Akaqsarnatik: Food, power, and policy in

Eleanor Skye Stephenson

Department of Geography McGill University Montréal, Québec

November 2020

A thesis submitted to McGill University in partial fulfillment of the requirements of the degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

© Eleanor Stephenson 2020

ii Preface

Akaqsarnatik (ᐊᑲᖅᓴᕐᓇᑎᒃ): One of several translations of the English term ‘protest,’ meaning, ‘they are not comfortable’ with something; ‘expressing discontent’ with something; or ‘in protest of’ something.1 In 2012, food protests spread across communities in Arctic Canada, many organized through a grassroots group called Feeding My Family, as Nunavummiut stood up against the high costs of food and issues of food insecurity. The scale of the protests was unprecedented within in the Territory and, as I describe in Chapter 1, precipitated a search for new terminology. This title reflects the idea that food concerns in Nunavut have reconfigured both political space and language in a search for change.

1 Other translations include naammagusunnginniq (‘they are not okay’ with something, ‘not in agreement’ with something). The spelling akaqsaratik is also recorded. These appear in the Hansard transcripts of Parliamentary debates from the Government of Nunavut, which publishes a parallel text in English and Inuktitut and is a resource for translators (http://www.inuktitutcomputing.ca/NunavutHansard/).

iii Abstract In the past decade, food (in)security has been recognized as an important public health and human rights issue in Nunangat, the Inuit homeland in Arctic Canada. Nunavut in particular has been characterized as the epicenter of a Northern food crisis. While a growing number of studies have addressed Northern food insecurity, comparatively less attention has been paid to food insecurity as a political issue, and links between colonial institutions, food, and power in Arctic Canada continue to be overlooked within contemporary food security discourse. In response to research interests identified in consultation with Inuit organizations and community members, this doctoral research project investigates the intersections of food and social policy in Nunavut in both historical and contemporary terms. The study draws on primary data gathered in (Clyde River), , and Ottawa from 2017 to 2019. I take a multi-sited ethnographic and ethnohistorical approach, drawing on oral histories, community-based and key informant interviews, economic diaries, and archival research at the Library and Archives of Canada. Conceptually, I situate this work within scholarship on the social and structural determinants of Indigenous health, Inuit foodways and the social economy, and Northern governance. The research is structured by four interwoven objectives. The first is to describe the historical and political context for transformations of the Nunavut food system and to address the role these changes have played in issues of food insecurity. Drawing on oral history interviews and ethnographic sources, I describe the shift from a highly localized food system and Indigenous economy towards the mixed food system and mixed economy that persist today, showing how these transformations have introduced both new social adaptations and new forms of precarity with regards to food. The second objective is to show how food is entangled in histories and legacies of colonization in Arctic Canada. Archival analysis reveals that food was a critical medium of the Government of Canada’s expanding control over the Eastern Arctic in the post war period (1945-1970). I document how food rations administered through the Family Allowance program were treated as a tool of compliance towards centralization and school attendance and as a medium to inculcate Euro-Canadian norms concerning diet, nutrition, child weaning, and

iv gender and family roles. I argue that these practices reflected an extension of missionary activities, as colonial authorities sought to ‘improve’ Inuit lives and health while denying Inuit the right to determine the course of their own lives. I suggest such secular missionization has animated much of Northern social policy in the Government Era, and I find social policy has itself played a significant role in constituting the contemporary food system of Nunavut. The third objective is to characterize contemporary policy approaches to food insecurity in Nunavut and investigate the narratives and beliefs that underpin them. Drawing on key informant interviews, I find that a preference for market-based approaches to Northern food policy reflects the entrenched power of the private sector and has limited the capacity of food interventions to support the food security and self-determination of Inuit communities. While many agree that tackling food insecurity requires collaboration, a lack of mandate and ownership have also constrained policy action in recent years. Meanwhile, I argue that dominant narratives casting food insecurity as a product of high prices and remoteness have naturalized high rates of food insecurity in Nunavut while bracketing out structural questions of power and inequality. The fourth objective is to describe how Nunavut Inuit communities navigate, experience, and address food (in)security at the local level through a case study in Clyde River. Community-based interviews and economic diaries affirm the ongoing burden of food insecurity on Nunavut communities, while making clear that there is much more to the food system in Nunavut than high costs and high rates of food insecurity. Food – especially country food – remains not just nutritionally but culturally important and is a source of connection and relationality. This analysis affirms the continued importance and resilience of an Inuit food system and economy that, despite profound effects of colonization and socio-economic transformation, continue to play a meaningful role in sustaining Nunavut Inuit communities.

v Résumé Pendant la dernière décennie, l’insécurité alimentaire a été reconnue comme un enjeu de santé publique et de droits humains dans , la région Inuit du Canada arctique. Le Nunavut a été caractérisé comme l’épicentre d’une crise alimentaire. Quoiqu’un nombre croissant d’études scientifiques adresse la sécurité alimentaire du Nord, ces études manquent de considération envers l’insécurité alimentaire en tant qu’enjeu politique. De plus, les liens entre les institutions coloniales, l’alimentation, et le pouvoir continuent d’être négligés dans les discussions sur la sécurité alimentaire. La thèse doctorale qui suit enquête sur les liens entre l’alimentation et la politique sociale au Nunavut en termes historiques et contemporains ; et ce, afin de répondre aux intérêts identifiés en consultation avec plusieurs organisations et membres de la communauté Inuit. L’étude est basée sur une période de recherche à Kangiqtugaapik (Clyde River), Iqaluit, et Ottawa entre 2017 et 2019. En adoptant une approche ethnographique et ethnohistorique, j’utilise une combinaison de méthodes : histoires orales, entrevues communautaires, entrevues avec informateurs clés, journaux économiques, et recherche d’archives à Bibliothèque et Archives Canada. Conceptuellement, la recherche se situe parmi les critiques des déterminants sociaux et structurels de la santé des peuples autochtones, dans l’économie sociale du système alimentaire Inuit, et dans la gouvernance nordique. La recherche se structure à travers quatre objectifs liés. Le premier est de décrire le contexte historique et politique des transformations du système alimentaire Inuit, et d’examiner le rôle de ces changements dans les problèmes d’insécurité alimentaire. En commençant par les histoires orales et les sources ethnographiques, je décris la transformation d’un système alimentaire local et d’une économie autochtone en système alimentaire et économique mixte. Ces transformations introduisent à la fois de nouvelles adaptations sociales et de nouvelles sources d’insécurité alimentaire. Le deuxième objectif est de montrer comment l’alimentation est étroitement liée à l’histoire et l’héritage de la colonisation de l’arctique canadien. La recherche d’archives révèle que la nourriture fût une source importante de contrôle colonial dans l’Arctique de l’Est pendant la période d’après-guerre (1945-1970). Je montre comment les rations alimentaires

vi administrées par le programme d’allocations familiales ont été instrumentales pour inciter la centralisation et la fréquentation scolaire, ainsi que pour inculquer les normes d’alimentation euro-canadiennes de régime alimentaire, de nutrition, des pratiques de sevrage, et des rôles familiaux. Je soutiens que ces pratiques constituent la continuation des activités missionnaires : les autorités coloniales cherchaient à « améliorer » la vie et la santé des Inuit, malgré le fait qu’ils refusaient aux Inuit le droit de déterminer leurs propres vies. Je suggère que ce genre d’« orientation missionnaire- laïque » a animé la politique sociale du Nord pendant l’ère gouvernementale. J’établis que la politique sociale a joué un rôle important dans la construction du système alimentaire du Nunavut. Le troisième objectif est de caractériser les approches politiques contemporaines concernant la sécurité alimentaire au Nunavut, et d’enquêter sur les fils narratifs et les idées qui sous-tendent ces initiatives. Bien que la plupart des informateurs clés conviennent que le problème nécessite une approche collaborative, ils reconnaissent qu’un manque d’appropriation ou de mandat empêtre l’action politique. En ce qui concerne des interventions alimentaires, une préférence pour les approches axées sur le marché reflète le pouvoir établi du secteur privé. Celle-ci limite également la capacité des interventions alimentaires d’accorder la priorité à la sécurité alimentaire et à l’autodétermination des communautés Inuit. En même temps, le discours dominant caractérise l’insécurité alimentaire comme un problème qui dévolue des prix élevés et de l’éloignement ; ainsi faisant, il naturalise les taux élevés d’insécurité alimentaire au Nunavut tout en excluant la question du pouvoir et de l’inégalité. Le quatrième objectif est de décrire comment les communautés Inuit au Nunavut naviguent, vivent, et adressent l’insécurité alimentaire au niveau local à travers une étude de cas à Clyde River. Les entrevues dans la communauté et les journaux économiques affirment le fardeau constant d’insécurité alimentaire au Nunavut, et montrent qu’il reste plus à connaître à propos du système alimentaire que le prix de la nourriture ou les taux élevés d’insécurité alimentaire. La nourriture – surtout les aliments locaux – continue d’avoir une importance culturelle. Cette analyse affirme l’importance et la résilience d’une système alimentaire et économique Inuit qui, malgré les effets profonds de la colonisation et des transformations socioéconomiques, joue un rôle essentiel en soutenant les communautés Inuit au Nunavut.

vii Inuktitut Abstract ᐊᕐᕌᒍᑦ ᖁᓖᑦ ᐊᑐᖅᓯᒪᓕᖅᑎᓪᓗᒋᑦ, ᓂᕿᓂᑦ ᐊᑐᐃᓐᓇᖃᑦᑎᐊᕆᐊᕐᓂᖅ ᐃᓕᓴᕆᔭᐅᓯᒪᓪᓗᓂᒃ

ᐱᒻᒪᕇᐅᓪᓗᓂᒃ ᐊᓐᓂᐊᖃᖅᑕᐃᓕᒪᓂᕐᒨᖓᔪᓄᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐃᓅᓇᓱᐊᕈᑎᖃᕐᓂᒃᑯᑦ ᐱᔪᓐᓇᐅᑎᑎᒎᖓᔪᓂᑦ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᓄᓇᖓᑦ ᐃᓂᖃᕐᕕᖓᓂᒃ, ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᓄᓇᖃᕐᕕᒋᔭᖓ ᐅᑭᐅᖅᑕᖅᑐᖓᑕᑉ ᑲᓇᑕᐅᑦ. ᓄᓇᕗᑦ

