Akuliaq – The Space Between Two Eyes
My first immersive experience on the land was a week-long canoe and portage trip through the lakes and forests of Algonquin Park, although we didn’t call it “the land.” To our Christian youth group, we were exploring creation, and to honour it, we would sing worship songs around the campfire, pray to the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, and tell stories about people who lived in different eras and continents. I don’t remember seeing any other Indigenous people on that trip. We certainly never spoke of them. Curiously, though, we were guided into the park by Inuksuit scattered atop granite outcroppings that had been blasted out of the Canadian shield to make room for Highway 11. Perhaps it was the creator’s subtle way of revealing itself, a gentle reminder of where I came from, and how Inuit and Indigenous Peoples continue to occupy a large part of Canadian imagination.
I was born and have lived my entire life in the traditional territories of the Anishinaabe, Haudenosaunee, and Huron/ Wendat Peoples. I am a second generation child of the Sixties Scoop, with family ties to Iqaluit, Nunavut. Besides my own, there were many stories that we could have heard about on that trip. We could have learned about the Peacemaker, born to Huron/Wendat on the Northern shores of Lake Ontario, and who travelled in a stone canoe that he built to the southern nations that would later unite to form the Haudenosaunee Confederacy. We could have heard about the seven fires of the Anishinaabe, and their migration from the East Coast inland, which included the Algonquin, namesakes of the park, and who settled along the Kichi Sippi (Ottawa River, “Great river” in Annisnabemoen). We could have recognized that the capital of Canada, built at the mouth of the sacred waterfall Asticou, was never part of any treaty land, and remains unceded Algonquin Territory to this day.
But we didn’t.
Instead, we did as most Canadians do: we pretended that living Indigenous Peoples don’t exist. Not really, at least. And why not? Because Indians and Eskimos are a thing of the past. Our souls had been saved and our savage ways civilized. Therefore, our perceived failure to integrate (assimilate) into wider society is now a reflection of our character and not of our circumstances. Greedy and lazy, that’s what we are, and although few settler Canadians are vocal enough to say it publicly, there are many who speak these words behind closed doors. I know this because I would listen to the white side of my own family, as well as the families of friends in the small white town where I grew up, tell similar myths about Indigenous realities.
For a long time, I did as most children of the native diaspora in Canada do: I internalized racism as shame because I desperately wanted to fit in.
Fortunately, that wasn’t the end of my story. The same shame and curiosity that led me to become a Christian also led me away from the faith, and, in my wandering, I would begin reconnecting with my Inuit heritage. I read books, watched films, eventually went searching for Inuit at Pow Wows, and finally attended an Inuit celebration of the Spring Equinox in Ottawa. I have met my mother, brother and sister, aunts and cousins, as well as community members from across Inuit Nunangat and the circumpolar north. I watched my friend butcher a seal on his front porch in Iqaluit, where, by the end, a crowd of a dozen or so Inuit had gathered with tupperware. I was there when we butchered a seal on the floor of the Art Gallery of Ontario, much to the horror of patrons who were unfamiliar with country food and Inuit cultures. I have eaten Quak (frozen caribou) on the tundra, hiked through the glaciers of Auyuittuq (the place that never melts), toured Qikiqtani (Baffin Island) in an icebreaker from Iqaluit to Qikirtarjuaq, stood beneath Aqsarniit (northern lights), have had snow blasted in my face on board a Qamutik (Inuit sled), and even been honoured with my first Silapaaq (Inuit style sweater) that was made by a friend and Elder living in Southern Ontario. Among all of these experiences, learning my language has been slow and painful. However, in this process, I have learned a simple word that fills me with courage and pride. That word is Akuliaq, and it simply means the space on our nose between our two eyes.
