The Bradley Creek wildfire began on Friday, July 31, on reserve lands at nk̓maplqs (the head of Okanagan Lake). More than 30 band members have lost their homes, along with about 200 homes and structures belonging to non-band members. Evacuated and unable to return home, kelsie kilawna (whose home was completely destroyed) shared her reflections amid the unfolding crisis. 

Saturday, Aug. 1, started like any other day. I woke early with my partner. We sat on the front deck with coffee, talking about the day ahead: my son Skookamina’s graduation party and my grandmother’s 83rd birthday. There was meat to smoke, cakes to bake and tables to set. The day felt like a blessing because we had so much to celebrate.

A small fire had started the night before. Nothing unusual for this time of year, I thought. Our Okanagan Indian Band fire department is amazing. I figured it would be out by noon.

So I seasoned the meat, lit the smoker and sang while I cooked, the way I always do.

By mid-morning, though, we decided to move the celebration from the beach to my uncle’s house in the community. We wanted to be close to family in case the fire grew.

Everyone gathered. My grandmother sat in her chair, full of joy as people arrived.

Skookamina was surrounded by cousins, and the sound of our family filled the air — aunties laughing, making jokes, carrying on the familiar banter of people who know each other well.

For one hour, we were simply a family celebrating, living our lives the way we always do.

Then, one by one, people began picking up their phones.

They had been put on evacuation alert. They had to go home, pack and wait. I watched them leave, one after another, until the room grew quiet. My grandmother sat watching her grandchildren go. She didn’t say much. She knew this dance. She had done it before.

Eventually, I had to leave too.

My father had only minutes to evacuate. I raced to his house and helped him pack as the fire moved rapidly toward him. When I returned home, family friends were already there, packing for me. They had been evacuated themselves, without time to take anything, and were now helping us while their own home burned behind them.

One minute I was laughing with my son. The next, I was grabbing whatever I could carry. I took what was irreplaceable: ceremony blankets, medicine necklace materials, baskets, photographs, language recordings and the eagle feather my son had given me. Everything else I left behind.

As I drove away, smoke climbed toward us and flames moved over the ridge. The fire seemed to have taken on a life of its own. I thought: this fire doesn’t know our names the way our cultural burns do. It was consuming everything equally — the sacred and the ordinary, the medicine plants and the invasive brush.

And yet, even as I watched it consume what we had built, I realized this was exactly what my people had prepared me for.

They taught me about grief.

They taught me that grief is not a destination. It is like a creek. You don’t stop it. You sit beside it, make kin with it, let it flow and let it carry away what it needs to carry.

They taught me that grief has a shape, and that it is so important that it has its own ceremonies, songs and prayers for different kinds of loss. I was taught to name grief, give it boundaries and tell it: I see you. You are welcome here. But you will not take me with you.

They taught me that the deeper you love, the deeper you grieve. That grief and joy are not enemies. You can weep and laugh in the same breath. You can feed people even when you cannot eat yourself.

Most importantly, they taught me that a community that grieves together stays together.

Grief is not something to outrun. It is something to sit beside, name, sing and share until a common understanding emerges. The syilx word enowkinwixw describes this gentle way of coming to understanding together — each person offering what they know, drop by drop, until the whole circle sees more clearly.

That is how we hold loss: together, in the centre of the circle.

As I write this, it is Aug. 6. I wash dishes in someone else’s sink. I cook without my grandmother’s tools. Many families are still waiting to learn whether their homes are standing.

Tomorrow I will wake up and make coffee. I will stand on whatever deck I am given and be grateful for it. I will look at whatever sky is above me and remember that I am grateful to be sqilx’w in these times, blessed to be syilx, and proud to be from the Okanagan Indian Band.

I have lost much. But I have not lost what matters most.

And I will continue dreaming, as my people have been directed by our Creator to do. That does not end when the smoke clears.