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Nunani

August 1, 2003 - Baby thief (Part three)
August 8, 2003 - Glutton (Part one)
August 15, 2003 - Glutton (Part two)
August 22, 2003 - Glutton (Part three)
August 29, 2003 - Physical intelligence (Part one)

Physical intelligence (Part one)

RACHEL QITSUALIK

He who knows others is wise;
Yet he who knows himself is enlightened.
He who conquers others is strong;
Yet he who conquers himself is mighty.
He who is sated is rich;
Yet he who directs himself has power.
- Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu

There;
How shall I go to compose this important song?
How shall I invent it to help me?
I am wholly ignorant.
There;
Those who dance with elegance,
I will get inspiration from them.
- Ogpingalik, a Netsilingmiut songstress, 1960

Inuit have always believed that physicality is a sort of intelligence unto itself - and a vital one at that. Southerners who have travelled with Inuit have remarked that Inuit show an amazing ability to fix nearly anything, constantly finding new uses for old parts and tools. An Inuk can take one object, made for a single purpose, and find a dozen new uses for it.

Similarly, explorers have expressed a great deal of amazement at Inuit endurance and pain tolerance: a hunter's ability to run full-tilt for several hours; the ability to stand utterly immobile over an aglu (seal breathing-hole) for an interminable amount of time; the ability to haul a heavy kill, perhaps more than the hunter's own body weight, over vast distances. These are all good examples of the kind of physical prowess Inuit have needed simply to exist at all.

And it doesn't end there. When a tool or toggle or part of a qamotik (sled) breaks on a hunt, a substitute must be made fast. Lashings and traces must be fixed, detached, or untangled with utter urgency. Shelters must be erected or taken down as quickly as possible, depending on sudden shifts in the weather.

Human existence itself can hinge upon improvisation. Improvisation with speed. With these kinds of needs, it is no wonder, then, that Inuit have come to depend not only upon the intelligence characteristic of the conscious mind, but that of the unconsciousness as well. Their survival has come to depend upon a physical intelligence, that which exhibits itself when there is no time for thought.

While this kind of physical intelligence is to some degree genetic, a result of Inuit having been engineered by the extreme environmental conditions, it is also a result of culture. Inuit culture has almost obsessively emphasized the importance of spatial coordination and athleticism. Whether the ajajaaq (string games) taught to children as soon as they were able to learn them, or the amazing traditional athletics still exhibited at the Arctic Winter Games, these were all training methods of one kind or another.

As a girl, I was privileged, in that my father allowed me to assist in his hunting. I became used to running for lengthy periods of time alongside a qamotik, and I became able to untangle multiple dog-traces in record time.

But it did not come easily. I had to be conditioned first. So, one day, near Prince of Wales Island, my father decided to train me. His demeanor suddenly changed from gentle, indulgent parent, to barking hellion. Nothing I did was quick enough, good enough. Lift this, toss that, coil that rope, set this up, make this, go here, faster, faster, not fast enough. I wept. I was sore day after day. Comfort became a stranger.

Yet I cannot dispute the fact that it improved me. I learned to act from reflex rather than thought, and I loved it. I was proud like never before.

I later learned that this was one traditional way of introducing Inuit youth to the adult world. But since Inuit don't practice this kind of thing anymore, it has left us with a sticky problem: How can future generations still gain the personal benefits of traditional conditioning? How can the natural physical intelligence be used to improve modern existence?

Sports are a good way. Whether through southern sports, or the more traditional nature of the Arctic Winter Games, such athleticism is indisputably valuable. Nevertheless, the one flaw of a sport is its competitive nature, a nature that tends to repel those with no interest in testing themselves against others. Conversely, the traditional Inuktitut way of developing physical intellect is characterized more by its tendency to test the self.

Yet there is one activity that accomplishes such self-testing quite adequately, a physical intelligence with roots in Asia.

(Concluded in part two.)

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Glutton (Part Three)

RACHEL QITSUALIK

The blind son thrust the spear outward with all his strength, his mother's hands guiding him. In this way, again and again, he thrust at the bear, until he heard his mother cry,

"It's driven away!"

Not a word from his sister.

What the blind son could not know was that he had in fact killed the bear. The old woman raced over to her daughter and began to whisper harshly that her brother must not know.

"Think of all the food there will be!" the crone hissed. "He's of no use! He would want us to have it."

The girl simply stared at her mother in stunned horror, but when she finally opened her mouth, the old woman shook her violently, repeating what she had said.

