(A short anecdote before I retell the journey to the fjord)
I will ever remember my astonishment upon realizing how close Scandinavian languages were to each other -- close enough to carry a discussion in all of these languages at once. Months ago, I was still assuming that the Danish and Norwegian friends of the Swedes studying in my school in Lille had had to learn Swedish from their early schooldays to be able to discuss på svenska. How strange, I thought, without yet realizing the paradoxical nature of my interrogation, that all of them had taken lessons at school to understand the very similar language of their closest neighbours... Despite the geographical proximity, a Frenchman does not understand much of what a Flemish would say, and it takes skill to understand Italian or Spanish or German or any of the languages of France's neighbouring countries. Neither does a Frenchman undertake the long process of learning most or all of the geographically close languages, generally. But be it as it may, languages have to be studied and learnt. That was a fact to me.
I witnessed more of such conversations while studying in the Swedish-speaking faculty of the university of Helsinki, and doubt crept in. Our Swedish-speaking coordinator, discussing with a Norwegian fellow; a Danish and another Norwegian chatting together, and there was no way I could guess which of their respective languages they were using in such circumstances. I had to ask, and the answer came as a shock. "Well, I am speaking Norwegian and he is speaking Danish!" "But... You do understand each other?" It challenged the very way I had ever conceived of language: a specific interface of communication, a code one could not guess but had first to decipher on one's own side in order to translate oneself into the other, the primary vessel for identity and essential tool to draw borders between countries -- and this idea, as I understand a little more every day, was nothing but the reflection of a French education on nationality and identity.
It is not so.
The bar of Kautokeino's only hotel is also the meeting point for the students and staff of the Sámi College, and it has become a surprisingly familiar place in the last few weeks, one of these obvious places you barely ever mention the name of -- at Hotel, of course! (Where else? The scarcity of bars in town certainly has something to do with it.) As I walked in last Saturday, literally all the clients were around our table, and the combination of languages spoken among the five-six of them was brain-wrenching, as there was none we were all fluent in albeit each of us could spoke two, three or four. While the three Sámi College students, Viivi, Jonne and Marina, interacted in sámegiella, the Swedish parents of Marina would not understand a word; however, they would reply in Swedish when spoken to in Norwegian. Coming from Finland, Viivi would understand Swedish much better than myself, although the few lessons I had allowed me to grasp something from the Swedish-Norwegian discussions; we'd sometimes beg for a translation and get it in sámegiella or English. Marina's father's funny explanations in broken English and Viivi throwing Finnish sentences at me without warning came only to top if off.
In such circumstances, there is little one can do to distinguish a language from the other. It is better not to try at all. After a day spent writing letters in Finnish, the relentless switching between languages swamped my brain, and it is perhaps a good thing not to think at which one is used and go instead with the flow, grasping the meaning of a sentence or a word without identifying with certainty the code beforehand. This is the kind of click one yearns for when learning a foreign language, a lift from theory to practical knowledge; it feels good, it feels free, in a way.
Showing posts with label sámi way of life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sámi way of life. Show all posts
Monday, 24 May 2010
Friday, 14 May 2010
Helatorstai
Our handicraft was finished on the third day, a bit in a rush, and now everyone is debating on whose pouch is the nicest. I am quite happy with mine, and its design earned praise even from duodji students. We witnessed the first downpour of the season while sewing the last stitches in the panoramic atelier of the College; the sky is tormented these days, so I haven't had any good light to take pictures of the final product.
The church bells in the distance woke me up this morning. The first sign of activity in the landmark red church ever since we arrived; I had climbed up the hill before only to find locked doors and little if any information about service days and times. This was the chance, then; as I came in sight of the edifice, walking hastily along the main road, I was slightly anxious to see the attendees already pouring out. Instead, the usually empty yard was full of parked cars.
I am not so keen on bursting into the service of a tiny church in a foreign country, and fashionably late, so there was plenty of time to hang around while waiting for someone to enter or exit the building and sneak in after. Strange moments: the vast sky and radiant Sun, silence and loneliness.
The graveyard was easier to access without the knee-deep layer of snow.
Finally, a man left the church, followed by an old woman who got back soon thereafter. I followed her in, a bit awkwardly.
