This article appeared in the June 13, 2025 edition of The Film Comment Letter, our free weekly newsletter featuring original film criticism and writing. Sign up for the Letter here.

Alanis Obomsawin filming Richard Cardinal: Cry from a Diary of a Métis Child, 1986. Courtesy of the National Film Board of Canada and the artist.

At 92 years old, Alanis Obomsawin remains one of the most influential figures in Canadian documentary filmmaking and Indigenous advocacy. Over her decades-long career, she has directed more than 65 films, many of them garnering international recognition and awards. Her work as a singer and songwriter, through which she first became widely known in the 1960s, is hugely influential, as is her visual art, which includes engravings and prints. Together, her works reveal a world where memory and dreams evoke the spirit of animals and humans in the context of historical events. Alanis’s strength resides in her deep compassion, empathy, and commitment to listening to the voices of those who are often unheard. Her work reflects a heartfelt dedication to preserving Indigenous culture and advocating for marginalized people, inspired by her own experiences and values of authenticity and kindness.

I was 12 years old when I first came across Alanis’s work at a film festival in Douarnenez—my father’s village in Brittany, France—where the filmmaker was presenting Kanehsatake: 270 years of Resistance (1993). It struck me that I had to cross the Atlantic Ocean to see Indigenous people on screen for the very first time. That experience made me want to use a camera to tell stories and to contribute positively to the world around me. How do we allow others to see us? How can we challenge dominant narratives and create new possibilities for social justice and equality? How can we reclaim space to fight assimilation and cultural erasure? I’ve felt incredibly honored and grateful to have crossed paths with Alanis over the years. She has taught me many things, and not only through her films; simply by sharing her time, showing the importance of listening to Indigenous peoples, of being generous and caring, and of being honest and asking permission of no one, she has enabled artists and filmmakers like me to be able to do the work we do today.

I spoke with Obomsawin at her legendary office at the National Film Board of Canada in Montreal this past April. With a major retrospective of her work, Alanis Obomsawin: The Children Have to Hear Another Story, on view at MoMA PS1 in New York City through August 25, it was the perfect time to look back on her remarkable life and career. We discussed how she came to cinema via music and activism, the relationship between politics and art, and the incredible resilience of Indigenous women. She generously opened her door to share stories with me.

How did you get into being an artist, a filmmaker, and a singer?

I never even thought of it that way. As a child, I was always singing and rocking in my language. And then, when I left the reserve and I went to school in Three Rivers [Quebec], it was the worst time of my life. It was very, very bad. I got beaten up a lot. Eventually, I started figuring out why the children hated me so much. I realized that every time the teacher took out the book about the history of Canada, I knew I was going to get beaten up that day.

I saw and heard what was written about us, which was really horrifying—I was a savage, and that was it. And it’s from there I realized—when my father died, I was 12, so maybe around that time—that if the children hate me so much it’s because of what they’re taught. I thought if the children could hear a different story, they wouldn’t feel like that. I was a storyteller, even as a child.

Eventually, I started with the Scouts, telling stories and traveling with them. They’re taught such beautiful things, the Scouts. And then eventually, as an adult, I started to be asked to go to classrooms. This was paradise for me. So I went to many schools. I did hundreds of schools, mainly in Canada. I did some in the States. Also in Europe.

What exactly were you doing in the schools? Singing?

Singing and telling stories. I wasn’t having trouble because I was with children all the time. The first time I sang on a public stage was in New York in 1960. It became part of me. I was feeling like that’s what I had to do in life.

Later on, maybe in 1963, I was in Odanak [Quebec] showing a game to the children, and two young girls, like 8 and 9 years old, came crying. I said, “What’s wrong?” And they said, “We went swimming in Pierreville, and they said, ‘No savages here.’” I remember being very angry and thinking: I should tell on them, they’re real racists. And then another mind was saying no. So I told the children, “Ah, forget it. We’ll get our own swimming pool.” So you say that to children, and the next day they say, “Where’s the pool?”

Of course.

So eventually I went to the chief and councilors and asked their permission to do a campaign. And I did a campaign to build a swimming pool for our children. It took me a long time. I thought it was going to be easy, but that’s not the case. It finally was built in 1965.

And it was really a special thing for us, you know, to have our own pool. An independent filmmaker named Ron Kelly made a film about my campaign and the opening of the pool for CBC. It was shown on a program called Telescope, which, at that time, was an important program. People at the National Film Board of Canada saw it, and said, “We want you to do what you do in school, but for directors and producers here.” Which I did. It was easy for me.

