The name of the project, Kwän Dék’án’ Do, can be translated as “to keep the fire burning,” a fitting name because language revitalization requires continued effort from people who understand why the language holds significance for community life. Through holopresence technology, the initiative captures a person in a multi-dimensional format and allows their image to appear life-sized. Elders such as Walter Peter were surprised to see a holographic version of themselves, describing the experience as something they had never imagined. The technology makes an Elder’s presence available in a new way. It also creates a different kind of intergenerational encounter, one in which a young learner can engage with a recorded speaker that is not physically present. 

The project also incorporates virtual reality into language learning, offering new ways for community members to encounter Northern Tutchone and access knowledge that might otherwise be difficult to reach. A hologram can preserve an Elder’s gestures and expressions alongside their voice. Virtual reality can place a learner within a digital environment designed around the language and its cultural context. In instances such as these, digital tools can extend those opportunities beyond a traditional classroom setting, but their effectiveness depends on whether community members can use them in ways that support real learning.

When an Elder Becomes a Hologram

A child grows up understanding only a few words, an Elder of their community passes away, and the stories that once lived in conversation become much more difficult to recover. Residential boarding schools and other assimilationist institutions discouraged Indigenous language use. These practices weakened the relationships through which knowledge had traditionally travelled, with the consequences remaining visible today, as many Indigenous languages face declining numbers of fluent speakers.

For this reason, Elder Jimmy Johnny had been a strong advocate for Northern Tutchone and had recorded several multi-dimensional videos before his death. When heritage manager Teresa Samson presented his hologram at a land claims coalition gathering in Ottawa, she recalled the strong reaction from people in the room, describing the experience as a way of still having a piece of him. The moment reveals something that technical descriptions of holograms can miss.

Technology is most meaningful when the community decides what should be recorded and how it should be used. This approach considers elders as knowledge holders.

Technology is most meaningful when the community decides what should be recorded and how it should be used.

For this reason, Elder Jimmy Johnny had been a strong advocate for Northern Tutchone and had recorded several multi-dimensional videos before his death. When heritage manager Teresa Samson presented his hologram at a land claims coalition gathering in Ottawa, she recalled the strong reaction from people in the room, describing the experience as a way of still having a piece of him. The moment reveals something that technical descriptions of holograms can miss.

Indigenous Data Sovereignty

Indigenous data sovereignty is central to this discussion because language materials carry cultural responsibilities. Recordings of Elders may include knowledge that should not be freely available to every user or every technology company. For this reason, community members need meaningful authority over whether recordings are shared and what permissions apply to their use. This includes decisions about storage, access, copying, and future applications of the material. 

In this sense, it also means recognizing that consent to make one recording does not automatically grant permission for every future use. Systems of artificial intelligence make this distinction particularly important because digital material can be copied, adapted, or used in ways that were not anticipated when it was first collected. Community control must therefore continue after the initial recording is complete. Without that control, a project designed to protect language could create new risks for the people whose knowledge it holds.

The hologram project demonstrates that indigenous innovation can involve adapting emerging technologies to priorities set by the community itself.

The hologram project demonstrates that indigenous innovation can involve adapting emerging technologies to the priorities of the community itself.

UNESCO’s series of guidance on implementing national preservation plans for digital media and cultural heritage emphasizes that digital language work should be guided by the needs and decisions of the communities involved. This principle challenges the assumption that introducing new technology is automatically progress. A tool may create new barriers if access requires expensive equipment or skills that are not openly and immediately available. In this context, the Na-Cho Nyäk Dun community is making choices about how tools can respond to a specific cultural and linguistic need. 

This hologram project shows that Indigenous innovation can involve adapting emerging technologies to priorities established by the community itself. Still, the presence of advanced equipment should not become the main measure of success. A hologram may draw attention, but attention does not automatically lead to language fluency. The more important question is whether learners gain the confidence and support to use the Northern Tutchone language beyond the digital experience. That outcome requires continued teaching and opportunities for people to speak with one another. The technology matters most when it helps those relationships grow.

Developing Children and Future Generations

Children need opportunities to hear Northern Tutchone in ordinary settings and to learn from people who can explain its meaning. This turns language learning from an occasional activity into a part of everyday life beyond the use of the holograms. Technology can support that process by making resources easier to reach, but it cannot create a living speech community on its own– that work remains with the people who pass the language forward. 

Often, preservation is imagined as something that remains unchanged and safely stored away from time. Yet language can be ever-changing, and it depends on new generations finding reasons to speak it. A digital archive can help protect what has been recorded, but it cannot anticipate every future conversation. Through holograms, the Na-Cho community is finding new ways to share Elders’ knowledge. This is significant in a context where the number of fluent Northern Tutchone speakers is small, and there is a true need for intergenerational transmission. 