The red church of Kautokeino, albeit the most distinctive building of the town, seems to be hardly ever used. The smaller chapels are preferred to that of the national congregation, which remains for many a symbol of the aggressive assimilation policy conducted by the Norwegian state in the Sámi areas until the eighties. The two flags flown in front of the church, Norwegian and Sámi, could be the symbol of a difficult reconciliation tinged with defiance; as for the atmosphere that emanates from the vivid traditional blues, reds and yellows of the furniture, from the ritual itself, performed in Norwegian and translated in sámegiella, and from the eerie children's paintings displayed in the hall altogether, it would be hard to define or describe.
It took me just enough time to take a few very discreet pictures to figure the Interdiction to take pictures during the service signs, displayed in nine languages, four of which I speak. Oh well...
Just a glimpse.
Among the attendees, perhaps one hundred or less, only five or six were not wearing the gákti, the traditional Sámi costume, including the famous bright red hat. In this colourful setting, the white vestment of the priest looked oddly out of place.
The priest said the last words, and the bells rang three times.
Scenes from the exit of the mass, though, seemed amusingly familiar -- universal?
***
The church bells in the distance woke me up this morning. The first sign of activity in the landmark red church ever since we arrived; I had climbed up the hill before only to find locked doors and little if any information about service days and times. This was the chance, then; as I came in sight of the edifice, walking hastily along the main road, I was slightly anxious to see the attendees already pouring out. Instead, the usually empty yard was full of parked cars.
I am not so keen on bursting into the service of a tiny church in a foreign country, and fashionably late, so there was plenty of time to hang around while waiting for someone to enter or exit the building and sneak in after. Strange moments: the vast sky and radiant Sun, silence and loneliness.
The graveyard was easier to access without the knee-deep layer of snow.
Signs and Symbols
Communication
Finally, a man left the church, followed by an old woman who got back soon thereafter. I followed her in, a bit awkwardly.
The red church of Kautokeino, albeit the most distinctive building of the town, seems to be hardly ever used. The smaller chapels are preferred to that of the national congregation, which remains for many a symbol of the aggressive assimilation policy conducted by the Norwegian state in the Sámi areas until the eighties. The two flags flown in front of the church, Norwegian and Sámi, could be the symbol of a difficult reconciliation tinged with defiance; as for the atmosphere that emanates from the vivid traditional blues, reds and yellows of the furniture, from the ritual itself, performed in Norwegian and translated in sámegiella, and from the eerie children's paintings displayed in the hall altogether, it would be hard to define or describe.
It took me just enough time to take a few very discreet pictures to figure the Interdiction to take pictures during the service signs, displayed in nine languages, four of which I speak. Oh well...
Just a glimpse.
Among the attendees, perhaps one hundred or less, only five or six were not wearing the gákti, the traditional Sámi costume, including the famous bright red hat. In this colourful setting, the white vestment of the priest looked oddly out of place.
The priest said the last words, and the bells rang three times.
Scenes from the exit of the mass, though, seemed amusingly familiar -- universal?
Gossip?
Pretty
***
***
Monday, 10 May 2010
Duodji
Duodji is the traditional Sámi handicraft -- as old as the time when the easiest way to get an item was to do it yourself. A special evening course was organized for us at the College, just so that we get to finish something simple in this short time frame.´
Here's the outcome of the first three-hour session...
The thread used has to be prepared: its fiber split in two, each end twisted separately then both ends together, tied with a knot.
Some bled as much as they could (I must admit that leather needles look particularly dangerous), others had to painfully undo half of the stitching so that the pieces matched. Not me. I'll take that as a family trait.
Here's the outcome of the first three-hour session...
The thread used has to be prepared: its fiber split in two, each end twisted separately then both ends together, tied with a knot.
Some bled as much as they could (I must admit that leather needles look particularly dangerous), others had to painfully undo half of the stitching so that the pieces matched. Not me. I'll take that as a family trait.
Reindeer, second
Another reindeer outing could happen that day, or week, or the next, or another, and finally, it happened. This time, it was about leading the flock, a few hundreds at a time, into the fence, in order to lasso and mark the spring-born calves before migrating for the summer to the coastal area.