The space between two eyes, or, the way I like to think about it: the space between two ways of seeing the world. This is a powerful image, and one I imagine most can relate to and understand, because if there’s one truth about colonization and consumerism, it’s that they erase cultures. With that said, there is a risk when speaking this way with settler Canadians. When I say space between two ways of seeing the world, the settler mind will almost immediately jump to the perceived purity and innocence of pre-colonial times. Back when Indians were real Indians, and Eskimos were real Eskimos. It turns out that this picture of Indigeneity, as defined by settler Canadians, fails to escape its own way of seeing the world, and, in the process, actively ignores the realities of living Indigenous Peoples.
One experience I’ve had on the long road of personal reconciliation was an invitation to the back room of a museum in Toronto. I was there to lead Inuit games with a friend from Inuvialuit, and museum staff offered the opportunity to examine some of the artifacts that were being held for safekeeping in a drafty and fluorescent room (which, in retrospect, was more like a dungeon holding our cultures prisoner). Despite the gloom, it was nevertheless an exciting moment for me. There I was, eager to learn more about my own history, and ready to see what I had thought were items that might have been too fragile or important to display. What were their stories?
I’ve since learned the term provenance, which means the journey that an artifact has taken throughout its life, and how important these stories are to museums and galleries when they display a piece. What I realized in that silent room, where items from my own antiquity were displayed on a gray fold-out table, was that the museum staff were expecting to hear the same stories from me. These items were here because they didn’t know their provenance, and they gambled on a southern Inuk to fill in the blanks for them. Had they known my own provenance, which is something I’ve never been shy about communicating, they would have probably left that experience to a “real Inuk.” My lack of knowledge was noticeably disappointing and offensive to the staff, and I remember leaving that room feeling like I had done something wrong. Like I had misrepresented myself. It would be a few years still before I was able to recognize what actually happened. They looked through me, like I was invisible, my skin and face a ghost or phantom of what Inuit once were, but now speechless and unable to act in the world.
Since then, my second eye has opened, and I now have the words to tell you what it actually sees. There is a fascination surrounding antiquity and Indigenous Peoples across the globe that often encourages non-Indigenous Peoples to ignore living and breathing Indigenous Persons. I often wonder how anglophone and francophone Canadians would feel if I asked them whether or not they still practice their traditional pioneer cultures. “Why not?” I might ask. “They are such beautiful practices. So thoughtful and pragmatic.” This would seem strange, and the reason is that settler Canadians have given their own cultures permission to evolve. This same allotment is often not extended to Indigenous Peoples. Our cultures and communities were supposed to go gently into that dark night, like the last of the Mohicans–or the people of the deer, for our fans of Canadian literature. This fascination with antiquity extends to how Canadians speak about Indigenous Peoples abroad. A great example is the more than eight million Mayans living today, who are often ignored as we instead fetishize ancient Mayan culture
In the realm of STEAM, culture and science are sometimes perceived as being in conflict. One popular notion is that the role of science is to verify or reject traditional Indigenous knowledge.
The complication of this worldview is that Indigenous knowledge, like Inuit Qaujimajatuqangit, has often guided scientific discovery. The unsung heroes of expeditions, whether they be for research or adventure, are the Indigenous Peoples who ensure all visitors are able to move safely across land, water and ice. Their knowledge and insights, as most travellers can attest to, are more than just invaluable, they are the foundation upon which everything else is built. I know, because these heroes are my family, friends and community. I am a southern Inuk who has been privileged to connect to Inuit Nunangat because they were there to guide me. The last thing they taught me was that our cultures are alive. Inuit Qaujimajatuqangit means “what Inuit have always known to be true”. That’s not a static knowledge system living in a textbook. That’s a dynamic expression of living experiences, and living experiences are cultural knowledge.
We all live in the space between countless ways of seeing the world. Learning to hear what Indigenous eyes see is not about reaching through time and pulling traditional Indigenous cultures out of antiquity. It is about creating space for living Indigenous Peoples to step into our own power and sovereignty. It is about including Indigenous voices at the table in matters that involve us. As you engage with our truths, I encourage you to recognize our living cultures and to witness how they are evolving in the twenty-first century.
