I didn’t plan on waking up this way.
Not to the sound of sirens or speeches — but to the quiet disappearance of my voice.
It started before COVID, or maybe that was just when it became obvious. I remember watching as Wet’suwet’en land protectors were arrested during a ceremony — a ceremony — by RCMP who had no business being on their territory. That shook me. And then the lockdowns came. Silence fell, but it wasn’t peaceful. It felt strategic.
What few people know is that around that same time, I had a strange feeling in my gut. A former employer of mine — someone with a professional background in a field connected to the LNG industry — came into my life. They worked in a sector that directly benefited from fossil fuel infrastructure. I tried to educate them on First Nations rights, colonial history, and the land we all live on. But I began to wonder: Was my voice being heard? Was I being watched?
Because not long after, it felt like I disappeared.
My posts stopped getting traction. My blog saw fewer clicks. People didn’t respond to messages. I felt erased — digitally, socially, spiritually. I didn’t know the term for it at the time: shadowbanning. But I know what it feels like now.
LNG, Land, and Laws Designed to Silence
The LNG industry in Canada is massive — from Coastal GasLink to Kinder Morgan (now Trans Mountain), these projects are protected by billions in subsidies and a whole infrastructure of silence. Try to speak out? You’ll likely hit a wall of court injunctions, RCMP patrols, or platform algorithms that bury your voice.
Even Canadian law has been shaped to suppress dissent:
- Bill C-51 (2015) — proposed by Stephen Harper’s government — gave CSIS and other agencies sweeping powers to monitor and act against so-called "threats to national security." Peaceful protest? A threat. Indigenous ceremony? A threat.
- It passed in June 2015 and is still partially active today, even after minor reforms by Trudeau in 2019 under Bill C-59.
- The government can now share personal info across departments, surveil protestors, and classify activists as threats.
That law is a time bomb. And it went off quietly.
COVID: The Convenient Curtain
When COVID hit, lockdowns became a convenient reason to ban gatherings, delay protests, and push pipelines while no one was looking. Wet’suwet’en resistance was smeared as “illegal.” RCMP raids increased. The media barely blinked.
And on the internet? Voices like mine vanished. Indigenous voices were throttled. Environmentalists were flagged. Pages were removed. Algorithms shifted. The digital public square became a filtered feed.
I Lost More Than Followers
This isn’t just about platforms. It’s about life.
Since then, I’ve struggled to find work.
My child distanced from me.
People I thought were friends fell silent.
All because I dared to speak truth? Because I connected dots between LNG, colonial violence, environmental destruction, and our Charter rights?
And here’s the thing — I took those rights for granted. Freedom of speech. Freedom of conscience. Freedom to assemble. I thought they were guaranteed. But during COVID, I saw how quickly they could disappear.
Final Thought: If You Feel Silenced, You’re Not Alone
If you’ve felt the eerie quiet of being shadowbanned, ignored, erased — know this: it’s not in your head. There are powerful forces that benefit when we stay silent. When we forget Wet’suwet’en. When we normalize pipelines. When we stop asking questions.
But I’m still here. Speaking. Writing. Even if just a few of you hear it — I believe truth finds a way.
Reflection Questions:
- Have you ever felt “muted” online when talking about climate, rights, or Indigenous issues?
- Do you think social media algorithms are politically neutral?
- What would it take for you to risk your voice?