ᐱᓗᐊᖅᑑᔪᒥᓪᓕ ᓇᓗᓇᐃᖅᑕᐅᓯᒪᔾᔪᑎᖃᕐᒪᑦ ᐃᓂᖃᕐᕕᓪᓚᕆᒻᒦᑦᑐᑎᒍᑦ ‘ᐅᑭᐅᖅᑕᖅᑑᔪᒥᒃ ᓂᕿᓅᖓᔪᓂᑦ

ᐃᓱᒫᓗᑎᔾᔪᑎᓂᑦ’. ᐊᒥᓲᓐᖑᖅᐸᓪᓕᐊᑎᓪᓗᒋᑦ ᖃᐅᔨᓴᖅᓃᑦ ᖃᐅᔨᓇᓱᑦᑐᑦ ᐅᑭᐅᖅᑕᖅᑐᒥᒃ ᓂᕿᓂᑦ

ᐊᑐᐃᓐᓇᖃᖏᓐᓂᕐᓂᑦ, ᐊᔾᔨᒌᓕᖅᑎᓯᒪᓂᕐᒥᒍᑦ ᑕᑯᒋᐊᕋᒃᓴᑎᒎᕐᓂᖏᑦ ᑕᑯᔭᐅᒋᐊᖔᓪᓗᐊᕋᑏᑦ ᓂᕿᓂᑦ

ᐊᑐᐃᓐᓇᖃᖏᓪᓚᑦᑖᕐᓃᑦ ᑲᑎᒪᔨᕐᔪᐊᖅᑎᒍᓪᓗ ᐃᓱᒫᓗᓐᓇᖅᑑᓪᓗᓂᒃ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐊᑦᑐᐊᓂᖃᖅᑐᓂᒃ

ᑐᖔᒍᖅᑐᓂᑦ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᑎᒍᑦ ᐃᓕᓐᓂᐊᕐᕕᒃᑰᖓᓂᖅᑎᒍᑦ, ᓂᖀᑦ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐱᔪᓐᓇᐅᑏᑦ

ᐅᑭᐅᖅᑕᖅᑐᒦᓪᓚᑦᑖᖅᑐᑦ ᐅᐊᑦᑎᐊᕈᐊᓘᒥᓂᑦ ᓂᕿᓂᑦ ᐊᑐᐃᓐᓇᖃᖏᓐᓂᕐᒨᖓᔪᓂᑦ ᓴᖅᑮᔾᔪᑕᐅᓪᓗᑏᓪᓗ.

ᑭᐅᔾᔪᑎᒥᓃᑦ ᒪᓕᑦᑐᒋᑦ ᖃᐅᔨᓴᕐᓂᕐᒨᖓᔪᒥᒃ ᐱᔪᒪᓂᕐᒥᒃ ᓇᓗᓇᐃᖅᑕᐅᓯᒪᓂᒃᑯᑦ ᐅᖃᖃᑎᒌᓐᓂᒃᑯᑦ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᑲᑐᔾᔨᖃᑎᒌᖏᓂᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᓄᓇᓖᑦ ᓄᓇᖃᖅᑎᖏᓂᑦ, ᑖᓐᓇ ᐸᐃᑉᐹᖅᑎᒎᖓᓪᓗᓂᒃ ᖃᐅᔨᓴᕐᓂᖅ ᐱᓕᕆᐊᖅ

ᖃᐅᔨᓴᕐᓂᓕᒃ ᐊᖅᑯᓵᕈᑎᒋᓲᖏᓂᑦ ᓂᖀᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐃᓄᓕᕆᓂᒃᑰᖓᔪᑦ ᐊᑐᐊᒐᑦ ᓴᖅᑭᔮᖅᑐᑦ ᓄᓇᕗᒻᒥ ᑕᒪᒃᑮᑎᒍᑦ ᐅᐊᑦᑎᐊᕈᕐᓇᓴᑎᒍᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐅᓪᓗᒦᐅᓕᖅᑐᖅ ᒪᓕᑦᑎᓯᒪᔪᓂᑦ.

ᐅᓇ ᖃᐅᔨᓴᕐᓂᖅ ᐱᓕᕆᓂᕐᒥᒎᖓᔪᔪᖅ ᑎᑎᕋᖅᑕᐅᓯᒪᔪᑎᒍᑦ ᓄᐊᑦᑎᕕᐅᓪᓗᑏᑦ ᑲᖏᖅᑐᒑᐱᒃ,

ᐃᖃᓗᐃᑦ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐋᑐᕙ ᐱᕕᖃᖅᑐᑏᑦ 2017ᒥᑦ 2019ᒧᑦ. ᐱᓕᕆᔾᔪᑎᖃᖃᑦᑕᔪᔪᖓ ᐊᔾᔨᒌᖏᑦᑑᑕᓂᑦ

ᐊᖅᑭᒃᓱᖅᓯᒪᓂᓕᖕᓂᑦ ᓄᓇᑎᒎᖅᑑᑕᓂᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐅᐊᑦᑎᐊᕈᕐᓇᓴᑎᒎᖅᑐᓂᑦ ᐱᓕᕆᔾᔪᑎᓂᑦ ᑕᑯᒋᐊᕐᓂᕐᓂᑦ,

ᐅᓂᒃᑳᑎᒍᑦ ᐅᐊᑦᑎᐊᕈᕐᓇᓴᓂᑦ ᖃᐅᔨᒋᐊᑦᑎᐊᕐᓃᑦ, ᓄᓇᓕᓐᓃᓐᖓᖅᑐᑎᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐱᓕᕆᓪᓗᐊᑕᓲᓄᑦ

ᐊᐱᖅᓱᕐᓃᑦ, ᑮᓐᓇᐅᔭᑎᒎᖓᔪᑦ ᑎᑎᕋᕐᕖᑦ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐅᐊᑦᑎᐊᕈᕐᓇᓴᓅᖓᔪᑦ ᖃᐅᔨᓴᕐᕖᑦ ᕿᒥᕐᕈᐊᒐᖃᕐᕕᖓ

ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐅᐊᑦᑎᐊᕈᕐᓇᓴᖃᕐᕕᖓ ᑲᓇᑕᐅᑉ. ᐃᒫᖑᔾᔪᑎᒋᓯᓐᓈᔪᓪᓗᒍᓗᒃ, ᐱᓕᕆᓂᖅ ᐃᓕᓐᓂᐊᕐᓂᕐᓅᖓᔪᔪᖅ

ᐃᓄᓕᕆᓂᒃᑰᖓᔪᓂᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐊᐅᓚᓂᕆᓲᒥᒍᑦ ᖃᐅᔨᒋᐊᖅᓯᒪᓂᖃᓪᓗᐊᑕᖅᑐᖅ ᓄᓇᖃᖅᑳᖅᓯᒪᔪᐃᑦ ᑎᒥᒥᑎᒎᖅᑐᓂᑦ, ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᓂᕿᑎᒍᑦ ᐊᖅᑯᓵᓲᖏᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐃᓄᓕᕆᓂᒃᑰᖓᔪᑦ ᑮᓐᓇᐅᔭᒃᑰᖓᓂᑦ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ

ᖃᓪᓗᓈᑎᒎᖓᓃᑦ ᐅᐊᑦᑎᐊᕈᕐᓇᓵᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᒪᓕᒐᖅᑎᒎᖓᓃᑦ.

ᖃᐅᔨᓴᕐᓂᖅ ᐊᖅᑭᒃᓱᖅᓯᒪᓂᓕᒃ ᑎᓴᒪᐃᓕᖅᑲᖓᔫᑕᓂᑦ ᑐᕌᕆᐊᕈᑕᓂᑦ ᖃᐅᔨᓇᓲᑎᓂᑦ. ᓯᕗᓪᓕᖅ

ᓇᓗᓇᐃᖅᓯᓂᓕᒃ ᐅᐊᑦᑎᐊᕈᕐᓇᓵᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᑲᑎᒪᓂᒃᑰᖓᓃᑦ ᑎᑎᕋᖅᓯᒪᓂᖏᑎᒍᑦ ᐊᖅᑭᒋᐊᕈᑎᐅᓇᓱᖃᑦᑕᕐᓂᑯᑦ ᓄᓇᕗᑦ ᓂᕿᒥᑎᒍᑦ ᐊᐅᓚᔾᔪᑎᖏᑎᒍᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᖃᐅᔨᔾᔪᑎᒋᒋᐊᕐᓗᒋᑦ ᐱᓕᕆᐊᖑᓲᑦ ᑕᒃᑯᓇᓐᖔᖅᑐᑦ ᐊᓯᔾᔨᖅᓯᒪᓕᕐᓂᖏᓄᑦ ᐊᑦᑐᐃᓯᒪᓕᕐᓂᕆᔭᖏᓐᓄᓪᓗ ᓂᕿᓂᑦ

viii ᐊᑐᐃᓐᓇᖃᑦᑎᐊᖏᓐᓂᕐᒨᖓᔪᓂᑦ. ᐱᓕᕆᐊᖑᓃᑦ ᓴᖅᑭᒃᐸᓪᓕᐊᔪᑦ ᐊᐱᖅᓱᕐᓂᒃᑰᖓᔪᒥᓃᑦ ᐊᐅᑦᑎᐊᕈᕐᓇᓵᑦ

ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᖃᓄᐃᑦᑑᓂᕐᒥᒍᑦ ᐱᓕᕆᔾᔪᑎᒥᑎᒍᑦ, ᐅᕙᖓᓕ ᓇᓗᓇᐃᖅᓯᔪᓐᓇᖅᓯᓚᐅᖅᐳᖓ ᒪᓕᑦᑎᓯᒪᔪᒥᒃ

ᓄᓇᓕᓐᓃᖓᖅᑐᓂᒃ ᓂᕿᑎᒍᑦ ᐊᐅᓚᔾᔪᑎᖏᑎᒍᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᓄᓇᖅᑲᖅᑳᖅᓯᒪᔪᑎᒍᑦ ᑮᓐᓇᐅᔭᒥᑎᒎᖓᔪᓂᑦ ᑐᕌᖅᑎᓯᒪᓕᖅᑑᔪᓂᑦ ᐊᔾᔨᒌᖏᑦᑑᑕᓂᑦ ᓂᕿᓄᑦ ᐊᐅᓚᔾᔪᑎᐅᔪᓄᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐊᔾᔨᒌᖏᑦᑑᑕᓄᑦ ᑮᓐᓇᐅᔭᑎᒎᕈᑎᖏᓄᑦ ᐅᓪᓗᒥᐅᔪᖅ ᓴᖅᑭᔮᖅᑑᓕᖅᑐᓄᑦ, ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᑦᕗᑦ ᖃᓄᖅ ᐊᓯᔾᔨᖅᓯᒪᓕᕐᓂᖏᓄᑦ

ᓴᖅᑮᓯᒪᓕᕐᓂᖏᓄᓪᓗ ᑕᒪᒃᑮᓐᓂᒃ ᓄᑖᓂᑦ ᐃᓄᓕᕆᔾᔪᑎᑎᒎᖅᑐᓂᑦ ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᓕᖅᑐᓂᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᓄᑖᓂᑦ ᐱᓕᕆᔾᔪᑎᐅᕙᓕᖅᑐᓂᑦ ᐱᔾᔪᑎᖃᖅᑑᔪᓄᑦ ᓂᕿᓄᑦ.

