Four Quarters of Light (28 page)

Margaret was right. My tent was humming like a hornets' nest when I returned. Had I tried to enter it without first fumigating it with her incense sticks, it would have been like jumping into a tank of piranhas. They could have piled me in with the rest of the caribou remains beside my tent.

I looked out beyond the camp while the incense purged the mosquitoes. These Arctic wetlands remain wet because of permafrost, but with temperatures rising every summer the whole area becomes a breeding ground for black storms of mosquito against which there is no defence. But it is also the home of the caribou, the arctic fox and squirrel. The rivers and lakes teem with sock-eye salmon. Far out beyond the village bear, musk ox, hawk, ptarmigan, penguin and short-eared owl scavenge the vast tundra desert. It is famously known as the ‘Arctic Serengeti'.

Alaska's landscape is in flux, and one needs to know the confusing language of the geologist to begin to grasp a timescale that defies imagination. Billions of years are not conceivable to our brief tenancy. Geological time is a gigantic jigsaw and earth science has given a name to defining ages we cannot fathom; we learn them by rote in an attempt to comprehend this
incomprehensible corner of the earth. ‘Well,' I thought to myself, ‘if that took aeons and aeons of evolution and the Athabascans had only been here maybe a few centuries before the white man, then I'm entitled to my few cultural blunders after only a few days.' And with that closing thought I made my way back to the village to listen to the elders and the tribespeople as they addressed their concerns about cultural extinction, just as catastrophic as any of the ice ages.

When I arrived it seemed that everyone was in the community hall. At a long table at the head of the room the various speakers were seated. Chief Evon stood and thanked everyone for attending. In his right hand he held a short staff, richly decorated and hung with what I took to be eagle's feathers. This instrument was called a ‘Tok', and as each speaker arose it was handed over. This act invested the speaker with a kind of authority that declared to everyone that they alone, at that precise moment, had the sole right to speak.

Chief Evon stressed that this gathering was crucial to the Gwich'in. Over the last few years they had found themselves pushed to the very edge of extinction so he particularly asked the ‘strangers among us' to listen with an open heart and carry the message of the Gwich'in predicament with them into the wider world. ‘What is happening here is of global significance,' he said, ‘and whatever happens in the future will have significance for the greater human family.' I thought Chief Evon was pitching his points very high, but I had only been here a few days; the Gwich'in had existed here for generations, acting as guardians and stewards of this tundra desert.

The argument was simple, even though the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge (ANWR) means different things to different people. Environmentalists see the nineteen-million-acre tract of land in north-eastern Alaska as a last remnant of wilderness, home to wolves, wolverine, polar bears and snowy owls; oil developers see it as the last best hope for the US; and the Gwich'in people see it as a critical birthing area for caribou, and for a way of life. The 150,000 caribou of the Porcupine herd
annually migrate hundreds of miles to the ANWR coastal plain to give birth to their young. The seven thousand Gwich'in people living in fifteen villages along interior Alaska and Canada have always been dependent on the Porcupine herd. The caribou are not just another animal to the Gwich'in, they are part of them.

I had heard and read much about these differing views since my arrival in Alaska. I naturally had my own views and sympathies, but now that I was experiencing the subsistence lifestyle first hand these views were being put to the test. And as each of the speakers took the Tok I was made more aware of the poignancy of their plight. This was not only a question of cultural survival, it was also about spiritual solidarity between the Gwich'in and the creatures they shared this land with. Furthermore, it was about respect for life itself, and the sacredness of life. As I listened, I realized that these people were talking from the heart about profoundly moral and spiritual matters.

