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Nunani

March 7, 2003 - Fox day, wolf night
March 14, 2003 - Sliding under the full moon
March 21, 2003 - Riddle me this… (Part one)
March 28, 2003 - Riddle me this… (Part Two)

Nunani

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March 7, 2003

Fox day, wolf night

RACHEL QITSUALIK

I was on the phone, chatting with an English friend living in Ontario. I was telling her that I was sick of people complaining about the winter darkness.

It wasn't bothering me. I had missed the North, since work had necessitated some years in the South, and the darkness just seemed like a comforting reminder that I was back home (mind you, I later became sick of it and am now glad that the days are lengthening).
Anyway, in telling my friend about the short days, I noted her odd response.

"Oh, they're short here too, dear."

She didn't know much about the Arctic, and I kept trying to get across to her that Arctic days were really short.

"No, you don't get it," I said. "By six o'clock, it's pitch black. It's like blackest night in Ontario, like one in the morning."

"Oh," she chuckled, "nobody likes winter. It's always hard on my arthritis."
She was old. Maybe, I reasoned, she was just being intractable, set in her ways. I decided to keep trying.

"No, you're not listening," I said. "It's an Arctic thing."

"Now, dear," she again chuckled, "remember that winter is always a bit darker. You know, the sun is going down as early as 5:30 now."

"That's my point," I said. "It's going down at 5:30 where you are. It's going down at 2:30 here."

"Oh, stop exaggerating, dear. I can see by the clock when the sun goes down. We're all on one world, aren't we? The sun doesn't stay up at different times."

"Well, yes it does," I argued. "Think of time zones. They denote where the sun appears to a population at a certain point in the Earth's rotation. So the sun is going up and down at different times, relativistically."

"Yes," she said stiffly. "But there are only so many time zones, aren't there? And they still work up there, same as down here, or you wouldn't be able to phone me, true?"

"Yeah, but..."

The whole thing was reminding me of an Inuit etiological myth. Once, before many of the things we know today, there existed a couple of friends: a wolf and a fox. In those times, darkness reigned. All creatures hunted by lamplight. Animals had power, being able to transform themselves in order to use tools.

But, even so, some were getting sick of the darkness. One of these was the fox, who one day told the wolf that someone should will the world to be light all the time. The wolf, however, preferred to hunt in the dark, insisting that a world full of light would be annoying. So the two fell into bitter quarreling. As they did so, their powers manifested. The world grew alternately light and dark, sun and shadow circling each other menacingly.

But in the end, the fox was somewhat weaker than the wolf. Their friendship damaged beyond repair, the two went their separate ways, and now the night and the day circle each other forever more, with the darkness being somewhat more prevalent than the light.

It is interesting that night and day, darkness and light, warmth and cold, are often associated with argumentation. Two things that people never get sick of arguing about are light and temperature levels. To my amazement, I found that even Pacific Northwest Coast peoples have a day-night myth identical to the Inuit one. Wasps and bears take the place of fox and wolf, and they argue with song.

It seems that the animals in such stories almost certainly represent conflicting human opinions that just won't quit, an ancient acknowledgment that people get in arguments over the oddest things. And as with our mythical animals, arguments between humans may have far-reaching consequences, especially when both parties become entrenched.

So what did I do about my friend who refused to admit that the daylight exhibits unique Arctic behaviour? I changed the subject. After all, I do not want us to become the fox and wolf. But perhaps this was always the point of the myth. Rather than serving to explain night and day, maybe it was really meant as a cautionary tale against needless conflict. One way or another, sometimes it is best to leave a friend to exist peacefully in their world, while remaining at peace within our own.

Pijariiqpunga.

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March 14, 2003

Sliding under the full moon

RACHEL QITSUALIK

Moonlight draped its ghostly pallor over the hills behind our house. New snow crunched underfoot. We children had been left to entertain ourselves. I had my little sister in tow, on a piece of sealskin. I think my parents had hoped that she would soften it for them.

The first stop was Anna’s place (not her real name). She was the closest available playmate, but she was delicate, too-often sad, disturbed about something. Sure enough, we entered her small hut to see her sniffling in the corner.

We hung around for a bit, but I could tell that there would be no playing with her today. Her father had been at her again. He was a vulpine man who rarely had anything good to say about anyone.

When he did, his words were always chosen to hurt someone else. He eyed us suspiciously, eating his canned tomatoes in silence, while we tried to cheer Anna. To my surprise, he finally offered my little sister one. He followed the act by wondering aloud why my little sister was so cute, while I was not.

Simultaneously, he motioned to offer me tomatoes, while carefully keeping the can out of reach. When I grow up, I thought furiously, I’m going to be just as mean to you.

