Hope is a place

by Harjot Kaur Dosanjh (Canada)

Making a local connection USA

In Tikigaq, Alaska, Hope is an entire community. Known as the Index Finger of Alaska because of its long stretch of land protruding into the sea, Tikigaq is one of the oldest continually occupied places in North America. This Inupiat community is a subsistence community, relying on the land and hunting. The annual bowhead whale hunt is not only an important tradition for the Tikigaq community; it is a matter of survival now under threat by the effects of climate change and loss of traditional knowledge. Accessible only by air or sea, Tikigaq is a small community of less than 900 people, isolated from the world around it. Yet somehow, it is also a community with some of the deepest connections I have ever come across. We arrive in Tikigaq by zodiac, our ship anchored out in the Chukchi Sea. I step out of the zodiac onto the beach and right into the first of countless hugs that day that would keep both my body and soul continuously buzzing with warmth on a cold day in the Arctic. The first hug I received that day, from an environmental activist named Caroline. As she pulled me into her strong yet gentle embrace, saying welcome my sister, thank you for coming to my home, I felt a sense of familiarity I could not quite understand. In every direction I turned that day, there was another set of arms ready to pull me in, repeating the same loving message. On this land, over 5400 km from my home in Toronto, I felt a sense of belonging, a fleeting feeling that so many of us yearn for in our busy city lives. As we made our way to the school bus that would take us to the coastal part of Tikigaq to see the now-abandoned traditional sod houses made of whale bones and driftwood, and the ice cellars, I saw Henry, a community elder and a whaling captain. Something about his deep brown eyes, his slight smile, and his bright green jacket instantly drew me in. As the rest of the group boarded the bus, I hopped on the back of Henry’s ATV to take the scenic route. Meeting Henry felt like a reunion with the grandfather I had never known, but always yearned to meet. As I looked across the flat land splattered with yellows and greens, Henry showed me land bridges created by his ancestors hundreds of years ago using whale bones, rock and sand. He told me how he wanted the youth to learn all about whaling, but that he also wanted them to fly and live their own lives. He longed for them to speak their language and carry on their traditions, but also wanted them to create their own. We spoke about my family, having immigrated from Punjab, India, sharing the same struggle with balancing my parents desire for me to carry on their traditions with my own truth. Henry showed us the sod houses they lived in before relocating further inland. Rows of whale bones larger than me made up the walls and the roof of the homes. The whale is not just an animal for them to eat, Henry explained, it is also a part of their homes and their way of life. Henry took us to his ice cellar, one of few in the community still intact. With a melting permafrost, sinking softly beneath our feet with each step, it is not surprising that the ice cellars are collapsing and flooding. Soon Henry says sadly, these will all be gone and with them, their ability to store and ferment their hunt. But we have hope, says Henry. His ancestors have lived on this land for over 4000 years and adapted. Young men are joining the whale hunt and using new techniques combined with traditional ones and they are now teaching their traditional language in school. Henry’s parting words of wisdom were shared by the entire community: to live a good a life, to be happy and work hard, and to have fun once in a while. It only seems fitting that this place is also known as Point Hope.