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Nunani

January 4, 2002 - Is desperate celebration a return to old ways?
January 11, 2002 - Vanished: Part one
January 25, 2002 - Vanished: Part two

My Little Corner of Canada

January 4 , 2002 - Humour and forgiveness are the best gifts of all
January 11 , 2002 - Predictions for 2002

My Little Corner of Canada

January 4, 2002
Humour and forgiveness are the best gifts of all

JOHN AMAGOALIK

"Ring...ring."

"Hello, Santa speaking."

"Hello Santa, this is the Little Corner calling for our annual chat."

"Well, hello Little Corner. I didn't really expect to hear from you. Things have not gone well for you this year, I see."

"Yes, 2001 has been a year of setbacks and unpleasant experiences for me. To quote Queen Elizabeth II, this was the annus horribilius."

"Ho, ho. I am glad to see you still have your sense of humour."

"Humour is good medicine. I think I have also learned to be more humble. You learn from this stuff. The twists and turns of life."

"It's important to have a positive attitude when life throws you a curve, Little Corner. What else have you learned from this ... stuff."

"I have learned that forgiveness is also good medicine. I have forgiveness in my heart. It makes the bitterness go away."

"You must also have had a lot of support during your difficulties, I'm sure."

"Yes, I want to thank the members of my local church, all my friends, cousins and the citizens of Iqaluit in general who have been so kind to me these past few months."

"How is your hockey team doing?"

"It's doing pretty well. The team is in first place in the East and I'm keeping my fingers crossed. I'm still concerned about defence, but if Kaberle can step up, the team might go far this year."

"Well, I hope you will be watching your team playing in June. Did you have any special wishes for Christmas?"

"Yeah, I hope you had time to make a special visit to my grandchildren Oqai, Joanasie, Chun Chun, Alisha and Geeteeta."

"I've made a note of that. Well, Little Corner, I hear Mrs., Claus calling. I think she wants me to help with the dishes, so I have to go."

"Merry Christmas, Santa. I'll call you again next year."

"Good-bye, Little Corner. May God bless your house."

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January 11, 2002

Predictions for 2002

The past year has been a tough and unpredictable one, but with any luck, 2002 will bring change and renewal in the realms of federal and territorial politics and, of course, sports.

• Osama bin Laden and Mullah Omar will both be found.

• Saddam Hussein will be the next target in the war against terrorism.

• There will be more floods and droughts around the world as the effects of climate change become more evident.

• There will be more evidence that Jean Chrétien should retire — soon.

• Brian Tobin will emerge as Paul Martin’s main challenger for the leadership of the Liberal Party.

• Canadians will get bored with the Canadian Alliance as the party agonizes over which political midget should become their leader.

• Joe Clark will resign as leader of the Progressive Conservative Party as reality finally sets in.

• The New Democratic Party will finally realize that they need to reinvent themselves.

• Bernard Landry and the Parti Québecois will be desperate to keep separatism alive in Quebec.

• The Bloc Québecois will start to run out of gas.

• Nunavut MLAs will begin campaigning for the election in 2003.

• NTI’s leadership will continue to be surrounded by unsettled waters.

• Lennox Lewis will knock out Mike Tyson in the fourth round in their championship fight.

• The United States women’s hockey team will win Olympic gold at Salt Lake City.

• The Detroit Red Wings will win the Stanley Cup, defeating the New York Rangers in six games.

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Nunani

January 4, 2002
Is desperate celebration a return to old ways?

Seven times down, eight times up.
- from the 18th century Japanese Hagakure

RACHEL ATTITUQ QITSUALIK

I've never known an Inuk to get upset because I didn't send a Christmas card.

However, I remembered recently that a friend of mine of Scottish ancestry was hurt one year because I didn't send her a card.
"It's Christmas!" she cried. "You always send people cards around Christmas! That's how it's done! That's how it's always been done!"

"But I'm calling you on the phone," I said (I was in the North at the time). "We're able to talk. Isn't that better than some piece of paper with cheap glittery stuff on it?"

"Well look, Rachel, I'm glad to hear from you and all. But, next time, send a card too," she said. "It's a tradition. Christmas isn't quite right without it."

