Introduction

We pay respect to the Indigenous peoples whose home- lands are represented in this book and to their elders, past and present, for sharing their wisdom and for making their knowledge available for future generations.

This is fundamentally a book about cycles of life, both natural and cultural. It concerns changes in nature, in people, in language, culture, lifestyles, and ways of thinking—changes that can ultimately be understood only through the context of the past. But it also is a book about loss, dispossession, hope, resilience, regeneration, and the difficulties involved in trying to interpret and comprehend the complex relationships between Indigenous peoples and Northern landscapes. More concisely, it explores how relationships among language, memory, and landscape shape Indigenous identity but remain fluid and may be reworked in response to environmental changes and external cultural pressures.

The book presents multifaceted perspectives on belonging and knowing in Northern landscapes, with identity, representation, land-based connections, heritage, oral history, place names, linguistics, and culture change as cross-cutting themes. The essential and inextricable connections between the land and Indigenous self-identity have been explored in anthropological studies that focus primarily on the ethnographic dimensions of Indigenous landscapes (see, for example, Basso 1996; Feld and Basso 1996; Collignon 2006; Johnson and Hunn 2010; Krupnik, Mason, and Horton 2004). Although this book does the same, our approach differs in emphasizing the diachronic dimension of Indigenous languages and family or group histories on the land, as preserved and interpreted through memory. This diachronic orientation underscores our conviction that an awareness of the historical contexts of Indigenous peoples’ relationships with their homelands is essential to interpreting Indigenous identity. Indeed, it would be inaccurate to portray any Indigenous group in a manner that denies them a history, as if the connection its members feel to the land—and their basic cultural identity—has remained unchanged over time. In more pragmatic terms, situating the place-based maps and personal testimonials on which Indigenous land claims are often founded (see, for example, Freeman 1976; Goldschmidt and Haas 1998; Tobias 2009) within their historical contexts can significantly increase their value and authority in the legal arena (see Miraglia 2009; Pratt 2009b).

In this book, Indigenous and non-Indigenous occupants and researchers of the North share their voices, stories, and experiences of Northern landscapes. Across twelve chapters that explore Indigenous perspectives on language, memory, and landscape—taking in the geographic regions of Alaska, Arctic Canada, Greenland, and Siberia— the contributors delve into the intricacies of place, attempting to understand how Arctic settings are perceived by those who have long inhabited them. In so doing, they shed light on hitherto unfamiliar associations embedded in these landscapes and on the sense of belonging and sustained connection that Northern peoples feel in relation to specific places (see Brody 1976, 1998; Cruikshank 2005; Nelson 1983).

The individual chapters in this book consider the issue of Indigenous identity from different yet complementary disciplinary perspectives—anthropology, archaeology, architecture, cartography, ethnography, ethnohistory, geography, history, linguistics, and oral history. Some chapters rely heavily on the oral testimony of elders who constituted the last generation of their people to grow up in an essentially traditional lifestyle, rooted in their Indigenous languages, ceremonialism, subsistence practices, and ancestral homelands (Chlenov, Nagy, Pratt, Rank). Other chapters concern themselves more with contemporary Indigenous life in the North and associated tensions created by cultural, economic, environmental, and technological changes over the past century (Dowsley et al., Heyes and Jacobs, Nuttall). Still other chapters focus mainly on interpretive matters related to prehistory, colonialism, and language (Crowell, Dawson et al., Drozda, Holton, Simeone). As a whole, the contributions to this volume reveal both direct and subtle ways in which memories inextricably tied to the land continue to define and express Indigenous identity.

Collectively, the essays gathered here also showcase the richness of Indigenous knowledge and illustrate the ways in which it is continually updated and expanded. It is our hope that researchers and students working in the North, along with those interested in Indigenous knowledge more broadly, will take away from the book a sense of how Indigenous identities are formed through land-based interactions, as well as by working to keep languages alive and remembering the past through tangible forms and intangible practices.

With continuing declines in Indigenous-language speakers and the reduced amount of time members of many Indigenous groups now spend on the land, the study and documentation of place names has become increasingly important as a means for understanding Indigenous histories in Northern landscapes. Place names are records of collective memory that provide information about a broad range of topics, including Indigenous cultural history, subsistence practices, and perceptions of local landscapes (see Collignon 2006; Holton and Thornton 2019; Kari and Fall 2003; Pratt 2009a; Schreyer 2019)—as well as associated changes over time. They testify to the deep connections between Indigenous peoples and the land and to the traditional importance of learning and remembering the names of local places, which cannot be overemphasized. Knowledge of place names and the stories attached to them gave Indigenous peoples rich mental maps of the landscapes they inhabited, enabling them not only to navigate those lands but also to survive in them (see Aporta 2016; Burch 1971). Place names are also particularly valuable evidence for interpreting Indigenous peoples’ use and occupancy of the landscapes that constitute their homelands and for reconstructing population movements and the sometimes shifting boundaries between the territories in which specific groups lived (Burch et al. 1999; Pratt 2012). Collections of Indigenous place names can also contribute substantially to the documentation and preservation of Indigenous languages.¹ For all of these reasons, it is no surprise that half of the contributors to this volume focus on one aspect or another of Indigenous place names.

