Remembering Our Ways: Film and Culture in Iglulik
ᐃᖅᑲᐅᒪᓂᖅ ᐱᖅᑯᓯᑦᑎᓐᓂᒃ: ᑕᕐᕆᔭᐅᓯᐅᕐᓂᖅ ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᓕᕆᓂᕐᓗ ᐃᒡᓗᓕᖕᒥᑦ
In the early 1980s, television arrived in Iglulik, NU, after much hesitancy from residents concerned over the primarily English-language content. It was in this environment that both Isuma, and later Arnait Video Productions, were formed to capture, document and present a distinctly local Inuit worldview. In this Feature, the revolutionary impact of both collectives is explored through their diverse bodies of work that, together, have significantly contributed to the revitalization of culture and language by harnessing the power of film to retain, recall and preserve collective memory.
I recently watched an episode of Scottish comedian Billy Connolly’s Journey to the Edge of the World (2009), a Northwest Passage travel series. This particular episode featured Connolly visiting the Nunavut communities of Iqaluit, Panniqtuuq (Pangnirtung), Iglulik and Mittimatalik (Pond Inlet). The teaser for the show on a popular website stated that Connolly “goes on a stomach-churning seal hunt with an Inuit family.” While in Iqaluit, he visits the Nunatta Sunakkutaangit Museum and views a historical film. Sitting next to him in the compact theatre is a middle-aged Inuk man.
Connolly narrates that Inuit depicted in the film are happy, healthy and fit and bask in their environment. He is then shown observing the current vista and Inuit of Iqaluit, proclaiming sadly that he cannot say that is the case today. In the conclusion of the episode, referring back to the moment in the museum, Connolly pities the Inuit man also watching the film, and laments that the only recourse left to contemporary Inuit to experience authentic and traditional culture is through historical film.
Having witnessed the Arctic landscape, having experienced the hospitality of his Inuit hosts and having been welcomed into their culture, I find it curious that Connolly chooses to conclude the episode by voicing such a negative sentiment. However, I am not surprised. He is not the first transient visitor to presume they are witness to the death of a proud and ancient culture.
Culture is not static. Inuit have been adapting to the changes around us for millennia, retaining skills, traditional laws and values deemed essential and imparting them onto preceding generations. Until very recently, spoken language had been the only method of preserving our history, songs, poetry and more.
For Inuit, the introduction of the written word and other means of storing knowledge have all been vital to keeping remembered history and aspects of culture and traditions alive. In Iglulik, the use of film has been the most successful and effective medium for contemporary Inuit to capture, document and present our culture and worldview.
I was teaching kindergarten when television finally arrived to Iglulik in the fall of 1984. The community had previously held two plebiscites, and I was one of those voting each time to reject the introduction of television, objecting to the fact that the content was going to be entirely in English. When Inuktitut programming was finally included, the community consented to television’s introduction. In my classroom I had first hand experience of the power and insidiousness of this medium.
1980ᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐃᒡᓗᓕᒃ ᑕᓚᕖᓴᖅᑕᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᖕᒪᑦ, ᓄᓇᓕᖕᒥᐅᑦ ᐱᔪᒪᑦᑎᐊᖅᓯᒪᓚᐅᕋᑎᒃ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᑑᖓᓗᐊᕐᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᑕᑯᓐᓇᒐᒃᓴᐃᑦ. ᑕᐃᒪᐃᓐᓂᖓᓄᑦ, ᐃᓱᒪᒃᑯᑦ, ᑭᖑᓪᓕᐊᒍᓪᓗ ᐊᕐᓇᐃᑦ ᑕᕆᔭᐅᓯᐅᖅᑏᑦ ᓴᖅᑭᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᕗᑦ, ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᔪᒪᒧᑦ ᐃᓄᖕᓂᙶᖅᑐᓂᑦ. ᐅᓇ ᑎᑎᕋᖅᓯᒪᔪᖅ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᕋᓱᒃᐳᖅ ᖃᓄᖅ ᑖᒃᑯᐊᒃ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᐅᓯᐅᖅᑏᑦ ᐃᑲᔪᒻᒪᕆᒃᓯᒪᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐱᖅᑯᓯᖏᑦ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᖏᑦ ᐳᐃᒍᖅᑕᐅᖁᓇᒋᑦ. ᖃᖓᑦᑎᐊᓵᖅ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᓚᐅᕋᒪ ᐃᔪᕐᓇᖅᑎᐅᑉ ᓯᑲᑦᓯᐅᓪᓗᓂ ᐱᓕ
ᑳᓇᓕᐅᑉ ᓄᐃᑕᖓ ᐊᐅᓪᓛᕐᓂᖅ ᓄᓇᕐᔪᐊᑉ ᑭᒡᓕᖓᓄᑦ (2009),
ᐃᑳᕋᓱᖕᓂᒥᑦ ᑕᕆᐅᕐᒥᑦ ᑕᕆᔭᐅᓯᐊᑦ. ᑕᑯᓐᓇᖅᑕᕋ ᑳᓇᓕ ᐳᓚᕋᖅᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᐃᖃᓗᓐᓄᑦ,ᐸᖕᓂᖅᑑᕐᒧᑦ, ᐃᒡᓗᓕᖕᒧᑦ ᒥᑦᑎᒪᑕᓕᖕᒧᓪᓗ. ᖃᕆᑕᐅᔭᒃᑯᑦ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᐅᓯᒪᓪᓗᓂ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᒃᓴᖅ “ᑳᓇᓕᒎᖅ ᓇᑦᑎᕋᓱᒃᑐᓂᒃ ᐃᓚᐅᕗᖅ, ᓈᕐᒧᒡᒎᖅ ᐃᖢᐊᕐᓇᖏᑦᑐᒻᒪᕆᐊᓗᒃ ᑕᐅᑐᒃᓗᒍ”. ᐃᖃᓗᖕᓂᓕ ᓄᓇᑦᑕ ᓱᓇᒃᑯᑖᖓᓂᑦ ᑕᑯᔭᒐᖃᕐᕕᖕᒥᑦ ᐃᓄᖑᐊᓂᑦ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᖅᐳᖅ. ᓴᓂᐊᓂ ᐊᖑᑦ ᐃᓐᓇᖅ ᐃᒃᓯᕚᖅᐳᖅ.
