The bell echoes down the hallways of Yellowknife’s École Sir John Franklin High School as students shuffle between classes. For Megan Kilpatrick, an education assistant who’s spent the last six years supporting students with complex needs, that familiar sound may soon mark the end of her career in northern education.
“I love my job, but I’m terrified about what’s coming,” Kilpatrick told me during a recent visit to the territorial capital. “It’s not just about us losing work—it’s about who will be there for these kids when we’re gone.”
Yellowknife Education District No. 1 (YK1) is bracing for the elimination of 79 education assistant positions this spring—a staggering 30% reduction in specialized support staff that’s sending shockwaves through the community. The cuts, announced as part of territorial budget adjustments, will take effect when schools reopen after summer break.
For context, YK1 serves approximately 2,000 students across eight schools, with many requiring individualized support plans. Education assistants like Kilpatrick provide crucial one-on-one guidance for students with diverse learning needs, from developmental disabilities to behavioral challenges.
The territorial government points to fiscal necessity. Finance Minister Caroline Wawzonek indicated during February’s budget address that “difficult but necessary adjustments” were required to address a projected $120 million deficit. Education, which represents nearly a quarter of territorial spending, couldn’t escape the chopping block.
But in a territory already grappling with higher operational costs and unique educational challenges, many are questioning the wisdom of targeting frontline support staff.
“We understand budget constraints, but targeting the most vulnerable students seems shortsighted,” said Matthew Miller, president of the Northwest Territories Teachers’ Association. “These aren’t luxury positions—they’re essential personnel who make inclusive education possible.”
The cuts come at a particularly challenging time. The COVID-19 pandemic exposed significant learning gaps, with northern students facing additional barriers including limited internet access during remote learning periods. A 2023 assessment from the Council of Ministers of Education showed NWT students trailing the national average in reading and mathematics proficiency.
Education assistants help bridge those gaps, particularly for Indigenous students who represent over 60% of enrollment in many Yellowknife schools. Cultural continuity and specialized support have been highlighted as critical factors in northern education success.
In Yellowknife’s downtown core, I met with parent Erica Daniels, whose daughter receives daily support from an education assistant. She described a personal impact that transcends budget spreadsheets.
“My daughter has ADHD and anxiety. Her EA helps her stay focused and regulated throughout the day,” Daniels explained over coffee at Javaroma, a local café where parent groups have been meeting to organize a response. “Without that support, I honestly don’t know if she’ll be able to succeed. It feels like they’re balancing the budget on our children’s futures.”
The territorial government maintains that core educational services will be preserved despite the cuts. Education Minister R.J. Simpson stated in a March press release that “student needs will continue to be met through restructured support systems,” though specific details remain vague.
Critics note that the territory already faces teacher recruitment and retention challenges, with a 26% turnover rate in some communities. Adding additional responsibilities to overburdened classroom teachers may further strain an already fragile system.
The education assistant position is also one of the few professional opportunities available to many northern residents without post-secondary education. At an average salary of $58,000—modest by northern standards where living costs far exceed southern Canada—these roles provide stable employment in communities with limited economic options.
“I returned to Yellowknife specifically for this job,” said Thomas Nasogaluak, an Inuvialuit education assistant who works predominantly with Indigenous students. “I connect with these kids because I understand their experiences. Who will provide that perspective when we’re gone?”
Community response has been swift and organized. A petition against the cuts garnered over 3,000 signatures in just eight days—remarkable in a city of roughly 20,000. Parents have organized letter-writing campaigns, and student-led protests outside the territorial legislature have drawn considerable attention.
School administrators find themselves caught in the middle. “We’re being asked to do the impossible,” admitted one principal who requested anonymity. “Maintain inclusive education standards with significantly fewer resources. The math simply doesn’t work.”
What makes these cuts particularly painful is their timing. With northern communities still recovering from unprecedented wildfire evacuations last summer, stability in education settings is more crucial than ever for students who experienced significant disruption.
The territorial education department has promised transition planning, including potential retraining opportunities for displaced staff. But many education assistants I spoke with expressed skepticism about these assurances.
“They’re telling us to consider other government positions, but that’s not why we chose this work,” said Kilpatrick. “We’re here because we believe in these kids.”
As schools prepare for the final weeks before summer break, the atmosphere is heavy with uncertainty. Teachers are already planning for drastically different classroom environments come September. Parents are investigating alternative support options, including private services that many cannot afford.
For students, particularly those with special needs, the impact remains to be seen. But research consistently shows that early intervention and consistent support produce better outcomes—both academically and socially.
What’s happening in Yellowknife reflects broader tensions across Canada’s education landscape, where budget constraints frequently collide with inclusive education mandates. But in the North, where resources are already stretched and communities face unique challenges, these cuts may have particularly profound consequences.
As I prepared to leave Yellowknife, I watched education assistants working with students in a local playground. The dedication was evident—gentle guidance, patient explanations, celebrations of small victories. These quiet moments of educational support may soon become much rarer in northern classrooms.
The question that haunts this community isn’t just about budget lines or position counts. It’s more fundamental: What happens to a promise of inclusive education when the people who make it possible disappear?
