Fort Smith, Indigenous Leadership, and Mark Carney’s Northern Roots

Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen

Publication (Outlet/Website): The Good Men Project

Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2025/05/13

Dennis Bevington is a former Member of Parliament for the Western Arctic (2006–2015) and a long-time resident and former mayor of Fort Smith, Northwest Territories. In this in-depth interview, he reflects on the complex history of Fort Smith, including its role in the residential and day school systems, the evolution of Indigenous self-governance, and the rise of the Tábatsı́cha Leadership Council—a unique collaboration among local governments. Bevington discusses the town’s transformation from a portage hub to a government and education center, highlighting housing, education, and Indigenous representation improvements. He shares insights into community tensions, historical injustices, and the value of pluralistic governance. Bevington also explores Mark Carney’s Fort Smith roots and the significance of Carney’s public reflections on his birthplace. Drawing from personal and political experience, Bevington emphasizes collaboration, critical thinking, and shared leadership as essential to building resilient northern communities in the face of ongoing challenges.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: Today, we are speaking with Dennis Bevington, a former Member of Parliament and long-time resident of Fort Smith, Northwest Territories. Dennis, what are your thoughts on how Fort Smith has been portrayed recently in major Canadian news outlets?

Dennis Bevington: Well, people in this community are undoubtedly interested that Mark Carney, now a prominent public figure and potential future political leader, was born here and lived in Fort Smith for the first six years of his life. I went to school when his father, Bob Carney, was the principal of the elementary school I attended.

I did not know Mark as a child—we had a ten-year age gap, so we did not interact. However, it is interesting. As a Member of Parliament representing the Western Arctic from 2006 to 2015, I met Mark a few times. He often expressed pride in his birthplace. Despite his high-profile roles—as Governor of the Bank of Canada and later Governor of the Bank of England—he maintained a strong identity connected to being born in the Northwest Territories.

I remember attending a significant event in Ottawa where Senator Mike Duffy, a Conservative, introduced the Members of Parliament in the room. When he got to me, he said, “Here is the second most famous person from Fort Smith, Northwest Territories.” That was back in 2008, and even then, Mark Carney’s roots here were something people noted.

In 2010, Peter Martselos, the mayor of Fort Smith at the time, invited Mark to visit. He accepted and came up—not for any financial matter, despite being the sitting Governor of the Bank of Canada at the time—but simply because it was his hometown. That visit reaffirmed his connection to Fort Smith. It is a town of about 2,500 people, located on the edge of Wood Buffalo National Park, and sits along the Slave River, which carries around 80% of the water leaving Alberta. It is a significant and mighty river.

Historically, Fort Smith developed as a portage town due to the Slave River Rapids, a 22-mile stretch of dangerous whitewater that prevented boats from travelling through directly. Anyone heading north—whether traders, explorers, or Indigenous peoples—had to portage their canoes and supplies around the rapids using overland routes. The route was physically demanding and vital for northern access, and Fort Smith grew around that transportation need.

This area has been home to Indigenous peoples for thousands of years. A friend who lives by the river found a stone knife in his garden, later identified as being between 4,000 and 7,000 years old. It is a powerful reminder of the long history of human settlement here.

Below the rapids, the river is rich in fish that migrate up from Great Slave Lake—it has always been an important fishing ground. There are still herds of wood bison in the area, which are protected within the Wood Buffalo National Park boundaries. We used to see moose and caribou pass through more frequently, though less so today.

Historically, this land was contested between different Indigenous nations. The Tłı̨chǫ (Dogrib) people once inhabited parts of this area, but they were pushed northward. Traditionally living in the forests to the south, the Cree moved into the region. The Chipewyan (Dënesųłiné) also have historical and ongoing ties to this land. These dynamics reflect the deep and complex history of the region’s Indigenous presence, trade, and conflict.

This was the western edge of the Chipewyan (Dënesųłiné) nation, which historically stretched from Hudson Bay to this region. So, it has always been a gathering point for Indigenous peoples. It was a valuable area—a natural salt source here that had likely been mined for thousands of years. People always needed salt, and this was one of the few places to get it.

This area was also significant during the fur trade. To bring furs down from the North, you had to portage around the Slave River rapids here. A community grew around that need, and until 1967, Fort Smith was expected to become the capital of the Northwest Territories. However, the Carruthers Commission, appointed under Prime Minister Lester B. Pearson’s Liberal government, placed the capital in Yellowknife instead.

At the same time, the rail line was extended north from Peace River to Hay River, shifting the leading freight and barge routes away from Fort Smith. Then in 1968, there was a catastrophic riverbank collapse. We’re sitting about 20 feet above the river here, and geologically, it’s quite interesting. The Canadian Shield emerges from beneath the Great Plains in this area. On one side of the river, it’s all soil; on the other side and across the river, it’s all rock.

The landslide in 1968 hit the town hard—it was like three strikes all at once: losing the capital designation, losing the shipping economy, and suffering a major geographic setback. However, the town has recovered, largely thanks to Indigenous communities’ continued growing presence, especially as they began asserting their rights in the early 1970s under Treaty 8.