ᑭᖑᓪᓕᕐᓕ ᖃᐅᔨᔭᐅᔪᒪᔪᖅ ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᑎᑦᑎᓕᕐᓗᓂᒃ ᖃᓄᖅ ᓂᖀᑦ ᐊᑦᑐᖅᑕᐅᓯᒪᓂᕆᔭᒥᒎᖅᑐᑦ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᑎᒎᖓᖅᑐᑦ ᐅᐊᑦᑎᐊᕈᕐᓇᓵᑦ ᐅᑭᐅᖅᑕᖅᑐᒨᖓᔪᑎᒍᑦ. ᐅᐊᑦᑎᐊᕈᕐᓇᓴᑎᒍᑦ

ᑎᑎᕋᖅᑕᐅᖃᑦᑕᖅᓯᒪᔪᑎᒍᑦ ᐊᑐᖅᑐᒋᑦ ᖃᐅᔨᓴᖅᓯᓯᒪᕗᖅ ᓂᖀᑦ ᐱᒻᒪᕆᐅᔫᑎᓪᓗᒋᑦ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᓄᑦ ᐊᐅᓚᑕᐅᓇᓱᓕᕐᓂᒥᓂᖓ ᐅᑭᐅᖅᑕᖅᑑᔪᖅ ᐅᓇᑕᕕᔾᔪᐊᕐᓇᐅᑎᓪᓗᒋᑦ ᐊᕐᕌᒍᒥᓂᖏᑎᒍᑦ (1945-1970).

ᖃᐅᔨᔪᕗᖓ ᖃᓄᖅ ᓂᖀᑦ ᐊᐅᓚᔾᔪᓯᕐᒥᑦ ᓴᖅᑭᔮᓲᓂᑦ ᓱᕈᓯᕐᒨᖅᑖᕈᑎᓄᑦ ᐱᓕᕆᐊᒥᓂᖅ

ᓴᖅᑭᔮᖅᑎᑕᐅᓂᑰᓂᒥᓂᖓᓂᑦ ᐱᓕᕆᔾᔪᑎᑎᒍᑦ ᐊᐅᓚᑎᔾᔪᑎᒋᔭᐅᒋᐊᓕᖅᑐᓂᒃ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐃᓕᓐᓂᐊᖅᑏᑦ ᐅᐸᑦᑕᒥᓂᕐᒥᒎᖅᑐᒥᒃ ᒪᓕᑦᑎᓯᒪᔪᓂᑦ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᓴᖅᑭᔮᖅᑎᑕᐅᓂᖅᓴᐅᓕᖅᑐᑏᑦ ᑕᕆᐅᑉ ᐊᑭᐊᓂᒥᐅᑦ-

ᑲᓇᑕᒥᐅᑦ ᐃᓅᔾᔪᓯᕐᒥᒍᑦ ᓂᕿᒋᔭᐅᓲᓂᑦ, ᓂᕿᑦᑎᐊᕙᓂᑦ, ᓱᕈᓯᕐᓂᑦ ᐱᑦᑕᐃᓕᑎᑦᑎᓃᑦ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ

ᐊᖑᑕᐅᓂᕐᒥᓄᒃ ᐊᕐᓇᐅᓂᕐᒥᓄᑦ ᒪᓕᑦᑐᓂᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐃᓚᒌᑎᒍᑦ ᒪᓕᑦᑎᓯᒪᔪᓂᑦ. ᑖᒃᑯᐊᖑᔪᑦ

ᐊᑦᑐᐃᓪᓚᕆᒃᓯᒪᓇᕋᕈᓐᓇᖅᑕᒃᑲ ᐱᓕᕆᔾᔪᓯᒥᓃᑦ ᓴᖅᑭᔮᖅᑐᒥᓂᐅᓂᖏᓄᑦ ᐊᔪᕆᖅᓱᐃᔩᑦ ᖃᓄᐃᓕᕐᓂᒥᒎᖅᑐᒥᓂᖅᑎᒍᑦ, ᖃᓪᓗᓈᓄᓪᓗ ᐱᔪᓐᓇᐅᑎᒥᑎᒎᖅᑐᓂᑦ ‘ᐊᖅᑮᒋᐊᕈᑎᒥᓃᑦ’ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐃᓅᓯᖏᓂᑦ

ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᑎᒥᖏᓂᑦ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᐱᔪᓐᓇᐅᑎᒥᒍᑦ ᐊᑐᕈᓐᓃᖅᑎᑕᐅᖔᓕᖅᑐᑏᑦ ᓇᖕᒥᓂᖅ ᐱᔪᓐᓇᐅᑎᒥᒎᖅᑑᑕᓂᑦ ᐃᓅᔾᔪᑎᒋᓪᓚᕆᓲᖏᓂᑦ. ᑖᓐᓇ ᓇᓗᓇᐃᕈᒪᓪᓗᒍᓗᒃ ‘ᖃᓄᐃᑑᓂᕐᒥᒍᑦ ᐊᔪᕆᖅᓱᐃᔨᑎᒎᕐᓃᑦ’

ᐊᑦᑐᐃᓯᒪᓪᓚᕆᑦᑑᓂᖓᓂᑦ ᐅᑭᐅᖅᑕᖅᑑᔫᑉ ᐃᓅᔾᔪᓯᕐᒥᒎᕈᑎᒥᑕᑉ ᐊᑐᐊᒐᖏᓐᓂᑦ ᒐᕙᒪᒃᑰᔪᑎᒍᑦ ᐊᐅᓚᔪᒦᑦᑑᓕᖅᑎᓪᓗᑕᑉ. ᖃᐅᔨᓚᐅᖅᐸᕋ ᐃᓅᓕᕆᔾᔪᑎᑎᒍᑦ ᐊᑐᐊᒐᐅᓃᑦ ᓇᒻᒥᓂᖅ

ᐱᓕᕆᓪᓚᕆᑦᑑᓂᒥᓂᖓᓂᑦ ᓂᖀᑦ ᐊᐅᓚᔾᔪᓯᖏᑎᒎᖅᑐᓂᑦ ᓄᓇᕗᒻᒥ.

ᐱᖓᔪᖓᓕ ᖃᐅᔨᔭᐅᔪᒪᔪᖅ ᐱᓕᕆᐊᑎᒍᑦ ᓇᓗᓇᐃᒃᑯᑦᑎᕐᓗᒋᑦ ᐊᑐᐊᒐᑦ ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᒋᐊᕐᓂᑰᔪᑦ ᓂᕿᓄᑦ ᐊᑐᐃᓐᓇᖃᖏᑦᑑᓂᕐᒧᑦ ᓄᓇᕗᒻᒥ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᖃᐅᔨᓴᕐᓗᒋᑦ ᐱᔾᔪᑎᒥᓃᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐅᒃᐱᕆᔭᒥᓃᑦ ᑕᐃᒨᖑᓕᖅᑎᑕᐅᕙᓪᓕᐊᑎᓪᓗᒋᑦ. ᐊᑐᓪᓗᕆᖔᖅᑐᒋᑦ ᐱᓕᕆᓪᓚᕆᖃᑦᑕᖅᑐᒥᓂᕐᓄᑦ ᐊᐱᖅᓱᕐᓂᒥᓂᕐᓄᑦ,

ᖃᐅᔨᓚᐅᖅᐳᖓ ᐊᑐᐊᒐᕐᓂᑦ ᐊᑐᕆᐊᖅᑎᑦᑎᓂᒃᑰᖓᓃᑦ ᑲᔪᓰᓐᓇᖅᑐᒥᒃ ᐊᑦᑐᐃᓯᒪᔫᓂᖏᓄᑦ

ix ᓴᓐᖏᔫᓕᕈᑕᐅᓇᓱᑦᑐᑏᓪᓗ ᓇᖕᒥᓂᖅ ᐱᓕᕆᕕᖃᖅᑑᔪᓄᑦ ᓂᐅᕕᕐᕕᐅᓲᓄᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᑲᓇᑕᐅᑉ ᒐᕙᒪᑐᖃᒃᑯᖏᑎᒍᑦ ᓄᓇᕗᑦ ᓂᕿᖏᓄᑦ ᐊᐅᓚᓂᑎᔾᔪᑎᒋᔭᖓ, ᑭᓪᓕᖃᖅᑑᑎᓂᓪᓗ ᓂᕿᑎᒍᑦ

ᐱᓕᕆᒋᐊᕈᑎᓂᑦ ᓯᕗᓪᓕᐅᔾᔨᖏᓐᓂᖅᓴᐅᓕᖅᑐᑏᑦ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᓂᕿᖏᓂᑦ ᐊᑐᐃᓐᓇᖃᐃᓐᓇᕐᓂᕐᒥᒃ,

ᑎᒥᒥᑎᒎᖅᑐᓂᑦ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐃᓅᔾᔪᓯᒋᓇᓱᑦᑕᒥᒍᑦ. ᐊᒥᓲᓂᖅᓴᑦ ᐱᓕᕆᓪᓗᐊᑕᖃᑦᑕᖅᑐᒥᓃᑦ ᐊᖏᖃᑎᒌᒃᓯᒪᕗᑦ

ᑕᒪᓐᓇᐅᔪᖅ ᐱᓕᕆᖃᑎᒌᓐᓂᒃᑰᕆᐊᖃᕐᓂᖏᓄᑦ, ᓇᖕᒥᓂᖅᑲᑎᐊᖏᓐᓂᑦ ᐅᕙᓘᓐᓃᑦ ᑐᕌᕋᑎᒍᑦ

ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᔪᒪᔪᓂᑦ ᐊᑐᕆᐊᓕᖅᑎᑦᑎᓂᒃᑯᑦ ᐊᑐᐊᒐᖅᑎᒍᑦ ᐱᓕᕆᔾᔪᑎᒥᒎᕈᑎᒥᓂᕐᓂᑦ. ᐃᒫᖑᑎᓪᓗᒍᑦᑕᐅᖅ,