‘We have always lived like this,' said one woman speaker. ‘We even have a creation story that we came from the caribou.' According to her, the Gwich'in and the animals struck a deal. ‘The Gwich'in would retain a piece of the caribou heart, and the caribou would retain a piece of the Gwich'in heart. So whatever happens to the caribou happens to us, and whatever happens to us happens to them,' she continued. ‘We're dependent on the caribou. If drilling were allowed, slowly we would lose aspects of our culture. We just want to pass along what we have to our future generations. I want to pass it on to my daughter, and she's only two now.' She then explained how ‘the caribou comprises as much as eighty per cent of the Gwich'in diet. The hides are used for clothing, the bones for tools. Caribou have inspired traditional songs and dances. In summer, it's everything – spiritually, culturally and socially. Like when we're on the mountain hunting. It is very important for us to have the time up there with the caribou. During the hunt young boys are taught the role of being the provider, hunting and giving thanks. Young women are taught to prepare the meal, and other traditional roles. We live in modern communities, we have TVs, we have
telephones, but we need that time of year with the caribou.' I thought about what she had said, particularly about ‘giving thanks' and ‘needing that time of year with the caribou'. This was the language of worship and religion, and it was moving in its openness.

Sarah James, another Gwich'in villager and the organizational matriarch of the Gathering, agreed about the importance of the hunt in teaching the youth ‘survival, patience, sharing. The hunt also provides specific sustenance to the Gwich'in. We need fresh meat for our bodies; we survive year to year by hunting or fishing. If that's missing from our bodies, we feel different. Going out [hunting] like that, that's the way I grew up.' I found myself wholly caught up in what Sarah was saying. I had, for a second as I entered the hall, stood looking at the speakers' table thinking that the scene could have passed for a marvellous ethnic tableau of the Last Supper; now, here was Sarah James speaking at a very simple and unsymbolic level about everything the Last Supper is meant to represent. Without eating the blood and flesh of the caribou, she felt herself somehow different and incomplete, no longer at one with the landscape she had been brought up in.

After Sarah, the Bishop of Alaska, a man I had earlier thought was some eccentric backwoodsman, took the Tok. It was still only the purple vest and clerical collar that distinguished him from a fur trapper or a logger. By way of introducing him, one of the Gwich'in elders explained that most Gwich'in are Episcopalian. ‘We have been Episcopals in Alaska for about a hundred years,' he said. ‘My great-grandfather was one of the first Episcopal ministers; he helped translate the Bible into our language. We say the Lord's prayer in our language, sing traditional hymns in our language.' A female elder saw no real distinction between traditional Gwich'in spirituality and Christianity. ‘It's the same,' she said. ‘We have our traditional songs, our traditional dances.'

When the bishop folded his arms across his ample girth, cradling both the Tok and his own golden staff of high office, his presence seemed both incongruous and iconoclastic, and appropriate to these subsistence people. Before he began to speak he
asked everyone to join him in prayer. Almost at once every head bowed in silence. After the short prayer, he spoke. ‘Gwich'in Christianity has become a way to affirm and embrace the old ways and the new ways, without losing cultural cohesiveness and solidarity. The Gwich'in are brilliant theologians. Gwich'in traditional culture is much closer to Christianity and Jesus than the dominating culture – Christian or not.

‘The Church has found ANWR a compelling issue since the General Convention in 1991. This is because it involves both an environmental concern, in the protection of ANWR, and a human rights concern, in the protection of the Gwich'in way of life. The Gwich'in people, arguably the most Anglican group of people in the world, are directly dependent upon the Porcupine caribou herd for survival. A threat to the herd is a threat to the Gwich'in cultural and physical survival. The house of Bishops of the Episcopal Church last spring renewed its support of permanent protection of ANWR in spiritual solidarity with the Gwich'in people.'

The bishop then elaborated on this spiritual solidarity, explaining how the culture of the Gwich'in is almost a manifestation in the twenty-first century of the early Christian Church of the first and second centuries. I wasn't too sure where he was going with this comparison, but when he hinted that modern man had much to learn emotionally and spiritually, even in the sense of being more fully human, from the Gwich'in people, I understood him. In his closing remarks, he described the Arctic Refuge as a kind of paradise. For a place so far north it features a huge diversity of species – over 160 birds, 36 land mammals, 36 fish and nine marine mammals according to the US Fish and Wildlife Service, which manages it. ‘The Arctic Refuge is among the most complete, pristine and undisturbed ecosystems on earth. In fact, it may be among the most complete, pristine and undisturbed truly Christian communities on earth!'

As I listened to the man talking from behind the Indian Tok and the golden eagle staff of office I sensed that he meant what he was saying but was convinced that the oil industry cared as
little for the censure of the Church as it did about a few thousand Indians stretched across Arctic Alaska and Canada.