Some remarkable Indigenous leaders emerged from Fort Smith, like François Paulette and Jerry Cheezie. They were instrumental in promoting the recognition that Indigenous people had rights to the land. In the early 1970s, Dene and Métis leaders across the Northwest Territories united to form what became known as the Dene-Métis claims. It was a collective political movement, including Métis voices alongside Dene First Nations.

Over the years, the federal government worked to dissolve that unified movement by creating separate agreements with individual First Nations throughout the territory. However, because the government initially recognized the Dene-Métis claim as a unified body, the Métis people now have a stronger legal position than perhaps the federal government anticipated or desired. Métis rights are still a sensitive and complex issue. Bureaucrats and federal departments are wary of establishing broad settlements with Métis communities because such settlements could have implications across the country.

So that’s a little thumbnail sketch of Fort Smith. Since the 1970s, we’ve developed as an education and government service center. In terms of housing and overall cost of living, Fort Smith is the least expensive community in the Northwest Territories, which makes it attractive to many people. It’s a comfortable town surrounded by beautiful forest, and it serves as the headquarters for Wood Buffalo National Park and several other institutions that keep the community alive.

I hope that the little diatribe covered some of Fort Smith’s details, though Fort Smith helped tell its own story.

Jacobsen: Looking at the imagery in mainstream Canadian media—and I say this as someone who hasn’t been to Fort Smith but has lived in small towns across Canada—it seems Canada’s most enormous divide is probably between rural and urban life. Small towns tend to share a similar feeling. They each have their character, but how people are tends to feel familiar. How have integration efforts, both formal and informal, played out in Fort Smith—between Indigenous and non-Indigenous people, and perhaps also across socioeconomic lines?

Bevington: Being an education center has made a significant difference for Indigenous people. The Indigenous population in Fort Smith—both Métis and First Nations—makes up just over 50% of the community. It’s a long-established population. Many families have lived here for generations. And as a historic portage town, the community has always been accustomed to newcomers and people coming and going. So, while it may not have that same tight-knit feel as, say, a traditional Alberta farming town, it’s open and used to change.

There are about 700 well-paying government jobs here. The Government of the Northwest Territories has long aimed to increase Indigenous representation in its workforce, and Fort Smith reflects that goal. Many Indigenous residents hold strong positions within the public service.

Some people work in the diamond mines, flying in for two-week shifts and returning home for two weeks. So, overall, the employment base is solid. That wasn’t always the case. When I was growing up, things were very different. Many Indigenous families were still closely tied to the land. Hunting and trapping were major occupations. That’s changed—it’s less central now, but still something people do to stay connected.

Back then, housing conditions were much worse. Overcrowding was a real problem in many Indigenous homes. The population of Fort Smith has stayed relatively stable, but we now have twice as many houses as we did then. That expansion in housing has been crucial to building a stronger, more equitable community. Across Canada, people now recognize how critical housing is to social development, and our housing outcomes here are pretty good.

That’s been important, but so has education. We have a college here—Aurora College—which was the first and remains the only college in the Northwest Territories. The original campus is in Fort Smith, though satellite campuses now exist in Yellowknife and Inuvik. The college has played a key role in opening up career paths for residents, particularly in natural resources and teacher education.

The most successful teacher education program for Indigenous people in the Northwest Territories was set up in Fort Smith and ran for many years. Unfortunately, over the last fifteen years, government bureaucrats have managed to dismantle much of that success.

We had many students coming from all over the North. In many small Indigenous communities—places with populations of 500 or fewer—there was a strong desire to keep children at home. But running an elementary and a high school in such small communities is a real challenge. There are not enough teachers or resources to make it sustainable. So, a lot of the work at the college involved bringing students from across the territory, including Fort Smith, up to a certain level in their education. And that, too, was successful.

When I was growing up here, we had elementary and high schools. At different points in time, there were also two residential school units. One was called Bryn Mawr Hall—though many people called it Brynnet Hall—and it was the first of the two. It operated like a traditional residential school, run by Catholic priests and nuns.

Children across the North were brought to Fort Smith, sometimes without speaking English, and placed in this residential facility. Now, Brynnet Hall does not have the same widespread reputation for abuse as some of the more notorious residential schools across Canada. It certainly was not a warm or kind place, but in retrospect, the conditions may not have been as dire as elsewhere. One possible reason is that the bishop of the Roman Catholic Diocese was based in Fort Smith, and the federal Department of Education, often staffed by people from southern Canada—many from Ottawa—had a presence here too. That combination may have led to greater oversight.

In the early 1960s, a more progressive bishop, Bishop Piché, established Grandin College. He wanted to create a higher-level residential school for academically strong Indigenous students across the Northwest Territories. They built an impressive facility—one of the finest in the North. Students were selected for their academic potential, often without much regard for whether they wanted to attend. The Church saw it as an opportunity to train future priests.

