Owning the land meant the nation could decide how to remember the children who vanished
On land that held children against their will for nearly a century, the Williams Lake First Nation has reclaimed authority over a former residential school site in British Columbia's interior, purchasing the property where ground-penetrating radar has detected 159 possible unmarked graves. The acquisition, supported by the provincial government, transforms the site from a place of imposed history into one of Indigenous-led truth-telling and remembrance. It is a quiet but profound reversal — the nation that lost children to this institution now holds the ground where they may rest, and will decide how they are honored.
- Ground-penetrating radar has twice confirmed the signatures of 159 possible unmarked graves at a Catholic-run school that operated from 1891 to 1981, making the protection of this land an urgent matter of justice.
- Private ownership of the site threatened the integrity of the ongoing investigation, creating a race against uncertainty for those seeking truth about the children who disappeared there.
- The Williams Lake First Nation moved to purchase the property in September 2023, backed by British Columbia's provincial government, to ensure the investigation could proceed under Indigenous authority.
- Chief Willie Sellars framed the decision as stewardship — owning the land means controlling its future, its investigation, and ultimately how its lost children are remembered.
- Across British Columbia, First Nations are charting different courses: some have demolished former school buildings entirely, while Williams Lake and Kamloops have chosen preservation, keeping the structures standing as witnesses.
- The transfer of ownership signals a broader shift — from institutional erasure to Indigenous-led reckoning, with commemoration, healing, and education now shaped by the communities most deeply wounded.
In the interior of British Columbia, about five hundred kilometres northwest of Vancouver, the grounds of a former residential school hold a painful history. The Catholic-run institution operated there from 1891 until 1981, separating Indigenous children from their families for generations. When investigators examined the property, ground-penetrating radar revealed the signatures of 159 possible unmarked graves — a discovery that demanded a response.
The site was privately owned, and that posed a problem. An ongoing investigation into those graves required stability and protection. So in September 2023, the Williams Lake First Nation purchased the property with financial support from the British Columbia provincial government. Chief Willie Sellars described the acquisition as an act of stewardship: owning the land meant the investigation could continue with integrity, and that the nation itself could determine how to remember the children who had been taken there — those who died, those who survived, and those whose families were torn apart.
The decision placed Williams Lake alongside Kamloops First Nation in choosing to preserve the former school's buildings rather than demolish them, as communities in Alert Bay and Lower Post had done. Each approach reflects a different answer to the same painful question of what to do with these sites.
B.C. Minister of Indigenous Relations Murray Rankin acknowledged that survivors and their families had made the significance of these places unmistakably clear. They are not mere historical artifacts — they are sites of truth-telling that must be protected and held in trust. The purchase of the Williams Lake property was both a practical measure and a symbolic one: a transfer of authority from private hands to Indigenous stewardship, ensuring that whatever comes next — investigation, commemoration, or healing — will be shaped by the people whose children were taken there.
In the interior of British Columbia, about five hundred kilometres northwest of Vancouver, sits the grounds of a former residential school. For nearly a century, from 1891 until 1981, the Catholic-run institution operated there near Williams Lake, taking children from their families and holding them in its care. Last January, an investigator examining the property found evidence of crimes against children. Ground-penetrating radar, deployed twice at the site, revealed something more: the signatures of 159 possible unmarked graves scattered across the land.
This discovery set in motion a series of decisions about what should happen next. The property was privately owned, which created a problem. An ongoing investigation into those graves required certainty—assurance that the site would be protected, that the work of truth-telling could proceed without interference or delay. That is why, in September 2023, the Williams Lake First Nation made the decision to purchase the property itself, with financial support from the British Columbia provincial government.
Willie Sellars, the nation's chief, framed the acquisition as an act of stewardship. Owning the land meant controlling its future. It meant the investigation could continue with integrity. It meant the nation could decide, on its own terms, how to remember the children who had vanished into that institution—those who died there, those who survived but were scarred by the experience, those whose families had been torn apart by the school's existence.
Across British Columbia, other First Nations have grappled with the same question: what do you do with a former residential school? The answers have varied. In Alert Bay and Lower Post, the decision was to demolish the buildings entirely, erasing the physical structure from the landscape. The Kamloops First Nation and the Williams Lake First Nation chose differently—to preserve the buildings themselves, keeping them standing as witnesses to what occurred within their walls.
Murray Rankin, British Columbia's minister of Indigenous relations and reconciliation, acknowledged in a statement that survivors and their families had made clear what these sites meant to them. The former schools were not simply historical artifacts. They were places of profound significance to the work of truth-telling, to the process of understanding what had happened and why. They needed to be protected. They needed to be held in trust.
The purchase of the Williams Lake property represented a shift in control—from private ownership to Indigenous stewardship. It was a practical step, but also a symbolic one. It said that the nation itself would determine the site's future, that the investigation would proceed under Indigenous authority, and that whatever came next—whether commemoration, healing work, or education—would be shaped by the people whose children had been taken there.
Citas Notables
The purchase ensures the integrity of the ongoing investigation and allows the nation to honor the children who disappeared and those forced to attend the school— Willie Sellars, chief of Williams Lake First Nation
Residential school survivors and their families say these sites are of great significance to truth-telling and must be protected— Murray Rankin, B.C. Minister of Indigenous Relations and Reconciliation
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did the First Nation need to buy the property at all? Couldn't they investigate it while it was privately owned?
Ownership matters when you're trying to protect something sacred and fragile. A private owner could sell, develop, or restrict access. By purchasing the land, the First Nation ensures no one can disturb the investigation or the graves themselves without their consent.
And the 159 graves—are those confirmed, or are they still possibilities?
They're detected by radar, which means there are signatures in the ground consistent with graves. But ground-penetrating radar shows anomalies; it doesn't prove what's there. That's why the ongoing investigation is so important. It's careful work.
Why did some First Nations demolish their school sites while Williams Lake chose to keep the buildings?
Different communities process trauma differently. Some felt the building itself was a wound that needed to be removed. Others believed the structure should remain as evidence, as a place where people could confront what happened there. There's no single right answer.
What happens now that they own it?
The investigation continues. But now the First Nation controls the pace, the methods, and what comes after. They can decide whether to preserve it as a memorial, create a healing space, or document it for education. The land is theirs to steward.