We ended up helping Inga's family in their tasks in the fence, carrying wood posts before the herd comes and then helping to carry more or less cooperative calves into a smaller pen (which could mean from dragging them by the antlers, the tail or the front legs to actually carry them up all the way, as the mysterious and unnamed Man from the Forest used to show off).
Standing among the reindeer was incredible; the shy animals, never straying too far from each other, reacted as a single living mass to our voices and moves, streaming around us in an almost continuous flow; only the muffled sound of their hooves on the soft snow and the distant ringing of their bells.
No pictures of our feat, though, nor of the sunset seen through the rising cloud of dust and heat: my camera's batteries died halfway through.
The fence is perhaps 20 minutes away from our place by car.
Waiting
The herd is coming
Antlers
Little time for words; it was a busy weekend, with campfires and grilled reindeer meat and marshmallows and rides in party cars and drinking games, and it will be a busy Monday, with a lesson in the morning, a visit to the centre for indigenous rights and our first duodji (handicraft) lesson in the evening.
Sunday, 2 May 2010
Fishy, Fishy
Once again, no luck.
Joel and Georgie watching Sara, the librarian of the Sámi College, drill a hole in the ice.
It is snowing again since yesterday, the first time really since we arrived. A chilly wind was blowing over the frozen lake this morning, while the three of us foreigners and a bunch of locals were waggling their fishing rods with little conviction.
No one in our group caught anything, contrary to the children who seemed to rush to the competition tent every then and now, holding fish in their hands and trying to make the others kiss it "to turn it into a princess."
What a strange custom for a May Day celebration, I thought. Fishing competitions are not the most exciting thing one can come up with for Walpurgisnacht. Meanwhile, in Finland...
We had a quiet May Day at home, eating pancakes and, as far as I am concerned, still writing essays past the deadline.
Still snowing, but darkness turns to blue a little more every night.
Joel and Georgie watching Sara, the librarian of the Sámi College, drill a hole in the ice.It is snowing again since yesterday, the first time really since we arrived. A chilly wind was blowing over the frozen lake this morning, while the three of us foreigners and a bunch of locals were waggling their fishing rods with little conviction.
No one in our group caught anything, contrary to the children who seemed to rush to the competition tent every then and now, holding fish in their hands and trying to make the others kiss it "to turn it into a princess."
What a strange custom for a May Day celebration, I thought. Fishing competitions are not the most exciting thing one can come up with for Walpurgisnacht. Meanwhile, in Finland...
We had a quiet May Day at home, eating pancakes and, as far as I am concerned, still writing essays past the deadline.
Still snowing, but darkness turns to blue a little more every night.
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
Out there, further away
A sea of antlers
Some say that routine wears off the shine of everything, even of the most meaningful or deepest experiences. I am not sure. There is something driving the Sámi out to the herd, beyond mounts and frozen rivers, that stands up to the waves of industrialization and modernization, even as today they ride snowmobiles rather than reindeer. Engines did not destroy traditional activity, rather, traditions seized bluntly and wittingly on technology, taking to their need and leaving out what could alter them in essence. In the foreseeable future, at least. And it might have not been ever so. Heavy industry is another story.
Something is calling the Sámi out to the herd, and the muted trample of thousands of hooves, the open skies and blinding snow, the silence nearly absolute when the procession stops might have less to do with it than the ancient relationship between man, animal and the Whole, to name one explanation -- or than some other aspect of it, beyond our understanding and barely within reach of our own experience.
Routine may not be in question, and was definitely not, for us, the outsiders.
First sights of the flock
On the move
Family business
On top of it all
We drove from the university in our host's van, dropped by her home to get suitable clothing for extreme conditions, left again to join the herd and the other members of the extended family who were already underway, swapping places on the snowmobile and on the sled, where we squeezed onto very unpractically for the first and very chaotic ride.
Our hosts drove the herd farther away from the town, from where it was already straying, and we climbed up to a mountain top to set up the camp. The ground was covered in bushes still bearing berries from the previous summer, preserved there by the cold; they had a little tart, delicate flavour. A little further, a pile of rocks, and further away, soft valleys and other mountains.