That specific aim did not pan out, but Grandin College became a successful and influential institution. It brought together bright, motivated Indigenous youth from many communities. As a teenager, I spent much time at Grandin, speaking with students full of energy, intelligence, and curiosity. They were always eager to discuss ideas, and those conversations were deeply formative for me. Being around them was one of the high points of my high school years.

You didn’t see the current health issues in those days. The Indigenous students from these communities were strong, active, and fit. They were also often outstanding athletes. They came from land-based lifestyles that built resilience.

They were tremendous in that regard. The kind of diet promoted by the Northern Store or Hudson’s Bay Company hadn’t yet reached the kids from the smaller communities. Their diets were still largely traditional, based on what their families had eaten for generations. They were healthy, strong, and naturally athletic.

In 1967, for Canada’s Centennial, the government launched the Canada Fitness Awards, which were conducted in every school nationwide. Our school had an unusually high number of gold medal athletes, more per capita than almost any other. That was primarily thanks to these young people who had grown up in traditional ways that aligned with their physiology. Looking back on it, it was remarkable how physically fit and capable they were.

At that time, Grandin College and Brynnet Hall operated side by side. There was a fundamental distinction between the two institutions, and unfortunately, that divide was often reinforced in the school system. It was not ideal, but it was the reality of the time.

Many of the prominent Indigenous leaders of my generation came out of Grandin College, including Ethel Blondin-Andrew, who later became a Member of Parliament; Stephen Kakfwi, who served as Premier of the Northwest Territories; and Jim Antoine, also a former Premier. Others returned to their communities and became chiefs or held other forms of leadership. The school produced a generation of influential Indigenous voices.

Jacobsen: Earlier, you mentioned how well-suited these students were to their environment, especially regarding health and athleticism, which are less common today. You also described the legacy of Grandin College and Brynnet Hall. That’s helpful context. Outside of the recent media coverage, has Fort Smith historically been politicized in the way it is now? You also mentioned its position on the edge of traditional territories. Was this region a political or cultural hub even before European contact?

Bevington: As far as we know, yes. As I mentioned earlier, there are artifacts in the area, like the ancient stone knife found near the river, that date back thousands of years. The rapids, the abundance of fish, and the geography made this a crucial gathering point. Fish provided a consistent and rich source of protein.

At one point, reportedly, 90,000 Chipewyan people lived across Northern Canada. In such a vast region, Indigenous peoples needed to use every available food source, and places like this, with concentrated resources, were especially valuable. That made this area strategically important.

There were indeed territorial conflicts. About 100 kilometres south of here, on the Peace River, is a place called Peace Point. It is historically significant because it was the site of battles between the Cree and Chipewyan. Eventually, the two groups signed a peace treaty at that location, ending the conflict over this region.

So yes, long before European contact, this area was already a place of meeting, negotiation, and strategic importance, as you suggested earlier. It was not just a place to mine salt or fish—it was a natural hub for the people of the North.

This isn’t limited to the current townsite—it spans a broader area. Interestingly, many Métis people moved to Fort Smith after the Riel Rebellion. Some can trace their ancestry back to those who fought with Louis Riel and later fled federal persecution by relocating far from the central provinces. That migration helped establish a substantial Métis population here.

Many were in seasonal freighting, transporting goods across the North during the summer. They were hunters and trappers, but their role in the northern supply chain was vital during the open-water season.

As I mentioned, the Church and the federal government established their headquarters in Fort Smith. Until 1968, this town was a major center of political and administrative activity in the North.

Jacobsen: The last question touched on the geographic and sociopolitical context of Fort Smith—how it evolved from a pre-contact gathering point to a modern administrative hub. Building on that, how has the perception of the federal government changed in Fort Smith over the decades? You’ve studied the history closely, and with your experience as a Member of Parliament. I imagine you’ve seen this shift firsthand.

Bevington: The most significant change in the perception of government here in Fort Smith—and across the Northwest Territories—has been the resurgence of Indigenous identity and self-determination. Indigenous people have reclaimed their place, their rights, and their ownership in ways that were unimaginable when I was a child.

In the early 1960s, Indigenous voices weren’t part of the public agenda. The town was run almost entirely by white settlers, most focused on development. The local Royal Canadian Legion was full of World War II veterans—every pro-Canada, pro-federal government. When I was growing up, Canada Day on July 1st was the biggest celebration in town. It still is important, but in those days, it was massive.

Indigenous people were treated as second-class citizens, socially and politically. That has changed dramatically over the last 30 to 40 years. Today, the two local First Nations and the Métis Nation have come together to form Tábatsı́cha, the traditional name for this area. It means “below the rapids.”

This partnership marks a decisive shift in community leadership and how the federal government is perceived. It used to be an external authority. Now, the community plays a far greater role in shaping its future through land claims, self-government agreements, and Indigenous-led governance.

The area’s name in Chipewyan is Tábatsı́cha, and from that has come the Tábatsı́cha Leadership Council. This is quite unique in the Northwest Territories and, in my view, one of the best developments to happen here in a long time. It represents Indigenous governments coming together to settle their own issues—something that did not always happen easily.