Essentially, when an Indigenous community develops a similar project, community leaders must retain authority over data management and maintain a degree of sovereignty. For example, independent technical reviews conducted by academic institutions can identify risks before virtual reality tools are implemented. Audits can also help verify compliance with agreements between these institutions and the community. Such protections must be legally enforceable. Technology can strengthen language revitalization when it remains under community control. In conclusion, international and national laws must protect communities and their knowledge as technology continues to advance.

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The contradiction becomes particularly apparent on Indigenous lands. Projects such as the Lomiko Graphite mine and the Strange Lake Rare Earth project highlight how the province’s climate leadership narrative masks continued erosion of Indigenous sovereignty. Quebec’s public image of environmental progress conceals the reality of resource extraction that often proceeds without Free, Prior and Informed Consent (FPIC), as enshrined in the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP).

Indigenous Sovereignty and a Just Transition

Across Quebec, Indigenous lands are being opened up to mineral projects in the name of the energy transition, often without proper consultation or consent. According to a MiningWatch Canada report, an  astounding 10% of Quebec is under mining claims, with 60% of the 338,000 claims overlapping with rivers, which magnifies the impacts. While Canada’s 2021 passage of Bill C-15 enshrined UNDRIP into federal law, FPIC remains more aspirational than real. Communities are consulted only after projects are already in motion or presented with conditions that make the right to say no almost impossible.

In Canada and beyond, the principle of Free, Prior and Informed Consent (FPIC) is rarely upheld in an appropriate way for extractive projects. To truly give a community the right to say no, consultation would begin before the project has even begun, with attention given to meeting with traditional elders, women and children, not just men or Tribal chairs. If a community says no, then the project is halted.  A true just transition to cleaner energy would require centering Indigenous Peoples’ sovereignty as a north star before starting the process. FPIC should not be an afterthought.

The contradiction between Quebec’s rhetoric around Indigenous Peoples’ rights and its supposed climate change commitments is made clear, however, through the situation around the Lomiko Graphite mine in the Laurentides and Outaouais regions and the Strange Lake Rare Earth project in located in Nunavik.

The contradiction between Quebec’s rhetoric around Indigenous Peoples’ rights and its supposed climate change commitments is made clear, however, through the situation around the Lomiko Graphite mine and the Strange Lake Rare Earth project.

In 2023, the R. c. Montour decision in Quebec gave UNDRIP “the same weight as a binding international instrument” when interpreting section 35(1) of the Constitution, marking an important precedent. While this was hailed as an historic step that further uplifted Indigenous Peoples’ rights in the province, implementation has been uneven. A Quebec Superior Court recently ruled in favor of the Mitchikanibikok Inik First Nation, which had taken the province to court for failing their constitutional duty to consult the Nation before granting mining claims on their territory. The ruling stated that the province must now consult and accommodate the Nation not only on existing but also new claims. It was a small victory in hindsight.

In April 2022, Quebec once again made a name for itself as a progressive leader by passing Bill 21, an act that prohibits new petroleum exploration and production, while also mandating site restoration. Bill 21 was celebrated widely as a step forward for Canada towards bold action to address climate change. The contradiction between Quebec’s rhetoric around Indigenous Peoples’ rights and its supposed climate change commitments is made clear, however, through the situation around the Lomiko Graphite mine in the Laurentides and Outaouais regions and the Strange Lake Rare Earth project in located in Nunavik. At these projects, promises of sustainability collide with the extractive reality of mining.

The US Military Industry and Indigenous Opposition

In the Outaouais region of Quebec, Lomiko Metals Inc’s La Loutre graphite project is a proposed open pit graphite mine that was touted as an “ecological transition” project. Recently,  a multi-million dollar grant from the United States Department of Defense became one of the funding forces behind the widely opposed mine. It is said to be described by Lomiko as having the potential to be the seventh largest graphite mine in the world.

The project received a $8.35 million grant from the U.S. Department of Defense (DoD) through a technology investment agreement (TIA) under Title III of the Defense Production Act. This U.S. federal support is matched by a $4.9 million grant from Natural Resources Canada, which totals some $16.7 million in joint U.S.-Canadian funding for the mining project. The La Loutre mine marks one of the first instances in which the DoD has extended TIA support to a Canadian mineral project at such an early stage. Lomiko publicly positions the project as an energy transition initiative but the DoD’s involvement highlights its significance for military applications.

The KZA community has actually been active in working towards restoring their territorial lands that have been “degraded”. Part of this process includes working with local and provincial governments to protect the ecosystems, as was promised by Canada at COP15.

