My Journal
10 February, 2021
On days like today the sea, earth, and sky blend together until all the eye can see is white. Such is life inside the Arctic Circle.
Or so the journalist writes. She arrived this Monday, along with a plethora of cameramen and other journalists. I, along with all 74 other villagers, watched them spill like beads out of the tiny aircraft that frequents our town every few months.
They were not from around here. Their skin is too pale and they are too thin. They felt the wind whip around their parkas and they quickly formed into a dense, huddled ball.
“Like a snowball, daddy.” My daughter whispered, trying to stifle a laugh. My wife and I have told her not to laugh at people. In places like Qaanaaq, you can't afford to be on bad terms with anybody. Times are often hard and everyone must help one another. Even in good times, your best friend will grow annoying in close quarters. It is good to have as many people to talk to as possible.
The journalists turn towards us, their faces flushed by the wind or excitement. It is little guess as to the meaning behind their arrival. A little over seventy years ago, no one came to this place. And now, we're famous. Or at least our ice is.
*****
10 February, 2021
I've been thinking about life before the Westerners came. I asked grandfather about it this night. He remembers the time when all the people in the world could be individually named. The world has grown larger since then.
Back then, our village was 40 km south of here. He said that everything the village needed could be made. Trips were made during the winter to nearby villages to trade. But really, he mused, it was to stay in touch. Life was isolated back then before T.V. and telephones.
He turned back to watching the T.V.
*****
11 February, 2011
Everyone knows the story of our village. Even Wikipedia, or so my daughter has said. I can't understand English. She is learning English, so one day she may be more prepared for the future. I don't think she will stay here. The life here is falling apart, slowly.
We used to live 130 km south of here, in Pituffik. Then one day, when my granddad was just a teenager, ships appeared on the horizon. The villagers had seen ships before, of course, but not so many. There were almost as many ships as villagers, and each of these ships contained an uncountable number of people.
The people that emerged were pale skinned and skinny. These, too, the villagers had seen before. There was a trading post near the village, manned by people called Danish. One of the men, Knud Rasmussen, even spoke Greenlandic. How rare and fortunate. We did not mind them. These people were not Danish. They told the villagers that they were called Americans. They did not speak Greenlandic.
The Americans brought their ships and planes. With the permission of the Danish government, they converted Uummannaq into the Thule Air Base.
The villagers were forced to migrate to here, Qaanaaq, where we lived in tents for months until houses were hastily constructed during the winter. We are a hardy people, and we are used to adapting to the land. Yet we have not forgotten this injustice. To this day, we are not allowed to move back.
*****
11 February, 2021
Not that all of us would chose to move back, given the chance. Less than two decades after the Americans were using their base, one of their planes fell from the sky. It landed in the frozen waters – maybe they couldn't tell the difference between the land and the sea, like these journalists.
The plane contained nuclear bombs. Most of the parts were recovered. But the waters are still contaminated and the creatures that make their home in those waters are similarly spoiled. Scientists have come here occasionally and they report high levels of plutonium and uranium. The chain of life is complex and the sea changes frequently. I sometimes wonder if my daughter has ingested plutonium.
Besides this singular catastrophe, the Americans also keep over fifty nuclear dumpsites at their base. Maybe the land is like the contaminated sea. The Danish government said that they would not allow nuclear bombs. They lied. We started disliking the Danish almost as much as the Americans.
No one cared when these events happened. Yet now, they come to take pictures of us. They ask us how we feel about climate change, about the foreign pollution causing our village to suffer. We have already suffered.
*****
12 February, 2011
The journalists take pictures of the sea today. As if they can tell it apart from the land and sky. But maybe even they can see the dark blue patches of water amidst the ice. This time of year, the ice should be thick and strong. When I was a child, my father would take me hunting out on the ice. The dogs would carry us swiftly and surely. Dogs are our best transportation. Not even the new motorized boats can replace a good dog team on ice.
But the ice isn't like it used to be. It cracks easily. Several villagers have died from unexpected cracks and breakage. And many dogs have starved.
We hunt on the ice during the winter for a reason. The sea animals must come up for air eventually and the ice lets us take advantage of that. For a successful hunt, the ice must be thick enough to withhold my weight and the dogs' weight. Now, it sets later and breaks earlier. These winters, I do not kill as many sea animals. Seals and walrus are all we subside on during the long, dark winters. My dogs lose more and more weight.
The journalists take pictures of the dogs, as well.
*****
12 February, 2021
Poisoning occurs in many ways. There have been studies showing high levels of radioactivity in some of the sea-dwelling creatures. And I do worry about contamination.
But there is an even bigger pollutant to worry about. Mercury. It is in all forms of sea-life, from the smallest to the largest animals. We eat those animals. Our diet has served our people well over the centuries; now it may be slowly killing us.
*****
13 February, 2021
Every couple of years, the weather is particularly warm and the ice stays broken later and later into the winter. This used to be a rarity. Now, less time passes before each new warm year appears. This is one of those years – the worst yet, as far as I can recall.
The first time a warm year hit, we were unprepared. It was in the early 2000's. The other hunters and I had to appeal to the Home Rule government. They flew in bags of dog food. It is not what my dogs are used to, but what else could they eat?