As Indigenous communities gained more power and influence, many internal divisions emerged. There was infighting, with different individuals and groups vying for leadership as rights and privileges were increasingly recognized. That caused much tension over the years within Indigenous organizations. But things are changing now.

The current form of the Tábatsı́cha Leadership Council is a strong and positive step forward. It reflects a shift toward collaboration: instead of turning inward, the four local governments—two First Nations, the Métis Nation, and the Town of Fort Smith—are working together. Each has a say in what happens here. It is a move toward shared governance, and I believe it serves as a model for other communities navigating the rise of strong Indigenous governments. To succeed, governments must share power and be willing to share it.

Jacobsen: What is the current style of tension between the governments in that sense? And what are culturally appropriate ways in which conflict tends to be resolved?

Bevington: I can give you some examples from my time as mayor. I served from 1988 to 1997. During that period, Indigenous organizations were still finding their footing. Initially, there was only one band, but over time, it split into two—one representing primarily Cree people and the other representing Dene (Chipewyan) people. That split along cultural and linguistic lines has since become firmly entrenched.

For a long time after that, there was very little cooperation between the two First Nations bands. Meanwhile, the Métis Nation also grew in political stature. There’s also a significant Métis population here, but they tended to operate independently. That said, they were more integrated with the municipal government. When I was mayor, several Métis individuals served on the town council.

One of the most important things we did early in my tenure was to declare four official languages in Fort Smith: Cree, Chipewyan, French, and English. You might have seen the stop signs around town—they are written in all four languages. That declaration was made in 1993, and it sent a clear message that all four linguistic and cultural groups had a place here.

Historically, the presence of the Catholic mission and the bishopric contributed to a strong French influence in Fort Smith. The Métis community also used a French-based colloquial language, so French was a natural inclusion. And there are interesting linguistic overlaps. For example, many First Nations languages, including Dene, traditionally had no specific word for “thank you.” Today, people commonly use the word marsi, derived from the French merci. It reflects a kind of cultural blending that’s part of our local identity.

The four-language policy was a meaningful step toward cultural recognition and inclusion. It worked well because it acknowledged the reality of who lives here and what languages are spoken. It helped build respect.

There was a period when the federal government pushed hard to create reserves, which divided the community. It was a difficult time, but we’ve moved past that now.

Today, the Indigenous governments in this region are well-established, and they are returning to a more collaborative approach with each other, with the Métis Nation, and with the Town of Fort Smith. The fact that the town now shares decision-making on infrastructure and other issues with the three other governments is remarkable in a Canadian context.

It is a genuinely helpful and hopeful development, and I’m proud to see it take root here. Interestingly, I now see that Inuvik, another community in the Northwest Territories, is considering a similar approach. Inuvik reminds me of Fort Smith in some ways. It is home to both Inuvialuit and Gwich’in peoples, with some Métis presence, and about half the population is non-Indigenous.

Inuvik has long experienced tension between First Nations and Inuit communities, and I’m happy to see them starting to think about shared governance. It is essential. These Indigenous governments are growing stronger. They have resources and the ability to act—but in small communities, you cannot afford to operate in four separate silos. You need integration. You need collaboration.

There are a few examples elsewhere of communities trying to do this. Duncan, B.C., comes to mind as an example of some level of government cooperation. There are others in southern Canada, though none immediately stand out.

Jacobsen: What are the challenges of managing that kind of plurality? There is strength in inclusive representation—of language, culture, and leadership—but are there difficulties regarding decision-making, differing governance styles, or visions for the future? Did your experience as mayor shed light on this?

Bevington: Absolutely. I remember one particular challenge. We had been working for several years to develop a community recreation center. We had the design, the land, and I’d secured enough funding to move forward. Then, at the final stage, the chief of the combined band raised objections.

He said the band should receive a share of the funding to pursue its goals. It was a tough moment. We used the money to build a central recreation facility for the whole community, or we split it and risked not having enough to do anything meaningful. I wanted to share, of course, but if I had divided the funds, the project would have collapsed.

That was one of those moments when you had to make a difficult leadership decision. We held a referendum, and the community supported the project by 70%. So we went ahead and built the facility. Today, it is well-used by everyone in the community—Indigenous and non-Indigenous.

It’s a large, 43,000-square-foot building. We built it for just over $4 million, which would cost about $40 million to replace today. It was a considerable achievement, and it was built entirely by local people, with an architect who worked closely and respectfully with the community. It stands as a great example of what we can do together, even when the path is difficult.

He was a good guy and very accommodating. He understood what we needed to do to get the project done. We also had a local project manager who was just starting and wanted to establish his reputation in the community. He did a fantastic job and landed many of the big building contracts in Fort Smith. That recreation center project launched his career.

We built the recreation facility at an incredibly low cost. I chaired the construction committee, so I know exactly how we did it. Much of it was due to community involvement—local people ensured the work got done well.

Nobody lost money on the project, but nobody made a fortune. It was a great project—one that brought the town together.