So, cowed into silence, the daughter acquiesced to her mother's wishes. They dragged the bear outside, and kept the blind son from knowing that it was there at all.

Days went by, and the women had plenty of meat, but the old woman always told her son that there was none. Secretly, however, the girl kept her brother alive by smuggling him some of her portions. Whenever this made the old woman suspicious, the girl would simply say that she was particularly hungry from having gone so long without.

The blind son was saddened, of course, when he finally learned of this, but he was blind, so the deception went on and on. Finally, however, he got sick of it all, and began to whisper to his sister that he wanted her to bring him to an isolated place, a peninsula or island. Waves of horror ran through her whenever he asked such things - she didn't want him to kill himself.

Yet he was insistent. One day, he finally convinced her to bring him to a little island close to shore. She left him lying there, alone, upon the ground. And it was there, or so it is said, that something miraculous occurred:

The blind son heard the call of loons. Abruptly, two loons landed on his chest. They walked up and down the length of him, then seemed to circle, taking turns landing at either side. Somehow, he understood that something special was going on, so he took great pains to remain very still while the loons went about their business.

Eventually, they began to lick at his eyes. He could barely stand the feel of their rough little tongues upon him, but he refused to move, for with every lick, it seemed that light was coming to his eyes, growing brighter and brighter, until he at last could see the blurry sky above.

By the time the loons had finished their work and departed, his sight was restored.

Overjoyed, he made his way back to his mother and sister. As soon as he approached, he could see the great bear skin lying outside, but he resolved not to make an issue of it.

The women greeted him enthusiastically upon his arrival, the sister, out of relief; the mother, more out of guilt and fear that he knew what she had done. But he spoke little about the bear, and the old woman was pleased. It was not long before she was pressuring him to hunt. The bear meat had run out, and she was desperate for more.

So it was that the son announced that he would take a walk along the shore. And another miracle occurred! A walrus suddenly presented itself, and he quickly harpooned it. But the rocks were slippery and he was not strong enough to fight the animal, so he called for help. The women raced over and grabbed the line, but the rocks were still too slippery, and the son realized that they would all end up in the water if they did not let go. So he cried to the women to release it.

"No!" the old woman screeched. "We can get it!"

"Let go!" the son hollered. He and his sister let go.

"No! Mine!" the crone shrieked.

In her eagerness, she had wrapped herself up in the line, and now she could not disengage herself. And so it was that, with a wail of despair, the walrus pulled her into the water, and then beneath it forever.

Thus, in Inuit tradition, goes the glutton's end.

Pijariiqpunga.

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Glutton (Part Two)

RACHEL QITSUALIK

While overeating has become a mark of gluttony among most southern cultures, there was really no such thing as overeating among traditional Inuit.

In old culture, it was a good and healthy thing to eat as much as one wanted. Inuit did have the concept of gluttony, but an Inuit glutton was instead marked by the tendency to withhold food from others. One of the most monstrous acts one could commit, in traditional culture, was to deprive others of food by keeping the best or largest portions for oneself.

This ties into the Inuit concept of reciprocity, a practice that is fading today as the culture changes. When Inuit were nomads, it necessarily developed that food generally did not "belong" to anyone. Or, perhaps more accurately, it belonged to everyone.

Even today, Inuit do not customarily give thanks for food (except in prayer), since it was always considered every person's right to eat whatever food was available. As recent as only a couple of decades ago, this was the most practical way of doing things.

For example: Let's say family X has a store of caribou, while family Y does not. Family Y, then, has the right to eat some of family X's caribou - no need to ask permission or offer thanks for it (in fact, family X will urge the others to come over and eat). Much later, however, family Y is catching caribou and X is having no luck at all. Suddenly, it becomes more understandable why X allowed Y to eat their food. Now it is X's turn to come over and eat Y's food.

This seems like a very pragmatic and even heartwarming system, but it all hinges on one delicate feature: reciprocity. If reciprocity breaks down, even a little, the whole system suddenly becomes impractical and impracticable.

Even today, the tradition still exists across the Arctic, but it is more scattered and selective than it used to be, since it cannot persist where reciprocity wanes. Since Inuit have adopted southern living methods, participating in a market economy, they have necessarily adopted a cautionary approach to their resources and property.

If Y approaches X for money, sensing that X has a surplus, X now takes a risk by being "traditional" and giving Y money. Often, X will never see any reciprocity in return. If Y can always get money from X, why should Y bother working at all?