ᑳᓇᓕ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᖅᐳᖅ ᑕᐃᓱᒪᓂᓴᐃᒡᒎᖅ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᖅᑕᖏᑦ, ᖁᕕᐊᓱᑦᑎᐊᖅᑐᑦ, ᐃᓅᓯᖃᑦᑎᐊᖅᑐᑦ ᐊᕙᓗᒥᓂᒡᓗ ᐃᓂᖃᑦᑎᐊᑦᑐᑦ. ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᓕᕆᓪᓗᓂ ᐃᖃᓗᐃᑦ ᓄᓇᓕᖓᓂᒃ ᐃᓄᖏᓐᓂᒡᓗ ᑕᐅᑐᒃᖢᓂ, ᐃᓄᐃᒎᖅ ᐅᓪᓗᒥ ᑕᐃᒪᐃᙱᑦᑎᐊᓕᖅᑐᑦ. ᑕᕐᕆᔭᐅᑉ ᓄᙳᐊᓂᑦ ᑳᓇᓕ ᐅᖃᓕᖅᖢᓂ, ᐊᖑᑦ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᖃᑎᒋᓚᐅᖅᑕᓂ ᐅᒡᒍᕆᓪᓗᓂᐅᒃ ᒫᓐᓇᐅᔪᕉᖅ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐱᖅᑯᓯᒥᓂᒃ ᐳᐃᒍᐃᓗᐊᒧᑦ ᑭᓯᐊᓂᒎᖅ ᐃᑦᑕᕐᓂᓴᕐᓂᒃ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᕐᓗᑎ ᐃᖅᑳᕐᔪᒍᓐᓇᖅᐳᑦ ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᕕᓂᕐᒥᓂᒃ.
ᑕᒡᕙ ᑲᔾᔮᕐᓇᖅᑐᓪᓛᓗᖕᒦᖢᓂ, ᐃᓄᖕᓂᑦ ᑐᙵᓱᒃᑎᑕᐅᑎᐊᖅᓯᒪᓪᓗᓂᓗ ᑲᒪᒋᒻᒪᕆᒃᐸᕋ ᓄᒫᖅᓇᖅᑐᒥᑦ ᐅᖃᕐᓂᖓᓂᒃ. ᑭᓯᐊᓂ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᖏᑦ ᑲᒪᒋᖕᒋᑕᒃᑲ. ᓯᕗᓪᓕᐅᖏᒻᒪᑦ ᐳᓛᖅᑎᓂᒃ ᑕᐃᒫᒃ ᐅᖃᕆᐊᒃᓴᖅ, ᐃᓄᐃᒡᒎᖅ ᐱᖅᑯᓯᖏᑦ
ᐳᐃᒍᖅᑕᐅᖕᒪᑕ ᐅᑎᕈᒥᓇᖏᓪᓗᑎᒡᓗ.
ᐃᓅᓂᖅ ᐱᖅᑯᓯᖏᓪᓗ ᓄᖅᑳᖔᖅᐸᖏᒻᒪᑦ. ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᑕᐃᒪᖓᓂᒃ ᐊᓯᔾᔨᖅᐸᓪᓕᐊᔪᓂᒃ ᖃᖓᓕᒫᑦ ᒪᓕᒃᐸᖕᒪᑕ. ᐱᖁᔭᑐᖃᐃᑦ,
ᐊᑐᕐᓂᖃᖅᑐᑦ ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᑐᖃᐃᑦ ᐱᒻᒪᕆᐅᔪᑦ ᐳᐃᒍᖅᑕᐅᕙᒃᐸᙱᒻᒪᑕ, ᑭᖑᕚᕆᔭᐅᔪᓄᓪᓗ ᐊᐃᑦᑐᖅᑕᐅᕙᒃᖢᑎᒃ ᐱᒻᒪᕆᐅᔭᕌᖓᒥᒃ. ᖃᖓᑦᑎᐊᓵᖅᓂᑦ ᐅᖃᐅᓰᓐᓇᒃᑯᑦ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐱᖅᑯᓯᒥᓂᒃ ᐃᙱᐅᓯᒥᓂᒃ, ᐅᓂᑳᒥᓂᒃ ᐊᓯᐊᓗᖏᓐᓂᒡᓗ ᐳᐃᒍᖅᓯᒪᙱᓚᑦ.
ᐃᓄᖕᓄᑦ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᖅ ᑎᑎᕋᑕᐅᓯᒪᓕᕐᓂᖓ, ᐅᖃᐅᓯᐅᓪᓗ ᐊᓯᐊᒍᑦ ᐃᖃᐅᒪᓂᕐᒧᑦ ᐸᐸᔾᔪᑏᑦ ᐃᑲᔪᕐᓂᖃᕕᒡᔪᐊᖅᓯᒪᕗᑦ ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᓂᒃ ᐱᖁᓯᓂᑦ ᐳᐃᒍᐃᔾᔭᐃᓂᕐᒧᑦ. ᐃᒡᓗᓕᖕᒥᓪᓕ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᐅᓯᐅᕐᓂᖅ ᐃᒪᓐᓇᒻᒪᕆᐊᓗᒃ ᐃᑲᔪᕐᓂᖃᕕᔪᐊᖅᓯᒪᔪᖅ. ᐃᖅᑲᐃᓂᕐᒧᑦ ᐳᐃᒍᐃᔭᐃᓂᕐᒧᑦ ᐱᖅᑯᓯᒥᓂᒃ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᓂᒃᑯᑦ ᐃᖕᒥᓄᑦ ᐊᓯᒥᖕᓄᓪᓗ.
ᐅᑭᐊᒃᓵᒃᑯᑦ 1984ᖑᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᐃᒡᓗᓕᒃ ᑕᓚᕖᓴᖅᑖᖅᑐᐊᓘᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᖕᒪᑦ. ᑕᐃᔅᓱᒪᓂᓕ ᒥᑭᓛᓂᑦ ᐃᓕᓴᐃᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᒐᒪ. ᒪᕐᕈᐃᖅᖢᑕ ᐃᒡᓗᓕᖕᒥᐅᑎᒍᑦ ᓂᕈᐊᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᒐᑦᑕ ᑕᓚᕖᓴᑖᕈᒪᓇᑕ. ᐊᖏᖏᖃᑕᐅᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᕗᖓ ᓂᕈᐊᕐᓇᐅᑎᓪᓗᒍ. ᐱᔪᒪᓚᐅᖏᓐᓇᑦᑕ ᖃᓗᓈᑐᐃᓐᓇᖅᑐᑦ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᔪᖃᖅᐸᖕᓂᐊᖅᑎᓪᓗᒍ. ᐊᓱᐃᓛᒎᖅ ᑐᓴᕐᓇᓕᕐᒪᑦ ᐃᓄᒃᑎᑐᑦ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᔪᖃᖃᑦᑕᕐᓂᐊᕐᓂᖓᓂᑦ ᐊᖏᓕᑕᐃᓐᓇᓚᐅᖅᐳᑦ ᐃᒡᓗᓕᖕᒥᐅᑦ. ᐃᓕᓴᐃᔨᐅᓪᓗᖓ ᐅᔾᔨᕈᓱᑦᑎᐊᓚᐅᖅᐳᖓ ᑕᓚᕖᓴᐅᑉ ᐊᒃᑑᑎᖃᕐᓂᖓᓂᒃ ᐃᓅᓯᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ.