The case of DoD funding for Canadian mines like Lomiko is not unique. Robert P. Sanders, the U.S. Consul General in Montreal confirmed that there are others in process.

The project has provoked opposition from the local communities, including the Kitigan Zibi Anishinabeg (KZA) First Nation, whose land it impacts. As with many extractive efforts, there is little evidence of genuine FPIC being sought. The KZA community has actually been active in working towards restoring their territorial lands that have been “degraded”. Part of this process includes working with local and provincial governments to protect the ecosystems, as was promised by Canada at COP15. The work toward restoring balance in their territories goes against the expansion of mining. 

The Quebec government, despite backing mineral expansion, declined to provincially fund the Lomiko mine, citing a lack of “social acceptability”. This was celebrated as a rare, but not definitive, victory as Federal and U.S. funding are still in place. The case of DoD funding for Canadian mines like Lomiko is not unique. In an interview with Le Journal, Robert P. Sanders, the U.S. Consul General in Montreal confirmed that there are others in process.

Strange Lake Rare Earths Project and Inuit/Innu/Naskapi Concerns

One of those projects is the Strange Lake Rare Earth project by Torngat Metals company. While not funded directly by the DoD, the company will supply minerals to a US-based company under contract to manufacture rare earth magnets for US military purposes.

Torngat Metals’ (a Quebec based rare earths development company), Strange Lake rare earth project straddles northern Quebec and Labrador on Labrador Inuit territory. Much like graphite, rare earths are a sought-after mineral for both electric vehicle batteries and military equipment. The mine is only one part of the plan, with a separation plant planned to be built in Sept-Îles. The project is already revealing its true colors. Previous plans put an access road through Inuit lands, which would require the Nunatsiavut government to hold their own environmental assessment. Torngat Metals changed the road’s location.

Two other Nations, the Innu Nation and the Naskapi Nation of Kawawachikamach, have also expressed concerns about the Torngat mine and its impact. They cite concerns about the project’s proximity to George River caribou calving grounds. The Innu Nation affirmed their connection to the land and unease as to how the project would affect it and pointed to Section 35 of the Canadian Constitution Act, which recognizes aboriginal rights. Yet those rights, much like within Bill C-15, remain undefined and unevenly implemented when it comes to extractive projects.

U.S. Department of War and the Just Transition

The involvement of the U.S. Department of Defense in projects such as Lomiko and Strange Lake underscores how clean energy narratives can align with military objectives. Minerals like  graphite, lithium, rare earths and nickel are essential not only for electric vehicle batteries but also for military applications.

With the new name change from the Department of Defense to the Department of War, there are no longer any misconceptions as to the goals of this funding. The recent Big Beautiful Bill added another $13 billion in direct funding from the department, which will only continue to fund mining and processing facilities throughout not only the United States and Canada but around the world. Communities within the U.S., like People of Red Mountain in Nevada, continue to fight a DoD-backed lithium mine that bypassed consent.

This will only become exacerbated as more funding is distributed to mining companies. Quebec has a choice to make: uphold and honor their commitments towards UNDRIP and climate justice or quietly align with U.S. military priorities. Thus, an example of how the rhetoric of sustainability can function as a smokescreen for other objectives.

The Quebec Paradox

Quebec’s ban on fossil fuel exploration under Bill 21 has been celebrated as proof of bold climate leadership. Yet, when viewed alongside the province’s expansion of mining, the contradiction becomes impossible to ignore. Oil and gas are outlawed in the name of climate justice, while destructive mining projects advance under the banner of the “green transition”.

The La Loutre graphite mine and Strange Lake rare earth project illustrate how this dynamic plays out when Indigenous territories are targeted for mineral extraction, FPIC remains sidelined, and external funding steers projects less toward climate solutions and more toward securing military supply chains. Quebec’s leadership narrative reveals the nature of extractive projects where sovereignty, ecosystems, and long-term solutions are sacrificed for industrial goals.

The paradox of banning fossil fuels while accelerating mining reveals that Quebec’s “transition” is less about climate justice and more about replacing one extractive practice with another.

The paradox of banning fossil fuels while accelerating mining reveals that Quebec’s “transition” is less about climate justice and more about replacing one extractive practice with another.

If the province were serious about a just transition, Indigenous nations would hold decisive authority from before the projects are started. Free, Prior and Informed Consent would not be reduced to a mid-project checkbox but respected as a binding right that can change, reshape or halt projects entirely.

The paradox of banning fossil fuels while accelerating mining reveals that Quebec’s “transition” is less about climate justice and more about replacing one extractive practice with another. It is not being dismantled but rebranded. A truly just transition requires centering Indigenous sovereignty as the foundation of climate policy.

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