In the meantime... here is a piece I wrote before going to Iceland, reflecting on my first and only trip to Gimli, Manitoba.
The Land, the Home, the History.
The cold lake water swirled around my knees,
the warm summer air kissed my bare skin, and I started to feel it.
A sense of home.
A sense of belonging to something that is created
by blood, not by choices or beliefs.
I first felt that feeling standing there,
in Lake Winnipeg, naked at three in the morning. It was still dark outside, the
stars glowing like white embers across the black sky, the distant horizon a
smoky grey smear. My focus was also smeared, from the beers I had stopped
counting at my cousin’s bonfire. I had snuck away from the circle of flames,
laughter, and music with my weekend romance, with the full intent of skinny-dipping
in the lake. At knee-depth I froze from the temperature, the view, and my own
swirling thoughts. My lover was whimpering, at ankle-depth, begging me to
abandon the chilly lake for his warm arms instead. I made a desperate plea to
my own brain, to remember in the morning the newly sensed emotion, so I could
explore it fully with an alert mind.
When I opened my eyes again, I could tell
it was still early by the weak sunlight streaming in through the truck windows.
I lay still, straining my ears for sounds of activity. None reached me.
Everyone from the neighbouring cottages had been at the bonfire, enjoying
themselves into the hours of dawn, so it was no surprise that no one was
stirring yet. Sunday was going to be a very quiet day. I sat up slowly,
ignoring the remaining fog that lingered behind my eyes. Very carefully I found
my shorts, my shoes, and my lover’s sweatshirt to ward off the morning chill.
Creeping out of the back seat of the truck, I escaped without waking the
sleeping giant, sprawled across the bench.
I decided to walk into town to clear my
mind. I came to Gimli to connect with my roots and I had started to do that. Since
I was a little girl I knew that my ancestors came to Canada from Iceland. But
why? Through conversations with my family and reading on the subject, I learned
that my family left Iceland because of a massive volcanic eruption that
destroyed the farms and livelihoods of many Western Icelanders. They came here
for a fresh beginning because restarting back home seemed impossible.
I thought about their struggle, about their
journey, as I walked along the public beach at the edge of town. A few older
ladies were already stretched out on the sand, bathing in the sun. It was close
to eight in the morning, not that early for the people who had not attended my
family’s party the night before. I shoved my fingers into my shorts pocket and
found a ten-dollar bill. I gave thanks to Freyja and suppressed a giggle. I would
not be able to concentrate without my morning coffee.
I wandered through the streets of the small
downtown, a stranger to everyone. It was the weekend of the Icelandic Day, or Islendingadagurinn, also known as the
‘Ding Dong’ in my family. This weekend always brings hundreds of people from
outside the area. They come for the carnival rides, for the parade, to see the Viking
battle re-enactments, the music and the food. But I wondered what it would be
like on any other summer weekend. Would everyone know everyone else? Was it as
tight knit a community as it once was?
I stopped at the restaurant in the centre
of town and ordered a coffee to go. With my morning dose of caffeine in hand I
walked down to the marina to pass by the large Viking monument. At the base is
a plaque that reads “Vikings: Discoverers of America 1000 A.D.” I frowned
because I knew it should read: “1000 A.D.: America discovers Vikings”. I did
not really think anyone still believed that America was ‘empty’ when settlers
first arrived. Then again, the statue was erected in 1967, and attitudes had
changed since then, had they not?
I kept walking along the path, thinking. As
I approached the marina entrance I stopped at another plaque that briefly
described the history of the area. I felt stunned as I read it. One part
specifically held my attention: “…the reserve [New Iceland] was essentially
self-governing … enable[ing] them to preserve their language and cultural
identity”. I took Indigenous studies in University and I had listened to the
stories of Elders. I knew about the struggles Canada’s Aboriginal peoples have
faced in preserving their languages and their cultural identities. I knew first
hand from classmates the struggles communities are facing in asserting their
ability and right to self-governance. At the time when my family was granted
these safe-guards, simultaneously Native communities were losing those same
rights.
I felt conflicted as I walked down the
length of the pier.
New Iceland was created between 1875 and
1876. During this time the nation of Canada was signing the Numbered Treaties
with various First Nations in order to open up the West for settler migration.
The Indian Act came into effect in 1876. While my ancestors were granted land,
cultural and language freedom, the decades of horror and destruction wrought by
residential schools was about to begin. Did the New Icelanders know anything
about this? Did they understand how privileged they were? And yet privileged is
such a limited word given the immense hardships the New Icelanders faced, from
poverty and famine to harsh new climates and disease.
I hold my coffee firmly in my left hand as
I scale the slanted cement wall of the pier. I want to sit, dangling my feet
over the water. I want to feel both the sturdy cement under my legs and the
uncertain feel of gravity as I balance on the edge.
I stare out at the calm grey waters of the
lake. I can see the faint edge of the far shore. What I know of Lake Winnipeg
is that it is far longer than it is wide, and that the water is very shallow.
My cousin told me that the beaches are never the same from day to day. Sand
gets pushed around creating new sandbanks and new divots every morning.
The sloppy sound of water pushing against
the posts of the pier fills my ears as I think over the information I have
gathered this weekend. I know that the reason I am there, in Gimli, learning
about my family is because of the generosity of the Canadian government of that
decade long ago, but it is also because of Treaty Number 5 that allowed that
land to be given to my family.
For several generations my family lived and
farmed a piece of land near Gimli. And now my family comes here every summer to
enjoy the land. This is the closest thing I have to a home territory. Even
though I have never seen this lake before, I feel connected to it, connected to
something bigger than myself, more meaningful than property or wealth. I am on
the land that gave my family a new beginning. It is the reason I am alive. But
it is also land that is a part of someone else’s history too. There must be so
many stories about this place from long before my ancestors ever stood foot on
the soil.
Is that what it means to be Canadian? No
matter what histories we have on this soil, there are infinite stories that took
place here before we came. No matter where we feel at home the most in this
country, our homes also belong to others. This must be common throughout the
world, with human beings constantly moving about.
Knowing that my home is not mine alone does
not bother me. Instead I feel more connected, more obligated to take care of
it, to respect the land, the water, the air. But how does this matter if I am
still an outsider here? I do not live in Gimli. I live in Ontario. But I was
born and grew up in British Columbia. So where is home for me?
A sailboat glides across the water, far out
on the lake. I watch it while I drink.
I do not know where my home is. The questions
makes my head hurt. Is it too grandiose to say my home is planet earth? But no
matter how lost I feel, I know I will always find the sense of home, on the
shores of Lake Winnipeg.
