Notes on Nunangat
Nunangat means the lands, waters and ices of the Inuit people.
The Inuit people live all over the north of Canada.
A ballad is a narrative set to music.
Alright.
I spent two months on a video gig interviewing Indigenous Canadians back in 2018, taking photos and recording audio. Before, during, and after the interviews we collectively ate meals, drank stale coffee, and some of us smoked cigarettes.
We exchanged jokes, histories, and world-views. We were people.
The two northernmost places we visited were Kuujjuaq and Igloolik, in the Nunavik region of Québec and Iqaluit, respectively.
While monitoring the microphones, I jotted down the following snippets of dialogue:
I was born in the summer
Then we didn’t live in ice anymoreWhen they came and killed the dogs
Father started staying home
Drinking midday alcoholI don’t remember going hungry
They still hunted for us somehowI went to sleep and don’t remember
We don’t talk about itPacked in boxes, history
That picture isn’t anyone
AnymoreThere is a crime among men
For the death of their living
Two years later, I got an editing gig for a video series shot in the Yukon, Northwest Territories, Nunavut, Nunavik, and Nunatsiavut (the Inuit region of Labrador).
Sifting though hours of snow-buried houses, bouncing children, trappers on snowmobiles, endless tundra, and sweet old ladies, while listening to the wind pummel a microphone, a synapse in my brain started glowing, and this song arrived.
There’s a church;
There’s a church in every northern town
Weathered panels and an empty bell tower
The wind howls
In the store;
In the store there’s treasures from the south
But they don’t bring us any real wealth
The empty shelves
Two geographic staples in the northern communities I’ve beheld: an old clapboard Christian church, often decommissioned and replaced by a newer one with heating; and a grocery store, commonly a Co-Op or a Northern store.
Food prices are high (note: CBC is funded by the government), and selection is dismal. Cases of Coca-Cola have been hawked on Facebook Marketplace for double-digits.
Of course, money is a relatively recent import, and there aren’t many ways to get it. Even with subsidies, much of the currency in circulation quickly flees back south.
I was born here in the summer
Then we didn’t live in ice anymore
When we settled in the house
We were getting used to walls
Feeling undergroundI went to sleep and don’t remember
It seemed the sun would never go down
We used to chase the change of seasons
Now we stay in place
Those first two lines are a direct quotation from a woman in Kuujjuaq. She was describing her family’s transition from living in an igloo to living in a house.
Igloos make sense there, western-style houses not so much.
Let’s say your front window breaks because somebody put a rock or a bullet through it. There are no replacements at the hardware store, there’s no hardware store, and it’s -29°c before the windchill. You have four kids.
This happens.
My visit to Igloolik was right before the summer solstice, and the sun actually never did go down. Kids were outside playing at four thirty in the morning. I met a hunter who had been up for three days.
Nature has a different rhythm at that latitude.
There are stretches of darkness on the opposite end of the calendar. Animals, plants, bugs, and weather appear and disappear in a constant cycle of change. People up there used to move with it, before they were made to settle in semi-permanent dwellings.
(Nothing is permanent.)
But, if one wasn’t on the land looking for “country food,” one needed to go out and find it, and it could be very far away. This created a dependance on imported groceries, which are problematic not only economically, but nutritionally.
When I say “imported groceries,” I’m not talking about truckloads of Ecuadorian bananas and Mexican broccoli and raspberries in February. Most of what’s available is wrapped in plastic followed by cardboard, and chalked full of six-syllable ingredients.
There’s not much in the way of take-out, either.
I took a ride;
I took a ride out on the snowmobile
On the horizon saw the ringed seals
A new yearI lay down;
I lay down and move so patiently
The snow reflects the sun and hides me
My stomach growls
I was told that seals don’t see too well, so you can get close to them by crawling slowly on the ice beneath a polar bear hide. This from the guy who hadn’t slept in three days.
You ever listened to a seal? Also.
Snowmobiles are now the popular vehicle for hinterland expeditions, replacing the long tradition of dog sledding. More on that below.
I was born here in the summer
Then we didn’t live in ice anymore
When they came and killed the dogs
People started staying home
Drinking alcohol
I went to sleep and don’t remember
The elders hunted for us somehow
Water freezes every winter
But not the same way
During the Cold War, people employed by the Canadian government systematically murdered hundreds of sled dogs with the intention of settling the Inuit people and laying claim to the north.
These dogs were tools of livelihood for the hunters who fed everyone.
They were also family members.
This event corresponded with the introduction of alcohol in some communities, probably not coincidentally. I’ve struggled with the stuff myself, but I can barely imagine the impossibility of this situation.