ᑕᖅᑭᑐᐃᓐᓇᖅ ᓈᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᐃᓕᓴᖅᑕᑯᓗᑲ 5ᓂᒃ 6ᓂᒡᓗ
ᐅᑭᐅᓖᑦ, ᐃᓄᒃᑎᑐᑐᐃᓐᓇᖅᐸᒃᑐᑦ ᖃᓗᓈᑎᑐᑦ ᐃᙱᑲᑕᓕᓚᐅᖅᐳᑦ ᑕᑯᓐᓇᖃᑦᑕᖅᑕᒥᓂᒃ ᐃᔾᔪᐊᕐᓂᑯᒧᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᕈᓐᓇᑦᑎᐊᖅᖢᑎᒃ ᐅᓗᒃᑯᑦ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᕙᒃᑐᕈᓗᖕᓂᑦ ᐱᓗᐊᖑᐊᖅᐸᒃᑐᕈᓗᖕᓂᑦ. ᐊᓃᕋᔭᖕᓇᐅᓕᕌᖓᓪᓗ ᐅᓇᑕᙳᐊᖅᑐᐊᓘᕙᓕᖅᖢᑎᒃ ᐃᔾᔪᐊᖅᓯᓗᐊᒧᑦ ᑕᑯᓐᓇᖃᑦᑕᖅᑕᒥᓂᒃ ᐅᓇᑕᙳᐊᖅᑎᓂᒃ. ᐊᕌᒍᖅ ᓇᑉᐸᑐᐃᓐᓇᖅᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᖏᑦ ᖃᓪᓗᓇᐅᔭᕐᓂᕐᒥᒃ ᐃᓚᓕᐅᑎᓯᒪᓕᕇᓚᐅᖅᐳ.
ᐊᕐᕌᒍᑦ ᐅᓄᖕᖏᑦᑐᒻᒪᕇᑦ ᖄᖏᖅᑎᓪᓗᒋᑦ ᑐᓴᐅᒪᓇᖅᓯᓚᐅᖅᐳᖅ
Within a month of receiving the magic dish, my students, fiveand six-year-old unilingual Inuktitut speakers, started singing and humming commercial jingles and could describe the antics of daytime soap opera characters in minute and lurid detail. During recess breaks, playing tag was replaced by aggressive and combative roughhousing, clearly in imitation of wrestling programs, witnessed on the small screen. Within six months, these young children were interspersing English with Inuktitut. In the space of just a few years there were already households where young parents were no longer speaking to their children in Inuktitut. The deceptively benign presence of television beamed an all-pervasive cultural assault and forceful encroachment of southern influence nonstop into our homes.
The promised Inuktitut programming, albeit welcome, was hampered by production styles attempting to replicate southern approaches. While regional content was produced, it was often restricted and inhibited by directions from southern Canadian-based headquarters. The emergence of Igloolik Isuma Productions, co-founded in 1990 by Paul Apak Angilirq (1954–1998), Norman Cohn, Zacharias Saqqaliasi Kunuk, OC and Pauloosie Qulitalik (1939–2012), followed later by Arnait Video Productions (from the term arnait ikajurtigiit, meaning “women helping each other”) in 1991, founded by Atuat Akkitirq, Susan Angutautuq Avingaq, Marie-Hélène Cousineau, Madeline Piujuq Ivalu and Carol Kunuk, was undeniably revolutionary within our community.
Since Arnait’s formation, the collective has gone on to produce three feature-length films, eight medium-length works, eight shorts, two television series and numerous interviews, with three featurelength fiction and documentary films currently in production. From the early to mid-1990s, they captured community events, traditional practices and skills, as well as reinterpreted time-honoured stories through various technologies—including computer animation— before exploring more experimental fiction and documentaries. Set in 1840, the historical drama Before Tomorrow (2009), the group’s first feature-length project, follows Kuutujuuk (Mary Qulitalik) and Ningiuq (Madeline Piujuq Ivalu) and her grandson as they endure a series of hardships after a strange attack devastates their camp.
The film received the Best Canadian First Feature Film award at the 2008 Toronto International Film Festival. Together, these Iglulingmiut filmmakers presented Inuit stories while advancing Inuit values through their own lenses and in their unique style.
“I believe the medium of film is central to benefitting my traditions through keeping the culture engaging and living,” explains filmmaker and producer Lucy Tulugarjuk, who began working with Isuma in 1997.1 “The skills and techniques of the material part of our traditions are still there. The style of delivery may have changed, since we use recordings now; however, our purpose remains the same— to pass on information that is important to and for us.”
Piujuq also believes that film is an invaluable tool to retain and recall memories. “We rely on memory still, as things were not written down,” she explains.2 “Creating film exercises our intellect, the process of filmmaking itself makes us remember how things were. We are sometimes even able to recapture language that is no longer in use today.”
Filmmakers working in and around Iglulik have utilized this powerful medium to show the world our stories, share our values and offer glimpses into our rapidly changing society, both positive and negative. They have very effectively contributed to the revitalization of Inuit culture and language. Whether it be a demonstration of tending to a stone lamp, as in Piujuq and Angutautuq’s early work Qulliq (Oil Lamp) (1993), where they practice the skills required to maintain and care for a qulliq in the dead of winter. Showing us, in real time, the steps required to heat a snow house. What I and others of my age group had not realized was that there was a unique vocabulary dedicated only to the qulliq and its flames. We had lost the language of flames, perhaps now rekindled for some through this film.
I do not hear Inuktitut spoken here in Toronto very often. In my case, the yearning and need to hear Inuktitut is sometimes a desire so strong that I turn to IsumaTV, where I can watch programs like Kingulliit: The Next Generation (1992). This film shows a meeting of elders, first describing songs, then recording them. The elders discuss the origin, composition, structure and poetry of songs—singing ancient Ajajaa songs, the harmony with the drum. Listening to Francois Quassa and his older brother George Kappianaq’s power of voice holds me emotionally spellbound. The intricacy of lyrics, composition and just plain trying to learn the songs restores my equilibrium for weeks.