ᓴᖅᑭᔾᔪᑎᒥᓃᑦ ᐱᓕᕆᔾᔪᑎᒥᒎᖅᑐᑦ ᓴᖅᑭᑦᑐᒥᓃᑦ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᓂᕿᖏᑎᒍᑦ ᐊᑐᐃᓐᓇᖃᖏᓐᓂᕐᒨᖓᔪᑦ ᐊᑭᖏᑦ ᓂᐅᕕᐊᒃᓴᑎᒎᖓᓂᖏᑦ ᐊᑭᑐᔫᑕᐅᓪᓗᑏᑦ, ᓄᓇᓕᕋᓛᖑᓂᖅᓴᓂᓪᓗ ᐃᓂᖃᖅᑑᓪᓗᑏᑦ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ

ᐃᓄᑐᐃᓐᓇᐅᑉ ᓂᕿᒋᓲᒥᒍᑦ ᓂᕈᐊᕐᓃᑦ ᓴᖅᑭᔮᖅᑲᓯᐅᔾᔨᔪᐃᓐᓇᐅᓕᖅᑐᑦ ᐊᒥᓲᓂᖅᓴᓂᑦ ᓂᕿᓂᑦ ᐊᑐᐃᓐᓇᖃᑦᑎᐊᖏᓐᓂᕐᓂᑦ ᓄᓇᕗᒻᒥ ᐊᐱᖅᑯᑏᑦ ᐊᐅᓚᓂᖓᒎᖅᑐᑦ ᐱᔪᓐᓇᐅᑎᑎᒍᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᓇᓗᒧᐃᔾᔨᖏᓐᓂᒃᑰᖓᔪᑦ ᑕᒪᔾᔭᐅᒐᓗᐊᖅᑎᓪᓗᒋᑦ.

ᑎᓴᒪᖓᓕ ᖃᐅᔨᔭᐅᔪᒪᔪᒥᓂᖅ ᓇᓗᓇᐃᕐᓗᒋᑦ ᖃᓄᖅ ᓄᓇᕗᒻᒥ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᓄᓇᓕᖏᓐᓃᑦᑐᓂᑦ ᐊᐅᓚᑦᑎᔪᖃᓲᖑᒻᒪᖔᖅ, ᐊᑐᖅᑐᖃᓲᖑᒻᒪᖔᖅ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᓇᓗᓇᐃᖅᓯᔾᔪᑎᖃᓲᖑᒻᒪᖔᑕᑉ ᓂᕿᓂᑦ

ᐊᑐᐃᓐᓇᖃᕐᓂᕐᒥᒃ (ᐊᑐᐃᓐᓇᖃᖏᓐᓂᕐᒥᒃ) ᓄᓇᓕᒋᔭᖓᒎᖓᔪᓂᑦ ᒪᓕᑦᑐᓂᑦ ᐊᑐᖅᑐᒍᒃ ᖃᐅᔨᓴᕐᓂᖅ

ᑲᖏᖅᑐᒑᐱᒻᒥ ᐱᕕᓕᒃ. ᓄᓇᓕᓐᓂ−ᐊᐅᓚᑕᐅᔪᑦ ᐊᐱᖅᓱᕐᓃᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᑮᓐᓇᐅᔭᑎᒎᖓᔪᓂᑦ ᑎᑎᕋᕐᓃᑦ

ᓴᖅᑮᓯᒪᔪᑦ ᐊᐳᕈᑎᐅᓲᓂᑦ ᓂᕿᓄᑦ ᐊᑐᐃᓐᓇᖃᖏᓐᓂᕐᒧᑦ ᓄᓇᕗᑦ ᓄᓇᓕᖏᓐᓂᑦ, ᑕᑯᒃᓴᐅᔪᒥᓪᓗ

ᓴᖅᑭᔮᖅᑐᓂᑦ ᐱᑕᖃᕐᒃᑑᓂᖓᓄᑦ ᓂᖀᑦ ᐊᐅᓚᔾᔪᑎᒋᔭᒥᒎᖅᑐᓂᑦ ᓄᓇᕗᒻᒥ ᐊᑭᑐᔫᑖᑦ ᐱᓪᓗᒋᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᖁᕙᓯᒻᒪᕆᑦᑑᔪᑦ ᓂᕿᓂᑦ ᐊᑐᐃᓐᓇᖃᖏᑦᑑᓱᖑᑎᓪᓗᒋᑦ. ᓂᖀᑦ − ᐱᓗᐊᖅᑐᒥᒃ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᓂᕿᖏᑦ −

ᐱᒻᒪᕆᐅᔪᒥᒃ ᐱᖅᑯᓯᑐᖃᖅᑎᒍᑦ ᑐᓐᖓᔾᔪᑎᐅᒻᒪᑕᑉ ᑐᖔᒍᖅᑐᓂᑦ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ, ᐆᒪᔪᐃᑦ, ᓄᓇᐅᔪᕐᓗ

ᐱᓕᕆᖃᑎᒋᓪᓗᒍᒃ. ᐱᓕᕆᒋᐊᕈᑏᑦ ᓴᖅᑭᔮᖅᑐᓂᖏᓄᑦ ᓂᕿᓄᑦ ᐊᑐᐃᓐᓇᖃᖏᑦᑑᓂᕐᒨᖓᔪᑦ

ᓄᓇᓕᓐᓃᖓᖅᑐᑎᒍᑦ ᒪᓕᓪᓗᒋᑦ ᐱᖃᓯᐅᔾᔨᕗᑦ ᐃᓕᓐᓂᐊᕐᕕᖕᒥ ᐱᓕᕆᐊᑦ, ᒪᒃᑯᑦᑑᑕᓂᑦ ᐱᓕᕆᐊᑎᒍᑦ

ᐊᐅᓪᓚᐅᔾᔨᓃᑦ, ᓄᓇᓕᓐᓂ ᓂᕿᓄᑦ ᓄᐊᓴᐃᕕᒃ, ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᑐᓐᓂᖅᓱᐃᓂᑦ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᓂᕿᖏᓐᓂᑦ

ᐊᖅᑯᑎᒋᔭᐅᓪᓗᑏᑦ ᐆᒪᔪᕐᓂᐊᖅᑏᑦ ᑲᑐᔾᔨᖃᑎᒌᖏᑦ. ᑕᒪᔾᔭᐅᒐᓗᐊᖅᑎᓪᓗᒋᑦ ᑮᓐᓇᐅᔭᑎᒍᑦ ᐊᐳᕈᑏᑦ

ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᓲᑦ ᐊᖑᓇᓱᑦᑎᓄᑦ, ᓂᕿᓂᑦ ᐊᕕᑦᑐᐃᑦᑎᐊᕆᐊᕐᓂᖅ ᑲᔪᓰᓐᓇᖅᑐᒥᒃ ᐃᓄᓕᕆᔾᔪᑎᑎᒍᑦ

ᐃᓚᒌᑎᒎᖅᑐᓂᑦ ᑲᔪᓰᓐᓇᖅᑐᑦ ᐅᓪᓗᒥᒧᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᓄᓇᓕᑦᑎᒎᖓᓃᑦ ᐊᑐᕐᓗᒋᑦ. ᖃᐅᔨᔾᔪᑎᒥᓃᑦ ᐊᑐᖅᑐᒋᓪᓕ

ᐊᒥᓲᓗᐊᖅᑐᓂᑦ ᑕᑯᔭᐅᒋᐊᖅᑑᓂᖃᓗᐊᓕᖅᐳᖅ ᐱᒻᒪᕆᐅᔾᔨᒋᐊᕐᓃᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᖏᓐᓂᖅᓴᐅᓕᕐᓂᖓ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᓂᕿᓐᓄᑦ ᐊᐅᓚᔾᔪᑎᒥᒎᖅᑐᓂᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᑮᓐᓇᐅᔭᑎᒎᖅᑐᓂᑦ, ᐊᑦᑐᐃᓯᒪᓕᕐᓂᖏᑎᒎᑦ

x ᑕᒪᔾᔭᐅᒐᓗᐊᖅᑎᓪᓗᒋᑦ ᖃᓪᓗᓈᓄᑦ ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᖁᔭᐅᓃᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐃᓄᓕᕆᔾᔪᑎᑎᒍᑦ−ᑮᓐᓇᐅᔭᑎᒎᖓᔪᑦ

ᐊᑐᖅᑕᐅᖔᓕᕐᓃᑦ, ᑲᔪᓰᓐᓇᖅᑐᒥᒃ ᐊᑦᑐᐃᓯᒪᕗᑦ ᐊᐅᓚᔾᔪᑎᐅᓇᓱᐃᓐᓇᖅᑐᑏᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ

ᓴᓐᖏᔫᑎᑦᑎᓇᓱᑦᑐᑏᑦ ᐃᓄᐃᑦ ᓄᓇᓕᖁᑎᒋᔭᖏᓐᓂᑦ.

xi Acknowledgments At times a PhD dissertation seems like solitary work, but really, it’s not. Many of the individuals who shaped and took part in this project are not named here to keep their confidentiality, but I hope that they will accept this as a statement of my profound gratitude. Any mistakes are mine, but you are all in these words and ideas, and this work would not have been possible without you. I am grateful for your time and the trust you placed in me and this project. I am especially grateful to those in Clyde River and Iqaluit who enabled the primary research for this project, and who shared visits, stories, food, suggestions, trips on the land, and new skills and experiences with me over the past five years that profoundly shaped this research. I would especially like to thank Rebecca Hainnu, Shari Fox, and Jake Gearheard for their guidance early on, and Shari for her invaluable help securing housing and with oral history interviews. It was a privilege to work with Tina Kuniliusie, whose interpretation made these interviews possible. Thank you to Gary Aipellee, Irene Jonas, Mike Jaypoody, and Robert Kautuk for their assistance with Inuktitut interpretation and translation work at various stages. I am grateful to the instructor (who preferred to remain anonymous) who taught me Inuktitut terminology for ‘protest’ that ultimately inspired the title of this dissertation. I wish to acknowledge the institutional support of those working with the Ittaq Cultural Heritage and Research Centre and the Nunavut Research Institute throughout the research review process. I also especially wish to thank Charles Kalluk de Rome, Daisy Pallister, and Isaac Tassugat for their friendship. To Sarah and Jaypettee Kiliktee and family, thank you for giving me a home away from home in Clyde River and for all that you taught me – these are memories I cherish. That I spent time in Nunavut at all became possible because of George Wenzel. It was a privilege to work with George as a supervisor, and I want to thank him for agreeing to take me on as a last student, and for everything he did over the past years support me in this work. (To give just one example, I found out only years later that George had introduced me over community radio the first time I accompanied him to Clyde River. I wondered why so many people seemed to know me!) I am grateful for the opportunities that George offered me, the trust he placed in me, and his steadfast encouragement, patience, and kindness over countless cups of tea throughout my graduate studies.

