The ceremony took place outside the contemporary, single-level wood building overlooking the legendary Yukon River that skirts the city's downtown. Assembled was an enthusiastic audience of about 600 first nations members, summer tourists and the myriad agencies who collaborated to realize the dream of a cultural focal point for Dawson's aboriginal people. The centre includes a theatre, an exhibition room in which to display artifacts, and a meeting room. Youth programs in theatre and aboriginal language literacy projects are well underway.
Two weeks later, on July 16, the Tr'ondek Hwech'in (formerly known as the Han) signed a pair of agreements that gives the 800-member first nation self-government, authority over about 2635 square kilometres of land, and $29.3 million from the federal government over the next 15 years, among other things.
It is the latest in a series of land claim settlements between the federal government and aboriginal nations in the Yukon and the NWT over the last 15 years. The agreements represent an end to decades, sometimes a century or more, of social, cultural, spiritual and economic upheaval caused by European expansion into the North. The fur traders, missionaries, police and, finally, government brought with them their own way of life, to which the indigenous populations found themselves subjected. They settled into permanent communities, after generations of following the animals and the fish. They were urged to become Christians and give up their spiritual beliefs. Their children were taken far away from them to be educated in a foreign language.
The latter experience culminated in the creation this year of a multi-million-dollar national healing fund to resolve on-going issues. If there was any benefit to the residential school system, it lies in the fact that the hard-won education has been put to good use. Although never wanting to return to the system, some of its graduates say they have been able to use the tools they learned, including lessons in politics, to help lead their people back to the path of pride in themselves and in their culture.
Negotiations for land claims and self-government has been one of the results, a movement that began in the early 1970s and continues today. About a dozen claims have been settled in the Yukon and the NWT so far, giving people tools to build modern identities.
A re-invigouration of cultural heritage is a cornerstone of this expression. The process takes many forms: preserving language, bringing back artifacts scattered in museums across the world, holding traditional ceremonies whenever possible, and eating the foods that sustained their ancestors rather than turning to packaged food on store shelves. Reaching back to the past to embrace a stronger future is crucial to first nations as the seek to redefine their identity in the era of the global village.
It is important to David Nakashuk. At 21, he was the youngest member of the hunting expedition in the waters of Cumberland Sound last July to land a bowhead whale. It was the first such hunt for Pangnirtung whalers in decades and only the second in Nunavut to be sanctioned by the federal government since commercial whaling was outlawed. Under the Nunavut land claim, the Inuit are guaranteed the right to hunt the occasional bowhead.
Though support for reviving the bowhead hunt is strongest among the elders who remember the days when the whales were caught frequently — the days before the bowhead was declared an endangered species — Nakashuk says he and a few other Inuit in their 20s were also eager to get involved. "It's a once-in-a-lifetime experience," he says. "There might not be another bowhead hunt here for a long time."
The hunt itself was no run-of-the-mill cultural revival. Every aspect of the operation, from the specifications on the weapons to a safety zone surrounding the primary hunt boats, was meticulously planned by the Nunavut Wildlife Management Board. Members of the hunting party were also carefully chosen. Nakashuk, who attended many of the hunt's planning meetings, was selected to represent Inuit youth, to pass on the torch to a generation that has never known the hunt.
The risks were considerable. By choosing to play a key role, Nakashuk put himself square in the crossfire between Inuit heritage and late 20th-century scientific sensibilities. Though the official line of the federal Department of Fisheries and Oceans is that the Eastern Arctic bowhead population can sustain a limited harvest, not all scientists, are convinced the hunt is a good idea. Reliable estimates are hard to come by, but the stock is probably at only three per cent of its pre-whaling size. Some say there are likely less than 1000 left.
The argument against hunting an endangered species doesn't carry much weight with Nakashuk, who has grown up hearing elders talk of growing numbers of bowheads in Cumberland Sound. And then there's the evidence of his own eyes. "There are lots of bowheads, I've seen lots of bowheads. Some people say there are only 300 or even 100, but I've seen many."
