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The Edit That Gave It Away: When “Private Property” Becomes “A Land Base”

By: Holly Revollàn-Huelin
Date: November 2, 2025
Category: Governance
Part 3 of the "Nothing to do with Land" series. A quiet edit on social media exposed the larger truth behind Newfoundland’s latest self‑government rhetoric. When Penwaaq L’nu’k’s public post shifted from saying self‑government had “nothing to do with land” to declaring “we already have a land base,” the language itself became evidence of a jurisdictional pivot. This essay unpacks how that subtle rewording transformed private, corporately held property into the appearance of recognized Indigenous territory, despite no legal standing under Section 35 or the Indian Lands Registry. It situates the change within a broader pattern of narrative management—where reassurance gives way to redefinition—and traces how the same strategy has appeared in Labrador, the Qalipu enrolment process, and other soft‑sovereignty frameworks. Beneath the calm phrasing lies the blueprint for an evolving claim to authority on the Port au Port Peninsula.
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The Comment That Changed

In October 2025, the Facebook page Penwaaq L’nu’k – Kji-Wikuom, operated by Jasen Benwah and affiliated with the unrecognized Benoit First Nation, posted a statement meant to reassure. It read:

“Self-government for us does NOT have anything to do with private or Crown lands.” (Screenshot 1)

For those paying casual attention, it sounded like a commitment to respect existing property boundaries. The sentence suggested that no one’s land was at risk—that self-government, as defined by this group, was purely cultural or administrative. It seemed designed to calm nerves.

But not long after, the comment was edited. The sentence was changed—quietly, without fanfare, and without acknowledging the revision—to:

“Self-government for us does NOT have anything to do with private or Crown lands because we already have a land base of our own. We are not landless.” (Screenshot 2)

That single sentence revision was more than a clarification. It was a pivot in meaning. A rhetorical shift. A change that transformed a statement of disavowal into a subtle declaration of jurisdiction.

For those who’ve followed land politics in Newfoundland, it was the tell.

From Denial to Jurisdiction

The term “land base” has a precise meaning in Canadian Indigenous policy. It does not mean “we own a cabin” or “our family has some property.” In legal and governance frameworks, a land base refers to recognized land under jurisdiction—often held in trust by the Crown, governed by Section 91(24) of the Constitution, or affirmed under Section 35 as part of Aboriginal or treaty rights¹.

Stating “we already have a land base” implies more than just ownership. It implies authority—political, legal, and administrative.

It also quietly contradicts the original reassurance. Because once you’ve claimed a land base, you’ve acknowledged that land is part of your governance framework. You’ve stopped denying the connection and started rebranding it.

Even the phrase “we are not landless” carries jurisdictional weight. In Indigenous policy, being “landless” is often the condition of bands awaiting modern land claims, treaty settlement, or self-government recognition². Saying “we are not landless” is a claim of completion. It implies that the group already holds recognized territory, even if such recognition has never occurred.

The Legal Reality

Here’s the problem: it’s not true.

Neither Benoit First Nation nor Penwaaq L’nu’k are recognized by the federal government. Neither appear in the Indian Lands Registry³. They do not hold reserves, settlements, or federal trust land. They are not part of any modern treaty or finalized land claim agreement.

Their governance status—such as it is—exists only in self-declared terms, backed by incorporation papers and internal narratives, not by federal recognition or legal jurisdiction.

Even Qalipu Mi’kmaq First Nation, which is federally recognized, was constituted as a landless band under the 2011 Order in Council⁴. That condition was not a detail—it was foundational. It was the entire reason the band was formed through an enrollment process rather than a treaty framework. Qalipu has no reserve, no land base, and no Crown-held parcels in trust for its members.

As for the Port au Port Peninsula? It remains a checkerboard of Crown lands, privately held property, and municipal boundaries, governed by the laws of the Province of Newfoundland and Labrador. There is no recognized Indigenous land base on the peninsula⁵. No trust lands. No jurisdictional authority. No formal agreement.

Private land held by the corporation itself—even if associated with an Indigenous group—is not equivalent to recognized Indigenous lands⁶. It is subject to provincial law, taxation, and zoning, just like any other privately held property. It cannot be used to assert Aboriginal title or collective governance.

The claim that “we already have a land base” does not hold up under legal scrutiny. But that wasn’t the point. The point was to appear as if jurisdiction already exists—so that when it’s eventually claimed in public, the ground has already been softened.

