The Who and Why of Dismantling It
Indigenous coastal communities spent decades mastering finfish aquaculture. Now political decisions threaten to erase one of Canada’s most successful Indigenous‑led industries.
For forty years, the finfish farms along the British Columbia coast have been more than an industry. They have been a declaration — a quiet, stubborn assertion by coastal First Nations that economic independence is not a slogan, but a craft. The Coalition of First Nations for Finfish Stewardship, made up primarily of Indigenous communities who chose to invest in salmon aquaculture, represents one of the most sustained and successful Indigenous‑led economic projects in modern Canadian history. And yet, in 2026, the industry stands on the edge of extinction, not because it failed, but because it succeeded in ways that no longer fit the political fashion of the day.
The Chiefs and leaders who built this sector never described it as a “business opportunity.” They described it as a labour of love. They talked about the work the way fishermen talk about tides — with a mixture of reverence and realism. Chief Percy Starr, Les Neasloss, and the other pioneers of west‑coast salmon farming didn’t stumble into the industry. They engineered it. They learned the biology, the logistics, the global markets, the regulatory labyrinth, and the unforgiving mathematics of raising fish at scale. They built hatcheries, processing plants, and marine operations on some of the longest and most remote coastline on Earth. They trained their youth, employed their families, and created a revenue stream that didn’t depend on the boom‑and‑bust cycles that have haunted Indigenous economies for generations.
And they did it at a world‑class level. Not metaphorically — literally. Their operations were studied internationally. Their fish were exported globally. Their communities became case studies in what Indigenous‑led development could look like when governments stepped aside long enough for Nations to steer their own economic destiny.
That is what makes the current moment so bitter. The industry has not collapsed under its own weight. It has not been out‑competed. It has not been rejected by the Nations who own it. It has been politically constricted — squeezed by federal decisions that have reduced production, cancelled licences, and created an atmosphere of uncertainty that no long‑term industry can survive.
The result is a slow, deliberate suffocation of an Indigenous success story.
Isaac Robinson of Klemtu inherits the business legacy left by his forefathers, indeed, his ancestors, and men like Robinson have been speaking out because they understand what is at stake. Robinson is not talking about abstract policy. He is talking about jobs, training programs, food security, and the ability of a Nation to stand on its own economic legs. He is talking about the infrastructure that salmon farming paid for — docks, boats, housing, community facilities, and the kind of stable employment that keeps young people rooted in their home territories instead of drifting south in search of work.
For many Nations, B.C. salmon farming was the first industry that allowed them to reverse the long‑term pattern of economic dependency. It was the first time they could say: We built this. We run this. We benefit from this. And now, after decades of investment, the rug is being pulled out from under them.
Critics of the industry often speak as though First Nations are passive recipients of aquaculture — as though the farms were imposed on them rather than chosen by them. But the record is clear: these Nations negotiated agreements, conducted their own environmental assessments, and made their own decisions. They weighed the risks and the rewards. They chose aquaculture because it offered something rare: a renewable, scalable, year‑round economic engine that aligned with their marine identity.
To erase that choice is to erase their agency.
The irony is that Canada spends billions of dollars on reconciliation rhetoric, economic development programs, and “capacity building,” yet here is a sector where Indigenous capacity is already built — and the federal government is actively dismantling it. The message this sends is not subtle: Indigenous autonomy is celebrated only when it aligns with federal political priorities. When it doesn’t, it becomes expendable.
The Coalition of First Nations for Finfish Stewardship is not asking for special treatment. They are asking for the right to continue the work they have been doing for four decades — work that has fed families, strengthened communities, and proven that Indigenous‑led industry can thrive on the global stage.
If this industry disappears, it will not be because it failed. It will be because it succeeded in a way that made it politically inconvenient.
And that is the real tragedy.
Because on the west coast, where the mountains fall straight into the sea and the villages cling to the shoreline like memory itself, the people who built this industry are not asking for sympathy. They are asking for respect — the respect of being allowed to continue the work they started, the work they mastered, the work that has become part of their identity.
They earned that right. They earned it the old fashioned way. With years of hard work and dedication to detail.
Prepared for McColl Magazine Daily by Mack McColl assisted by Co-Pilot