The Inuit held their breath during this hunt. The previous hunt, two years before in Repulse Bay, did not go well; a large portion of the whale ended up rotting on the beach. If this hunt failed, it would almost certainly mean an end to the attempt to revive the practice. In the end, however, it didn't take long to find, harpoon and land a 13-metre-long bowhead. Scores of supporters turned out for a celebration, and the whale was butchered for distribution to communities across Nunavut.
It was a historic moment for the people of Pangnirtung. Nakashuk left with memories he says he can pass on to his descendants. But he knows he needs more than a respect for his people's traditions to forge a life and support a family in the new territory. He has chosen to plot his own course, one that straddles the modern and traditional worlds. It is a path, he says, that should allow him to raise children and grandchildren who will have the same or better opportunities to pursue a future that includes both bowhead hunts and an education and a career.
O.D. Hansen — who recently received a degree in petroleum engineering from the Southern Alberta Institute of Technology — has taken a different route than Nakashuk. An Inuvialuk, born in Aklavik and raised there and in Inuvik, Hansen now splits his time between the Mackenzie Delta and Calgary. Though whaling is very much part of his Inuvialuit heritage, he has chosen instead to assert his culture's place in the region through the fossil-fuel industry.
His project: the Ikhil natural-gas well, a cast-off from the heady days of the mid-1980s when multinationals were spending millions looking for oil in the Delta and under the Beaufort Sea. "It's something that some of the bigger companies didn't think was feasible, and it shows that a smaller company like ours can make it work," says Hansen, a 40-year-old project manager with the Inuvialuit Petroleum Corporation (IPC).
But Ikhil isn't just about money. Just as the right to hunt bowhead whales symbolizes Inuit self-determination in the Eastern Arctic, Ikhil is an example of political, entrepreneurial and a community's maturity in dealing with its own issues and resources.
The Inuvialuit of the Western Arctic signed the first comprehensive land claim in the NWT, and only the second in Canada, in 1984, making them the most experienced among the North's aboriginal peoples when it comes to building with the tools such agreements provide. It should come as no surprise, then, that the most recent manifestation of that power should come not in the form of a cultural display or a return-to-our-roots expedition, but a state-of-the-art energy project designed to make their region's largest community self-reliant.
The Ikhil natural-gas well, about 50 kilometres due north of Inuvik, was discovered by Gulf Resources more than a decade ago, but abandoned as an inconsequential deposit not worthy of developing for export to southern markets. It was the Inuvialuit who realized the Ikhil well, though not of interest to southern profit-seekers, was more than big enough for local purposes. All that was a needed was a production plant and a pipeline to bring the gas to Inuvik, where NWT Power Corporation boilers would use the fuel to power the town. A testing program last spring confirmed the well contains sufficient natural gas to supply Inuvik for at least 18 years, with more wells likely nearby. The power corporation signed on, agreeing to convert its boilers to burn natural gas instead of diesel imported from the South, and two Calgary-based energy companies with the expertise to realize the $30-million idea bought into the dream. Gas should be flowing, says Hansen, by July 1, 1999.
In the Delta's bleak economy, Ikhil has kept many locals employed. This winter's workforce is expected to involve about 100 people, half of them aboriginal Northerners. "If you based this on a profit margin, I'm sure there are other projects that would make us more," Hansen says. "(But job creation) is one of our driving forces, that we give our people a job in the short term, and in the long term... offer a savings of 15 to 20 per cent on fuel bills."
The Tr'ondek Hwech'in may have a while to go before they're ready for major economic projects like Ikhil. But with the events of last July they have made several important steps forward. It may have taken a hundred years, but they've managed to overcome the trauma of being literally overrun by stampeders during the Klondike gold rush and forced to leave their settlement.
The land claims agreement is a concept that must be put into action. The cultural centre is tangible, visible proof of the Tr'ondek Hwech'in's presence that the members can look at, be involved in, and be proud of.
Georgette McLeod is one of them. The 23-year-old had to research her people's history for her summer job as a tour guide at the cultural centre. It was a task the university student was already keen to do, and the results fueled her enthusiasm. "I feel more pride, not only in myself but in my culture," she said. "We've taken big steps forward."
And that's what it's all about.
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