Another film I turn to is Attagutaaluk (Starvation) (1992), a story of survival against overwhelming odds captured as an interview with Iqallijuq Okkumaluk. She recounts the ordeal of Attagutaaluk, a legendary historical figure in Iglulik. Attagutaaluk, her family and another family are stranded for months far from the coast. Starvation ensues, until only Attagutaaluk is left. To survive for months alone during the brutal winter, she had to resort to eating the dead. Her rescuers, upon reaching their destination, proclaiming as they approached, “We bring one who has eaten meat,” as dictated to by custom. Coded language, instantly understood by the inhabitants of the camp, to prepare for formal and spiritual rituals to follow in these situations. For myself, again it is the exchange, the art of language between filmmaker and Iqallijuq, the pace of the unfolding
ᒪᒃᑯᒃᑐᑦ ᐊᖓᔪᖄᖑᔪᑦ ᕿᑐᕐᖓᕐᒥᓄᒃ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᑎᑐᑐᐃᓐᓇᖅ ᐅᖃᓪᓚᒃᐸᖕᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ. ᑖᓐᓇ ᑕᓚᕖᓴᖃᕐᓂ ᓄᖑᓱᐃᑦᑐᒥᒃ ᐊᖏᕐᕋᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ ᖃᐅᑕᒫᑦ ᐊᑲᐅᓚᐅᖏᒻᒪᕆᒃᑐᖅ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᖅᓯᐅᑎᒻᒪᕆᖕᓂᒃ ᓴᖅᑭᔮᖅᑎᑦᑏᓐᓇᐅᔭᕐᓂᖓᓂᒃ.
ᐃᓄᒃᑎᑑᖅᑐᑦ ᑕᑯᒥᓇᕋᓗᐊᖅᑎᓪᓗᒋᑦ, ᐊᒻᒪᑦᑕᐅᖅ ᒪᓕᑐᐃᓐᓇᖂᔨᓚᐅᖅᐳᑦ ᓴᓇᓯᒪᓂᕐᒥᑎᒍᑦ ᐃᔾᔪᐊᖅᓯᒪᓚᐅᕐᒪᑕ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᑑᑦ ᐋᕿᖅᑕᐅᕙᒃᑐᓂᒃ. ᐊᓯᖏᑦᑕᐅᖅ ᓄᓇᓕᖕᓂᖔᖅᑐᑦ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᐅᓯᐅᖅᑏᑦ ᐃᓱᒪᖅᓱᕐᓇᑎᒃ ᑕᑯᓴᐅᑎᑦᑐᒪᔭᒥᓂᒃ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᓂᑦ ᐊᖓᔪᖅᑳᒥᓂᒃ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᓃᑦᑐᓂᑦ ᒪᓕᒋᐊᖃᓗᐊᕐᓂᑯᒧᑦ. ᐃᓱᒪᑯᑦ ᓴᖅᑭᓐᓂᖓᑦ
1990ᒥᑦ, ᐱᒋᐊᖅᑎᑕᐅᓪᓗᓂ ᐸᐅᓗᓯ ᖁᓕᑦᑕᓕᐅᑉ (1939–2012),
ᐸᐅᓕ ᐋᐸᒃ ᐊᖏᓕᖅ (1954–1998), ᓄᐊᒪᓐ ᑰᓐ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᓴᖅᑲᓕᐊᓯ ᑯᓄᒃ, ᒪᓕᒃᑕᐅᓚᐅᖅᐳᑦ ᐊᕐᓇᐃᑦ ᐃᑲᔪᖅᑎᒌᒃᑯᓐᓂᑦ ᐅᑯᐊᖑᓪᓗᑎᒃ, ᐊᑐᐊᑦ ᐊᑭᑦᑎᖅ, ᓲᓴᓐ ᐊᖑᑕᐅᑦᑐᖅ ᐊᕕᙵᖅ, ᒪᕆ-ᐃᓕᓇ ᑰᓯᓅ, ᒪᑎᓕᓐ ᐱᐅᔪᖅ ᐃᕙᓗ, ᑭᐅᓗ ᑯᓄᒃᓗ, ᑕᐃᒪᓕ ᐊᒃᓱᒻᒪᕆᐊᓗᒃ ᐱᒻᒪᕆᐅᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᕗᑦ ᓄᓇᑦᑎᓐᓂ.
ᐱᒋᐊᕐᓂᕐᒥᓂᑦ ᑖᒃᑯᐊᒃ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᐅᓰᐅᖅᑎᑦ ᓴᖅᑭᑦᑎᓯᒪᕗᑦ
ᐱᖓᓱᓂᑦ ᑕᑭᔪᓂᑦ ᑕᕆᔭᒃᓴᓪᓚᑖᓂᒃ, 8ᓂᒃ ᓇᐃᓐᓂᖅᓴᓂᒃ, 8ᓂᒃ ᓇᐃᑦᑐᑯᓗᖕᓂᑦ, ᑕᑯᓐᓇᒐᒃᓴᓂᑦ ᑕᓚᕖᓴᒃᑯᑦ, ᐅᓄᖅᑐᓂᑦ ᐊᐱᖅᓱᒐᓂᑦ, ᒫᓐᓇᐅᔪᖅ ᐱᖓᓱᓂᒃ ᐋᖅᑭᒃᓱᐃᕗᑦ ᑕᑭᔪᓂᒃ ᐱᙳᐊᖅᑐᓂᒃ ᓱᓕᔪᓂᒡᓗ ᑕᕆᔭᒐᖅᓴᕐᓂᑦ. 1990ᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐱᒋᐊᖅᖢᑎᒃ ᓴᖅᑭᑎᑦᑎᓯᒪᕗᑦ
ᓄᓇᓕᖕᓂᑦ ᐱᕙᓪᓕᐊᔪᓂᒃ, ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᑐᖃᓂᑦ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐅᓂᒃᖄᖅᑐᓂᒃ ᐃᓚᖏᑦ ᖃᕆᑕᐅᔭᒃᑯᑦ ᑎᑎᖅᑐᕐᓯᒪᔪᓂᒃ, ᓱᓕᔪᓂᒡᓗ ᐅᓂᑳᖅᓯᒪᔪᓂᒃ. 1840ᒦᖑᐊᖅᑐᖅ, ᖃᐅᓚᐅᖅᑎᓐᓇᒍ (2009), ᐊᕐᓇᐃᑦ ᓴᓇᔭᖓᑦ ᓯᕗᓪᓕᖅ ᑕᑭᔪᖅ ᐱᙳᐊᖅᑐᖅ, ᐅᓂᒃᑳᖅᐳᖅ ᑰᑐᔪᙳᐊᖅ, ᓂᖏᐅᕆᔭᐅᙳᐊᖅᑐᕐᓗ (ᒪᑎᓕᓐ ᐱᐅᔪᖅ ᐃᕙᓗ) ᐃᕐᖑᑕᖓᓗ ᐊᒃᓱᕈᕐᓇᖅᓯᐅᖅᑎᓪᓗᒋᑦ ᐋᓂᐊᕐᓇᖅᑐᒧᑦ ᑎᑭᑕᐅᑎᓪᓗᒋᑦ ᐃᓚᖏᑦ.
