On a rainy March night in what's currently known as Powell River, B.C., members of the Tla'amin Nation and some special invitees gathered at the Patricia Theatre for a community preview of the film təm kʷaθ nan (Namesake). The next night, it previewed to the broader community. Both nights, the theatre was packed to the rafters. The film, narrated in part by ʔayʔajuθəm Immersion Program teacher Koosen Pielle, opens with shots of land and water in Tla'amin territory. "This is t'išoshəm," Pielle says. "t'išoshəm means milky waters from the herring spawn. qʷɛqʷɛyqʷɛy. Little sandy beach, or Gibsons Beach. kʷʊθaysqɛn. A rock at the mouth, or Myrtle Rock." "Language is so intertwined with the landscape here. The sounds came from the landscapes," Pielle says. "It all comes from the land." This opening sets the tone. While Namesake will investigate the legacy of Israel Wood Powell, it will do so through the lens of the culture, history and worldview of the Tla'amin people. Powell was B.C.'s first superintendent of Indian Affairs. He was an early architect of residential schools and instrumental to enacting the province's potlatch ban; Powell River, B.C., was named after him. In 2021, Tla'amin Hegus John Hackett requested that the City of Powell River consider changing its name because of Powell's harmful legacy. With strength and generosity, Namesake tracks the conversations and clashes that emerged following Hegus Hackett's request, inviting non-Indigenous viewers to rethink the history of the ground beneath their feet. "We're all one land, but we were worlds apart," co-director, doctor, actor and Tla'amin Nation member Evan Adams says, a little later, standing on a pier near the ferry downtown. "A lot of people who live here now don't know us. And they forget that all of this used to be ours, and that this city is still in our territory." Local artist and settler Meghan Hildebrand, who appears in Namesake, said seeing its opening for the first time gave her "chills." Later in the documentary, another point is made about place names. "Naming was a powerful way colonizers used to transfer their power. To legitimize, or justify, their power," says Sean Carleton, a historian and Indigenous studies scholar at the University of Manitoba. Changing Indigenous place names to colonial names, Carleton says, allowed colonizers "to see themselves in a landscape that was not theirs." An invitation, or a demand? When Hegus Hackett made the name change request in 2021, it could've been reasonable to believe residents of Powell River would meet it with openness. The nation and the city signed one of the province's first Community Accords in 2003, promising to co-operate, communicate, protect cultural heritage and "meet regularly to promote and encourage open and constructive dialogue." Moreover, Powell River Regional District changed its name to qathet Regional District in 2018. qathet, which means "people working together," was a name gifted to the regional district from Tla'amin Nation Elders. For settlers in Powell River — of which I am one — there are, broadly speaking, two potential ways to view Hegus Hackett's request. The first is as an invitation: to right a past wrong; address the colonial erasure of ʔayʔajuθəm place names; acknowledge a shared, and sometimes painful history; and move forward together as a more united set of communities with shared goals. The second sees Hegus Hackett's request as more of a demand. One that, as social media posts in the documentary reference, creates "division." "In my opinion, it has never been about truth and reconciliation," reads one resident's social media post about the prospect of changing Powell River's name. "Agree, it's about power and control and payback," reads another. Soon after it was made, Hegus Hackett's request hit a speed bump as a small but vocal group of residents formed an opposition. Calling themselves the Concerned Citizens of Powell River, the semi-anonymous group has described t...