Indigenous voices and oral history are at the core of this volume. Elevating Indigenous voices and recognizing Indigenous people as experts in their own history are crucial steps toward a better understanding of how Northern settings are known and conceptualized. With the support and guidance of our Indigenous friends, collaborators, and colleagues, we have thus consistently sought in this book to place Indigenous knowledge first, while at the same time approaching it thoughtfully and critically (as one should any piece of information or knowledge), thereby upholding its status as evidence (for examples, see Burch 1991, 1998, esp. 12–19, 2010; Pratt 2010, 2021; Trigger 1987), rather than accepting it at face value, which seems to us to diminish its legitimacy. We have also ensured that, as far as is possible, Indigenous names and terms are spelled in accordance with the standard systems of orthography that have been developed for specific languages. This underscores our conviction that if one wishes to demonstrate respect for Indigenous languages, then one needs to transcribe them accurately and in a systematic manner. We consider this practice especially important relative to Indigenous place and personal names, many of which colonial parties willfully replaced with new names to further their efforts to dispossess Indigenous peoples of their homelands and to erase all traces of their former presence. Those actions also undermined Indigenous identities and languages and contributed to the loss of cultural histories.

The book comprises three thematic parts, each of which begins with a brief reflection that approaches the theme from an Indigenous perspective. The first section, “Indigenous History and Identity,” opens with a poetic celebration of the land written by two Inuk hunters from Kangiqsualujjuaq, a village located off the southeastern shore of Ungava Bay, in the territory of Nunavik, in northern Québec: Vinnie Baron, who works as a teacher, and her husband, Felix St-Aubin, who is a photographer. Together, they set the scene and tone of the book, reminding us that the land is beautiful in so many ways. It provides nourishment, it serves as a tonic, and it has the capacity to bring families together. The land heals. The photographs that accompany their words were taken on family hunting and fishing excursions. Overall, the contribution underscores how enduring subsistence practices and living on the land continue to define Indigenous identity in the North for men and women alike.

In the first chapter, Aron Crowell discusses creation stories held in oral traditions by the Yakutat Tlingit of Southeast Alaska and reports on the findings of a research project that sought to better understand the migration route their ancestors used to reach their present-day homeland. Crowell develops a picture of the timing and probable shape of this route by drawing on three sources: migration stories recounted by elders, geological information about the deglaciated period, and archaeological data obtained from the excavation of historical settlements, including housing forms, tools, ornamentation, and faunal remains. Although archaeologists have long tended to ignore Indigenous oral history as a potential source of information, Crowell does the opposite by emphasizing oral history accounts about Tlingit history in the Yakutat Bay area in his interpretations of related archaeological and other evidence. As such, the essay helps to bridge the divide between oral traditions and Western scientific methods and highlights the inherent value of the knowledge embedded in oral traditions.

In the following chapter, Murielle Nagy focuses on the Inuvialiut people of the western Canadian Arctic and explores the conventions they use to name and remember places on the land. Drawing on separate toponomy studies held decades apart, she discusses why knowledge of Inuvialuit place names has decreased in recent times and considers the impact this loss may be having on Inuvialuit constructions of identity. Her case study illustrates changes in the way that Indigenous languages are used to recall specific points on the landscape and environmental features—changes that are relevant to other Indigenous communities around the globe in which identity is especially strongly bound up with land-based activities, resources, and mobility.

The interplay between toponomy and identity continues in chapter 3 with Robert Drozda’s intricate effort to trace the origins of two place names on Nunivak Island, located in the Bering Sea off the southwestern coast of Alaska. Informed by his deep personal knowledge of the island and its people—and a long-standing interest in the Cup’ig language, which is unique to Nunivak Island—Drozda’s systematic and comprehensive research journey yields tantalizing clues but no clear answers. In the course of his quest, however, intriguing details about the Cup’ig language are revealed that raise many stimulating questions, none of which will be easily resolved. His analysis touches on complex aspects of the island’s Indigenous history (including regional intergroup relations), and reveals strong and enduring ties between place names and local oral traditions. It also highlights the urgent need for further linguistic research on the endangered Nunivak Cup’ig language and the abundance of existing resources available to support such work.