ᑖᓐᓇ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᐅᓯᐊᖅ ᓵᓚᒃᓴᓚᐅᖅᑐᖅ ᐱᐅᓂᖅᐹᕆᔭᐅᓪᓗᓂ ᑲᓇᑕᒥ ᓯᕗᓪᓕᖅᐹᒥᒃ ᑕᑭᔪᒥᒃ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᐅᒻᒥᒃ ᓴᓇᔪᓂᒃ 2008ᖑᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᑐᓛᑐᒥᑦ, ᓄᓇᕐᔪᐊᒥᑦ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᐅᓯᐅᖅᑕᐅᕙᒃᑐᑦ ᓴᓚᒃᓴᕋᓱᖕᓂᐅᕙᒃᑐᒥᑦ. ᑕᒪᑭᖅᖢᑎᒃ ᑖᒃᑯᐊᒃ ᐃᓗᓕᖕᒥᐅᑦ ᑕᕆᔭᐅᓯᐅᖅᑎᖏᑦ ᐃᓄᖕᓂᖔᒪᕆᒃᑐᓂᒃ ᐅᓂᑳᓂᑦ ᓴᕿᔮᖅᑎᑦᑎᕗᑦ, ᐱᖅᑯᓯᒥᓂᒃ ᑕᖁᖅᑯᑎᓪᓗᑎᒃ ᓇᖕᒥᓂᑐᐊᑦᑎᐊᖅ ᐊᔪᖏᑕᒥᓂᒃ.
“ᐃᓱᒪᕗᖓᓕ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᐅᓯᐅᕐᓂᖅ ᐱᒻᒪᕆᐅᕗᖅ ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᑦᑎᓐᓂᒃ ᐃᑲᔪᕐᓂᖃᕐᓂᖓᓂᒃ ᐊᓯᐅᖁᓇᒋᑦ ᑲᔪᓰᓐᓇᖁᓪᓗᒋᓪᓗ,” ᐅᖃᓚᐅᖅᐳᖅ ᓘᓯ ᑐᓗᒑᕐᔪᒃ, ᓘᓯ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᐅᓯᐅᖃᑦᑕᓕᓚᐅᖅᑐᖅ 1997ᖑᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᐃᓱᒪᒃᑯᓐᓂᑦ ᐃᓚᒋᔭᐅᓕᓚᐅᖅᑐᖅ. “ᓱᓕ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᓴᓇᕙᒃᑕᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᐊᔪᙱᓐᓇᑦᑕ. ᐊᔪᕈᓐᓃᖅᓴᐅᑏᑦ ᐊᓯᔾᔨᕋᓗᐊᖅᑎᓪᓗᒋᑦ ᓂᐱᓕᐅᖅᓯᒪᔪᒃᑯᑦ ᓴᖅᑭᔮᖅᑎᑦᑎᖔᕋᑦᑕ, ᑭᓯᐊᓂ ᐃᓕᑦᑎᑦᑎᓇᓱᖕᓂᖅᐳᑦ ᐅᕙᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ ᖃᐅᔨᒪᔭᐅᔭᕆᐊᖃᓪᓚᕆᒃᑐᓂᒃ ᐊᓯᔾᔨᖏᒻᒪᑦ.”
ᐱᐅᔪᖅ ᐃᓱᒪᖃᕆᕗᖅᑕᐅᖅ “ᓱᓕ ᐃᖅᑲᐅᒪᔭᑦᑎᓂᒃ ᑭᓯᐊᓂ ᐊᑐᖃᑦᑕᕋᑦᑕ, ᑎᑎᕋᖅᑕᐅᓯᒪᕙᓚᐅᖏᒻᒪᑕ,” ᐅᖃᖅᖢᓂ. “ᑕᕐᕆᔭᐅᓯᐅᕐᓂᖅ ᐃᓱᒪᒃᓴᖅᓯᐅᕐᓇᕐᒪᑦ, ᐃᖅᑲᖅᐸᓪᓕᐊᓐᓇᖅᖢᓂᓗ. ᐳᐃᒍᓕᕋᓗᐊᖅᑕᑦᑎᓐᓂᒃ ᐃᖅᑲᕆᐊᖅᑎᑦᑎᔪᓐᓇᕐᒪᑦ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᕐᒥᓪᓘᓂᑦ ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᕙᒍᓐᓃᖅᑐᓂᑦ ᐃᖅᑲᐃᓐᓇᕐᒪᑦ.”
ᐃᒡᓗᓕᖕᒥᐅᑦ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᐅᓯᐅᖅᑎᖏᑦ ᑕᒪᑐᒥᖓ ᐊᒃᑐᕐᓂᓕᕕᒡᔪᐊᖑᔪᓐᓇᖅᑐᒥᒃ ᐱᔪᓐᓇᐅᑎᖃᕐᒪᑕ ᓄᓇᕐᔪᐊᕐᒥᐅᓄᑦ ᑕᑯᖅᑯᑎᒋᔾᔪᑎᒋᓪᓗᒍᓗ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᑦᑎᓐᓂᒃ, ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᖅᑎᓐᓂᒃ,
ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᒫᓐᓇᐅᔪᖅ ᐊᓯᔾᔨᖅᐸᓪᓕᐊᔪᓂᒃ ᐃᓕᖅᖁᓯᕆᓕᖅᑕᑦᑎᓐᓂᒃ,
ᐃᓅᓂᖅ ᐱᖅᑯᓯᖏᓪᓗ ᓄᖅᑳᖔᖅᐸᖏᒻᒪᑦ. ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᑕᐃᒪᖓᓂᒃ ᐊᓯᔾᔨᖅᐸᓪᓕᐊᔪᓂᒃ ᖃᖓᓕᒫᑦ ᒪᓕᒃᐸᖕᒪᑕ. ᐱᖁᔭᑐᖃᐃᑦ, ᐊᑐᕐᓂᖃᖅᑐᑦ ᐃᓕᖅᑯᓯᑐᖃᐃᑦ ᐱᒻᒪᕆᐅᔪᑦ ᐳᐃᒍᖅᑕᐅᕙᒃᐸᙱᒻᒪᑕ, ᑭᖑᕚᕆᔭᐅᔪᓄᓪᓗ ᐊᐃᑦᑐᖅᑕᐅᕙᒃᖢᑎᒃ ᐱᒻᒪᕆᐅᔭᕌᖓᒥᒃ. —
Iglulik filmmakers have used, and continue to use, Inuit culture as a basis to inform, entertain and impart knowledge to our constantly evolving society; age-old mores, revived and told in a new way.
story and how it is recounted from oral chronicles that make this a riveting film, not the macabre subject matter.