xii My supervisory committee has played a supportive role throughout this work. I’m grateful to Kara Shaw for the many ways she has helped shape my academic path across the past decade, for pushing me to think more deeply and critically in my research and writing, and especially for her inspiration in teaching. I am grateful to Ashlee Cunsolo for her encouragement to pursue this PhD in the first place, and for the example she has given me through her dedication and critical perspectives on the responsibilities that research entails. I’m grateful to Sebastien Breau for his steadfast support at all stages of my PhD, and for thought- provoking conversations on equity and inequality. The financial support I received in the form of the McGill Tomlinson Fellowship and a Canada Graduate Scholarship from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council allowed me the time to focus exclusively on this research. These fellowships were made possible through the support of the general Canadian public and the Tomlinson family, and I am grateful for the opportunities they opened up for me. Additional funding from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council, Eben Hopson Fellowship, Rathlyn Award, McGill North Engagement Awards, and ACUNS Northern Scientific Training Program enabled me to spend more extensive time in Nunavut, including consultation trips early on and a visit to share preliminary research results before I began writing up this final dissertation, both of which enriched this work. The Department of Geography at McGill has been a vibrant academic community over the course of my PhD. I would like to thank Elisa David, Nancy Secondo, Filomena Fata, and Marisa Mastroberardino especially for their support over the years, and Michelle Maillet and David Clarke for making the third floor of Burnside a friendly and welcoming place to work. Faculty members Sarah Moser, Mylene Riva, and Sarah Turner encouraged my work throughout my time at McGill, and Magalie Quintal-Marineau, Julia Christensen, Susane Havelka, and Katherine Sinclair offered a generosity of practical advice and guidance. I am grateful to colleagues in the grad program for sharing many ideas and experiences over the last years, and would especially like to acknowledge Holly, Penny, Heloisa, Jennifer, Lauren, Laurence, Camille, Patrick, Dipto, and Tim. Thank you to Penny Beames, who made the map for this dissertation, and Bernard Soubry, who assisted with the French abstract. I’m grateful also to the wider

xiii Montreal community that saw me through this work, especially Marie Bondu, Marie-Eve Bouchard, and Sarah Moritz. Kait Finner and Alex Brovkin, thank you for hosting me through many wintery trips to LAC in Ottawa. Several wider academic communities and resources enriched this work. The Nunavut Social History Database was a fantastic resource for archival research, and I am grateful to Frank Tester and Peter Kulchyski both for creating this resource and for pointing me towards it. I wish to acknowledge the support of staff archivists at Library and Archives Canada and Philippa Ootoowak at Archives for assistance locating archival materials. I am grateful to the Avataq Cultural Institute and instructor Georges Filotas, who gave me the opportunity to study introductory Inuktitut in Montreal, and to René for helping me through the course. The McGill North network gave me the opportunity to present this work in draft stages and receive valuable feedback. The UVic political ecology co-lab offered a lively academic community while teaching at UVic and I am grateful to all its members. Most of all, I am grateful to my family for their support. My mum, Maureen, has always encouraged me to pursue opportunities as far as I could take them, and shares with me a love of words and writing. My dad, Peter, shares with me a lifelong curiosity about the wider world and our conversations over the years have been an ongoing source of inspiration for trying to do meaningful research. Thank you both for your unwavering support, especially in the final months of writing from back home during the COVID-19 pandemic. I also want to thank my Uncle Jim for taking an interest in this work, and for long ago teaching me to fish at Jordan River. I’m grateful to my big, loud Maine family for their love and support. I’m grateful to Jenn Elliott for her long-distance friendship and seeing me through all the ups and downs of grad school. I lastly wish to acknowledge in remembrance my friend Claudia Comberti, whose memory and enthusiasm for learning firsthand continues to inspire me, and my grandmother, Gloria Stephenson, whose determination and independent spirit I hope to always share.

xiv

ᑐᕌᖅᑎᑦᑎᓂᖅ

ᑖᓐᓇ ᐃᓕᓐᓂᐊᕐᓂᕆᓚᐅᖅᑕᕋ ᑐᕌᖅᑎᑕᕋ ᑕᐃᒃᑯᓄᖓ ᐅᕙᓐᓄᒃ ᐅᓂᒃᑳᖃᑦᑕᔪᔪᓂᑦ, ᐅᒃᐱᕈᓲᔾᔨᓂᒃᑯᑦ,

ᖃᐅᔨᒪᓂᒃᑯᓪᓗ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐊᑐᖅᓯᓯᒪᓂᒃᑯᑦ ᐊᑦᑐᐊᔪᓂᒃ ᑕᒃᑯᓇᓐᖓ ᐸᐃᑉᐹᓂᑦ. ᖁᔭᓐᓇᒦᒃ, ᖁᔭᓐᓇᒦᒃ,

ᑕᐃᒃᑯᓂᖓᓕᒫᖅ ᐅᖃᐅᓯᓚᐅᖅᑕᓐᓄᑦ ᐊᒻᒪᓗ ᐃᓕᓐᓂᐊᕐᑎᑦᑎᔾᔪᑎᒋᓚᐅᖅᑕᓐᓄᒃ.

Dedication

This thesis is dedicated to those who shared with me the stories, perspectives, knowledge, and experiences within these pages. Qujannamiik – thank you – for all that you taught me.

xv Table of Contents

PREFACE ...... III ABSTRACT ...... IV RÉSUMÉ ...... VI INUKTITUT ABSTRACT ...... VIII ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ...... XII ᑐᕌᖅᑎᑦᑎᓂᖅ...... XV DEDICATION ...... XV LIST OF FIGURES ...... XX LIST OF TABLES ...... XXI ACRONYMS ...... XXII CHAPTER 1 ‘SOMETHING NOT RIGHT’ GEOGRAPHIES OF FOOD INSECURITY IN ARCTIC CANADA ...... 1

1.1 CHAPTER INTRODUCTION: FOOD PROTESTS IN NUNAVUT, 2012 ...... 1

1.2 CONTEXT: GEOGRAPHIES OF FOOD INSECURITY IN ARCTIC CANADA ...... 4

1.3 CONCEPTUAL FRAMING: TOWARDS A POLITICS OF FOOD AND FOOD SECURITY IN ARCTIC CANADA ...... 12

1.4 POSITIONALITY, RESEARCH APPROACH, AND RESEARCH OBJECTIVES...... 16

1.5 THE GEOGRAPHY OF NUNAVUT AND RESEARCH SITES ...... 20 1.5.1 Kangiqtugaapik (Clyde River) ...... 24 1.5.2 Iqaluit ...... 26 1.5.3 Ottawa ...... 28

1.6 LANGUAGE AND STYLE ...... 29

1.7 CHAPTER CONCLUSION: ‘SOMETHING THAT COULD BE CHANGED’ ...... 29

CHAPTER 2 THEORY AND CONTEXT: TOWARDS A POLITICS OF FOOD AND FOOD SECURITY IN ARCTIC CANADA ...... 32

2.1 CHAPTER INTRODUCTION: THEORY AND CONTEXT ...... 32

2.2 FOOD SECURITY: ORIGINS AND EXCLUSIONS ...... 35

2.3 CONCEPTUALIZING FOOD SECURITY IN ARCTIC CANADA ...... 42

2.4 FOOD SECURITY AS A SOCIAL AND STRUCTURAL DETERMINANT OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES’ HEALTH ...... 47

2.5 INUIT FOODWAYS AND THE MIXED ECONOMY ...... 54

2.6 DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION: TOWARDS A POLITICS OF FOOD AND FOOD SECURITY IN ARCTIC CANADA ...... 62

CHAPTER 3 ‘THINK OF IT IN ITS FINISHED FORM’ RESEARCH APPROACH AND METHODOLOGY ...... 67

3.1 CHAPTER INTRODUCTION – ATII ...... 67

3.2 INUIT RESEARCH GOVERNANCE AND RESEARCH ETHICS ...... 69

3.3 SITUATING MYSELF IN THE RESEARCH CONTEXT ...... 71

3.4 CONSULTATION AND RESEARCH DESIGN ...... 73

3.5 METHODOLOGY: MULTI-SITED ETHNOGRAPHY ...... 75

3.6 METHODS ...... 77

xvi 3.6.1 Economic diaries ...... 80 3.6.2 Semi-structured interviews ...... 81 3.6.3 Archival research ...... 85

3.7 ISUMAQSAVUQ – SPENDING TIME ...... 86

3.8 INTERPRETATION AND ANALYSIS ...... 90

3.9 ENGAGEMENT AND RESULTS SHARING ...... 91

3.10 DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION: LIMITATIONS, LESSONS, AND FUTURE METHODOLOGICAL CONSIDERATIONS ...... 93

CHAPTER 4 ‘THEY LIVED HERE BECAUSE IT IS PLENTIFUL’ SOCIAL TRANSFORMATION AND THE NUNAVUT FOOD SYSTEM ...... 97

4.1 CHAPTER INTRODUCTION ...... 97

4.2 ‘THEY LIVED HERE BECAUSE IT IS PLENTIFUL’ - THE FOOD SYSTEM OF ILAGIIT NUNAGIVAKTANGIT ...... 98

4.3 SOCIAL TRANSFORMATION, FOOD, AND PRECARITY IN THE GOVERNMENT ERA ...... 107 4.3.1 The ‘Policy of Dispersal’ ...... 108 4.3.2 Centralization ...... 113 4.3.3 ‘Dogs eat fish, but snowmobiles eat money’ – The mixed economy ...... 117