At this point, another speaker from one of the environmental lobbies stood up. He was obviously committed and well informed, but his delivery did not have the same sense of composure and profoundness with which the native women spoke. ‘There have been constant efforts to open ANWR to oil development ever since the Trans-Alaskan pipeline started delivering oil from Prudhoe Bay in 1977,' he began. ‘A federal study released in 1987 recommended full-scale oil development. But the
Exxon Valdez
oil spill scuttled the momentum. Images of dead sea otters, killer whales and shorebirds on the TV every night really changed all of that.'

At the end of this speech Chief Evon decided to call a break so that people could absorb the points made thus far. I took the opportunity to talk with some of the speakers.

ANWR may seem remote, but choices being made by distant industrial economies are now affecting the Gwich'in, most notably in the case of global warming brought on by fossil fuel combustion. The Gwich'in see many alarming changes related to global warming, including transformations in plant life. But warming is just a symptom of a bigger problem. People are depleting the earth's resources too fast. ‘The earth won't be able to sustain life,' said one native woman. ‘Many native people, not just the Gwich'in, are saying stop, give the earth time to heal.' I also chatted briefly with the bishop over a large mug of steaming coffee. It was obvious he considered the situation of the Gwich'in one of great urgency. He believed this was more than an isolated skirmish over preserving the environment or protecting human rights; there was a bigger issue at stake. ‘Many of the arguments the Church has found compelling in supporting the Gwich'in and other indigenous groups are based on similar views of the spiritual and cultural authority of a “people” and a nation,' he said. ‘These arguments are at the centre of our basic moral spiritual teaching. This is the first major skirmish in what may prove to be one of the decisive moral battles of this century. A quarter of the world's
usable land is in the hands of indigenous peoples. Their human survival depends on it. They are the thin line holding back the insatiable greed and total destruction of our moral, spiritual and physical environments.' The bishop was preaching salvation at me, but I knew he felt it was for real.

I returned to the hall to listen to more speeches, but they were reiterating things I'd already heard and after some hours I left to return to my tent. Two thoughts remained with me. One of the native speakers had declared, ‘One of our main cultural values is respect of the land and the animals. One of our spiritual beliefs is that any birthplace, any spawning area, is sacred.' The young man was in his mid-twenties, but his voice was filled with passion and anger. A part of me felt that he was already on the warpath, and I sympathized with him: sacred places should be preserved, as they had preserved these people for generations. What could the god of Mammon offer in exchange? But it was Sarah James who summed it up. ‘I don't see many places where the natural ecosystems still work,' she said. ‘We're talking about caribou that are still wild and healthy. It's a small place they've gone to for thousands of years. It's a safe place for them. It's a special place, a healthy place tucked away in that corner of the world, and it needs to be protected.' One and a half million acres of wilderness on the freezing Arctic coast amounted to a small area on the map of Alaska, but the 150,000 caribou that migrate there to give birth and rear their young are an annual miracle, and part of me believes that miracles are what holds our world together, ensuring that it will endure when all the oil and gas fields have dried up and left nothing but a wasteland indicative of man's ingenuous vanity and greed.

Back in my tent, as that last phrase about man's ingenuous vanity and greed spilled onto the page, I recalled some young children blissfully playing with a small puppy. They were filthy and seemed oblivious to the mosquitoes spinning dizzily about them. The older children raced four-wheel motorcycles along the dirt track that made up the main street. They too were covered in a film of dust and grime. It was impossible to keep oneself or one's
clothes clean for more than a few hours when you lived this close to the earth. I suddenly understood why the Bishop of Alaska looked more like a hobo than a hierarch of the Church. For the first day or so this accumulation of dirt hadn't bothered me, but now it was becoming irksome. Still, the next day the tribe was hosting a ceremony of dedication for alternative energy. A new village washeteria complete with banks of washing machines, driers and several shower units, all powered by a mixed system of solar and wind power, would be made available to all. I, for one, was glad of it. It was a classic example of what the bishop meant by the imaginative capacity of the Gwich'in to marry the old ways with the new and still maintain their subsistence lifestyle.