Taissumani, Sept. 3
The day a white man cried
KENN HARPER
September 1919. Jimmy Etuk stood on the shores of Baffin Island, dishevelled, his hands stuffed into his pockets, gazing out to sea. A ship stood off Igarjuaq, where the Inuit who worked for the traders had been busy these last few days.
Beyond it, framing it in a background of sea and sky, loomed the shoreline of the island that the white men called Bylot, but which Jimmy knew only as Qikiqtarjuaq - the big island - a scene of stark majesty, a grandeur that never became commonplace, even to the Inuit who were accustomed to seeing its frozen rivers of ice stretching boldly to the sea. At its tip, Sannirut, a place of plenty, reached stubbornly eastward; it had been a refuge to the whalers who had come in years past to barter with the Inuit. Ships came less often now, and whalers not at all.
The ship that stood off Igarjuaq on this day had arrived only a few days earlier, so late in the season that the Inuit who worked for the traders knew its visit would be short and their days hectic. It was the first vessel to reach Tununiq in two years, and the only one to arrive that season. Supplies long overdue and desperately needed had been unloaded, along with the always welcome but hardly essential tobacco and trinkets that were staples of the Inuit trade. Furs and ivory had been hauled aboard and stowed.
The teenager - already a young man in the eyes of the Inuit - had watched, fascinated with the affairs of the white men, and equally curious about the Inuit who worked for them. How different their lives were from the lives of his parents, who travelled and hunted and weren’t tied to the trading posts. He had liked to listen to the workers whenever he accompanied his father to trade, and he heard much about the ship that now stood offshore, a ship of legend in those waters - the Albert, the first whaling ship ever to have wintered in Tununiq.
Now that ship stood only a short distance offshore, preparing to leave, after a visit so abbreviated there had been barely time to celebrate its arrival. Jimmy’s gaze wandered uncertainly from ship to shore, to another man who stood nearby, gazing in disbelief at that same ship. His name was Robert Janes, but Jimmy knew him only by the curious Inuit word, Sakirmiaq. Jimmy had heard that Janes wanted desperately to leave the north. He had been there three years and no supply ship had come for him in all that time.
The previous day Jimmy had learned something about white men that he had never suspected - that they shed tears as did the Inuit. He had seen white men angry often, with Inuit and with each other. He had seen them display a gamut of emotions, from frustration, despondency and sadness to unrestrained joy and elation. But on that day he had seen Robert Janes cry. It was a defining moment in his understanding of the humanness and vulnerability of the white men - the qallunaat - who had seemed so invincible and had had such an impact on the lives of the Inuit.
On that day Robert Janes had arrived from Tulukkaan, some thirty miles to the west, and gone immediately aboard the vessel. Jimmy’s father, Aksaarjuk, told him that the man they called Kapitaikuluk - the little captain - had summoned the trader to the boat. Jimmy had watched from shore on that day too. He had heard shouting from the deck and seen punches thrown, a scuffle aboard ship. Three men had roughed up Sakirmiaq, egged on by the little captain, whose maniacal laughter rolled ashore with the breeze.
Then, suddenly, one man had shoved Sakirmiaq to the side of the ship and pushed him roughly over the rail. He had landed ignominiously in his own boat. A hunter, one of the party that had accompanied him from Tulukkaan and who had gone with him to the ship, made sure that he was alright, then raced ahead in his qajaq to tell those on shore what had transpired.
Regaining his composure, the white man had manouvered his boat to land. Blood streamed from a deep gash on his forehead, and the hood had been completely torn from his caribou-skin coat. He came ashore - and he cried. Jimmy had watched in stunned disbelief.
A group of Inuit had rallied round the white man, silent, concerned. But words of consolation failed them, for they, although adults all, had also never seen a white man cry.
Now, a day later, the little captain had come ashore to speak with Sakirmiaq. Their voices had risen in anger. Faces flushed with emotion, both men had shouted words that the Inuit could not comprehend. Then, abruptly, the captain turned away from Sakirmiaq and bid a hasty farewell to the Inuit. He boarded the ship, the anchor was hauled, and the Albert steamed away.
The white man stood alone on shore, watching as it disappeared into the monochrome of a light September snow squall. Some distance away, Jimmy Etuk stood with a small group of Inuit and watched and wondered.
Taissumani recounts a specific event of historic interest. Kenn Harper is a historian, writer and linguist who lives in Iqaluit. Feedback? Send your comments and questions to .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address).