4.4 DISCUSSION & CONCLUSION: SOCIAL TRANSFORMATION, FOOD, AND POWER ...... 120

CHAPTER 5 SECULAR MISSIONARIES AND THE GOSPEL OF HEALTH: FOOD AND COLONIAL POLICY IN THE EASTERN ARCTIC ...... 125

5.1 CHAPTER INTRODUCTION: FOOD, INDIGENOUS PEOPLES, AND COLONIAL INSTITUTIONS ...... 125

5.2 THE DOCTRINE OF DISPERSAL AND PREOCCUPATIONS WITH ‘DEPENDENCY’ ...... 129

5.3 FAMILY ALLOWANCES, WARDSHIP, AND THE ‘BOOK OF WISDOM’ ...... 133

5.4 CENTRALIZATION AND THE WELFARE STATE ...... 154

5.5 DISCUSSION: SECULAR MISSIONARIES AND THE ‘GOSPEL OF HEALTH’ ...... 162

5.6 CHAPTER CONCLUSION: ‘WE CANNOT BE TOLD WHAT TO EAT’ ...... 169

CHAPTER 6 A DECADE OF DATA, AND WHAT PROGRESS? FOOD SECURITY AND POLICY IN CONTEMPORARY NUNAVUT ...... 172

6.1 CHAPTER INTRODUCTION ...... 172

6.2 TIMELINE: FOOD POLITICS IN THE WAKE OF THE INUIT HEALTH SURVEY ...... 175 6.2.1 The Dargo Report and creation of Nutrition North Canada ...... 176 6.2.2 The UN Special Rapporteur’s visit and the politicization of food security ...... 181 6.2.3 The formation of Feeding My Family ...... 182 6.2.4 The Nunavut Food Security Coalition and Food Security Strategy ...... 184 6.2.5 The Auditor General’s report and revisions to NNC ...... 189 6.2.6 Towards a ‘distinctions-based’ approach to food policy ...... 193 6.2.7 Food security and governance in Nunavut today: Harvester Support, COVID-19 ...... 195

xvii 6.3 KEY INFORMANTS’ PERSPECTIVES ON FOOD (IN)SECURITY ...... 197 6.3.1 Conceptualizing food (in)security ...... 198 6.3.2 Explaining food insecurity ...... 199 6.3.3 ‘What am I supposed to eat?’ Conceptualizing nutrition and health ...... 205

6.4 KEY INFORMANTS’ POLICY RECOMMENDATIONS ...... 209 6.4.1 Strategies, cooperation, and self-determination ...... 209 6.4.2 Support for Inuit foodways, skepticism about silver bullets ...... 211 6.4.3 Community initiatives, pilot projects, and knowledge sharing ...... 214 6.4.4 Improving access to store-bought food ...... 215 6.4.5 Towards a new policy model for food security ...... 216 6.4.6 Health and healing ...... 217

6.5 DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION: CHANGE, CONTINUITY, AND POLICY BLUEPRINTS...... 219

CHAPTER 7 ‘IT KEEPS YOU CLOSE’ FOOD SHARING AND FOOD SECURITY IN CLYDE RIVER, NUNAVUT 224

7.1 CHAPTER INTRODUCTION: PORTRAIT OF A FOOD SYSTEM ...... 224

7.2 FOOD SECURITY IN THE CONTEXT OF A MIXED FOOD SYSTEM ...... 229

7.3 SOCIO-ECONOMIC DYNAMICS AND ACCESS TO FOOD ...... 237 7.3.1 Direct transfers of country food...... 239 7.3.2 Direct transfers of store-bought food ...... 240 7.3.3 Shared meals ...... 242 7.3.4 Radio and Facebook announcements ...... 242 7.3.5 Public events and community food distributions ...... 244 7.3.6 Buying and selling country food and store-bought food ...... 246

7.4 FOOD SHARING AS FOOD SECURITY ...... 247

7.5 ADDRESSING FOOD INSECURITY ...... 250

7.6 DISCUSSION AND CONCLUSION: TOWARDS A RECALIBRATION OF ‘FOOD SECURITY’ IN NUNAVUT ...... 255

CHAPTER 8 ‘WHY WOULD ANYONE MAKE FOOD YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO EAT?’ TOWARDS A LONGITUDINAL PERSPECTIVE ON FOOD (IN)SECURITY IN ARCTIC CANADA ...... 259

8.1 CHAPTER INTRODUCTION ...... 259

8.2 CONTEXTUALIZING AND FRAMING THE STUDY ...... 260

8.3 RESEARCH RESULTS, INTERPRETATIONS, AND ANALYSIS ...... 265 8.3.1 Historical context: Transformations of the Nunavut food system ...... 265 8.3.2 The entanglement of food in colonization ...... 267 8.3.3 Understanding contemporary policy approaches to food insecurity in Nunavut ...... 269 8.3.4 Navigating and addressing food (in)security at a community level ...... 271

8.4 TOWARDS A LONGITUDINAL PERSPECTIVE ON FOOD INSECURITY IN NUNAVUT ...... 274

xviii 8.5 ETHNOGRAPHIC PERSPECTIVES: ‘WHY WOULD ANYONE MAKE FOOD YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO EAT?’ ...... 277

8.6 FUTURE POLICY AND RESEARCH CONSIDERATIONS ...... 281

8.7 FINAL WORDS: MOVING FORWARD ...... 286

REFERENCES ...... 289 APPENDIX I: ECONOMIC DIARY RESULTS ...... 318

xix

List of figures Figure 1.1 Prevalence of moderate and severe food insecurity in Canada, 2005 to 2014 ...... 5 Figure 1.2 Map of Inuit Nunangat and Nunavut research locations ...... 21 Figure 1.3 Clyde River, looking towards Angijuqqaaraaluit (Sawtooth Mountain) ...... 25 Figure 1.4: Iqaluit, looking towards Frobisher Bay ...... 27 Figure 2.1 Conceptual framework diagram ...... 34 Figure 2.2 Use of food security terminology, 1970–2008...... 35 Figure 3.1 Spending time on the land near Clyde River ...... 89 Figure 4.1 Left: Family Allowance poster, late 1940s; Right: ‘Book of Wisdom’ image, 1947 ...... 111 Figure 5.1 ‘Book of Wisdom’ instructions for the preparation of baby foods, 1947 ...... 133 Figure 5.2 Dr. H.W. Lewis posed showing a canister of Pablum to two Inuit mothers, 1948...... 141 Figure 5.3 Powdered ‘Trumilk’ issued as a Family Allowance credit at Cape Smith, 1948...... 144 Figure 5.4 Inuit men aboard a Peterhead boat near Kangiqsualujjuaq, 1948 ...... 147 Figure 5.5 ‘Book of Wisdom’ instructions ‘To all mothers with small children,’ 1947 ...... 149 Figure 5.6 Woman and child looking at Family Allowance poster in Baker Lake, 1949 ...... 150 Figure 7.1 Economic diary results: Household grocery expenditure relative to income...... 230 Figure 7.2 Economic diary results: Nutrition North savings relative to household income ...... 233 Figure 7.3 Economic diary results: Grocery expenditure per capita ...... 241 Figure 7.4 Economic diary results: NNC savings by household and per capita ...... 250 Figure 8.1 Fishing near Clyde River, May 2018 ...... 288

xx List of Tables Table 3.1 Summary of research activities ...... 79 Table 3.2 Summary of semi-structured interviews ...... 82 Table 6.1 Summary of key informant interviews...... 174 Table 6.2 Timeline: Food security and governance in Inuit Nunangat ...... 176

xxi Acronyms ATV: All-Terrain Vehicle CBC: Canadian Broadcasting Corporation CCHS: Canadian Community Health Survey CIRNAC: Crown-Indigenous Relations and Northern Affairs Canada CPNP: Canada Prenatal Nutrition Program DNHW: Department of National Health and Welfare EAP: Eastern Arctic Patrol EU: European Union FA: Family Allowance FAO: United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization GN: Government of Nunavut HBC: Hudson’s Bay Company HTO/HTA: Hunters and Trappers Organization/ Association IHS: Inuit Health Survey INAC: Indigenous and Northern Affairs Canada IQ: Inuit Qaujimajatuqangit ITK: LAC: Library and Archives Canada NFSC: Nunavut Food Security Coalition NLCA: Nunavut Land Claims Agreement NNC: Nutrition North Canada NRI: Nunavut Research Institute NTI: Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated NWC: North West Company NWT: QIA: Qikiqtani Inuit Association QTC: Qikiqtani Truth Commission RCMP: Royal Canadian Mounted Police

xxii Chapter 1 ‘Something not right’ Geographies of food insecurity in Arctic Canada

1.1 Chapter introduction: Food protests in Nunavut, 2012 On May 10th, 2012, residents of the Inuit community of , Nunavut, held protests in front of their local grocery stores against poor food quality and high prices. They painted cardboard signs that highlighted grocery costs (“$16.99 for Ground Beef”) and asked, “where is the subsidized food?”, a reference to Canada’s new Nutrition North program. When a store manager offered to hand out doughnuts and coffee, protesters refused them (CBC News, 2012a). By early June, protests spread to other remote Inuit communities in Nunavut, including , , Clyde River, Pond Inlet, , , , and Iqaluit, before they eventually reached Parliament Hill in Ottawa, tapping into widespread concerns about access to food in Arctic communities (Bell, 2012). The national media portrayed images of Inuit children carrying signs stating “I need milk” and “We cannot be told what to eat” (Bell, 2012; CBC News, 2012b). In some communities, such as Clyde River, residents protested the only store in town. These were the first such acts of widespread public protest in communities that have historically avoided such overt displays of protest or confrontation (Wakegijig, Osborne, Statham, & Issaluk, 2013). “There was no Inuktitut word for it,” Leesee Papatsie explained to me in a later interview. “I remember we're trying to word it and we had a real hard time, because we didn't want it like an aggressive – you know, people's perception of a protest […] We really pushed for peaceful protest” (Interview, August 23rd 2017). Papatsie became a public figure in the struggle for Inuit food security after creating the Facebook page ‘Feeding My Family’ in 2012. Initially intended to coordinate a single protest in Iqaluit, Feeding My Family quickly attracted thousands of Nunavummiut, who began posting photos of high grocery prices across the Territory.2 Originally from Pangnirtung, Papatsie grew up and now lives with her family in

2 Today, Feeding My Family has more than 24,000 members – about two thirds of the population of Nunavut (Statistics Canada, 2018). It is surpassed in size only by “Nunavut

1 Iqaluit, where we spoke in August 2017. CBC North murmured in the background as I juggled my tea, voice recorder, and notebook in my lap. “Why do you think the first big protest in Nunavut centered on food?” I asked. Why? Well, food has always been a thing for Inuit, because there’s a long history of starvation among the Inuit, so Inuit have always come together, helping other family members feed ourselves. Food plays a big part in our culture, in our wellbeing. I think this – when we did a first protest – it was a stand, to something not right. You know, something that could be worked on. To something that could be changed. (Interview, August 23rd 2017).

