The Miss Universe Canada pageant recently found itself at the center of a cultural firestorm, not for the usual glitz of sequins and crowns, but for a far more contentious issue: the line between cultural appreciation and appropriation. Two contestants, Karisa Haverkamp and Jasleen Kaily, faced backlash for donning Indigenous-style costumes during the national costume segment, sparking a debate that cuts deeper than fashion. Personally, I think this incident is a microcosm of a larger societal struggle—how do we navigate the fine, often invisible, boundaries between respect and exploitation when it comes to cultural symbols? It’s not just about the outfits; it’s about who gets to define the narrative and who bears the consequences when that line is crossed.
What makes this particularly fascinating is the irony of the pageant’s mission. Miss Universe is supposed to celebrate beauty, diversity, and empowerment. Yet here we are, with contestants inadvertently undermining those ideals by appropriating sacred Indigenous attire. Ashley Callingbull, the first First Nations winner of the pageant, was visibly stunned by the outfits. Her reaction—'Who allowed this on stage? Who approved this?'—is a scathing indictment of a system that still struggles to prioritize cultural sensitivity over spectacle. In my opinion, this isn’t just a failure of judgment by the contestants; it’s a systemic issue where institutions often outsource cultural education to marginalized communities instead of taking proactive steps to learn themselves.
The contestants’ apologies, while well-intentioned, feel performative in a way that highlights the gap between awareness and accountability. Haverkamp’s mention of solidarity with the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women movement is noble, but it’s hard not to wonder if her understanding of that cause was as superficial as her headdress. Kaily’s admission that she ‘didn’t understand the concept behind the costume competition’ raises a deeper question: Why are these topics still so opaque to people in positions of visibility? It’s not enough to apologize after the fact; the real work is dismantling the mindset that sees cultural symbols as mere aesthetic choices rather than living, sacred traditions.
This controversy also underscores a broader trend in Western entertainment: the commodification of Indigenous culture. From fashion runways to music videos, Indigenous motifs are frequently co-opted without context or consent. What many people don’t realize is that these symbols are not just ‘design elements’—they carry histories of colonization, resistance, and survival. When a contestant wears a feathered headdress, it’s not a tribute; it’s a reminder of a legacy of violence and erasure. A detail that I find especially interesting is how the pageant’s own statement framed the issue as a ‘misunderstanding,’ which subtly shifts blame away from the institution and onto the individuals. But this isn’t a misunderstanding—it’s a systemic failure to engage with the communities whose cultures are being exploited.
Looking ahead, this incident could be a turning point for pageants like Miss Universe Canada. If they truly want to honor diversity, they need to move beyond token gestures and invest in meaningful cultural education. This raises a deeper question: Can a platform built on Eurocentric beauty standards ever authentically celebrate Indigenous identity without perpetuating the very stereotypes it claims to challenge? The answer, I believe, lies not in quick fixes but in structural change—hiring Indigenous advisors, amplifying Indigenous voices, and redefining what ‘representation’ really means. After all, the real power of a pageant shouldn’t be in the crown it bestows, but in the conversations it ignites about who gets to be seen—and who gets to define what that seeing means.