Here’s another example. One time, I secured half a million dollars in community development funding. A Métis contact said, “We don’t have a proper office building. We need support too.” I made a deal with them—we allocated a third of the money to the Métis, and they used it to build their office.

That was early on, before we had formalized shared planning. I went in front of the town council and explained the plan. A couple of Métis councillors were at the table, so it passed without much resistance. Since then, they’ve built other office buildings and continued doing well.

However, under a traditional town model, that funding would have been viewed strictly as “municipal money”—to be used as the town saw fit. Instead, we began building a sharing model, and that’s become essential. Without Indigenous support, you cannot get much done anymore. Their governments have become more powerful, knowledgeable, and engaged in community affairs. So, relationships and mutual respect are crucial.

Jacobsen: That brings us closer to the core of today’s interview, specifically, the Carney family’s history in Fort Smith and the implications of recent political developments. We now have Mark Carney, born in Fort Smith, as the Leader of the Liberal Party of Canada, not merely interim but officially elected.

As we begin this portion of the conversation, I want to acknowledge that for some, these topics remain sensitive, mainly when we discuss education systems imposed on Indigenous people. But I appreciate your openness and want to treat this subject accurately and carefully.

Two important concepts are discussed here: the federal day schools and the more widely known residential school system. Both played roles in Canadian history, but how were they distinct in Fort Smith?

Bevington: The residential school system was a terrible chapter in Canadian history. It was both a bureaucratic and religious effort to forcibly assimilate Indigenous peoples into Euro-Canadian culture. And yes, it happened here in Fort Smith.

As I mentioned earlier, Brynnet Hall was the local residential school. However, Fort Smith also had a day school system alongside it. From the 1880s onward, this community had a significant population of non-Indigenous families living and working here, many with their children. So there was always a dual track of education, which I imagine was similar in other parts of Canada, too.

That’s why we saw these hybrid versions of the residential school model in Fort Smith. Fort Smith was probably one of the few places with a somewhat distinct arrangement in the Northwest Territories. For example, Yellowknife, which had a large residential school in the 1950s and ’60s, didn’t have that hybrid structure. Yellowknife didn’t become much of a settlement until later—it wasn’t established at the turn of the 20th century.

Fort Simpson had a residential school but lacked a significant non-Indigenous population. The same was true in Aklavik, the main settlement in the Mackenzie Delta region on the Arctic coast, before Inuvik was created in the 1950s. Inuvik later had a residential school with a very negative reputation, as did the schools in Fort Simpson and Fort Resolution. Fort Chipewyan also faced its challenges.

There were residential schools throughout the North, but Fort Smith was unique because it had a larger white population from early on. That made it different—not better, just different—and carried through the decades. When I went to school here, it was during what I call the Robert Carney era.

Carney came from southern Canada to serve as the school principal in Fort Smith. He later moved to Yellowknife when it became the capital and rose to a senior role in the Department of Education. He entered the system when there was more oversight in Fort Smith than in many other northern communities, at least over conduct in the residential schools. But it was still a residential school system, and Indigenous children here were affected just the same.

What was particularly troubling was that, even though we had a well-established and relatively high-quality public school in Fort Smith—arguably the best in the Northwest Territories at the time—Indigenous children were often sent away to residential schools in other places, especially to Yellowknife in the 1950s. Many kids I grew up with—kids I played Little League baseball with and saw around town—weren’t part of our school population. They were removed from the community for education elsewhere.

The psychological and emotional impact of that was as damaging here as anywhere else. When you attend a residential school as a child from what white society regarded as a “secondary” population, you’re not treated with dignity. You’re not valued. These were not warm or welcoming places for most Indigenous students.

I remember one boy, Henry Boulio, who had come from Yellowknife. We’ve been friends for many years. One day, at school lunch, I had this oversized lunch my mother packed—she always thought I was starving—and I shared some with him. Years later, he said, “You didn’t make a fuss. You just gave me food. You didn’t act like you were above me.”

He said that felt natural, like how Indigenous people share quietly, respectfully, without expectation or performance. It made an impression. In many First Nations languages, there’s no direct word for “thank you.” Gratitude is expressed through collective action, not formalities. That cultural framework is essential for people to understand—it reflects a different way of being, rooted in mutual responsibility, not transactional exchange.

So yes, Robert Carney was part of that system. He was a strong Catholic and wouldn’t have openly gone against the Church. But he was also well-educated, in the Canadian sense of that era. From what I could see, he was pretty liberal for the time.

His whole background was with the Liberal Party, so I imagine he aligned with Trudeau’s government and others who, at the time, promoted assimilation policies. He was in a position—running a school—where he could see what was going on, but the environment may have shaped how he interpreted it.

Fort Smith had one of the “better” examples of a residential school. That may have clouded his understanding of how damaging the broader system was. Because of the local context, he may have thought, “Well, this isn’t so bad,” and carried that view forward. From what I’ve heard, he became a defender of the system, suggesting it was not entirely harmful, which, of course, ignored the devastating reality in many other communities.

