A sacred ceremony and an opportunity to build bonds

This is the first in a new series we’re calling the FVC Notebook, in which we give readers an unfiltered look at people, events, and places throughout the region. Our FVC Notebook pieces will contain short-form observations and insight meant to be useful if and when readers follow in our footsteps.

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It’s late in the year to be welcoming the salmon back.

Temperatures are pushing past the 30 C mark outside the Semá:th First Nation longhouse. And inside the building where many have assembled, it’s warm too—though the heat is mitigated by large fans circulating air, and ice cold water distributed at the entrance.

Despite the heat, a healthy crowd has gathered on this mid-August day for a sacred event: Semá:th First Nation’s annual salmon ceremony.

The ceremony is usually held in April, but a lack of fish has delayed it. Nevertheless, the salmon have returned, and so has a sacred event that harkens back beyond memory, but which has new life—and a new purpose—in the 21st Century.

The large longhouse isn’t full, but several dozen people have arrived and taken their seats by the time I enter. Dozens more will follow before the ceremony starts.

The ceremony is sacred, but the dress code for those witnessing the event is best described as practical (for a reporter, the ideal dress code).

The longhouse, like many in the valley, is long and rectangular, with several rows of bleachers/benches that provide seating. In the centre, there are two large chimneys and a smoker. Adjacent to each chimney are carved house posts.

At the top of the bleachers, long racing canoes rest near art pieces and carved masks. Vents and open doors are letting air flow through the building. But it doesn’t have windows and lighting is relatively subdued.

On this day, the centre of the building is occupied by foldable tables on which food has been arranged for the buffet-style meal that will follow the ceremony.

Many visitors have been invited. They include Abbotsford Mayor Ross Siemens, Mission Mayor Paul Horn, at least one local school trustee, police officers, and local forestry and fishery representatives, among others.

The longhouse’s seating is roughly divided in half by the chimneys and a divider, and the attendees are all arranged in one end of the rectangular building.

Shortly after the appointed time, the proceedings begin. Two men stand at the centre of the longhouse. One is Semá:th Chief Dalton Silver, the other—the one who will do the bulk of the speaking—is Mark Point, the chief of Skowkale First Nation and a lifelong educator who has sat on a variety of boards and committees, including as chair of the Indigenization committee for the University of the Fraser Valley.

It is customary for a community to invite a member of a neighbouring village to act as speaker, Silver later explains.

Historically, different families would hold their own ceremonies celebrating the arrival of salmon in spring. In 2023, though, a lack of fish and legal openings for catching them have delayed the arrival of salmon. And while Semá:th is holding a community-wide ceremony in late August, the stifling heat has meant some elders are not able to attend.

Nevertheless, the salmon is here.

Silver and Point welcome the audience, and Silver identifies three men and a woman who will speak later and, as Point says, “put truth on the floor.”

As Silver approaches each future speaker, he quietly speaks to each and hands them coins as a token of appreciation. They include both Semá:th members along with members from other communities—including Stó:lō Tribal Council President Tyrone McNeil.

Point talks about the sacred importance of a ceremony, the origins of which go back beyond memory. He also talks about the ceremony’s ability to bring people together and educate visitors.

The sound of drums begins to ring out. Everyone stands.

A short procession, anchored by two men playing drums, enter the longhouse. Within this short procession, four women carry a large tray on which a prepared salmon is laid out.

After the salmon arrives at its destination—a table in the centre of the longhouse—small chunks are placed in cups and distributed to the audience. This is the ceremonial fish.

As this salmon is being parcelled out and delivered, the audience listens to speakers. They are also told to collect any bones and skin and place them back in the cups. The collection of the remains is vital; after the ceremony, the skin and bones are returned to the river, symbolizing the give and take between people, salmon, and the river.

“It’s putting back in recognition of the salmon and where they come from and an acknowledgment and thanks to say ‘We don’t forget, we remember,’” Silver will tell me later. The salmon, he says, “have looked after us for who knows how long…and in turn we’re supposed to look after them as well.”

Many coastal nations and communities have stories related to the interaction between the “salmon people” with the humans that depend on them for sustenance.

Many participants in the ceremony wear formal attire and blankets draped on their shoulders. Canadian currency is pinned to the blankets. That money is a visible and important token of appreciation, Silver tells me later, not just for their participation in the ceremony, but for the work they do for the family.

As the ceremonial fish is eaten, the audience hears about the importance and legacy of the ceremony.

Speakers welcome visitors, including Abbotsford’s “non-native chief” (Mayor Ross Siemens); talk about the historic importance of salmon as currency; share about the “salmon people,” a spiritual concept related to the origins and spirits of the salmon; and ruminate on the health effects of the salmon and the importance of acclimatizing children to eating fish.

After the conclusion of speeches, it is time to enjoy the meal: a buffet, featuring salmon, of course, plus salad, rice, and buns.

Elders line up first, then visitors, then the public. (The locals sitting behind this reporter and two other visitors encouraged us to get in line so they could then eat.)

Food is assembled on plates and everyone digs in. Conversation rings out in the longhouse, stopped only, midway through, when an invited drummer shares a song.

The meal ends in handshakes and goodbyes.

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A week later, I speak to Silver to confirm details about the ceremony. He tells me about its roots, and its modern evolution.

“The ceremony used to be a very private ceremony that was done by families—usually individual families—around March [when] we’ve caught some of the first spring salmon for the year.”

The ceremonies were revived in the late 80s or early 90s on a larger scale.

Today, First Nations like Sema:th are pushing for more opportunities to catch fish in the spring so they can hold their ceremonies at the appropriate times, Silver said.

He told me that he hopes that sharing the ceremony with visitors can help foster understanding and better relationships that can help pave the way for work between First Nations and other levels of government. Hence the invites that went out to local officials—and media—two weeks prior.”

“It’s to do with our history that’s being brought out now. I have mentioned this with different levels of government and even religious groups. Over the years, with a couple centuries of settlement in the area, we never, ever really took the time to get to know one another. Now we’re sharing.

“I think a lot of sharing goes along with what government people are talking about: reconciliation. And a part of our history that people never knew. I don’t know if they’ll ever fully understand, but it’s a part of just getting to know each other. There were other government representatives there and it’s a bit of sharing. Just to know one another a little better. If we know people a little better, then I think that will pave the way for working together in the future.”