In the fourth and final chapter in part 1, Martha Dowsley, Scott Heyes, Anna Bunce, and Williams Stolz explore Inuit women’s identity and the land in the eastern Canadian Arctic region through the activities associated with berry picking. The essay highlights how berry picking is more than a peripheral activity carried out by Inuit women and children while Inuit men are out hunting. Rather, it serves as an opportunity to recall memories and stories related to specific places on the land, for observing and accumulating knowledge about climatic conditions, and for maintaining physical health and mental well- being. From an ethnoecological perspective, berry picking is one of many examples of human-plant relationships among Northern peoples that have arguably been undervalued and warrant in-depth research.

Part 2, “Forces of Change,” is introduced by Apay’u Moore, an accomplished artist from the Bristol Bay region of Alaska whose deeply felt connections to the land and to her Yup’ik roots infuse her artistic creations. She speaks openly and honestly of her struggles as a person of mixed ancestry—to earn ownership of the Yup’ik identity she proudly embraces. In this quest to internalize her heritage, she has worked to become fluent in the Yup’ik language, to learn and practice traditional subsistence skills, and to live simply and economically, without wasting what has been given to her. Moore also reflects on her upbringing, on the extremely close bond she enjoyed with her namesake uncle, on her love of family and fishing, and on the awakening and growth of her Yup’ik spirit. In so doing, she tacitly reveals what it means to be Indigenous in a modern setting.

In chapter 5, Mark Nuttall offers an intriguing and thoughtful discussion of human-environment relations among the Inuit of West Greenland. In his analysis, he pays special attention to the concept of “absence” to highlight the people’s strong attachment to place and sense of community, as well as their mobility, flexibility, and resilience. Nuttall reasons that the Inuit people’s long history of adaptations to and perseverance in the face of past social, economic and environmental changes have prepared them well for contending with the impacts of rapid climate change today. He makes the important point that Indigenous peoples of the North are far better equipped—practically and philosophically—to respond successfully to the threats posed by modern climate change than others might believe. His discussion provides a much-needed counterpoint to ill-informed but widely held assumptions that position Indigenous peoples as powerless victims when confronted with situations of rapid change.

In the following chapter, Kenneth Pratt marshals an array of documentary evidence—including Indigenous oral histories, archaeological survey data, archival documents, and historical accounts—to describe and interpret landscape changes in Alaska’s Yukon Delta over the past century or so, as well as to illustrate people’s enduring connections to place. He emphasizes the fact that landscapes and environments are dynamic and that Yup’ik people in the Yukon Delta have often been able to meet the demands that changes bring. In the relatively recent past, Indigenous residents of the region were able to relocate their villages in response to major transformations in the land- scape and environmental disasters such as floods. Yet the infrastructure of modern communities undermines such flexibility and mobility, and rapid climate change challenges peoples’ anticipatory capacity. Finally, Pratt offers a cautionary warning to researchers that major ecosystem changes in a specific region during a period of indisputable climate change may not be explainable solely in terms of that process.

In chapter 7, William Simeone focuses on the Ahtna people of the Copper River region of Alaska and, in particular, on how the doctrine of terra nullius allowed colonial cartographers to obliterate Ahtna history and their traditional custodianship of the land. The Copper River’s important associations with trade and transportation, the mining industry, and salmon fishing draw attention to the power wielded by colonial cartographers in their production of maps. While early maps included details and locations of Ahtna territorial boundaries and place names, these were progressively erased from subsequent maps as Euro-American presence within the Ahtna homeland expanded. Simeone presents and discusses a series of maps of the region to illustrate their significance to non-Ahtna outsiders (such as explorers, miners, speculators, and developers) and to demonstrate how those maps supported a campaign of sovereignty that, on paper, dispossessed the Ahtna of their Copper River homeland. Simeone also reminds us, however, that maps are only one way of looking at place and that Ahtna culture, identity, and knowledge of place names has remained steadfast.

In chapter 8, Scott Heyes and Peter Jacobs discuss the built environment in Nunavik, the Inuit region that spans roughly the northernmost third of Québec, and explore the ways in which the Inuit sense of identity with the land might be amplified through the creation of a more culturally appropriate approach to planning, architecture, and design. The authors present examples of how Inuit have created and shaped their built environment in historic and contemporary times and argue that the environment of Arctic communities and village settings would be enriched by attention to Inuit perceptions of the environment and the skills and talents they possess with regard to placemaking and design. As they strongly suggest, architectural forms across the Arctic should be less formulaic and more representative of the particular physical and social settings that distinguish Inuit communities from each other.

Part 3, “Knowing the Land,” is introduced by Evon Peter, who grew up in a Gwich’in village in far northeastern Alaska. Recalling the time he spent as a child with his grandfather, Peter writes of the urgent need for efforts to preserve the Gwich’in language and cultural identity. It was from his grandfather that he learned to appreciate how the land was perceived and understood by his elders and came to realize that the knowledge they hold—the entire Gwich’in cultural heritage—is inextricably bound up with the Gwich’in language itself, a Dene (or Athabascan) language that has for some time hovered on the brink of extinction. As Peter recognizes, he and other members of his community have both cultural and moral obligations to rescue and revitalize their language. His commitment to preserving the heritage on which Gwich’in cultural identity rests illustrates the ongoing application of the knowledge and values instilled by elders.