People are essentially products of their environments, especially when new to a place. You don’t always have the depth of knowledge needed to assess what’s happening around you critically. I do not think he was a strong critic of the system. Instead, he seemed to think it was helping, at least in his immediate surroundings.

That was the general atmosphere in the early 1960s. Fort Smith was still a white-dominated community, populated by individuals who held authority across the North. The RCMP inspector was based here, and many federal departments had northern offices. It was also the political base where the Liberal Party brought Bud Orange, grooming him to become the local Member of Parliament. He was elected in 1968, during the first Trudeau era.

That was the setting Mark Carney’s father entered into. He likely was not one to rock the boat too much. However, a critical development during his early years here was that the nuns stopped teaching at the local school.

I had a nun as a Grade One teacher. She was kind, but unusual—she was not there because education was her passion. Her role as a nun shaped her identity, creating a distance between her and the students. Over time, the staffing changed dramatically.

We began to have teachers from all over the world. I had an impressive teacher from Kenya and a white woman from South Africa who was outspokenly anti-apartheid. One couple came directly from Israel and taught at the school. We had a physical education teacher from Australia who was a firm believer in corporal punishment—a harsh approach, even for those days.

The teacher population here was quite diverse, and that was reflective of the North more generally. People often came up here out of a sense of adventure or to contribute to something meaningful. The man from Israel, for example, was remarkable at building school spirit. Around 1968, he organized an “Olympiata”—an Olympic-style event where the whole school was divided into three teams, and every child was involved.

The “Olympiata” lasted about a week and included various activities. It was an integrated event, and it was genuinely suitable for everyone. There wasn’t a sense of division, especially by that time. When Grandin College opened, the school’s integration level improved significantly. Those students were competent, top of their class, and often the best athletes. They naturally emerged as leaders, and that had a positive impact on the broader school community.

Jacobsen: Was there much discussion in the town during your time about Robert Carney, Mark Carney’s father?

Bevington: Not really. People here are mostly just pleased that we now have a prime minister who was born in Fort Smith and acknowledges that fact publicly. That’s something the community takes pride in.

We’ve always had strong federal connections here. Wood Buffalo National Park, for example, takes up most of the land surrounding Fort Smith. In terms of funding, about 80% of the Northwest Territories’ budget comes from the federal government. So, the relationship with Ottawa has always been essential.

Our current MP was previously the mayor of Yellowknife. Now that we have a prime minister from Fort Smith, it creates a regional balance, which many here appreciate. There’s a familiar feeling in Fort Smith that Yellowknife has become something of a black hole, drawing in resources, attention, and authority from the rest of the territory.

One of those developments is the recent push to turn the college into Polytechnic University NWT, centred in Yellowknife. People here are worried it may undermine the Fort Smith campus rather than support it.

We’ve relied on federal support for much of the town’s modern history, so people are quite aware of political dynamics and how they shape life in the North. No one here wants to see the Northwest Territories become like Yukon, where Whitehorse is growing rapidly while other communities shrink. Our region has multiple strong communities spread across a vast area, and we want to maintain that decentralization. Centralizing everything into one central hub would hurt communities like Fort Smith.

So yes, politics are deeply relevant here. But Fort Smith has strengths—a strong Indigenous presence, a well-integrated community, lower cost of living, relatively attractive weather by northern standards, and a legacy of resilience. Our goal is not necessarily growth, but stability. Just maintaining our population and services is a significant challenge, as it is in small communities across Canada. Urbanization has dominated the national story for decades, leaving many rural areas behind.

Jacobsen: Shifting back to the current Prime Minister, Mark Carney, what can be said about his reflections over time on Fort Smith? I’m less interested in the historical controversies or federal policy and more focused on his connection—any public statements he has made about the town, his father’s role as an educator here, or the meaning of Fort Smith in his life. What has he conveyed, either past or present?

Bevington: Almost every time he speaks publicly, he finds a way to mention Fort Smith. During the election debates, he brought it up. Even when he appeared on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart in the U.S., he mentioned it.

He speaks with genuine warmth about Fort Smith. It’s not just a footnote in his biography—it seems part of his identity. He acknowledges it as where he spent his early childhood, and his father worked as an educator. I think that connection has given people here a sense of pride and visibility, and that matters in a small, often-overlooked community like ours.

He mentions Fort Smith often, repeatedly, and it’s clear that he sees it as part of his identity. There’s no question he feels a personal connection. When I was in Ottawa and he was Governor of the Bank of Canada, he knew I was from Fort Smith, which made him more interested in talking to me. It was something we shared, and it mattered to him.

It’s part of Mark Carney’s psychological makeup. He wants to belong to Fort Smith and claim that as part of his identity. He also has ties to Edmonton, where he played hockey in high school. But he does not talk about Edmonton nearly as often. Fort Smith comes up more. Edmonton may be his secondary hometown, but Fort Smith seems primary in how he frames his identity.