Fire was made in the lavvu as soon as the men brought back wood and we ate a sumptuous lunch inside the tent. I had reindeer meat, the first time I ate mammal meat in ages. I am a vegetarian for ethical and political reasons, and free-range, berry-fed reindeer meat offered by the very people who overlooked the birth of the animal and slaughtered it themselves is ethical enough to my taste, thank you.
Leaving the camp, we rode down the mount to see the capture, with the traditional Sámi lasso, of a female belonging to another herd located on the other side of the Finnish border. One of the men left the group to drive the animal to its own herd, some forty kilometres away. We also stopped by a lake on the way back for some ice fishing, without much success.
I sat on the sled for the last ride back to the village, but we had learned how to sit on it in the meantime. It was more comfortable that way, but a bit scary as well, as we were speeding on thin ice along a free stream of Spring waters, up and down the hills at an impressive pace, in the raking light of the afternoon sun.
Some routines are better than others.
To each its own
However elusive the filiation of the Finns to the Sámi, however disputed the influence, over millenaries, of the ones on the others' language and culture -- and vice versa, direct experience gives little credit to the preconceived notion that Sámi are simply Northern Finns.
The confusion is less likely to occur among Finns, and among Sámi to an even lesser degree, than in foreign eyes, especially when these are focusing on Finland. It is hard for someone who does not belong to either of these groups to discuss the insider's perspective, but from the outside, the Sámi could as well be these countryside Finns with the funny costumes and old traditions. Lapland, after all, is where Santa Claus resides (no matter what sort of mythological beast he used to be in the Yule times) with his flying reindeer; Sámi are herding reindeer, Lapland is Finnish, so Sámi are Finns. Hardly anyone in the West is safe from the misconceptions born of our perception of the world through groups, and through nations in particular; for the well-read mind, it is still hard to think Sápmi as a land across lands.
Finns undoubtedly acknowledge their Northern roots through their folklore, and their close genetic linkage was proven; but from a broader perspective of civilization, in their everyday being and practices, Sámi and Finns are definitely not the same people.
I have mentioned from day one how obvious the difference in the idea of organization was, from Helsinki to Kautokeino; these first impressions were confirmed and explained in the following days. There is no word for stable in Sámi language, but sayings such as a year is not another year's brother, our lecturers explained. The very idea of stability is foreign to the nomadic Sámi people, used to the most instable conditions, varying weather from a year to the next, complex layers of snow and thinning ice in the spring season.
This is an everyday reality at the Sámi College: while students accepted to the Foreign Reporting module received months in advance a detailed day-by-day schedule, our programme here seems fairly improvised. An outing to the reindeer herd might happen today, tomorrow, or later. We ended up a couple times left all on our own in the middle of the day, for we were unable to find our lecturer gone for lunch or somewhere else. Nothing bad, just different.
One thing in particular embodies for me the essential difference between Sámi and Finns: sauna. I did not know what to expect sauna-wise when leaving Helsinki, where most houses and almost all student accommodation have access to one. From what I have been told over the years, or so it is presented by today's Finns, Finnish civilization appears to have developed around the sauna. It was the first part to be built in a new house; the place where women gave birth and where corpses were washed before the funeral; a temple, where a ritual of purification takes place, beyond a mere physical cleaning. The surprising resistance of Finnish soldiers against the Soviet army during the Winter War is partly attributed to their use of sauna, which they still build today wherever they go. The prominence of sauna echoes down to our days (or, again, is given more emphasis today than it used to attract in the past, which does not undermine its relevance for Finnish identity, quite the opposite) and as far as Washington, DC.
But sauna does not belong to Sámi culture.
Upon arrival, I hoped for a sauna in the house we live in. We were in the North, after all.
There was none at home, but one at the university. Disappointingly, it turned out to be a mere gym sauna, built for a radically different purpose than a Finnish sauna, and much in line with the use of sauna in countries without sauna tradition (that is, all but Finland).
A gym sauna designed any-old-how is better than nothing, and I have already abused of its slightly too dry, too steady but nonetheless comforting heat. It is a shame that its bizarre architecture distracts me from complete relaxation: What is the stove doing right behind the door? How much better would it be if the upper bench was closer to the ceiling? Shouldn't they have hired a competent Finnish sauna designer?...