I was eight;
I was eight when I was taken there
They called it a school but it was more like jail
A tall tale
When I returned
When I returned and heard my parents speak
I’d lost their language in a dark sea
Sinking
One of the more well-known elements of Canada’s mistreatment of Indigenous people; I’d say because it was so widespread, affecting First Nations, Métis, and Inuit communities across the country; and also because it was an act of genocide.
The remains of 215 children were found buried next to a residential school in Kamloops two weeks ago.
The schools were run by the Church backed by the Government and operated in English or French, so in addition to actual lives, they also eradicated language.
Imagine returning home after several years, having left your family as a child, and not being able to communicate with anyone. These schools created a silence between generations.
Language touches everything. This is a deep crime.
I was born here in the summer
Then we didn’t live in ice anymore
When they turned us into pawns
And the game was played with hearts
Fear was all around
I went to sleep and don’t remember
All the ones who never were found
I see the dead among our living
But the crime remains
So, it was the Cold War, and Canada wanted to ensure Russia didn’t pull any fast ones up there. In some meeting of powerful men, it was decided that a solution would be to force settlement upon the Inuit people so the region could be monitored and guarded.
They had been fucking with all of the First Nations and Métis people for a long time, so this wasn’t much of an ideological leap. Whoever came up with the idea probably got a promotion.
I also think they had a hunch that underneath those millions of square kilometres of ice and rock was a lot of valuable metals, minerals, maybe oil, and buried treasure.
Recent events show that our present-day government’s attitude towards Indigenous people when prospecting natural resources has changed very little.
We hear about things happening all the time, then some of us post on social media about it, some of us talk to our friends about it, and some of us actually get involved, though often on the wrong side.
As far as what can actually be done to improve the lives of Indigenous people in Canada, I don’t know much, but I’ll toss out the following ideas:
First, every Indigenous community in Canada is very different, just like every other community on the planet, so everyone should be treated with respect and decency.
Besides that, reparations. Autonomy to self-govern. Control of natural resources.
Educate everybody in Canada about Indigenous Canadian history, and culture.
More intermingling and actual friendly exchange between all cultural groups in Canada. The end of murder and rape and terror and abuse. Less old white folks in power would be nice too.
Are you listening, God?
There’s a land;
There’s a land that soaked up all the blood
It clings to everything like dried mud
A dust cloud
There are songs;
There are songs that we were forced to sing
But it’s the drum connecting everything
Still beating
I was frequently punished by my teachers for refusing to sing the national anthem. Nobody ever asked why.
This is a good time to note how incredible the “traditional” (quotes because it’s always contemporary) Indigenous music I’ve heard is. Particularly the singing. It is 100% soul churning stuff, and I don’t even understand the words.
I was born here in the summer
Then we didn’t live in ice anymore
When I look into the past
I see the pride behind our eyes
It’s the northern light
And though I sleep inside a memory
Through my window comes a soft sound
I can hear my children laughing
If a bunch of strangers forced you into a new home, shot your dog, distributed poison food and drink, took you away to be abused in private with the other kids, and when you came back you couldn’t communicate with your parents, you’d say you had a pretty bad dream. You may be sweating or crying, and you may call it a nightmare.
But this is not a dream, and you do not wake up.
In spite of that, I could not end this song tragically. Doing so would not be my right.
This is not my story, and it is not over.
Inuit people still exist. First Nations and Métis people still exist. Many are thriving.
Babies, as we all once were, are being conceived, birthed, and raised in Indigenous families and communities. They’re growing up and blowing their noses and stubbing their toes and watching YouTube videos like the rest of us. They’re keeping their cultures alive, and we’re all better for it.
But, a lot of things should be improved.
I grew up in southern Ontario. The nearby Six Nations reserve didn’t have potable water, and they still kicked everyone’s ass at lacrosse. When I visited again a couple years ago, nothing had changed.
This is happening in one of the wealthiest parts of Canada.
I live in Nova Scotia now, where people seem to think it’s the 1800s, and it’s not uncommon to hear slurs thrown around in conspiratorial jest at the local saloon.
I’ve had to inform some of my fellow millennials that Indigenous people are not genetically prone to alcoholism.
I didn’t know anything about Indigenous people in Canada until I met some, and even then, I only know about those individuals, and even then, nobody ever really knows anything about anyone.
I will say that the people I met were friendly and generous to a group of white folks sent to point cameras and microphones at them. They welcomed us into their homes and communities, and were genuinely kind. Also, funny, smart, and everything else you’d expect people to be.
I consider them friends, and I share in their joys and sufferings, which is why I’ve written these words and thought these thoughts.
This is not an academic perspective. I haven’t read nearly enough, and besides, I don’t know if research is entirely the point. I think empathy is the point, and research may be a good way of getting there, if our hearts and minds are open to it.
I hope people in the future will find the source of all-encompassing love, and never let it go.
IV