I do not always agree with Home Rule policies, but I am glad they did this. I wonder – how often will they help my dogs? Moreover, how much longer will I keep asking them for help? A hunter's main accomplishment is self-sufficiency. There is no point in keeping the dogs if I must resort to begging.
A hunter is nothing without his dogs.
*****
14 February, 2021
I wrote previously that a hunter is nothing without his dogs. I lied. A hunter is nothing without an apprentice. Ujuut, Qila's son was going to learn from me. But he has left for Nuuk now. He sees that there is nothing to be gained from a hunting lifestyle.
My skills will not be passed onto another generation. Even if I had a son instead of a daughter, I wouldn't make him follow our traditions. There is no livelihood in hunting nowadays. To think, less than a century ago, there was no other option. How fast the world seems to change.
*****
15 February, 2021
Our ancestors have told tales about nature. It is always changing, alternating between long periods of warming and cooling. The journalists tell us similar things.
They say that the ice breaks because of global warming. As a result of increased CO2 and other green house gas emissions, the planet is warming imperceptibly. It fits with our stories. I hope the cooling period will begin again soon, but I know better than to expect it during my lifetime. I only hope that some of our traditions will be preserved, so that when the ice thickens once again, my great-grandchildren will know how to survive in the harsh winters.
But the journalists say that the earth will never get colder. I am not so sure.
*****
16 February, 2021
The journalists keep talking. They tell us that global warming is irreversible. Many native animals will migrate or will die. They tell us we should migrate.
The journalists took their final pictures and wrote their stories. I read a couple. They use words like desolate, empty, and barren when describing the land. The land that has supported me and my father and my ancestors for generations with its life. They only see the snow and ice and the overwhelming whiteness.
Why do the foreigners always tell us to leave?
*****
03 June, 2021
The land is not as white. If only the journalists would be here now! There are some shrubs and lichen spread out like a blanket upon the ground. But the land is more barren than usual.
Less baby seals were born and survived this spring. I think many of them are migrating further north. Perhaps our village should start following them. There's not much further they can go until the land ends.
The melting ice is also a problem for the seals. During the winter, it provides protection from me and my dogs, but during the spring the females have trouble finding suitable dens in which to hide their offspring. The only time I have seen polar bears this year have been near exposed seal dens. The village managed to kill one – a great test of skill and strength. But many of the polar bears are also migrating north. At least the caribou and musk ox are still available.
*****
21 September, 2021
I have begun to give great thought to the journalists' parting words. It is winter again and the ice isn't hardening. The animals' migration patterns are still shifting. It is time to move.
I am not afraid of change. We have lived in this harsh world of snow and ice for a long time. My ancestors knew when to stay and when to migrate. Yet that is where our similarities will part ways. My ancestors moved to follow the food. I will still be following the food, but in a more abstract sense. I've heard rumors that the south is experiencing better economic conditions. They actually celebrate the warmer weather. There's talk of growing plants and harvesting oil and gems. Though I see much in this land that the foreigner cannot, these ideas are inconceivable to me.
Nevertheless, there is nothing left for us here. If we leave for Nuuk, my daughter will have a chance to go to a real school. Perhaps she will learn to live and prosper in this new world.
I will continue to hunt. Even though we are moving to a larger town, we are still surrounded by snow and ice. But I fear that I am becoming a relic of old times. Yet I am still young and strong enough to hunt a polar bear.
*****
03 October, 2021
Nuuk is much warmer, but then again, it is much further south. Many things remain the same though.
My father still watches T.V. all day. My wife cooks and works. My daughter attends school.
She is growing older and I worry for her. I had thought coming to the city would be good for her development – now I am not so sure.
Teenage adolescence is always difficult. But the teenagers around these parts... they have sunken eyes. They drink themselves into a stupor. I don't think they are fully a part of this world. My daughter came home last night with similar-smelling breath. I hope she will not follow the fate of many of these youths.
I have begun to notice other differences too. The people don't eat the traditional diet. They don't seem as healthy. For all the talk of economic growth and progress, there's a lurking feeling of depression surrounding everything. Some of the more disillusioned youths have sought a way out altogether.
Life was much simpler further north. I do not understand the appeal of suicide.
*****
25 January, 2022
My father died today. He lived a long number of years and had a fulfilling life. He was the one to teach me hunting techniques.
As I looked at his still form, glassy eyes trained onto the T.V., I began to understand that there are worse things than losing your home or livelihood. We have survived harsh winds and long winters. We have coped with forced migration, increased pollution, and melting ice. Yet now, in a time full of supposed prosperity, we have lost the most critical thing of all: our culture.
*****
11 February, 2022
The Greenlandic ice sheets continues to melt, eroding both glaciers and Inuit culture. I am becoming a ghost amongst my own people.
I am not alone. In islands vastly different from my own, where the weather is hot and snow never falls, other cultures are disappearing. Literally. The islands are slowly sinking from an influx of Greenlandic water into the oceans. Neither we nor they have caused this.
Halfway around the world, climate change has irrevocably linked and damned our cultures.