Ashifa Kassam - The struggle in Iqaluit: north and south collide in Canada's Arctic capital
This is life in
Canada’s youngest and fastest-growing capital city: a diverse mix of cultures,
piled atop an Inuit civilisation that stretches back millennia. Nearly two
decades after Iqaluit stepped into the limelight as the capital of Nunavut,
Canada’s newest territory, its residents – many of whom were forcibly pushed
into an urban lifestyle that sharply contrasted with their own traditions and
cultures – continue to grapple with a key question: how do you carve out a
modern city that pays tribute to ancient traditions?
In the Iqaluit region the summer sun sets around midnight, only to rise a few
hours later, and temperatures rise to a balmy 10C. Photograph: Ashifa Kassam for the Guardian
“There’s an extreme
amount of intergenerational trauma that the next generation has inherited
through their ancestors,” says Malaya Qaunirq Chapman, a 27-year-old tour
guide in Iqaluit. “Now it’s the decision of, ‘Do I live out the traditions
of my ancestors, or do I live out the modern lifestyle that we are forced to
conform to?’ And how do you meet in the middle, and how do you make the two
work together? How do you belong?”
Hints of this tension
are strewn about town, from the intricate Inuit sculptures that sit among the
city’s crop of space-age fibreglass buildings – built without windows at the
height of the 1970s oil crisis to save on heating costs – to the igloo-shaped
Anglican cathedral.
Iqaluit shot to
national prominence in 1995 after it was chosen by referendum to become the
capital of Nunavut. The territory, finally formed in 1999, gave Inuit in the
region self-rule and control over their institutions. It made Iqaluit the
political, cultural and economic hub of a bold Canadian endeavour in indigenous
self-government. Amid some of the highest unemployment, suicide and poverty
rates in the country, Inuit leaders envisioned Iqaluit as a place from which
“made in Nunavut” strategies could counter decades of top-down, western
European approaches….
Since it became a capital, Iqaluit’s
population has soared from some 3,000 people – most of them Inuit – to around
8,000, about 50% of them Inuit. While Inuktitut is spoken by three-quarters of
Inuit, English has become the de facto language of Iqaluit. Redfern says
knowledge of Inuktitut is eroding quickly: “It’s happening from one generation
to the next.”
Overshadowing all this
is the immense task of running a city at the whims of the Arctic. During
winter, temperatures in Iqaluit regularly drop below -50C with windchill, while
darkness reigns for months. On this year’s summer solstice, the sun set around
midnight only to rise a few hours later, and temperatures rose to a balmy 10C –
prompting all but tourists (and myself) to wander around in T-shirts.
To make matters more
difficult, Iqaluit is the only capital city in Canada with no road or reliable
ship connections to other parts of the country. For much of the year, all
supplies must be flown in, sending the cost of living skyrocketing. In Iqaluit,
two litres of milk can cost around C$6.50. A one-litre bottle of Coca-Cola goes
for $10.
Three or four times a
year, depending on ice conditions in Frobisher Bay, a sealift boats in bulk
supplies. In recent years, an estimated 300 cars have arrived in the city every
year this way, as well as furniture and building materials for new homes.
As little can get into
Iqaluit, little can get out. The city’s sprawling open-air dump sits near the
causeway, piled with everything from household garbage to plastic pop bottles
and discarded construction materials. As Iqaluit marked the longest day of the
year, fire crews worked overtime to battle a blaze in the landfill. Some
wondered if this was a repeat of the 2014 inferno, an unstable fire raging in a
four-storey mountain of rubbish that the locals dubbed “Dumpcano”.
As a weary authority
struggled to keep up with a city whose population has more than doubled,
climate change began to set in. Iqaluit is built on
permafrost, with most buildings perched on stilts to avoid any heat transfer
between the home and frozen ground; many sewage and water pipes are buried in
the frozen ground. Warming temperatures are now shifting the active layers of
the permafrost, leading to costly breaks in the pipes. “It’s really tough,”
says Redfern, who estimates that $1bn of the community’s assets are now at
risk. “We need everyone to really understand that climate change is more than
changing ice conditions and polar bears.” Read more..