Will he act on that? I hope so. I hope he will think about small communities across Canada and how they can thrive. The urban concentration in this country is creating real challenges, especially for young people. Housing is unaffordable. The job market is precarious. Life in cities is becoming more chaotic.

My son lives in Edmonton. He’s an engineer. He has to drive over 30 minutes each way to work, and if he needs to take his kids anywhere, it takes up even more of his time. Transportation and logistics consume his life.

Here in Fort Smith, you never drive more than five minutes. You can walk almost anywhere. Time belongs to you. In cities, time is absorbed by external demands. So I hope Carney keeps that in mind—that small towns are suitable for people in many ways. We should support small-town development, not just fuel urban sprawl.

We’ll see what comes of that. He’s a wise man. I’ve been very impressed by his partner as well. She’s bright, deeply educated, and someone who provides firm support. That matters.

In Parliament, I saw examples of that kind of partnership dynamic. Jack Layton and Olivia Chow come to mind—a strong couple, politically and personally. But it did not matter what the relationship looked like—whether it was man and woman, man and man, or woman and woman. Having someone strong beside you, a touchstone who can help you think through complex issues, is immensely valuable. And I hope it plays out well for him.

I have hope for Mr. Carney, and I was glad he ended up with a minority government. I learned from my time in Parliament that minority governments often produce better leadership.

I watched Stephen Harper in a minority; he had to pay attention to Parliament and engage with what was happening. But once he got a majority, Parliament no longer mattered to him—it became an obstacle. And that, I think, ultimately contributed to his downfall.

Trudeau faced a similar issue when he won a significant majority in 2015. He became too powerful, too fast. In most governments, both Liberals and Conservatives tend to rely heavily on lobbyists—the people behind the scenes pulling strings. However, in a minority government, you must pay attention to Parliament, which protects against some of those private influences.

So, there you go—that’s my little political rant.

Jacobsen: How do lobbyists “pull strings” in a practical sense? What does that look like, realistically?

Bevington: Let’s say the government plans to move in one direction or another. Strong corporate interests will pay close attention to companies with much at stake. Then, you have organized lobby groups representing particular sectors of society, from energy to agriculture to telecom. These groups are well-resourced, connected, and persistent.

Meanwhile, Members of Parliament are elected to represent their constituents. But those constituents do not carry the same weight as Imperial Oil. Constituents cannot have 200 meetings with the prime minister or top ministers in a single parliamentary session, but lobbyists can. That’s the difference.

Over time, the Prime Minister and Cabinet become insulated from the MPS and more influenced by lobbyists. They hear from them more frequently, and lobbyists know how to speak the language of influence. That weakens the democratic process because it shifts power away from the elected members and toward unaccountable private interests.

But when a Prime Minister leads a minority government, that dynamic changes. The Prime Minister becomes the only person who can build consensus and negotiate with other parties to pass legislation. Lobbyists can’t do that. Only they can pull those levers.

So paradoxically, a minority government can make the Prime Minister stronger, not weaker, because it forces them to engage with Parliament, explain themselves, and build alliances. That restores balance to the system.

I’ll admit, my argument needs refining, but my experience in Parliament bears this out. Take Mike Pearson, for example. He led minority governments, and those were very effective governments. He got things done because he had to collaborate, not dictate.

The first Pierre Trudeau came in with a massive majority in 1968. By 1972, he’d become the least-liked man in the country. But when he returned with a minority government, working alongside David Lewis and others in Parliament, he rebounded. That forced collaboration resulted in some truly great policies.

Then, in 1975, Trudeau won a majority again, and things fell apart. The pattern is there. Majority governments often slide into arrogance, while minority governments tend to function better, more democratically and accountable.

Fortunately, Mark Carney begins with a minority government. That means he’ll be the most important person in his party, and Parliament will matter to him. He must justify his decisions, negotiate with others, and earn the support to get things passed.

That gives him power—not in the unchecked, top-down sense—but in the absolute leadership sense. When you have to explain yourself, you grow stronger. When you don’t have to explain yourself to anyone, you grow weaker, even if it feels like power.

That’s precisely what happened with Stephen Harper. When he led a minority, he was focused, sharp, and engaged. When he got a majority, he no longer needed to engage, and it eroded his leadership. That shift ultimately contributed to his defeat.

Jacobsen: So, from that pattern, is there a “healthiest pathway”? Should someone be elected with a minority and then grow into a majority? Or does the majority itself always tend to weaken accountability?

Bevington: If someone becomes aware, really aware, of the structures around them, that’s the first step toward being effective. Awareness is a step toward success. In any walk of life, many people live their daily lives. They go to work, they get things done, but they don’t necessarily have the time or training to analyze why things are the way they are.

Do they have the critical thinking skills to ask the right questions? That’s a deeper issue. When I was at university, I took a minor in philosophy; to this day, it was the most valuable part of my education. It helped me understand motivation, intent, and structures of power. That foundation has served me throughout my life. But I’m digressing a bit here.

