealing the cut-off. During a Senate committee hearing in 2022, Christiane Fox, then a deputy minister with Indigenous Services, warned the move would lead to 250,000 more people with status, 'at minimum,' which, she added, 'will substantively impact the registration process and, of course, programs and services that are offered.' According to demographic projections by Statistics Canada, which had been produced just days before Fox's Senate appearance, the cut-off's repeal would lead to 173,000 extra registrants by 2041 in a medium-growth scenario. More recent modelling projects an even lower number: 121,800 extra registrants by 2046, according to Statistics Canada records obtained through an access-to-information request. What's clear from the records is that the federal department is closely tracking the financial implications of changing its registration criteria. (The Free Press filed a similar request with Indigenous Services nine months ago; after requesting a lengthy extension and failing to meet that deadline, the department has yet to provide the files.) The records give a sense of the possible population impacts facing First Nations — if changes are not made. In a medium-growth scenario, the annual rate of growth of the status population is projected to take a nosedive: from 2.05 per cent in 2021 to 0.05 in 2066. In a low-growth scenario, the growth rate is projected to 'turn negative' by 2055, indicating a decline in the overall population size. What's also clear from these records is that the federal department is closely tracking the financial implications of changing its registration criteria. In an email last fall, a project leader for Indigenous Service's registration reform team wrote: 'The team and I would like to begin costing out the differences in costing between keeping the registration provisions as is versus remedying the second-generation cut-off.' Seated in a Winnipeg hotel restaurant booth, Lou Moodie places a file on the table that speaks to his mission — it shows a family's successful journey in getting their child's status changed from 6(2) to 6(1). Because the father wasn't initially listed on the child's birth certificate, the child had been registered under section 6(2). Lou Moodie has made it his mission to educate First Nations peoples on how to reclaim status. (Mikaela MacKenzie / Free Press) While the federal government has taken some steps to make it easier for children to acquire status when their father is not listed on their birth certificate or is not known, the Indian Act still assumes the father is non-status if not identified. (Moodie often points out that there are many reasons for a woman not identifying the father, from relationship breakdowns to high-risk scenarios like rape or domestic violence.) In this child's case, the process involved ordering a new long-form birth certificate — not a copy — with the father included; filling out a statutory declaration from Indigenous Services, which has to be signed by a notary; and then mailing the package with copies of the parents' ID, along with, Moodie suggests, a letter of intent, reiterating the father's information. It's easy to use the wrong form or miss a spot for an initial, which can lead to lengthy delays. One of Moodie's pieces of advice is to avoid using correction tape and instead, cross out and initial any mistakes. But in this case, just a few weeks later, a letter arrived saying the child's registration category code had been amended. Since his retirement two years ago, Moodie has been travelling to First Nations to train their staff on how to convert children with 6(2) status to 6(1), as well to register non-status kids, when possible, while running a TikTok channel, where, with his daughter's help, he's amassed roughly 10,000 followers. He's also been hosting two-day conferences, with help from his family, including his wife, Edna; his son, Lou, Jr.; and his 'Irish son' Garrett, whom he adopted as an adult. He has no funding source behind him, whether from the federal government or his First Nation, which is what he tells people irritated by the $800 cost of his conferences. With nearly 325,000 people holding 6(2) status in Canada, Moodie points out that this problem isn't a theoretical one, it's already here. Depending on with whom these people parent, 'That's 325,000 treaties gone — just like that,' Moodie says, snapping his fingers. But there's another reason for Moodie's urgency. He wants his own grandchildren to be free to choose who they grow up to love, marry and have children with. 'I don't want (my granddaughter) to ever come to say to me, say, 'Papa, can I go out with this Anglo Saxon?' Don't ask me that question, if you love the man, go ahead. I'll never, ever say to you, 'no, no, you stick with your own,'' Moodie says. 'I've never agreed with that — never will.' Marsha McLeodInvestigative reporter Signal Marsha is an investigative reporter. She joined the Free Press in 2023. Read full biography Our newsroom depends on a growing audience of readers to power our journalism. If you are not a paid reader, please consider becoming a subscriber. Our newsroom depends on its audience of readers to power our journalism. Thank you for your support.
