As an Indigenous man chronicling First Nation life, journalist Tchadas Leo gets to tell stories about his culture and strengthen ties with his community at the same time. 

鈥淢y career over the past few years has magically reconnected me back to my family and back to the people who live on reserves,鈥� he said. "It's helped me notice some of the things the nation is doing to try to help revitalize that culture.鈥�

Leo works as a reporter for Chek news and hosts the podcast Our Native Land, featuring interviews and discussions about First Nation culture on Vancouver Island and beyond.

His own Indigenous identity and upbringing make him feel a sense of duty to get these stories right.

鈥淥ur traditions tell us to listen to elders and obtain all that information, remember it and treat it respectfully,鈥� he said. 鈥淚 want to do right in telling those stories as accurately as possible."

A winding road

Leo鈥檚 path to journalism wasn鈥檛 straightforward. There were stops and starts and lots of jobs in between stints working as a reporter. But the passion he found after getting his first taste of newsgathering as a teenager never abated.

Leo spent the first couple years of his life living in Mission, B.C. His father is an Indigenous man whose lineage is from the Xwemalhkwu First Nation and Stillaguamish Tribe of Indians. His mother is a South American woman of Peruvian and Argentinian descent.

When he was two years old the family moved to Campbell River and onto a reserve. His father was getting certified for construction at the time, and much of the reserve was just being built.

Like many members of Leo鈥檚 extended family, his father had left the Island as a child to attend residential school.

鈥淭hat would be a return to home,鈥� Leo said. 鈥淭o back for him, I can only assume was a sense of pride and relief and happiness and emotion.鈥�

Leo spoke fondly of his childhood on the reserve, though he did say his mother worked hard to protect him from systemic issues such as alcohol abuse. These social problems were part of the legacy of people dealing with the trauma of having grown up in residential schools, he said.

"That pain is carried by everyone on the reserve."

When Leo was 12 or 13, the local community TV station from Campbell River showed up at his middle school to give a presentation. It made an impression.

鈥淎nd so I went ahead and walked up to them after I said, 鈥業 want to volunteer, I want to be a part of it,鈥欌�� he recounted.

The folks from the station told him they took on a student every couple years. They invited Leo to be that student.

鈥淚 went home and told my mom I had a job, which wasn't true,鈥� he said. 鈥淚 didn't understand what volunteering was at the time.鈥�

When he was 14, he got his first real taste of what journalism could be when he made a mini-documentary about a canoe journey in which a group of Indigenous people travelled from Vancouver Island to the Lower Mainland.

鈥淚 had my camcorder with the tape and then just filming every interview I could, every elder I could, get all the boats as much as I could,鈥� he said. 鈥淓very teenager at some point gets excited about something. And for me, it was picking up that camera and filming.鈥�

This cemented Leo鈥檚 future ambition.

鈥淭hat sparked my interest of storytelling, being able to tell other people's stories; to lift other people's stories and ideas,鈥� he said.

He kept the journalism career going through high school, but eventually drifted into different jobs, working in the car industry, the hospitality industry, and others. Then, during the pandemic, his focus shifted back.

鈥淚 told my wife 鈥� who was pregnant 鈥� that I was going to move to Vancouver for two years and study at BCIT broadcasting and online journalism program,鈥� he said.

At around the same time he began working for Chek making the podcast (or 鈥渧odcast鈥�, as he calls it since it includes video) Our Native Land.

Stepping up to fill a gap

Leo says he didn鈥檛 go to journalism school because he wanted to be narrowly labelled as an 鈥業ndigenous journalist鈥�, it was because of his love of storytelling.

鈥淚 wanted to go to journalism school because I wanted to tell stories, and I just happen to be Indigenous,鈥� he said.

But, with so many stories to tell from Indigenous communities, and with the difficulty and sensitivity needed to tell those stories, Leo stepped in to fill a gap.

With his background, Leo was also well-placed to overcome hurdles other journalists may be unable to without already being properly involved in the community.

鈥淭here has been such a mistrust between nations and Indigenous people and what we call the media landscape or journalists,鈥� he said. 鈥淎 mistrust in how stories are being told.鈥�

Leo keeps this in mind when conducting interviews, being especially considerate when dealing with traumatic issues. 

鈥淭his isn't a situation you could just go to a reserve, go talk to an elder, and bounce right out of there,鈥� he said. 鈥淚t takes time and patience.鈥�

He generally starts by getting to know a person before turning on the cameras, and making sure the person being interviewed knows it is a safe space.

鈥淲e need to create this sense of trust and space before we start,鈥� he said.

At times, this means just listening to a person's story and not including it in a newscast.

鈥淪ometimes the cameras turn off and all of a sudden I'm having an amazing conversation with an elder that went beautifully, but it's not something that we're going to show,鈥� he said.

With so many stories to tell and not enough Indigenous reporters, Leo acknowledges this sort of journalism does need to be taken on by people of all backgrounds.

鈥淭here's not enough of us,鈥� he said.

He hopes his story will encourage young Indigenous journalists, as well as any other young First Nations children trying to achieve big things in life.

鈥淚 hope that my journey can inspire some other young Indigenous kids to maybe realize their potential,鈥� he said. 鈥淵ou can dream it, you can do it.鈥