At the time of the 2012 protests, 68.8% of Inuit households in Nunavut were identified as “food insecure” (Egeland, Pacey, Cao, & Sobol, 2010), meaning they experienced inadequate food supplies resulting in “reduced quality or desirability of food consumed” (Rosol et al., 2011, p. 491). Within this figure, 34.1 % were classified as “severely food insecure,” reflecting “disrupted eating patterns and reduced food intake” (Rosol et al., 2011, p. 491). These numbers were among the most publicized results of the Inuit Health Survey, completed in 2007 and 2008 to provide a first comprehensive overview of Inuit health across much of Arctic Canada.3 The survey revealed stark inequalities in health between Inuit and non-Inuit Canadians. In the wake of the survey, Nunavut was described as having “by far the highest documented food insecurity prevalence rate for any Indigenous population residing in a developed country” (Egeland, 2011, pp. 444-445), and the Territory became the epicentre of concern about a Northern food crisis in Canada. This unwanted distinction persists today; based on findings of the Canadian Community Health Survey, rates of food insecurity in Nunavut have been described as “persistently high and possibly growing” (Tarasuk, Mitchell, & Dachner, 2016, p. 16), while a recent study found an increase in food insecurity in Nunavut of 13.2% between 2011 and 2014 (St-Germain,

stories of the day,” a group celebrating the harvest and sharing of country food and its central role in (see Ch. 7 for detail). In a bid to avoid negative attention from animal-rights activists, members of Nunavut Hunting Stories of the Day have to be approved before joining that page; however, at 45,000 members, it now exceeds Nunavut’s population, attracting members from across the Circumpolar North. 3 A separate study, Qanuippitaa, was conducted in (Northern Quebec) in 2004, and found 24% of the population experienced household food insecurity (Anctil, 2008).

2 Galloway, & Tarasuk, 2019). At the same time, food security has become an important focus of Inuit political action, with the formation of grassroots organizations like Feeding My Family part of a wider, and ongoing, assertion of Inuit rights and commitment to raising awareness about social inequities in Arctic Canada (see for e.g. Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2016, 2018a). These actions extend not only to Nunavut, but across Inuit Nunangat, the Inuit homelands that stretch from the Inuvialuit Settlement Region in the Western Arctic to in Northern , encompassing land, water and ice (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2009). While a growing number of studies have addressed Northern food insecurity, comparatively less attention has been paid to food insecurity as a political issue, and links between colonial institutions, food, and power in Arctic Canada continue to mark an overlooked history within contemporary food security discourse (Burnett, Hay, & Chambers, 2016). In response to research interests identified in consultation with Inuit organizations and community members in 2016 (see Ch. 3), this doctoral research project investigates the intersections of food and social policy in Nunavut in both historical and contemporary terms. I take a multi-sited ethnographic and ethnohistorical approach, drawing on oral histories, community-based and key informant interviews, economic diaries, and archival research at the Library and Archives of Canada. I investigate the experiences and perspectives of Nunavummiut women and men, as well as policymakers and health professionals working at the territorial and federal level, to better understand historical, political, and economic roots of the food crisis in Nunavut in the context of colonization; and the experiences and perspectives of Nunavummiut concerning food and food (in)security today, including their thoughts on how issues of food insecurity might best be addressed. Conceptually, I situate this work within scholarship on the social and structural determinants of Indigenous health, Inuit foodways and the social economy, and colonialism and Northern governance. Through this analysis, this dissertation aims to contribute to a better understanding of how and why food became the focus of unprecedented protest in Nunavut in 2012, and more broadly, why Nunavut bears a disproportionate burden of food insecurity today, developing a longitudinal perspective on the Northern food crisis. This introductory chapter contextualizes the Nunavut food system and food issues within the Territory, introduces research objectives

3 and approaches, addresses my positionality as a researcher, and locates the research within the broader physical and social geography of Nunavut.

1.2 Context: Geographies of food insecurity in Arctic Canada Nationally, Canada’s rates of household food insecurity average 8.3% (Roshanafshar & Hawkins, 2015), falling within the range of other wealthy nations. However, this national average obscures profound disparities in food insecurity, with the Indigenous population of Canada bearing a disproportionate burden of food insecurity and its attendant effects on health and wellbeing (Tarasuk et al., 2016). The Canadian Community Health Survey (CCHS), which collects data from a subset of the national population annually, shows stark patterns in the geography of food insecurity in Canada, with the highest recorded levels in the Territorial North (see Figure 1.1). These data show that levels of food insecurity in Northern Canada, particularly Nunavut, have remained persistently high over time, and have continued to rise in recent years, with the highest rates of moderate and severe food insecurity in the past decade recorded in 2014 (42.8%), the last year for which comparable data was available.4 The prevalence of household and child food insecurity in Nunavut Inuit households is estimated to be 7- to 10- times higher than the provinces (Egeland, Johnson-Down, Cao, Sheikh, & Weiler, 2011, p. 1746). Epidemiological studies show that food insecurity puts people at greater risk of infection, anemia, diabetes, and other chronic health conditions; affects early child development; and contributes to stress and poor mental health (Council of Canadian Academies, 2014; Lambden, Receveur, Marshall, & Kuhnlein, 2006). In short, food insecurity places a profound burden on the health and wellbeing for Indigenous communities across Northern Canada.

4 The CCHS was redesigned again in 2015, and Health Canada recommends against combining cycles of data collected prior to, and after, the redesign; because of these changes to the survey methodology, comparable data extends from 2005 up to 2014 (Health Canada, n.d. ). Because the food security module is optional, annual data is not available for provinces and territories. No data is available for 2006. Inter-annual changes may not be statistically significant.

4 42.8 Nunavut 40.3 39.3 NWT

Nova Scotia

33.1 32.3 32.9 Quebec 30.8 28.9 Ontario

25.9 Alberta

Newfoundland and Labrador 17.9 Prince Edward 15.9 Island 14.4 14.5 New Brunswick 13.7 13 12.1 12.1 12.4 11.2 11.6 11.411.6 11.311.6 10.8 10.6 10.4 10.5 10.4 10.6 10.7 10.110 9.6 10.19.8 9.8 10 10.29.8 9.39.5 8.99.5 9.2 8.3 8.38.6 8.2 8.2 8.28.5 8.28.48.58.8 8.68.7 8.7 7.7 7.57.78.1 7.9 7.88.1 8.1 7.6 7.88.1 8 Saskatchewan 7.27.3 6.8 7.17.2 6.87.2 7.27.4 7.2 7.37 6.6 6.3 6.26.5 6.16.26.5

CCHS moderate & severe household food insecurity (%) insecurity food household severe & moderate CCHS 6 5.3 British Columbia

Yukon 2005 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 Year

Figure 1.1 Prevalence of moderate and severe food insecurity in Canada, 2005 to 2014 Source: Author, data from CCHS and Tarasuk et al. (2016, p. 26)

On the surface, high rates of food insecurity in Arctic Canada are closely linked to the extremely high cost of living, coupled with low wages and high rates of unemployment (Council of Canadian Academies, 2014; Tarasuk et al., 2016). Images of high food prices routinely illustrate news stories about food insecurity, shocking southern consumers: $34 for “Sunny D” orange drink, $28 for grapes, $29 for Cheez Whiz (CBC News, 2011; Garfield, 2017). In popular understanding, this cost is inherent to the geography of the North: Nunavut’s twenty-five communities are not connected by road to the Canadian road network, meaning imported foods must arrive by air freight or seasonal marine transport (‘sealift’). Non-perishables including soda pop and snack food, starches, and canned goods are barged in during the open

5 water season in late summer. Perishables are flown in year-round, as are dry goods when warehousing space is full or supplies run out, contributing to high food prices; seven and eight- dollar cans of pop are a common sight in the Territory’s outlying communities before the summer sealift arrives. However, the Northern food system is considerably more complex than the high cost of its retail market. Unlike southern Canada, Nunavut is today characterized by a mixed food system, encompassing both store-bought food and local ‘country food’ harvested from the land and sea, such as seal, fish, caribou, seabirds, , small game and maktaaq. The majority of households hunt or fish, and country food makes up roughly half of the meat and fish consumed by harvesting households (Statistics Canada, 2008). A recent analysis of harvest data shows that in the Qikiqtani region of Nunavut, an average of 125.5 kg of country food was available per person per year to Inuit between 1996-2001, the last years for which comprehensive harvest data exist (Wenzel, Dolan, & Brown, 2016, p. 151). Combining harvest data with census data, Lysenko and Schott (2019) conclude that if one harvester were active per household, 79% of all households in Nunavut would be involved in harvesting. While hunting and fishing represent an irreplaceable source of nutritious, fresh food in the region, country food is also culturally vital. In Inuktitut, country food is Niqituinnaq, meaning ‘real food’ (Chabot, 2003; Wenzel, 1991), or in more recent years in the South Qikiqtalaluk dialect, Inuksiutinik, meaning ‘Inuit (country) food’ (Inuktut Tusaalanga, 2020). Eating country food is prescribed for both physical and mental health, as well as keeping warm and maintaining energy on the land (Kirmayer, Fletcher, & Watt, 2009). Country food is now sometimes bought and sold, but it is also widely shared, and remains integral to relationships, both social and ecological. Immediately after harvest, food may be divided amongst the hunting party, sent to family members and Elders, announced community-wide over the radio or Facebook, and shipped to friends and relatives in other communities. Food sharing relations and interactions are described in the ethnographic literature as a ‘social economy’ (Burch, 1988; Damas, 1971; Fienup-Riordan, 1983; Usher, Duhaime, & Searles, 2003; Wenzel, 1995). In this way, food – especially country food – brings people together, maintaining not only material

6 security but also social relations (Usher et al., 2003). As anthropologist Jean Briggs (1970, pp. 228-229) observes, food in the Arctic “provides many comforts beyond a full stomach.” Proximate determinants of food insecurity, such as food cost and food choices, are thus underpinned by a more complex landscape comprising both the mixed food system and wider economic, social and political realities in which it operates. For example, as in Southern Canada, the retail sector operates for profit, upholding fiduciary obligations to shareholders – yet it is marked by the distinctive history and market characteristics of the North. The North West Company (NWC), the multi-national corporation that holds the largest share of the food retail market in Nunavut, traces its roots to a 17th century fur trade company; it purchased the Northern Stores Division of its former rival, the Hudson’s Bay Company’s, in the 1980s (North West Company, n.d.). The balance of the retail market is dominated by the federated Arctic Co- ops, with the two retailers operating as a duopoly in many communities. The airline industry is monopolistic, with Canadian North dominating the passenger sector; the North West Company also operates its own airline.5 This market concentration limits options for consumers, and Northern retailers are not subject to the disruptive pressures on the wider grocery retail industry (such as online retailing) experienced by their Southern brick-and-mortar competitors. The North West Company’s documentation for investors shows that the corporation has paid steadily rising investments over the past decade (North West Company, 2020), and investment advisors recommend the NWC, describing the company as having “The widest moat of any retailer” because its core business model operates with limited competition in communities that receive high government subsidies (Seeking Alpha, 2017, n.p.). This concentrated private grocery market, which sees profits leave communities, contrasts with more cooperative modes of production and provisioning of the social economy that position food as a right (Searles, 2002).