Jacobsen: Earlier, you mentioned how many of the brightest Indigenous youth were brought to Fort Smith, sometimes regardless of their wishes. What else stood out about the school environment at that time? For instance, was corporal punishment practiced differently? Were there patterns in how discipline was administered?

Bevington: I was always a bit of a rebel, so yes—I got my share of corporal punishment. Usually, for challenging authority in some way. It might have been something small, like talking in class, but that was enough. I remember one instance in high school: the Australian phys ed teacher made me bend over the desk at the front of the class and hit me with a stick for talking to a girl during a lesson. I sat back down—and kept talking—so I got called up again and walloped a second time.

It was very much part of life back then. I don’t think it was effective—not on me or others. Indigenous kids, in particular, were extremely stoic when it came to punishment. They didn’t show emotion, and they didn’t react. But that’s not to say it was right. It was a destructive practice—one I’m glad is no longer accepted.

Sometimes, people complain today about “discipline in schools” and say, “We should get back to the old ways.” But no—we should not. Corporal punishment doesn’t work. It’s not educational, and it doesn’t foster respect.

Jacobsen: What about slurs or verbal abuse? Were there racial or cultural tensions between students and educators?

Bevington: Yes, that was there. One of the less-talked-about dynamics was the conflict between Métis and First Nations kids. That was the primary source of tension in our community. Both groups were tough, raised in challenging circumstances, and saw each other as competitors—whether for respect, resources, or recognition.

By contrast, the non-Indigenous kids weren’t really in the same competition. Many came from different backgrounds and weren’t seen as direct rivals. So the friction existed within the Indigenous and Métis populations, not so much between them and the white students.

I used to say that Métis kids had the unique ability to be prejudiced toward both groups, meaning they sometimes took a middle-ground identity that gave them license to push against both white and Indigenous peers. It created a complicated social hierarchy, and those dynamics played out in classrooms, on playgrounds, and throughout the community.

That might not be entirely fair to say, but it’s undoubtedly an observation others have made. Growing up, white kids didn’t usually make overtly racist jokes or direct insults—at least not confrontationally. If there was discrimination, it tended to come in more subtle forms, like exclusion.

For example, if one of my sisters had a friendship or even a relationship with an Indigenous kid, my mother might raise an eyebrow. It wasn’t an open scandal or anything, but there was quiet disapproval. Still, because the population balance between white, Métis, and Dene people was relatively even, those biases often stayed beneath the surface.

However, the tension was more visible between the Métis and Dene communities. There were fights, and at times even gang fights in the community, especially among the youth. Those groups were interconnected through family ties, including intermarriage, which meant their conflicts had personal and cultural dimensions.

By contrast, the white kids tended to keep to themselves. The town was somewhat segregated, with different areas clearly occupied by other groups. I was in a unique situation—my family lived on the airport compound, which was much more multi-ethnic. Many Indigenous and Métis people worked for the Department of Transport, so the social model I grew up with resembles more closely what the community looks like today, more integrated.

Jacobsen: Let’s begin to close. Just five more minutes. What is the big lesson from all of this? From the experiences of educators and pupils, from the tensions between Métis and First Nations, white and Métis, white and First Nations, the hierarchies in the community and the laity, and between the Government of Canada and the community. How does all of that evolve into this current moment, where the Prime Minister of Canada often reflects publicly on Fort Smith? How should that be understood?

Bevington: It’s been good for him to have had that early connection to Fort Smith. As I’ve said, our community was one where you couldn’t ignore the realities around you. You had to recognize them, live with them, and learn from them.

His father, Robert Carney, was part of the residential school system, not as an abuser, but as a school principal within that structure. That alone gives Mark Carney a unique opportunity to reflect on the legacy of residential schools and what that has meant for Indigenous people.

It’s a complicated inheritance. His father wasn’t part of Canada’s elite ruling class, but he was part of something we now view with deep regret, even if it was presented as a form of public service at the time.

In contrast to Justin Trudeau, who was raised in upper-middle-class privilege, with a prime minister as a father and connections to the establishment, Mark Carney comes from something different. He straddles the line between insider and outsider, between public service and its historical harms. That makes him more grounded, perhaps.

Now, he has the chance to meaningfully reflect on policy and the social reality of places like Fort Smith, and I hope he does.

Part of Mark Carney’s appeal is his humility. Even though he has had a successful career, he still has a sense of modesty about him, and that’s a good thing. It’s always admirable when someone recognizes that they are not everything to everyone.

We will have to wait and see how he handles power. Up until now, he has been a servant to power. As Governor of the Bank of Canada, and later the Bank of England, as well as in his roles within private industry, he hasn’t owned the institutions—he’s served them. He worked for big companies, not as one of the owners. He didn’t own the Bank of Canada; he worked for it.

So the real question is whether he will continue to see himself as a servant of the country, now that he has actual power. That will be the test of his leadership.

On that note, I’m running out of steam. I tend to go until I suddenly drop, like a cast-off shell at the end of the interview.

Jacobsen: [Laughing] That’s fine. Thank you again, Dennis. I’ll be in touch soon.

Bevington: Take care, Scott.

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