I conceded, thoroughly chastened. And I did try to remember to send cards for a while, but soon I forgot again. I can't help it - I dislike cards intensely. They are someone else's thoughts racked up for purchase and they seem, therefore, somehow insincere.

So I was surprised to discover that card-giving is a fairly recent invention. It began in Victorian England and has been in practice for only about a century, compared with the seventeen centuries December 25th (a date fixed by Pope Julius I) has officially been the Mass of Christ.

I've been thinking about this because I've heard a lot of chatter about the meaning of Christmas. But I'm disappointed that it's often just treated as a huge party.

Christmas is a version of the winter festival celebrated by many cultures. Some of these celebrations began centuries before Christ. If you're Christian, it makes sense that the celebration is in honour of Christ. But for non-Christians, the winter festival is no less real, no less necessary.

Celebrations are necessary because it is the time before the worst of winter begins. It is a pause in normal events. All the cultures that endure winter have some kind of festival during this time, in anticipation of the hardships on the horizon.

I sometimes refer to it as the timeless festival, because it is as though we pretend, for a brief while, to stop the march of seasons and take time out for the joy of it.

It is no coincidence that the Twelve Days of Christmas cover approximately the same length of time as the traditional Inuit celebration of Quviasugvik. It's just the right amount time to recover from the hardships of the past seasons and prepare for those yet to come.

In even the most ancient cultures, the winter festival was always the time of feasts and games - when labour and normal codes of behaviour were set aside.

I think this is why, as times get tougher, we see more emphasis on desperate celebration, and it seems that Christmas and New Year meld into one. This is not necessarily a bad thing. In a way, it represents an attempt to return to older ways.

So treasure your hard-earned bubble of timelessness and return to work with a lighter heart. Think of it as a kind of "Santa Pause."

Pijariiqpunga.

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January 11, 2002

Vanished: Part one

RACHEL ATTITUQ QITSUALIK

Every culture has its favourite story themes, and Inuit culture is no exception. However, while many cultures share similar tales, some are distinguished by favourite themes uncommon to others. Inuit culture can be distinguished by a love for the "vanishing" tale.

Across the Arctic, Inuit have always told stories of those who vanish — not individuals who vanish (which would make a poor tale, since this would happen all the time), but of entire communities that disappear without a trace. Explorers as early as Rasmussen mentioned these stories in their logs, and most scholars have since assumed that tales of disappearing communities were merely an expression of Inuit fear — terror of a harsh land that might swallow them up, leaving no memory of their passing.

I think the theory reflects only Occidental terrors, and doesn’t apply well to Inuit cultures. For a long time, Occidental peoples have thrived upon trade, often gaining a sense of cultural identity by comparing themselves to adjacent, neighbouring peoples. This is not true of Inuit, who in pre-colonial times did not strongly identify with community existence, since the family was the true social unit. The idea of one’s culture being wiped out or forgotten is mostly an urban, southern concept — something Inuit have only recently learned to fear, since they now have to deal with living adjacent to larger, more aggressive cultures.

A community to Inuit used to be a flexible and temporary thing. Since individuals were trained to be self-reliant, trade was not something that Inuit existence hinged upon. Inuit groups knew of other bands or encampments, but their business was considered to be their own. In other words, pre-colonial Inuit had no interaction with other cultures, no national identity. They didn’t fear extinction, because they believed at that time that they were the only real people in the world.

And yet, stories of vanishing communities created a bond between Inuit.

Taitssumaniguuq:

Once there was a hunter who was a bit of a fool. He didn’t read the sila (weather) very well, and he was out on the land when a storm suddenly came upon him. He tried to race ahead of it, hoping that he could get back to his camp before he got lost. He was unsuccessful, and soon found himself directionless, while the weather only worsened around him. He was very worried, and cursed himself continually, when suddenly he looked up to see a light ahead of him. He was flooded with relief when he realized that it was the glow of an igluvigaq lit from the inside by a woman’s kudliq. He raced toward it, and immediately saw others — a whole encampment of people.

He hitched his dogs hastily, and entered the first shelter he came to. A family was playing string games inside, and looked up in surprise when they saw him enter. Soon they were welcoming him. They laughed and played, and asked him about the lands he came from, while he sipped some of their soup. He felt a shudder of warmth run through him. The only one among them who never spoke or played was a young boy, an iliaq (orphan) by his appearance. The boy watched the others sullenly, idly picking at his ragged clothes. He seemed thin and wasted, and rarely ate. The hunter followed the example of the others, ignoring the boy, thinking he was probably addle-brained.