Far easier to wait till X earns some money, then come around for a share of it. This system cannot last for long, since X and Y are of no mutual benefit to each other.

Like a parasite that stupidly kills itself by killing its host, X and Y are both losing through Y's lack of reciprocity. In this way, a traditional system, born of practicality, is made to become singularly unworkable and un-traditional.

The potential breakdown of this system worried pre-colonial Inuit, as well. Being fully aware that the system depended upon reciprocity, they were quick to shame anyone who exhibited gluttony by the Inuit standard.

Several popular stories and monsters exemplified the glutton figure, and served as a caution against such deviancy. The best such example is the story of the blind son deliberately starved by his own blood.

Taitsumaniguuq:

Three people sat starving. One was an old woman, the other her daughter, and the other her son, who was utterly blind. No one is sure why they sat starving in their slowly melting igluvigaq (snow-house); perhaps it was that the old woman's husband had died out on the Land, taking the dogs with him. Yet, regardless of the reason, the three of them sat waiting for the thaw, or death, whichever came first. And all were going increasingly mad with hunger.

There was an ice-window in the igluvigaq, and it was one day obscured by something moving around outside. The women looked up to see the face of a bear, looking in on them. They began to scream. Once the blind son understood what was happening, he cried,

"Mother! I'll try to drive it off with the spear! Someone hand me the spear and guide me as I stab!"

He felt the spear being placed in his hands, just in time for his sister to scream that the bear was wriggling its way into the igluvigaq.

(Concluded in Part Three.)

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Glutton (Part one)

RACHEL QITSUALIK

I have never seen a people who so enjoy their own food as Inuit. If there is one thing that modern Inuit have completely in common with their ancient ancestors, it is the joy that overcomes them when they are presented with a feast of traditional foods, or "country food," as people are calling it now.

While Inuit have always had guidelines for what portions go to which family members (on a fish, for example, the choice lower-middle part is the so-called "woman's part"), there is no cap on the quantity that one can consume. When a particular catch is brought home for dinner, it is generally quite a lot of food at a given time - a load of arm-length fish, a seal, a caribou, etc.

Consequently, there is enough food for everyone to eat until sated. The culture around eating reflects this expectation, so there is often no delicacy or restraint involved when Inuit eat traditional food. Old, young, male, female, it doesn't matter - all descend upon the food with equal passion.

Southerners who are invited to such meals generally eat very differently from Inuit. Even if they enjoy Inuit food, they often have powerful cultural inhibitions against freely digging in and eating as much as they please - quite understandable, since most Occidental cultures have long been used to carefully portioning out their meals. Of old, consideration for others meant eating with restraint.

It is important to remember that, while technology can be a boon to a culture, it can also be a curse, setting new standards that the culture must meet in order to survive. One such standard was set in the Europe of the late 900s (near the end of Europe's "Dark Ages").

Around the time Eric the Red was unknowingly on his way to a place he would dub "Greenland," Europe experienced one of its most important technological revolutions. In the West Frankish realm (soon to become France), horseshoes, horse collars, and mouldboard plows suddenly came into use. Until this time, a primitive plow was arduously pulled through rough ground by an unshod horse with a strap across its windpipe.

With the sudden innovation of horseshoes, a horse could work longer hours over rough ground. A proper collar allowed it to pull a more efficient plough with its shoulders, rather than its throat. This new technology caused an agricultural explosion, allowing Europeans to farm expansively in areas that had hitherto been too rough to tackle. The result was a corresponding population explosion, so that new states were founded in even the farthest reaches of Europe.

The problem with this is that it set a new precedent. As centuries rolled by, ever expanding populations caused deforestation and the extinction of the larger animals. After a while, hunting was forbidden to all but the nobility, who, by the way, were eventually the only ones eating meat. All but these elite were subsisting on grains, and even then, off of the cheapest grains. The rich ate wheat - everyone else ate millet.

It was actually the colonial effort of later centuries that greatly improved the diet of the average southerner. Such colonists, wherever they went, found vast tracts of land that were perfect for cultivating herds. Being from highly competitive, overpopulated lands, they simply could not see how aboriginal peoples were putting their lands to any "use."

So they set to using the colonized lands in the same way that they would have back home - for agriculture. This time, however, there was a lot of room and a lot of grass, perfect for sheep and cattle. As more time went by, the average southerner got used to a diet of meat again.