Iqallijuq was my father’s mother and she had passed unto him all her stories. During the summer evenings as night fell, my father would relate those stories as we, his children, were snug in our warm blankets in our tent. One of my very favourite memories of him is singing songs from legends. My siblings and I, striving hard to stay awake, would eventually be lulled by the ebb and flow of the softly spoken stories or songs and fall asleep often before the end of either. I, like other residents of Iglulik, grew up hearing the Atanarjuat legend during such evenings. What excitement there was in our community when film production began on this epic legend. And, what pride we had in its success. Our story, told our way!
Yes, we no longer live in igloos. Yes, some aspects of our culture are no longer practiced and, yes, the modern world is very harsh on our traditions. Unlike Connolly, I identify with the man watching the film inside the museum rather than pitying him. Inuit have acquired new tools to aid remembering. Iglulik filmmakers have used, and continue to use, Inuit culture as a basis to inform, entertain and impart knowledge to our constantly evolving society; age-old mores, revived and told in a new way. We are not reliving, we are remembering— remembering our relations, remembering our ways.
On a return home for a visit to our traditional walrus hunting encampment at Iglulik Point, our tent was located not far from Atanarjuat’s boulder, Iksivautaujaq. According to ancient Iglulik lore, it was the very one he had rested against. One evening on my visit, I heard children singing Atanarjuat’s song. I credit the inexplicable combination of joy, pride and thankfulness that I felt at that moment to Saqqaliasi, Apak Angilirq, Qaukuluk, Qulitalik and the lasting legacies of Iglulik filmmaking. NOTES
1 Author in conversation with Lucy Tulugarjuk, January, 2019. 2 Author in conversation with Madeline Piujuq Ivalu, July, 2017.
ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᓪᓗᑎᒃ ᐊᑲᐅᔪᓂᑦ ᐊᑲᐅᖏᒃᑲᓗᐊᖅᐸᑕᓘᓐᓃᑦ.
ᐊᒃᓱᒻᒪᕆᐊᓗᒃ ᐃᑲᔪᖅᓯᒪᕗᑦ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐱᖅᑯᓯᖏᑦ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᖏᓪᓗ ᐳᐃᒍᐃᖅᓱᖅᖢᒋᑦ. ᓲᕐᓗ ᖁᓪᓕᐅᑉ ᒥᒃᓵᓄᑦ, ᐱᐅᔫᑉ ᓲᓴᐅᓪᓗ ᓴᓇᓂᑯᖓᑦ ᖁᓪᓕᖅ (1993), ᖁᓕᓕᕆᑎᓪᓗᒋᒃ ᐅᑭᐅᕌᓗᒃᑯᒃ. ᑐᐊᕕᙱᐅᔭᖅᖢᑎᒃ ᐊᔾᔨᓕᐅᖅᓯᒪᔫᒃ ᖃᓄᖅ ᖁᓪᓕᓕᕆᓂᕐᒥᑦ ᐃᒡᓗᕕᒐᕐᒥᑦ ᐱᕙᓚᐅᕐᓂᕐᒥᓂᒃ. ᓇᓕᒧᒃᑲᓗ ᑐᓴᕆᐅᑦᑎᐊᓚᐅᕆᕗᒍᑦ ᓱᓇᐅᕙ ᐅᑲᐅᓯᖅᑕᖃᓐᓂᕐᒪᑦ ᖁᓪᓖᓐᓇᕐᒧᑦ ᐃᑯᒻᒪᖕᓂᕐᒧᓗ ᑐᕌᖓᔪᓂᑦ. ᖃᐅᔨᒪᖏᑦᑎᐊᖅᓕᖅᑕᕕᓂᖅᐳᑦ ᐃᓛᑎᒍᖅᑲᐃ ᐃᓕᒃᑲᓗᐊᕐᓂᖅᐸᖏᑦ.
ᑕᒫᓂ ᓄᓇᒋᓕᖅᑕᓐᓂᒃ ᑐᓛᑐᒥ ᐃᓄᒃᑎᑐᑦ ᐅᖃᓪᓚᒃᑐᓂᒃ ᑐᓴᕋᔪᖏᓐᓇᒪ. ᐃᓛᓐᓂᒃᑯᑦ ᐃᓄᒃᑎᑐ ᐅᖃᓪᓚᒃᑐᓂᒃ ᑐᓴᕈᒪᓕᓗᐊᕐᓂᑯᒧᑦ ᖃᕆᑕᐅᔭᒃᑯᑦ ᐃᓱᒪᐅᑉ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᓕᐊᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᑕᑯᓐᓇᖃᑦᑕᖅᐳᖓ ᓲᕐᓗ ᑭᙳᓪᓖᑦ (1992). ᑖᓐᓇ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᔪᖅ ᐃᓐᓇᕐᓂᑦ ᑲᑎᒪᔾᔪᑎᖃᖅᑐᓂᒃ ᐱᓰᑦ ᒥᒃᓵᓄᑦ, ᐃᙱᐅᓯᐅᓂᕐᒥᑦ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᖃᖄᖅᖢᑎᒃ, ᐊᔮᔭᒻᒪᕆᓕᖅᖢᒋᓪᓗ. ᑖᒃᑯᐊ ᐃᓐᓇᐃᑦ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᑦᑎᐊᐳᑦ ᐱᓰᑦ ᖃᓄᖅ ᐋᕿᒃᑕᐅᕙᓚᐅᕐᓂᖏᓐᓂᒃ, ᕿᒥᖏᑦ, ᑐᑭᖏᓪᓗ, ᐃᖏᖅᑕᖏᑦ ᐊᔮᔮᑦ, ᕿᓚᐅᔾᔭᖅᑐᐊᓐᓄᐃᓪᓗ. ᓈᓚᓕᕌᖓᒃᑭᒃ ᕚᓱᐊ ᖁᐊᓴ ᐊᖓᔪᖓᓗ ᔪᐊᔨ ᑲᑉᐱᐊᓇᖅ, ᓂᐱᐊᓗᖏᑦ ᐅᐊᖏᓛᒃ ᑐᓴᕐᓂᕆᕙᒃᐸᒃᑲ. ᕿᒦᑦ, ᐅᖃᐅᓰᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐃᖏᐅᓰᑦ ᐃᓕᓐᓇᓱᓐᓇᔪᒃᐸᒃᖢᒋᑦ, ᐅᐊᖏᓛᒃ ᐃᓱᒪᓐᓄ ᐊᒃᑐᕐᓂᖃᕕᒡᔪᐊᓲᖅ.