Next stop was Sammy’s house. He had an actual replica of a sled, complete with rope lashing. I was always begging my father to build me one (mostly so I could steal our most important dog, Kusik, for practice sledding), but it would remain to the future for him to do so.

For now, we had only the sealskin and Sammy’s sled. So up the hill we trundled, with me having to push-pull my little sister along. It was like carting a huge stuffed doll with a will of its own, just heavy enough to be tiring. The silver moon was now high overhead. Usually, the dogs howled this time of night, but a spell of quietude seemed to have been cast over the frozen expanse. At the top of the hill, I stared at the night, marvelled at the number of stars.

Then the magic died. Once we began, the sliding was barely worth having to drag my sister up the hill each time. Whenever I ended up at the bottom, it was to find her still face-down, as though she had been shot, her mitts having flown off somewhere. Frustrated, I resorted to piggybacking her, sealskin rolled under my arms. Sammy and his sled always seemed ready to go, bunny-power incarnate, compared to our turtle progress.

In one stolen moment, I tossed my sister onto the oncoming sled and managed a little solo trip down. At the bottom, I was greeted by the sight of her once again. There she was, like a great fish, limbs moving idly in the snow, waiting for me to right her. She was just about upside-down.

Sammy was already halfway up the hill, and I stared after him enviously.

A brutal thought came over me then. What if I just left my sister where she was? I could go sledding. If she wanted to continue, she could damn well get up and play like the rest of us. I had reached the very pinnacle of my resentment at having to shepherd her.

Today, I understand where the feeling came from, although it was beyond me then. In a way, I had been poisoned. Venom had been working its way through me. Anna’s father was a miserable man. Something in his past had poisoned him, and when I visited, he had tried to pass it on to me.

His was an emotional toxin, withering poor Anna over time. If he was successful, I would pass it on to my sister forever more. He meant to kill my relationship with her because, in his wretchedness, affection had become anathema to him. Like a breeding mosquito, he would perpetuate his cycle.

I picked my sister up out of the snow, as always. We sledded until we got cold, and went inside.

Many years later, I again saw that man, Anna’s father. He was old, lonely, deflated. I was tempted to tell him that his trick had failed, but it was obvious that life had already repaid him in full.

Some cycles deserve to be broken.

Pijariiqpunga.

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March 21, 2003

Riddle me this...
(Part one)

RACHEL QITSUALIK

When hunting and wandering inland I must as often as I can make offerings to animals that I hunt, or to the dead who can help me, or to lifeless things, especially stones or rocks, that are to have offerings for some reason or other.

I must make my own soul as strong as I can, and for the rest seek strength and support in all the power that lies in the name. I must observe my forefathers’ rules of life in hunting customs and taboo, which are nearly all directed against the souls of dead people or dead animals.

—Elder’s answer to Rasmussen’s question, "What do you most desire?"

What man is so mind-strong and spirit shrewd
He can say who drives me in my fierce strength
On fate’s road when I rise with vengeance,
Ravage the land, with a thundering voice
Rip folk-homes, plunder the hall-wood:
Gray smoke rises over rooftops — on earth
The rattle and death-shriek of men. I shake
The forest, blooms and boles, rip trees,
Wander, roofed with water, a wide road,
Pressed by might. On my back I bear wide sended;
The water that once wrapped earth-dwellers,
Flesh and spirit.
Say who shrouds me
And what I am called who carry these burdens?

—Ancient Anglo-Saxon riddle

Anyone spending enough time talking to Inuit elders eventually realizes that doing so is tricky. If you are patient and respectful, you will find that part of an elder’s charm is that he or she rarely gives a straight answer. If you are impatient and disrespectful, you will be annoyed by that very same quality.

One of the things to understand is that a true elder (not merely an old person, but one of known wisdom and experience) possesses a mind steeped in "classic" Inuktitut thought-patterns. While modern Inuktitut has been heavily influenced by English (or French), so that it has begun to express itself in Qallunaatitut (i.e., non-Inuit) ways of thinking, classic Inuktitut still derives from a pre-colonial mind set.

So what does all this mean? It means that, when an elder talks, he or she typically proceeds from old, even ancient, cultural assumptions. One of the most important of these is that you do not advise the elder; the elder advises you. Another is that you are not to guess at an elder’s mind. Guessing at someone’s opinion might, at first, seem like a way to prove mutual understanding, but in classic Inuktitut, it is utter rudeness. In classic Inuktitut thought, someone’s mind is their only true property. Only the owner may comment on it. The older the mind, the more this is so.