Soon, the hunter was settled down with these strange people, who were extremely friendly toward him. They had only dried meat and soup to offer him, but he happily accepted these, and they soon encouraged him to get some rest. He was feeling very warm and cared for, when the people around him began to talk about other things they had to do, other people they had to visit in other homes. They told him to get some sleep — that once he awakened, refreshed, he could stay or go as he pleased.

He had not slept for long when he was suddenly shaken awake. It was the iliaq boy, leaning over him and hissing in his ear,

"You are among a terrible people. They enjoy murdering people, and even now are fetching a large stone to kill you with."

(Continued next week.)

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January 25, 2002

Vanished: Part two

RACHEL ATTITUQ QITSUALIK

The hunter was still sleep-addled and could hardly believe what the iliaq (orphan) boy was telling him. His hosts had been kind. How could it be that they wanted to murder him? But the boy shook him violently.

"Go! Go or they’ll kill you!" he cried.

So the hunter crept from the igluvigaq. As he did so, he paused, hearing voices in the distance. It was his hosts, arguing about the size of stone with which to crush his head.

Creeping over to their sleds, he sabotaged them, cutting all their dog leads so that they would have difficulty following him. Then he raced away on his kamotik, leaving them behind.

The hunter eventually found his way home, whereupon he told his family and friends about the strange community he had fled. There were many nods, for they had heard of such evil peoples, and they were enraged to hear that such a group had tried to murder one of their own.

A number of men — including the hunter himself — wanted to seek revenge. They wanted to make sure this monstrous community never had a chance to kill anyone else. Many days later, they eventually summoned up enough courage to attack this strange people. It took some searching around, but the hunter finally led some men back to it. They were armed with bows and man-killing barbed arrows.

They used all of their stealth to creep in upon the edges of the community, but not one of them could spot any people. There were no dogs, either. Closer and closer they crept, until they finally entered the community itself, stalking from igluvigaq to igluvigaq.

They were awe-struck to the point where they could think of nothing to say to one another. The murderers had entirely vanished. The camp was still there — just no people. They searched in and out of every igluvigaq. Over here, there still lay an unfinished needle someone had been carving. Over there lay a boot, partly sewn. A child’s toy lay on the floor, as though suddenly dropped. But the lamps were all dead and cold. There was no blood, nor any sign of conflict. Every living creature in the camp had simply disappeared.

The stomachs of the men were churning with dread. They touched nothing in that camp, not even the food that lay uneaten.

With little other than fearful nods to each other, the men went home. And they travelled in silence all the way back. They each told their wives and families of what they had seen, in voices laced with fear. But they never spoke of these happenings again — until many years later, in whispered tales as the flames burned low, when their children’s children were gathered ’round to hear of things forbidden and dreadful.

There are numerous versions of this tale. In many, the mystery people are cannibals. In some, they are deformed. Many versions simply have the hunter passing through the community, in which the people are a bit shifty, only to have him return at a later time and find them gone.

Across the world, we can find many instances of the "punished community" — cultures that have been blasted away for their sins before the gods, or before God. But the Inuit vanishing stories are differ in that no particular force (except perhaps a moral force) punishes the vanished people; they simply disappear without further explanation.

The non-Inuit folktales perhaps most reminiscent of the Inuit vanishing story are European (especially UK) tales of faerie communities, which often involve the so-called "Seelie Court." In some of these tales, a lone traveller stumbles across a party or a kind of meeting of strange beings, who may at first seem like wealthy, hospitable humans, but over time exhibit bizarre tastes or inhuman abilities. Generally, they aren’t out to kill their guest, but he will be unable to escape if he accepts their gifts or eats their food. Sometimes, the guest is warned by a kinder faerie (reminiscent of the iliaq in the Inuit tale), or he may be canny all on his own. He finds clever ways to refuse the faerie hospitality without offending them, and eventually escapes. But if he looks back, or leads others back, he finds that the faeries have vanished without a trace.

(Continued next week.)

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