Page 46 - 04_May-2025

My potential faux pas doesn’t rank
high on the spectrum of anti-Indigenous
bias Gwin encounters, which ranges from
covert remarks like “I had a magical experience
at a sweat lodge” to overt racism like “You can’t be
Métis, you’re not drunk.” But even asking the question
at the back of my mind — Was that bad? — is a type of
burden. “I just thought there’s got to be a way to help
take the emotional labour off of our people,” says Gwin,
who is tired of people texting her as their “one Indigenous
friend” to help litigate awkward social situations.
From these seeds of discontent, Gwin imagined a
“little helper” not unlike Microsoft Word’s animated
assistant “Clippy,” but instead of assisting with cover
letters, it helps people be less bigoted and write more
thoughtfully.
ANGUAGE HAS ALWAYS BEEN CENTRAL
to Gwin. Her great-grandfather, who ran a Hudson’s
Bay stop in Grouard, spoke six languages, including
nêhiyawêwin (Cree), the mother tongue of her
great-grandmother from Michel First Nation (now part
of Sturgeon County). Gwin grew up there, absorbing the
language in fragments — heard but never formally
taught. Her great-grandparents spoke it fluently, her
grandparents understood but were apprehensive to
speak it in public, and her parents retained only remnants.
Most of what nêhiyawêwin Gwin now knows and speaks,
she learned later. “When I make time to learn Cree, this
whole other world of who I am opens up.”
This partly inspired her to rename her PR firm.
Through a traditional ceremony, an elder gave it the
name pipikwan pêhtâkwan, meaning “eagle bone
whistle heard loudly” — a ceremonial object used to
awaken ancestors. The name’s implication of power and
responsibility resonated deeply. “We’re an extremely
values-based organization,” Gwin says. pipikwan turns
down clients seeking performative allyship, and staff
make decisions collectively, even when it slows things
down. It reflects seven generations thinking, a First
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Nations principle that considers
an action’s consequences for
seven generations forward and
backward — holding decision-makers accountable
to both their great-great-great-great-great-grandchildren
and ancestors.
That philosophy contrasts with the tech sector’s
“move fast and break things” mindset. Almost a year
after conceiving her AI startup, she brought it to Amii
(Alberta Machine Intelligence Institute), a research
institute founded by the Government of Alberta and
University of Alberta. She met computer scientist Ayman
Qroon, who assessed whether machine learning could
tackle online bias and hate speech.
It was technically feasible but required massive data-
sets, making it financially unfeasible for a small start-
up. “It was one of those projects that excited everyone
internally,” recalls Qroon. But training the AI would take
years. The still-unnamed project was put on hold — until
the world met ChatGPT 3.0 and the AI revolution began.
EARLY FIVE YEARS AFTER CONCEIVING
the app, Gwin has a product manager, a proto-
type and a high-profile endorsement from MIT
Solve, a program supporting socially minded
tech. It also has a nêhiyawêwin name. Ceremoniously
shared by Elder Theresa Strawberry from O’Chiese First
Nation, wâsikan kisewâtisiwin means “kind electricity,”
likening AI to thunder — initially frightening but
ultimately capable of rain and renewal.
Its name is a reminder to use this powerful, potentially
destructive technology for good. Strawberry sees AI’s
potential to educate future generations but warns
against repeating history, where Indigenous knowledge
was weaponized against its people. “How much of our
values and traditions do we feed to AI when, back in
the day, they took that knowledge about our ceremonies
to say it was evil?” she asks. “We need to remember AI
does not have a conscience.”