ᑕᕐᕆᔭᒡᒍᔭᕋᑦᑕᐅᖅ ᓄᓕᐊᕆᔭᕐᒪ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᖅᑕᖓ ᐊᑕᒍᑦᑖᓗᒃ
(ᐱᕐᓕᕋᖅ) (1992), ᐊᒃᓱᐊᓗᒃ ᐃᓅᖦᖤᐱᐊᓗᒃᑐᕕᓂᖅ ᓴᐱᕐᓇᕕᒡᔪᐊᖅᑎᓪᓗᒍ, ᐃᖃᓪᓕᔪᖅ ᐅᑯᒫᓗᒃ ᐊᐱᖅᓱᖅᑕᐅᓪᓗᓂ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᖅᐳᖅ. ᐃᒡᓗᓕᖕᒥᐅᓂᒃ ᑐᓴᐅᒪᔭᐅᑦᑎᐊᖅᑐᖅ ᑖᓐᓇ ᐊᑕᒍᑦᑖᓗᒃ. ᓱᓇᐅᕙ ᐊᑕᒍᑦᑖᓗᒃᑯᑦ ᐃᓚᒌᒃ, ᐊᓯᖏᓐᓂᒡᓗ ᐊᐅᓪᓛᖃᑎᖃᖅᖢᑎᒃ ᐊᔪᖅᓯᐅᖃᓕᕐᓂᕐᒪᑕ ᓄᓇᑐᐃᓐᓈᓗᖕᒥᑦ. ᐱᕐᓕᕋᖅᑐᐊᓘᓕᕐᓂᕐᒪᑕ, ᐊᑕᒍᑦᑖᓗᒃ ᐆᒪᔪᑐᐊᑦᑎᐊᖑᓕᕐᓂᕐᖢᓂ. ᐃᓅᑑᑦᑎᐊᓕᕋᒥ ᑭᓯᐊᓂ ᐃᓚᕕᓂᓂ ᓂᕆᖃᑦᑕᖅᖢᓂᒋᑦ ᐅᒪᔪᓐᓇᕐᓂᕐᒪᑦ. ᑖᒃᑯᐊ ᓇᓂᓯᔪᕕᓃᑦ ᐃᓄᖃᖅᑐᓄᑦ ᐊᒡᒋᓕᕋᒥᒃ ᐅᖃᕐᓂᖅᐳᑦ “ᓂᕿᑐᖅᑐᖃᖅᑐᐊᓘᓐᓂᕐᒪᑦ, ᑕᒪᔾᔭ ᐅᓯᕙᕗᑦ,” ᐱᖁᔭᒥᓂᒃ ᒪᓕᒃᖢᑎᒃ. ᑐᓵᔪᓪᓕ ᓱᖅᑯᐃᑲᐅᑎᒋᕗᑦ ᑐᑭᖓᓂᒃ, ᐸᕐᓇᒋᐊᖃᕋᒥᒃ ᐱᑦᑕᐃᓕᔾᔪᑎᓂᒡᓗ ᒪᓕᒋᐊᖃᕋᒥᒃ.
ᐅᕙᓐᓄᓪᓕ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᐅᓯᐅᖅᑑᑉ ᐃᖃᓪᓕᔫᓪᓗ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᖏᑦ, ᐅᓂᒃᑳᕈᓯᖅ, ᐃᖅᑲᐅᒪᔭᐅᓂᖓᓗ ᑐᓴᐅᒪᔭᓂᒃ ᑕᑯᓐᓇᕈᒥᓇᓕᖅᑎᑦᑎᕗᖅ.
ᐃᖃᓪᓕᔪᖅ ᐅᑕᕋᕐᒪ ᐊᓈᓇᒋᓚᐅᖅᑕ, ᑐᓴᐅᒪᔭᒥᓂᒡᓗ
ᐅᓂᒃᑳᓂᒃ ᖃᐅᔨᒪᑎᓚᐅᖅᖢᓂᐅᒃ. ᐊᐅᔭᒃᑯᑦ ᑖᖅᓯᓕᖅᕌᖓᑦ ᐊᑖᑕᕗᑦ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᖅᑐᐊᐸᓚᐅᕐᒪᑦ, ᐃᓐᓇᖓᓕᕌᖓᑦᑕ ᑐᐱᑦᑎᓐᓂᒃ. ᐃᖃᐅᒪᔭᓐᓂᒃ ᑲᔾᔮᕆᕙᒃᐸᕋ ᐅᓂᒃᑲᖅᑐᐊᑦ ᐱᓯᖏᓐᓂᒃ ᓂᐱᑭᑦᖢᓂ ᐃᙱᐅᔭᖅᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᐅᕙᒍᑦ ᓄᑕᖅᑲᑎᒍᑦ ᐃᖅᑯᒪᓇᓱᕕᒡᔪᐊᖅᐸᒃᖢᑕ ᑭᓯᐊᓂ ᐃᓛᓐᓂᒃᑯᑦ ᐱᐊᓂᓚᐅᖅᑎᓐᓇᒍ ᓯᓂᓕᖅᐸᓚᐅᖅᐳᒍᑦ.
ᑕᐃᒫᑐᐃᓐᓇᖅ ᐃᒡᓗᓕᖕᒥᐅᑕᐅᖃᑎᑐᑦ ᐱᕈᖅᓴᓚᐅᖅᐳᖓ
ᐊᑕᓈᕐᔪᐊᑉ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᖓ ᑐᓴᐅᒪᓪᓗᒍ.
