ABSTRACT Menstrual justice is deeply interconnected with water justice, yet these topics remain largely siloed in policy and research—particularly in Canada, where water access is often assumed to be a non‐issue. However, existing literature reveals that inadequate water and infrastructure significantly affect menstrual hygiene, dignity, and health, which are key to achieving menstrual justice. While much of the research on menstruation and water is focused on the Global South, the reality of water access, infrastructure, and injustices for menstruators in the Global North, particularly in Canada, remains vastly overlooked. In Canada, unhoused individuals, incarcerated populations, and Indigenous peoples disproportionately experience water insecurity in addition to facing limited or costly access to menstrual supplies. Without access to clean water and hygiene resources, menstruators face heightened risks to their health and safety, while also being denied the ability to manage their monthly cycles with dignity, thus perpetuating gender inequality. Through an examination and analysis of the existing literature, this paper discusses the issues and interconnections of menstrual and water justice, highlighting the historical focus on water, sanitation, and hygiene (WASH) and menstrual hygiene management (MHM) in the Global South, and the vast oversight of these issues in the Global North. Specifically in Canada, where the issues of menstrual and water injustices are contextualized within broader structures of settler‐colonialism, patriarchy, racism, and capitalism, thus illustrating how systemic inequities shape access to water and the experiences of menstruation.

This essay examines the changing place of colonization in the Journal of the Canadian Historical Association/La Revue de la Société historique du Canada and its predecessors. The essay has two aims: to contribute to the discussion of the Canadian Historical Association/Société historique du Canada’s journal on its hundredth anniversary, and to answer Crystal Gail Fraser and Allyson Stevenson’s 2022 call for historians to acknowledge the work of history in legitimating Indigenous dispossession. In the first half-century of the journal’s publication, colonialism was often discussed in celebratory terms, paired with the language of white supremacy or a developmental, colony-to-nation framework. In the second half-century, historians engaged colonialism in more critical terms, including by engaging the analytics of setter colonialism. These changes were uneven, and marked by gaps, contestation, and unease.

and sacred medicine connect past to present struggles. Circling Minimalism, we encounter the out-going correspondence of an imprisoned Indigenous woman adorning the installation’s external wall. Addressed to Monkman’s mother, Rilla, the woman’s words trace a criminalized existence; enclosed drawings of stylized angels and crosses become a self-referential iconography tattooed to fugitive bodies across the exhibition’s final two chapters, “Sickness and Healing” and “Urban Rez.” Inspired by scenes from his hometown of Winnipeg, Monkman situates the recovery of decolonized femininity at the heart of contemporary Indigenous resurgence. In Le petit déjeuner sur l’herbe (2014), he exchanges Édouard Manet’s rural idylls for the façade of a dive bar. A sedan with ichthys plates is parked askew on the curb, its holy rollers behind the bar instead of the wheel; Renaissance angels descend from above, while Indigenous women shelter in alcoves or lay on the sidewalk. Rendered as Cubist abstractions, their bodies reflect the beastly misogyny that animates Canada’s epidemic of missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls. “I try to show them who they truly are, my beauty reflecting theirs,” Miss Chief writes, “but only some have eyes to see” (44). Amid scenes of Indigenous resistance and fugitivity, her struggle culminates in Seeing Red (2014). Our matadora faces down a bloodied, staggered bull – settler colonialism’s toxic masculinity manifested – a confrontation reiterated across generations. Kaitlin and I arrived at the exit sign only to brazenly disregard the gallery’s linearity – we circled back. Our transgression elicited only a look of indifference from the security guard. We eddied, lingered, drawing connections across chapters and scowls from other patrons, barely concealed by their facemasks. We retraced, through canvasses and historical eras, Miss Chief ’s “flight paths,” as Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg scholar Leanne Betasamosake Simpson would say, her trajectories beyond settler-colonialism’s horizon. Miss Chief ultimately embodies Monkman’s vision of Indigenous resilience, the capacity to transform adversity into “transcendent art and expression” (33). Shame and Prejudice, then, demands its viewers reckon with both the Canadian nation’s genocidal history and imagine decolonial futures beyond the dystopian present. dylan burrows University of British Columbia