The Contradiction: 2019/2020 Land Claim to Premier Dwight Ball

Here’s where the story folds in on itself.

In either 2019 or 2020, Jasen Benwah submitted a formal land claim to then–Premier Dwight Ball. The claim sought recognition of territorial rights over parts—or perhaps all—of the Port au Port Peninsula. The details of the submission were never made public, but those familiar with the filing confirmed its scope and intent: to establish a claim of jurisdiction over land that was not, in fact, under Indigenous control.

That action alone contradicts the recent Facebook assertion. You can’t file a land claim if you already hold a land base. You don’t need to petition the province for rights over territory you already control.

Unless, of course, what you’re really doing is rebranding a hopeful claim as a settled fact—in order to shape public perception before the law catches up.

This is the strategy: make a claim, wait for resistance, soften the language, then edit the public record to reflect the new comfort line. It’s not about honesty. It’s about narrative management.

A Pattern We've Seen Before

If this story feels familiar, it should.

This is the same arc that played out in Labrador, during the creation of the Nunatsiavut Government⁷. What began as cultural acknowledgment evolved into programming jurisdiction, then land rights, and eventually political autonomy.

It’s also the same arc that defined the Qalipu enrolment process, where a program originally framed as a status recognition tool morphed into something far larger—an ongoing redefinition of identity, rights, and governance⁸.

The script is now well-worn:

  • Step 1: Denial – "This has nothing to do with land."
  • Step 2: Reassurance – "We’re just protecting our culture."
  • Step 3: Reframing – "We already have a land base."
  • Step 4: Assertion – "We are not landless."
  • Step 5: Negotiation – "Let’s talk about governance over our territory."

By the time the public realizes what's happening, the language has already changed. The new baseline has already been set.

That’s the danger of soft sovereignty: it doesn’t declare itself with flags and borders. It seeps in through language, maps, and emotional framing—until the old reference points no longer exist.

Knowing Where the Bear Shits in the Woods

It would be easy to dismiss all of this as semantic. To say: “Who cares what one Facebook comment says?” But when that comment comes from someone who has filed a land claim, who runs a self-declared First Nation, who uses that platform to shape public understanding—then the comment isn’t a casual remark. It’s a strategic signal.

The shift from “nothing to do with land” to “we already have a land base” wasn’t just a typo. It was a preview. A test balloon. And for those of us paying attention, it was all the proof we needed.

This isn’t about conspiracy. It’s about consistency. It’s about recognizing the pattern when it plays out—again and again—in different jurisdictions, under different labels, but always with the same result: public land reframed as Indigenous jurisdiction, through the vehicle of soft narratives.

Some of us have lived long enough to know when a bear is in the woods.

And some of us still know where it shits.

See also

References

[1] Constitution Act, 1982, s. 35 (Rights of the Aboriginal Peoples of Canada). https://laws-lois.justice.gc.ca/eng/const/page-12.html

[2] Government of Canada – Self-Government and Indigenous Rights. https://www.rcaanc-cirnac.gc.ca/eng/1100100031843

[3] Indian Lands Registry System (public portal). https://services.aadnc-aandc.gc.ca/ILRS_Public/home/home.aspx

[4] Qalipu Mi’kmaq First Nation Band Order (SOR/2011-180). https://laws-lois.justice.gc.ca/eng/regulations/SOR-2011-180/

[5] Government of NL – Land Use Atlas (official viewer) https://www.gov.nl.ca/crownlands/land-use-atlas/; Government of NL – GeoAtlas (public map viewer) https://geoatlas.gov.nl.ca/

[6] CIRNAC – First Nation Land Management: Policy and legislation https://www.rcaanc-cirnac.gc.ca/eng/1686318557963/1686318775639

[7] Government of NL – Nunatsiavut Land Claims (overview/highlights) https://www.gov.nl.ca/exec/iar/overview/land-claims/highlights/; Government of NL – Labrador Inuit Land Claims Agreement (implementation info, PDF) https://www.gov.nl.ca/exec/iar/files/lilca_impplan_information_strategy.pdf

[8] Atlin, Christine; Stoddart, Mark C.J. “A community in transition: Understanding the Qalipu Mi’kmaq First Nation enrolment process.” Journal of Canadian Studies 52(3), 2018.

Tags: Benwah Penwaaq L’nu’k land base Qalipu Indigenous governance Newfoundland politics Section 35 land claims Port au Port rhetorical framing self-government soft sovereignty Benoit First Nation Aboriginal title Facebook edits jurisdiction

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