As a matter of fact, in Kautokeino, saunas are not in individual houses (as it is common in Finnish cities), neither do they exist as a separate but adjacent building (which is the custom in the old mökki). It may be different on the other side of the Finnish border, but my knowledge on the subject is limited. Sámi people are nomadic, albeit certain categories within their group settled long ago as fishermen and farmers and were forced in that way into Norwegianization, and it is even less so now, in a strict sense, as all have a house to live in. Still, Sámi-ness is not Finnishness: Sámi identity was not built around the sauna and the particular understanding of home it carries, and the social structures as well as the very sustainability of their culture, their survival, did not depend on this shelter against the bitter cold. Their houses are no more of a home than the whole land surrounding them.
However trivial sauna may seem, its near-absence in Norwegian Sápmi (it must be noted that there is no sauna tradition in Sweden or Norway either) underlines that the Sámi, in spite of their probable common roots with Finns sometime in history, in spite of the often common fate of individuals from the two groups, which may make them appear as one in the eyes of outsiders, are not Finns, or at least not only. Their cultural specificity, nearly essential in the way it relates to the old understanding of the world, is not only expressed as the symbols they used to make up a particular identity on the Norwegian and international stage, but also experienced actively in the very way they are.
Comment is free and input is welcome. Please correct my wrongs regarding Finnishness and sauna and Sámi culture, if any...
In other news, I refuse to start working on the essay due next Friday and strive to find inventive ways to push it away (such as providing evidence on these pages that my brain is constantly processing whatever comes its way into social sciences exploitable material, aye); days fly by, though, as the light's stretch outpaces actual time. I have been lately stuck home reading the unbelievably thrilling course related to the aforementioned essay ("Part 2: The analytical schemes of the invention of the "-ism" lexicon," I kid you not) and trying to keep up the pace with all the Sámi music I have pillaged from the library of the university.
We will leave on Thursday for a road trip to Karasjok, Inari, probably Alta, and perhaps other places during the weekend. Keep posted.
Update, April 27: Road trip postponed sine die, or at least until after we meet the Sámi ambassadors, which should happen on the 17th of May, or 18th, or 19th, or else. We concluded today's course with a visit to the local newspaper, Ávvir, and we might go out to the herd again, soon, someday between today and Monday. Or else. Who knows...
The confusion is less likely to occur among Finns, and among Sámi to an even lesser degree, than in foreign eyes, especially when these are focusing on Finland. It is hard for someone who does not belong to either of these groups to discuss the insider's perspective, but from the outside, the Sámi could as well be these countryside Finns with the funny costumes and old traditions. Lapland, after all, is where Santa Claus resides (no matter what sort of mythological beast he used to be in the Yule times) with his flying reindeer; Sámi are herding reindeer, Lapland is Finnish, so Sámi are Finns. Hardly anyone in the West is safe from the misconceptions born of our perception of the world through groups, and through nations in particular; for the well-read mind, it is still hard to think Sápmi as a land across lands.
Finns undoubtedly acknowledge their Northern roots through their folklore, and their close genetic linkage was proven; but from a broader perspective of civilization, in their everyday being and practices, Sámi and Finns are definitely not the same people.
I have mentioned from day one how obvious the difference in the idea of organization was, from Helsinki to Kautokeino; these first impressions were confirmed and explained in the following days. There is no word for stable in Sámi language, but sayings such as a year is not another year's brother, our lecturers explained. The very idea of stability is foreign to the nomadic Sámi people, used to the most instable conditions, varying weather from a year to the next, complex layers of snow and thinning ice in the spring season.
This is an everyday reality at the Sámi College: while students accepted to the Foreign Reporting module received months in advance a detailed day-by-day schedule, our programme here seems fairly improvised. An outing to the reindeer herd might happen today, tomorrow, or later. We ended up a couple times left all on our own in the middle of the day, for we were unable to find our lecturer gone for lunch or somewhere else. Nothing bad, just different.