So you would say that even before making films, you had this will to change things?

Oh, yeah. Of course. That was the main thing.

And it still is the main reason?

Oh, yeah. I haven’t changed. I’m still the same old lady [laughs].

Is that why you titled the exhibition The Children Have to Hear Another Story?

Yeah. Many articles were made about me while I was singing, and I often said this.

What kind of stories would you want the children to hear today?

I am very lucky to have lived as long as I have, because I’m 92 years old now. What I want young people to know is that, as bad it was for many generations, now everything is possible. Everything is possible with encouragement and help. I feel that Canada is really at the forefront. I travel all over the world, and I don’t see any place that recognizes our people [in the same way]—the culture, the language.

In many universities [in Canada], they’re now teaching Indigenous languages. When I was a young girl, they used to say to me, “Your language is Satan’s language.” I was put down, and it was terrible. That’s over with. I feel so great to see how welcome our people are, and how respected they are now. And there’s a space for young people in all these institutions here in Canada and there are sections in all these institutions for Indigenous people. That’s why I think it’s a great time. Isn’t that incredible?

After six decades of activism and filmmaking and art-making, are you able to have a view of what you’re leaving behind?

Well, I don’t think that way about myself. When I first began to make films, it was very difficult. It was really a man’s world at that time. I was so used to being put down because I was an Indigenous person, but it was also because I was a woman, which is frightening. It took me a while to realize that. But I managed to do what I wanted to do. It was very difficult for quite a few years. And then eventually my life changed.

Are you working on something new?

Yeah, I’ve been at it for a long time, because it has to do with the rights of our children. I can’t finish it until we decide certain things. The film that I made for children is coming out. We did an Abenaki version a few weeks ago. So we have it in French, English, and Abenaki.

Can we talk a bit about the relationship between activism and art?

I think art has a lot of power. You might look at a painting, or a drawing, and it changes your life. Just something—a spirit—and then you realize how important it is. Because it’s history. It’s there for many generations to see and to hear the real stories. Not made-up stuff, and lies and persecution. I fought so hard against that. Especially the books in the schools—thank god they’re all out. Thank god we have people in our world who write the history themselves, and artists from everywhere. It’s so rich. And now they’re recognized, and it’s wonderful.

One thing that is unique in your work is your commitment to ensuring all voices are heard. You really leave a lot of room for people to speak out.

For me, it’s sacred. Whenever I interview people, I don’t do camerawork first. I always do just sound. And it’s so sacred. I just love the people. Sometimes people will say, “Oh, it’s the first time I’ve told this story to anybody.” And so I say to them, “When you go to bed tonight, if you feel sorry you told me this story, you tell me. I will erase it.” And I will never cheat anybody.

So you keep your word?

Of course. That’s sacred. To listen, to be able to hear, is very important in filmmaking. And in other disciplines also.

What do you think makes Indigenous women particularly resilient?

Well, not everyone was raised with all those cultures, because they were [born] outside or were [living] in other places and were embarrassed of being Native. But what I find extraordinary is the strength—that even all through that, [these cultures] were kept up by some people, and that remains for so many generations trying to keep certain cultures and a way of being alive. It was almost against the law in those days. It was very bad. And the church was really taking over control of everything.

I think more and more, most women want to know if they have been adopted, and if they don’t know anything, they search for those kinds of feelings, because they didn’t get them [growing up]. And the richness is to be able to find it, whether through your own people or sometimes others, who have extraordinary background, and language, and different ways of looking at life. All those things are so important.

How does it feel for you to have a retrospective at MoMA PS1 in the United States?

I’m very happy because it’s not the recognition of just me. It’s all our people. It’s all those different stories that drove me to do things. When the exhibition was in Montreal, a lot of students came with teachers. And one day this woman came and she had a little book. And she said, “I want to give you this. These are my students, and each student wrote a poem about the exhibition.”

So one night I’m in my bed, and I start reading this. It was so moving, I could not believe it. Children are the main thing for me. I love children. Of the world. All children. And to get that feeling of students is so—it’s the best gift to me.

Caroline Monnet is a filmmaker and multidisciplinary artist of Anishinaabe and French ancestry, originally from the Outaouais region, who lives and works in Mooniyang/Montreal. Her cinematographic work has been screened at the Toronto International Film Festival, the Sundance Film Festival, and the Berlin International Film Festival, among many others.