ᓄᓇᑦᑎᓐᓂᒃ ᐊᓕᐊᓇᐃᖦᖤᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᖦᖤᖅᐳᖅ ᑐᓴᕋᑦᑕ ᑖᓇ
ᐅᓂᑳᖅ ᑕᕆᔭᐅᓯᐅᖅᑕᐅᓂᐊᖅᑐᐊᓘᓕᕐᒪᑦ. ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐊᖅᓱᕈᑦᑎᐊᖅᖢᑕ ᐱᒃᑯᒋᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᕙᕗᑦ ᐱᕐᔪᐊᙳᖅᑐᐊᓘᖕᒪᑦ. ᐅᓂᒃᑲᐅᓯᕗᑦ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᖅᑕᐅᑎᐊᕐᓯᒪᓪᓗᓂ ᐱᖅᑯᓯᕗᑦ ᒪᓕᒃᖢᒋᑦ
ᐄ ᐃᒡᓗᕕᒐᖃᖅᐸᒍᓐᓃᑐᒍᑦ, ᐄ ᐱᖅᑯᓯᕕᓂᑦᑕ ᐃᓚᖏᑦ ᒪᓕᑕᐅᕙᒍᓐᓃᖅᑐᑦ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐄ ᐃᓅᓯᕆᓕᖅᑕᕗᑦ ᖃᓪᓗᓇᐃᖓᓂᖓᓄᑦ ᐊᖅᓱᕈᕐᓇᖅᑐᒻᒪᕆᐊᓗᒃ. ᑭᓯᐊᓂᓕ ᑳᓇᓕ ᐃᓱᒪᖃᑎᒋᖏᑉᐸᕋ ᖃᕿᐊᕈᓱᖕᓂᖓᓂᒃ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᖃᑎᒋᔭᒥᓂᒃ ᐃᖃᓗᖕᓃᖦᖢᓂ,
ᑕᐃᓐᓇᓕ ᐊᖑᑦ ᐃᓄᒃ ᑐᑭᓯᑦᑎᐊᖅᐸᕋ. ᐃᓄᒃᑎᒍᑦ ᐃᖃᐅᒪᔾᔪᑎᓂᒃ ᓄᑖᓂᒃ ᐊᑐᖅᐸᓕᕋᑦᑕ. ᐃᓗᓕᖕᒥᐅᓪᓕ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᐅᓯᐅᖅᑎᖏᑦ ᐊᑐᕈᓐᓇᖅᓯᖕᒪᑕ ᐃᖅᑲᐅᒪᒃᑲᓐᓂᕈᑎᓂᒃ, ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐃᓕᖅᖁᓯᖏᑦ ᑐᙵᕕᒋᓪᓗᒍ ᑕᕐᕆᔭᐅᓯᐅᓂᕐᒧᑦ ᐊᓕᐊᓇᐃᑦᑐᓂᒃ, ᖃᐅᔨᒪᑎᑦᑎᕗᓪᓗ ᐅᕙᑦᑎᓐᓂᒃ, ᐃᓅᓯᖅᐳᑦ ᐊᓯᔾᔨᖅᐸᓕᐊᖏᓐᓇᕐᒪᑦ, ᑭᓯᐊᓂᓕ ᐃᖅᑲᐅᒪᔭᒥᓂᒃ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᖅᐸᒃᐳᒃ ᓄᑖᓂᒃ ᐊᑐᕋᓗᐊᖅᖢᑎᒃ. ᐃᓅᓯᕕᓂᖅ ᐃᔾᔪᐊᕋᓱᙱᓐᓇᑦᑎᒍᑦ ᐃᖅᑲᐅᒪᓇᓱᖔᖅᐳᒍᓪᓕ, ᐃᓚᕕᓂᖅᐳᑦ ᐃᖅᑲᐅᒪᕙᒃᐸᕗᑦ, ᐱᖅᑯᓯᕗᑦ ᐳᐃᒡᒍᐃᔾᔭᐃᖅᖢᒋᓪᓗ.
ᐊᖏᕐᕋᓚᐅᑲᒃᓯᒪᓪᓗᖓ ᐊᐃᕙᒐᓱᒡᕕᑦᑎᓐᓄᑦ ᐃᒡᓗᓕᐅᑉ ᓄᕗᐊᓂ ᑐᐱᖅᐳᑦ ᐅᖓᓯᓚᐅᙱᒻᒪᑦ ᐊᑕᓈᕐᔪᐊᑉ ᑕᖃᐃᖅᓯᕕᕕᓂᖓᓂᑦ ᑕᐃᔭᐅᔪᖅ ᐃᒃᓯᕙᐅᑕᐅᔭᕐᒥᑦ. ᐅᓂᑳᑐᖃᕐᓂᒃ ᑕᐃᑲᓂᒎᖅ ᑕᖃᐃᖅᓯᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᖕᒪᑦ. ᑕᐃᑲᓃᑎᓪᓗᖓ ᐅᓐᓄᓵᓕᖅᑎᓪᓗᒍ ᑐᓵᓚᐅᖅᓯᒪᒐᒪ ᓄᑕᕋᑯᓗᖕᓂᑦ ᐃᙱᖅᑐᓂᒃ ᐊᑕᓈᕐᔪᐊᑉ ᐃᙱᐅᓯᖓᓂᒃ. ᐃᕐᖐᓐᓇᑦᑎᐊᖅ ᐃᒃᐱᖕᓇᓚᐅᖅᐳᖅ ᖁᕕᐊᓇᕐᓂᖅ, ᐅᐱᒍᓱᖕᓂᖅ, ᖁᔭᓕᓂᕐᓗ ᐊᑕᐅᑦᑎᒃᑯᑦᑎᐊᖅ, ᖁᔭᒋᓗᐊᓚᐅᖅᐸᒃᑲ ᓴᖅᑲᓕᐊᓯᒃ, ᐋᐸᒃ, ᖃᐅᑯᓗᒃ, ᖁᓕᑦᑕᓕᒡᓗ ᐊᑐᒻᒪᕆᒃᑐᓂ ᑐᔪᓯᔪᓐᓇᕐᓂᖏᓐᓄᑦ. ᖃᐅᔨᒪᔾᔪᑎᑦ
1 ᑎᑎᕋᒃᑐᖅ ᐅᖃᓪᓚᖃᑎᖃᕐᖢᓂ ᓘᓯ ᑐᓗᒐᕐᔪᖕᒥᑦ, ᔭᓄᐊᕆ, 2019. 2 ᑎᑎᕋᒃᑐᖅ ᐅᖃᓪᓚᖃᑎᖃᕐᖢᓂ ᒪᑎᓕᓐ ᐱᐅᔪᖅ ᐃᕙᓗᒥᑦ, ᔪᓚᐃ, 2017.