You could say Homer’s The Odyssey is a story of human might; of conjuring the will to brave the most monstrous of obstacles, the most savage of storms. Or you could say it is a love story, that at its heart is Odysseus’ longing for Penelope, his desire to return to her. But one thing you can’t deny is that The Odyssey is about a voyage, and one that is familiar to us all: The journey back home. Home, really, defines who Odysseus is; without his household, kingdom, and family, he is a nobody, a wanderer with no fortress or name or purpose. But here is a question: what becomes of a person when there is no home left to return to — when it has been burnt to the ground?
It is unfortunate, then, that we live in a world that is constantly on fire. In particular, an analysis conducted by Imperial College London’s World Weather Attribution noted that more than 3.8 million hectares of land (with over 73 000 hectares being in Ontario alone) have burned in Canada in 2026. Furthermore, it was found that, as of this year, Ontario has reached its highest-ever recorded area burned in recent history. It is no secret that this is mainly caused by human-caused climate change; as the planet warms, winter snow melts earlier, and summer rainfall decreases, fire activity increases and burned land area increases. Cyclically, wildfires are a major source of carbon dioxide emissions, setting off a horrific feedback loop.
In July 2026, Namaygoosisagagun First Nation (also known as Collins First Nation), an Ojibwe community in Northwestern Ontario, received suspicions of a possible forest fire. This was due to a wall of smoke, one that appeared dangerously close and perilously thick. However, when this was brought to their attention, the Ministry of Natural Resources responded that there was no immediate danger. Hours later, residents were forced to crowd into old aluminum boats and speed across Collins Lake, narrowly escaping a sizzling wildfire. Namaygoosisagagun First Nation resident Chief, Helen Paavola, was not in the village when the fire ignited, and remembers the pure agony she felt while watching from the sidelines. “All I could think was… they’re gone. My children are gone. My community is gone. There are no words to explain the relief that I felt when I knew everybody was out.” But while the residents of Collins had escaped, their homes were left burned, blighted, along with their possessions, and, in some family’s cases, their pets. It had all been lost — their land, and the stories that thrummed beneath it.
After the event, First Nations leaders have called for an investigation into the Ontario government’s emergency response to the wildfire. According to Wilfred King, Chief of Gull Bay First Nation, “The lack of communication and evacuation support should horrify all Canadians, and our community was on its own.” The destruction of Collins is a dire demonstration of governmental idleness and dismissal of specific groups or communities. It is also a demonstration of a strange, yet long-running notion: that some homes (and the people they carry) hold more value than others, and that some homes may not deserve to be saved.
Perhaps this ongoing governmental inertia is why several communities have taken matters into their own hands. Indigenous forest stewardship, a historical practice in which traditional land management techniques are utilized to maintain ecological balance, is now being recognized for its effectiveness in the reduction of wildfire reduction. A large sector of forest stewardship revolves around cultural burning: the deliberate creation of small, controlled fires in forests to reduce flammable fuel loads, promote biodiversity, and improve wildlife habitat. This is a technique that has been practiced for thousands of years; when performed in cooler, wetter periods of the year, they help prevent possible buildup of dry, flammable vegetation that could promote wildfire activity. First Nations-led fire crews in British Columbia have helped introduce minor forest burns to improve deer habitat and reduce flammable debris. Additionally, fire brigades in the Xingu Indigenous Territory currently combine traditional wildfire management methods with satellite imagery to safeguard their villages, crops, and forests from wildfires.
Forest stewardship, then, could be evidence of something strangely sanguine: A home on fire might not be equivalent to a home that is lost. The act of using little fires to fight large, all-consuming ones is a powerful metaphor, one that echoes the histories of small, marginalized communities rising up to challenge the ‘mighty’ and the ‘great.’ Perhaps one day these little fires will triumph against the vast ones. Perhaps they won’t. But why not light them anyway? Why not view the world through the lens of something other than despair, as Chief Paavola did, surveying the destruction of Collins First Nation. “We are going home,” she said to those listening, her words burning with defiance, burning with hope. “We’re going to rebuild, and we are going home.”