One thing in particular embodies for me the essential difference between Sámi and Finns: sauna. I did not know what to expect sauna-wise when leaving Helsinki, where most houses and almost all student accommodation have access to one. From what I have been told over the years, or so it is presented by today's Finns, Finnish civilization appears to have developed around the sauna. It was the first part to be built in a new house; the place where women gave birth and where corpses were washed before the funeral; a temple, where a ritual of purification takes place, beyond a mere physical cleaning. The surprising resistance of Finnish soldiers against the Soviet army during the Winter War is partly attributed to their use of sauna, which they still build today wherever they go. The prominence of sauna echoes down to our days (or, again, is given more emphasis today than it used to attract in the past, which does not undermine its relevance for Finnish identity, quite the opposite) and as far as Washington, DC.
But sauna does not belong to Sámi culture.
Upon arrival, I hoped for a sauna in the house we live in. We were in the North, after all.
There was none at home, but one at the university. Disappointingly, it turned out to be a mere gym sauna, built for a radically different purpose than a Finnish sauna, and much in line with the use of sauna in countries without sauna tradition (that is, all but Finland).
A gym sauna designed any-old-how is better than nothing, and I have already abused of its slightly too dry, too steady but nonetheless comforting heat. It is a shame that its bizarre architecture distracts me from complete relaxation: What is the stove doing right behind the door? How much better would it be if the upper bench was closer to the ceiling? Shouldn't they have hired a competent Finnish sauna designer?...
As a matter of fact, in Kautokeino, saunas are not in individual houses (as it is common in Finnish cities), neither do they exist as a separate but adjacent building (which is the custom in the old mökki). It may be different on the other side of the Finnish border, but my knowledge on the subject is limited. Sámi people are nomadic, albeit certain categories within their group settled long ago as fishermen and farmers and were forced in that way into Norwegianization, and it is even less so now, in a strict sense, as all have a house to live in. Still, Sámi-ness is not Finnishness: Sámi identity was not built around the sauna and the particular understanding of home it carries, and the social structures as well as the very sustainability of their culture, their survival, did not depend on this shelter against the bitter cold. Their houses are no more of a home than the whole land surrounding them.
However trivial sauna may seem, its near-absence in Norwegian Sápmi (it must be noted that there is no sauna tradition in Sweden or Norway either) underlines that the Sámi, in spite of their probable common roots with Finns sometime in history, in spite of the often common fate of individuals from the two groups, which may make them appear as one in the eyes of outsiders, are not Finns, or at least not only. Their cultural specificity, nearly essential in the way it relates to the old understanding of the world, is not only expressed as the symbols they used to make up a particular identity on the Norwegian and international stage, but also experienced actively in the very way they are.
Comment is free and input is welcome. Please correct my wrongs regarding Finnishness and sauna and Sámi culture, if any...
***
In other news, I refuse to start working on the essay due next Friday and strive to find inventive ways to push it away (such as providing evidence on these pages that my brain is constantly processing whatever comes its way into social sciences exploitable material, aye); days fly by, though, as the light's stretch outpaces actual time. I have been lately stuck home reading the unbelievably thrilling course related to the aforementioned essay ("Part 2: The analytical schemes of the invention of the "-ism" lexicon," I kid you not) and trying to keep up the pace with all the Sámi music I have pillaged from the library of the university.
We will leave on Thursday for a road trip to Karasjok, Inari, probably Alta, and perhaps other places during the weekend. Keep posted.
Update, April 27: Road trip postponed sine die, or at least until after we meet the Sámi ambassadors, which should happen on the 17th of May, or 18th, or 19th, or else. We concluded today's course with a visit to the local newspaper, Ávvir, and we might go out to the herd again, soon, someday between today and Monday. Or else. Who knows...
Saturday, 17 April 2010
Funeral rites
The oldest of the intricate metal crosses stand at the entrance of the graveyard, half-buried in thick snow, right next to the red wooden church. They carry the names of Sámi who lived and died there over a century ago. The cemetary expanded down the slope as the town grew, headstones replaced the crosses, a bit further away from the church. There, one can find more recent graves, some covered with flowers withered and faded ribbons -- still, someone had the care to light a flame in the midst of the funeral wreaths.
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