Indigenous Students Share Struggles of Leaving Home for Education

The narrative of Indigenous students transitioning to formal education often reveals profound challenges. For many, like Susan Aglukark, the journey to secure a high school diploma meant leaving behind their families and communities. Aglukark’s experience at Akaitcho Hall in Yellowknife during the 1980s highlights the emotional and psychological toll of this transition.

Upon arriving at Akaitcho Hall, Aglukark described the residence as towering and imposing. Despite the orderly arrival process, she felt a sense of “controlled confusion.” The regimented schedule—complete with set times for meals, homework, and chores—created a structured environment that contrasted sharply with her internal turmoil.

“Everybody had to keep their room clean,” Aglukark recalled. This organization included shared responsibilities, such as cleaning common areas and participating in kitchen duties. While this structure aimed to promote discipline, it also led to feelings of disconnection among the students. The fear of failure loomed large; a student could be sent home after three infractions, marking them as a failure in the eyes of their community.

In the absence of high schools in their home regions, Aglukark and other Indigenous students were compelled to travel significant distances to complete grades ten through twelve. The lack of local educational facilities meant that they often faced the perils of lengthy journeys, with parents required to sign release forms due to the risks involved.

Reflecting on her initial mindset upon arriving in Yellowknife, Aglukark expressed a desire to “just get through this.” Her previous experience studying in Saskatchewan had sparked a realization that her struggles were not indicative of personal failure, but rather a symptom of a flawed educational system. This perspective later inspired her to establish the Arctic Rose Foundation, aimed at redefining how Inuit engage with education.

Aglukark’s time at Akaitcho Hall was marked by the complexities of interacting with a predominantly non-Indigenous staff, which often led to feelings of inadequacy. She shared experiences of harsh treatment from certain teachers, which compounded her sense of alienation. “It only took one or two or three to do some real damage,” she noted, emphasizing the lasting impact of negative interactions.

Despite these challenges, Aglukark found solace in connecting with familiar faces. Arriving with her sister and friends from her community provided a measure of comfort during an otherwise daunting transition. However, as she progressed to grade eleven, feelings of isolation intensified. She began to seek solitude, distancing herself from peers who seemed to navigate the educational system with ease.

In her quest for refuge, Aglukark discovered a piano in the residence basement. This instrument became a vital escape, allowing her to express herself musically. “The music was so happy,” she recalled, underscoring how playing the piano helped alleviate the pressures of academic life. The act of creating music provided her with a sense of autonomy and relief that the structured environment often stifled.

The stark contrast between the flat tundra of Arviat and the wooded landscape of Yellowknife further highlighted her feelings of displacement. For Aglukark, the trees were a source of wonder, representing both the unfamiliar and the potential for exploration. She often found herself wandering the paths behind the residence, seeking solace in nature while grappling with her identity and academic challenges.

In reflecting on the broader context of her education, Aglukark highlighted the lingering effects of the residential school system. While physical abuses had ceased, the emotional scars remained. The lack of understanding regarding intergenerational trauma among educators contributed to an environment that felt unwelcoming and harsh. “They knew the history of the residential school system. Why couldn’t there have been empathy?” she questioned, calling for a more compassionate approach to education.

As Aglukark navigated her academic career, she often felt overwhelmed by a sense of inadequacy. The pressure to secure a diploma was immense, as it was seen as the key to future employment opportunities. “If I didn’t make it through this step and graduate, I would be a total failure,” she lamented.

In her writing, Aglukark sought to explore these feelings of displacement and confusion. One poignant piece, originally penned in Inuktitut, captured her search for identity and understanding amid the chaos of her experience. “Qiniqpunga—I am searching,” she wrote, expressing the deep longing for guidance and clarity.

Her story serves as a reminder of the resilience of Indigenous youth and the importance of creating educational environments that acknowledge their unique backgrounds and challenges. By sharing her experiences, Aglukark not only sheds light on the systemic issues faced by Indigenous students but also emphasizes the need for empathy and understanding in educational settings.

As discussions about the future of education for Indigenous children continue, Aglukark’s journey underscores the critical need for reforms that prioritize the well-being and identity of students. Her reflections and advocacy through the Arctic Rose Foundation aim to reshape the narrative around Indigenous education, ensuring that future generations feel seen, heard, and empowered to succeed.

This article is based on excerpts from *Kihiani: A Memoir of Healing* by Susan Aglukark and Andrea Warner, published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd in 2025.