The worst thing one can do, in the presence of an elder, is to comment on their thoughts or opinions. Such a thing is considered no less than a challenge to the integrity of their private mind, their isuma. The traditional way for an elder to deal with this is play the trickster, to begin a pattern of contradiction. For example: Ironically, by writing this of elders, I am committing the very faux pas that I am cautioning against (but essay writing demands a Qallunaatitut mode of expression, so this is the only way to set things down).

If an elder were to hear me talking of contradiction in elders, the elder’s response might be to contradict me, saying, "No, elders don’t always contradict people who question them." Dizzying, isn’t it? But this is what happens when English thought meets classic Inuktitut thought. Contradiction is the old Inuktitut way of repelling a challenge to one’s isuma. It is meant to puzzle and confuse.

In being an interpreter, my experience with non-Inuit who meet elders (sometimes even younger Inuit unused to elders) is that they expect pearls of wisdom to immediately drop from every elder’s mouth. They expect the elders depicted in movies: direct and verbal. Too often, they blow it by trying to "identify" with the elder, trying to impress them with how much they already know. This, of course, merely sparks playful contradiction.

Even more often, individuals are left discomfitted by an elder’s prolonged silence, or cryptic references that seemingly have nothing to do with the "topic" at hand. Sometimes, it seems like the elder tosses out nothing but riddles. They take control of the clock, and are anything but direct.

(Concluded in part two.)

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March 28, 2003

Riddle me this…
(Part two)

RACHEL QITSUALIK

English is a time-sensitive language, derived from the cultural traditions of densely populated areas, where time has become a precious resource over the centuries. Today, more than ever, English speakers must obey strict time limits, whether for the sake of formality, or simple politeness.

Among Inuit, there was much more time available in the old days, so that someone whose opinion was asked had the right to speak at will — especially if that someone was an elder.

But these are not the old days, and many elders, now faced with time-constraints upon their opinions, simply opt for silence. An instant contradiction is set by asking an elder to express their opinion within an hour. To many elders, being asked to time their opinion is tantamount to a violation of isuma, their personal mind, so that they simply refuse to speak at all. Tragically, much traditional knowledge dies in this way.

So, if Inuit are known for such adaptability, why can elders not adapt to modern time constraints? The answer to this lies in the very nature of an elder’s expertise.

Elders are experts on one thing: life. They represent a peculiar combination of life experience and acute awareness of that experience. Their magic lies in the way they talk, the way they teach.

Put a cap on an elder’s time and you will not hear the hidden music they create as they speak, the things to be learned from tales of their suffering and triumphs, the hardships they have endured upon the land, and their intense love of the same.

Unless you let them speak at will, you will never quite see the tears of what they once hoped for, and lost, nor will you come to see the sudden youthful flash in their eyes as they recount a blessed moment. Your life will be no different, because you will have taken in nothing of theirs.

It is important to remember that elders communicate in a kind of "elderspeak." To the unwise (or impatient or disrespectful), they will always seem silly and whimsical.

Their stories may at first seem rambling, nonsensical. This is not eccentricity, but their way of teaching. Qallunaatitut used to use a similar way, known as "riddling." While, today, we think of riddles as something to make children giggle, there was a time in Europe and the ancient world when they were a valuable learning tool, serving to jar the brain into lateral thought. They encouraged imagination (which Einstein called more important than intelligence), non-linear thinking, and most importantly: culture.

The hints to the solution of a given riddle were often symbols relevant to its culture, such as a style of clothing or domestic activity. Riddles were once a fundamental part of the Qallunaatitut oral tradition, and the wisdom of individuals was marked by the number of riddles they knew.

Riddling and "elderspeak" are related by way of their teasing method of inviting a listener’s mind to untangle what it is hearing. They invite the listener to draw their own conclusions from the lesson, a highly personalized way of learning, at once stimulating the brain’s ability to think creatively — a skill especially crucial to survival in the times when Inuit were nomads or when Europeans learned by their oral tradition.

Riddling has lost its significance in the impatient modern era, where lazy minds are allowed to flourish, and the way in which elders traditionally teach is going the same way for the same reason.

But it is possible that this style of teaching is simply fading because it is too subtle for its own good. After all, there is a lot to distract modern people, whether Inuit or Qallunaat. There probably is not much hope of resurrecting the riddling tradition, but as far as elders go, we still have some available to listen to, if we are willing to do so in the proper way.

The oral tradition is disappearing, and that is a fact. While this is saddening, it is simply a result of changing times.

But the loss of the oral tradition only becomes a true tragedy if we fail to record the knowledge that passes with the elders. We children are blessed in that we have this one fading chance to exercise patience, and hear the voice of tradition.

Pijariiqpunga.

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