The times of plenty and scarcity in the South have nevertheless continued to fluctuate, of course, and southern culture is now entering another one of those times when the average person has to worry about protein.

The South has run out of room for its herds again, becoming increasingly dependent upon the pasta and bread products provided by grain harvests. Southern meat is increasingly expensive, and truly good meat (by Inuit standards) is increasingly unavailable. Not coincidentally, we are seeing an upswing in the popularity of sauces and spice-mixes that are meant to improve, or at least conceal, the taste of less-than-choice meat.

More and more, eating until sated is identified with gluttony.

(Continued in Part two.)

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Baby thief (Part three)

RACHEL QITSUALIK

Taitsumaniguuq:

On a dreaded winter's day, the sort that makes old injuries ache, the adults decided to lift their spirits by holding a drum-dance. One particular couple were off to the communal hall, leaving a grandmother to look after their boy. So it was that the old woman was alone and dozing, when she heard an odd noise near the entrance of the igluvigaq (snow-house).

There was no sign of her grandson. She crawled outside to spot a lone figure speeding away - something bent like an aged crone, smoky hair streaming out behind it as it loped with unnatural speed. It was gigantic, double a man's size, and upon its back was a vast amouti hood, heavy with something struggling therein. And the woman knew that her grandchild had been stolen by a creature known as the amoutalik.

She held only her ulu (crescent-knife) in hand. She could never catch up with the amoutalik. But she sang a little song she knew, sang it at her ulu, instilling in it her will that the amoutalik should become hindered hereafter. With this, she cast the blade at the creature, crying,

"Be confounded!"

The amoutalik ran until it disappeared from sight.

The old woman quickly stopped the drum-dance, informing the boy's parents of what had happened. She told them that, with her will upon the amoutalik, they might have a chance of tracking it down.

Indeed, the parents tracked the amoutalik with ease, and soon came to its igluvigaq.

Now, the captive boy had spent hours with the amoutalik, which was already referring to him as, "my son." Its face reminded him of nothing so much as an old raven, and its filthy igluvigaq was filled with lice the size of lemmings. He was already feeling weak, sore, covered in bites, certain that he would not survive for long.

He was longing for home, looking out the ice-window, when he spotted his parents standing outside. Emotion played across his face, and the amoutalik asked,

"What are you looking at, my son?"

"N-nothing," he said. "Just... two old ravens."

Then his grandmother's will began more of its work against the amoutalik. It became confused.

"I never noticed," it said, "there are too many lice here. Too many lice..."

The great hag began to systematically beat all of the skins in the igluvigaq, trying to shake the lice off. It beat at its own clothes. The boy was afraid that, at any moment, the amoutalik would beat him as well, so he carefully slipped out of the igluvigaq while the creature was preoccupied.

His parents met him outside, and the three fled together. They left the amoutalik beating at lice in the winter dark, and everyone closely guarded their children after that.

The End.

If we need evidence that baby-theft is not a singularly Inuit fear, we need only look toward world folklore. The faery lore of Europe is rife with the belief that faeries steal human children, replacing them with wizened substitutes called "changelings." Polish folklore has a similarly inclined race of wild women called "Dwiwozony." Finnish lore has a female night-demon called the "sukusendal."

Even more common is the belief in female monsters that simply wish to kill human children. In this way, the Inuit amoutalik becomes almost identical to the "black annis" of Scotland.

Similar creatures include the dancing "hotots" of Armenia; the cave-dwelling "kakamora" of Melanesia; the prowling "nocnitsa" of Eastern Europe. Judeo-Christian apocrypha includes "Lilith," the failed first wife of Adam, a consummate child-killer. And there is, of course, "Hansel and Gretel," featuring the archetypal, Occidental ogre-crone who devours children (but only once fattened - a finicky eater.)

So why is humanity anxiety-ridden that its children might be attacked by she-demons?

The answer is perhaps that the anxiety is deliberate. Folklore is important because it represents a pre-manufactured answer to a question that has yet to be asked. This particularly suits Inuit culture, where it is bad manners to lecture directly. Far better to help someone come to a conclusion on their own.

The hag, therefore, is offered as an inverse mother-figure. This baby-thief is offered as the gruesome alternative existence awaiting the child that is not properly attended by its parents.

The folkloric message is simple: Treasure your child. If you do not value it, there are others who may. For the entirely wrong reasons.

Pijariiqpunga.

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