In chapter 9, Gary Holton provides an insightful, comparative discussion of the important role of landscape in the languages and ontologies of Indigenous Arctic peoples. His focus falls on how the language of the land is constructed and spatially conceptualized in Inuit-Yupik (Eskimo) and Dene (Athabascan) languages. Holton approaches his topic by unpacking the structure of both languages, with an emphasis on orientation systems and ways of conveying nearness, motion, and position in each language. As his analysis suggests, understanding the structural elements of Indigenous language and the influence these linguistic structures have on how people conceptualize their position in space and place provides valuable insights into how Indigenous people mentally map the environment and their homelands. Holton’s comparison of these two language families demonstrates that even though Indigenous groups may share knowledge of the same physical settings, their language usage is likely to privilege particular ways of parsing the landscape that in turn give rise to different place-naming strategies.

In the following chapter, Louann Rank examines conventions for naming settlements and waterways in an inland area of Alaska’s Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta located along an upstream section of the Kuskokwim River. Drawing extensively on Yup’ik oral histories, she discusses how place names reflect an extensive knowledge of fish species and their life-cycle activities, as well as of the routes along which they migrate. In particular, she identifies an intriguing pattern in which a base name, often that of a particular stream, is also incorporated into the name of the stream’s source lake and the name of a seasonal fish camp, often located at the mouth of the stream where it joins a larger river. As attested in interviews conducted in the 1980s with elders whose families have lived in the area for many generations, fish were, and remain, the single most important source of subsistence for Yup’ik communities, including those situated at some distance from the coast. Unsurprisingly, then, not only have fishing practices long shaped the relationship of local groups to the land and waterways around them: they have become inseparable from Yup’ik identity itself.

In chapter 11, Peter Dawson, Colleen Hughes, Donald Butler, and Kenneth Buck explore the capacity of local place names to serve as a guide to the emotional attachments that Indigenous people have to the landscapes they inhabit. Seeking to respond to critics of the “phenomenological turn” in landscape archaeology, the authors set out to develop a systematic methodology for assessing the subjective dimensions of language. Drawing on an electronic database of Inuit place names from the Kivalliq Region of Nunavut, they apply an algorithmic natural language processing technique known as sentiment analysis to assess the emotional valence of place names in the area. The authors contend that landscapes are more than the sum of topographical and geological features—that terrain is as much affective as physical. They accordingly argue that attention to the subjective content of place names is essential to understanding the experience of landscape and can provide archaeologists with a more complete picture of sites under study. Their analysis suggests that sentiment analysis can be a valuable methodological tool for capturing the intangible qualities of place.

The final chapter, by Michael A. Chlenov (translated from the Russian by Katerina Wessels), focuses on Siberian Yupik and Chukchi place names in the Senyavin Strait area of the Chukotka Peninsula, in far northeastern Russia. His discussion is introduced by Igor Krupnik, who provides background information about the Senyavin Strait region, an area whose Indigenous residents underwent a process of relocation by Soviet authorities in the 1950s that saw them removed from their traditional villages. Krupnik also calls attention to the progressive loss of both language and cultural heritage, notably in Yupik communities. Chlenov then turns to the linguistic history of the Chukotka Peninsula, where Yupik languages have long coexisted with Chukchi, a language that belongs to an entirely different family. Drawing on irreplaceable research undertaken in the 1970s and 1980s, Chlenov analyzes a corpus of Indigenous place names collected in the Senyavin Strait region. Details are provided about the etymology, definition, and context of each place name, and the location of the site or feature to which the name refers is marked on one in a series of maps. Chlenov’s work is especially invaluable at a time when Russian geographical names have gained primacy in the region, while those who can remember the traditional names have all but vanished. More than any other, this closing chapter starkly underscores the fact that once someone dies that person’s knowledge is truly lost.

Together, the chapters in this book highlight both the robustness and the fragility of Indigenous knowledge in a variety of cultural and geographic contexts. They also illustrate the inextricable relationship between memory, in which knowledge resides, and place. Perhaps above all, though, they demonstrate that knowing the land itself—walking upon it and feeling its pulse—remains critically important to Indigenous peoples, just as it was for their ancestors. One cannot ultimately appreciate, much less understand, a landscape without standing in it. Nonetheless, we hope this book will convey something of the experience of place and the meanings and memories embedded in landscape. We also hope that the book will illustrate the capacity of Northern Indigenous peoples not only to adapt to but to absorb change.