“Those windigos truly are soulless creatures. They eat human flesh, and drink the blood of my kin. They laugh at our pain, and are all too happy to lead us to our maker. They are cannibals, part of a colonial sickness that attempts to wane my spirit everyday. But, as Chrystos once said, we’re not vanishing. The windigos can keep us on the precipice, teetering between life and death, extinction and resurgence, attempting to remove us from the land before the next generations rise to swallow them whole, and still we rise.
nika-mâci-waniskânân. kohkôsiwikamik nêma. ta-nipahi-kwâhkosowak. wâpiski-kôhkos nêhi. ta-nisîhkâci-kîsisikâtâwak….”