As the evening sun settled over James Bay, long rays of orange light broke through the clouds and illuminated the dancers moving in slow circles across the arbor. The beat of the drums echoed across the grounds while children, Elders, families and visitors gathered for a celebration of culture, ceremony and community.
For four days, June 26-29, Chisasibi hosted its 35th Annual Traditional Powwow, bringing together dancers, singers and families from across the country. Hosted by the Juno Award-winning Black Bear drum group of Manawan, alongside Chisasibi’s Bedabin Singers and drum group KZ Boys of Kitigan Zibi, the gathering was filled with music, dancing, food vendors, crafts, teachings and reunions that stretched late into the northern evenings.
Yet the heart of the powwow revealed itself long before the first Grand Entry.
Before the dancers entered the arena, children who had never danced before were welcomed into the circle for the first time. They nervously stepped forward surrounded by parents, grandparents and community members, beginning what many hoped would become a lifelong journey. It was a quiet reminder that every experienced dancer once stood exactly where they did.
This continuity is everything for head male dancer Mackenzie Ottereyes.
“I hope the youth see what hard work looks like, because we all start from somewhere,” Ottereyes said. “We’re not going to catch the beat right away, and we’re going to be shy. I want the youth to know that it’s okay to dance. It’s okay to show your style and show your love for the dance.”
Ottereyes described powwow as far more than performance.
“Powwow means sharing culture,” he explained. “I put a lot of my hunting stories into the dance circle. when I’m tracking a moose or looking for geese, there are things I do that represent those experiences.”
Although powwow traditions originated further south on the Plains before gradually spreading north, Cree communities have embraced them and woven their own experiences, stories and identities into the dances. For many, powwows have become an important expression of Indigenous pride and cultural renewal.
That renewal carries deep historical meaning.
“There was a time we weren’t able to dance,” Ottereyes said. “Now we’re able to do this and really showcase who we are.”
Head female dancer Shania White echoed that sentiment.
“Powwow means community. It’s friendships. It’s culture,” she said. “I want people who didn’t grow up with powwow to be moved. I want them to understand that regardless of residential schools, regardless of the Sixties Scoop, we’re able to dance freely with our friends and our families.”
White carries teachings passed to her by Elders through the medicine dress she wears, a tradition originating in Whitefish Bay, Treaty 3 Territory.
“I always make sure that I dance with good intentions,” she explained. “With the intention of healing myself but also healing the other people who may need it in the circle.”
Those teachings were visible everywhere.
The arena itself remained shaded beneath its circular roof while singers rotated between songs, each drum group taking their turn around their drums. Dancers of every generation answered the rhythm, from young children carefully following older siblings to experienced adults whose movements carried decades of practice.
Between songs, families gathered around food stalls serving traditional and contemporary meals while local artisans displayed beadwork, clothing and handmade crafts.
Several ceremonies remained closed to cameras, including the opening and closing protocols, and a memorial ceremony honouring a recently departed community member.
There was another moment visitors quickly learned to recognize.
During certain songs, an Elder would raise an eagle-bone whistle. The high piercing call would drift above the drum.
At that sound, cameras were lowered.
The whistle is regarded as a sacred connection with the spirit through the eagle. Sometimes it extended a song, signaling that the drum should continue and the dancers should keep moving. The moment belonged not to spectators, but to the ceremony itself.
It was one of many reminders that although visitors are warmly welcomed, they are entering a living cultural and spiritual space rather than a performance.
As Ottereyes put it, “This is not a costume. This is our culture. This is me to the fullest.”
Late one evening, away from the arena, another invitation offered a quieter glimpse into that spirit.
Inside a teepee, a small fire burned over a bed of spruce boughs. A bowl of tobacco rested beside the flames. Visitors were invited, if they wished, to offer tobacco, make a prayer, or quietly reflect. There were no speeches, no schedule and no audience, only silence, firelight and the smell of spruce.
Perhaps that balance best defines Chisasibi’s powwow.
It is at once joyful and solemn.
It is celebration alongside remembrance.
It welcomes newcomers while protecting what is sacred.
As the weekend concluded, another reality of life in the North emerged. Lightning-caused wildfires across northern Quebec intensified rapidly, including the La Grande-1 complex south of the Chisasibi access road. Authorities issued road restrictions and safety advisories, leaving many festivalgoers temporarily unable to leave the community as emergency crews worked to contain the fires.
The timing was striking.
Only hours after families had gathered to celebrate resilience, they once again found themselves facing the challenges of life on the land. Yet, as throughout the weekend, community remained the defining strength.
The final image many visitors carried home was not simply of colourful regalia or powerful drumbeats, but of children entering the dance circle for the very first time.
In that moment, the purpose of the gathering became unmistakably clear.
The songs continue. The circle remains unbroken. And another generation has stepped inside.