5 After repeated attempts, the two major carriers in Nunavut – First Air and Canadian North, owned by the and Inuvialuit Regional Corporation respectively – merged in 2019 to form one airline, keeping the Canadian North name. In 2017, the North West Company also bought its own airline, acquiring North Star Air, to expand in-house control over shipping to Nunavut (Nunatsiaq News, 2018).

7 At the same time, access to traditional foods is also constrained by the high financial costs of harvesting (Natcher, Shirley, Rodon, & Southcott, 2016). The costs of hunting in Nunavut have been a growing concern, particularly since the early 1980s collapse of the sealskin market, when the EU sealskin import ban largely foreclosed the opportunity for hunters to earn gas and equipment with a byproduct of hunting for food (Wenzel, 1991). A recent analysis of constraints on wildlife harvesting across Northern Canada found the primary limitations to be financial cost, followed by time limitations associated with school, training, and employment; physical limitations and lack of knowledge; and unpredictability of game (Natcher et al., 2016). Those who have access to money – often full-time wage-earners – may lack time to hunt, while those who have time, may lack access to money (Wenzel, 2019). Inequalities between households may also place strains on the capacity of sharing practices as a source of social security, and contribute to disparities in access to country food (Ready, 2016b). These contemporary issues, like other material and social disparities between Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples in Canada, should be understood in the context of colonialism (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2014; Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, 1996). While Inuit Nunangat saw some of the earliest instances of contact with European whalers, settlement and federal control of the Eastern Arctic is among the most recent in Canada (Abele, 2009, p. 21). The Hudson’s Bay Company (HBC) and its contemporaries were the first sustained colonial presence in the region, preceded in some cases by Anglican and Roman Catholic missionaries, who were established at posts across Northern Canada by the late 19th century.6 Until the second world war, Canada’s federal presence in the North was “sporadic and slight,” oriented to mineral discovery and sovereignty concerns (Abele, 1987, p. 312), and Northern Indigenous’ peoples contact with the federal state was minimal, even when relief or medical care was required (Abele, 2009, p. 24). Nominal social services were instead left to fur trade companies and churches as epidemics of TB, smallpox, and influenza contributed to poor health and high mortality rates across the North (Abele, 2009; Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b). Meanwhile, trading companies were primarily concerned with profits from the sale of white fox

6 Across the Eastern Arctic, Inuit have ironically suggested the “HBC” of the Hudson’s Bay Company stood for “Here Before Christ” (Jenness, 1964, p. 23).

8 furs (Brody, 1975; Damas, 2002; Jenness, 1964), and reoriented economic production towards furs, not food, which contributed to devastating conditions when prices collapsed in the early parts of the 20th century (Tester & Kulchyski, 1994, p. 26). The Second World War brought about a dramatic reversal of the politics of federal non- engagement in the North. For federal authorities, the war provoked concerns about sovereignty, security, and access to energy (Abele, 2009). Meanwhile, the growing military presence drew public attention to the dire conditions facing many Inuit communities. Armed with interwoven interests in sovereignty and state-led development, the federal welfare state embarked on a program of intensive intervention, from new social programs to compulsory education to the centralization of communities in new government towns, including multiple instances of forced relocation (Abele, 2009; Damas, 2002; Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b). Though Inuit affairs were managed largely outside the Indian Act applied to First Nations, the post-war ‘Government Era’ saw the intrusion of the welfare state into all areas of life in the Eastern Arctic, particularly health, housing, and education. The Qikiqtani Truth Commission, an Inuit-led inquiry into experiences of colonization in the Qikiqtani region, found that while less is known about the Northern Administration’s authority over Inuit, its control was “as complete” as that of Indian Affairs over First Nations (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, The official mind of Canadian Colonialism, p. 32). The Commission shows how changes oriented towards improving economic conditions in Northern communities were undertaken in the absence of consultation with those they were intended to benefit, often with unintended and devastating consequences. Colonial policy profoundly affected Indigenous foodways specifically. The centralization of Inuit communities in the 1950s and 1960s increased reliance on imported foods (Damas, 2002; Tester & Kulchyski, 1994), while the criminalization of harvesting as ‘overkill’ or ‘poaching’ within programs of economic development dispossessed Inuit from the full use and enjoyment of their homelands (Kulchyski & Tester, 2007; Sandlos, 2007). The Qikiqtani Truth Commission’s investigation of Inuit experiences of colonization found that the killing of qimmiit (dogs) by the RCMP in newly centralized communities had particularly devastating consequences for Inuit families and resulted in the loss of autonomy and the principle means of transportation for hunting

9 (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, 2013b). At the same time, food itself served as a central medium of social policy in the post-war period, used instrumentally to encourage Inuit to move off the land into centralized communities, and within interventions on health, hygiene, and nutrition (Burnett et al., 2016). The residential school system, which the Truth and Reconciliation Commission has described as a “central element” within a policy of “cultural genocide” (2015, p. 2), also profoundly disrupted traditional foodways in the North. With an intention of assimilation, the schools sought to inculcate European norms concerning diet, nutrition, mealtimes, and gender roles in food preparation. At the same time, the schools delivered a nutritionally inadequate diet that left children vulnerable to disease; conditions with regards to food were particularly dire in Northern schools (Mosby & Galloway, 2017; Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, 2015). Ideologies of modernization and “progress” were inextricable from the overriding federal control of Inuit Nunangat, and social policies enacted in the name of health and welfare played a significant role in expanding and legitimizing Canada’s colonial control over the land and resources of Inuit Nunangat. Cameron (2012) explains: Processes and practices that are understood, today, as central to colonization in the North (including forced relocation into settlements, the shooting of sled dogs, mass evacuation to southern sanatoria for tuberculosis treatment, residential schooling, and the imposition of southern modes of health and education…) were carried out under the auspices of a ‘well-meaning’ liberal welfare state, a state concerned with helping Inuit adapt to the modern world, saving Inuit bodies from disease, and teaching Inuit how to effectively operate in Western economic and political spheres. (Cameron, 2012, p. 106).

As elsewhere in Canada, assimilationist policies and programs sought to displace Inuit knowledge about health and wellbeing (Kelm, 1998; Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, Aaniajurliriniq: Health Care in Qikiqtaaluk, p. 11). While the shift towards political self-representation and the signing of land claims (modern treaties) from the 1970s onward has dramatically reshaped governance and the scope of Inuit rights in Nunavut, the legacies of colonization continue to bear on food politics. Issues of food security in Arctic Canada remain politically contentious today precisely because of this history. The question Nunavut protesters asked, “where is the subsidized food?” speaks to

10 ongoing debate about whether Canada’s federal Northern food program, Nutrition North, is effective in addressing food insecurity by subsidizing perishable store-bought foods, and more broadly, about the role of federal authority over the Northern food system. Inuit representative organizations like Nunavut Tunngavik Inc. (NTI) have questioned the market-oriented approach of Nutrition North and the role of the private sector in delivering social programs, calling instead for a harvesters’ support program to be operated from the North in partnership with Inuit governments (Nunavut Tunngavik Inc., 2016). Meanwhile, the sign held by protesters in 2012, “We cannot be told what to eat,” speaks to the legacies of colonial interventions and tutelage concerning Inuit diets. The politics of food in Nunavut are dynamic. Recently announced changes to federal food programs will see new support for harvesters, following decades of calls from Indigenous representative organizations for better harvester support. Efforts from Inuit representative organizations to bolster ‘food sovereignty’ approaches are currently unfolding (e.g. Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2019), as are ongoing negotiations of harvesting rights under modern land claims agreements – a reminder that food is inextricable from broader questions of sovereignty. Emerging social and environmental challenges are also coming to bear on food systems, with concerns about the impacts of climate change and accelerating resource extraction and shipping on everything from safe travel on sea ice to the migration of caribou and whales. Yet while access to food remains a politically dynamic issue, common threads persist, and policy debates remain embedded within broader tensions between the positioning of food as a right or a commodity; support for the industrial food system or local harvesters; and power relations between Northern retailers, Inuit communities, and various levels of government. Efforts to strengthen Inuit foodways and maintain connections to the land are embedded within a larger struggle for Inuit governance and self-determination amidst profound colonial upheaval and environmental change. In short, food marks a crucial medium of colonial encounter, environmental politics, and community perseverance.

11 1.3 Conceptual framing: Towards a politics of food and food security in Arctic Canada Against this backdrop, understanding the uneven geographies of food insecurity in Arctic Canada necessitates looking at food insecurity within this broader set of social, structural and contextual factors, which are themselves framed by political and economic realities at wider spatial and temporal scales. Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami has identified food security as a key social determinant of Inuit health, while also itself a significant health inequity (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2014). Foundational work since the 1980s on the social determinants of Indigenous health in Canada has highlighted population health disparities affecting Indigenous peoples and shown the primacy of social circumstances – not individual behaviour – in health outcomes, including food insecurity (see for example Adelson, 2005; Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, 1996). A growing body of critical decolonizing scholarship foregrounds the importance of colonial roots of health inequities experienced by Indigenous peoples (e.g. Adelson, 2005; De Leeuw, Greenwood, & Cameron, 2010; Greenwood, De Leeuw, & Reading, 2015; Kral & Idlout, 2009). More recent efforts look beyond the social determinants of health to examine “structural determinants,” including geographic, economic, historical, narrative, and genealogical factors, all of which unfold in the context of colonialism (Greenwood et al., 2015). Yet while structural approaches have been called the “new orthodoxy” within branches of critical Northern social and health sciences (Christensen, 2017, p. 25), popular understanding remains animated by dominant narratives that cast food insecurity in Inuit Nunangat as a problem of changing food preferences and individual behaviour. Comparatively apolitical conceptualizations of food insecurity bracket out questions of power and inequality and render food insecurity a technical problem amenable to technical solutions, or a personal problem amenable to changes in individual food choice or behaviour. In a report on the influence of the Inuit Health Survey, Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated (the land claims organization representing Nunavut Inuit) explains the consequences of these dominant narratives of food insecurity and other health inequalities: All too often, media and research fails to place health outcomes into the historical, political, and economic contexts in which they exist. Doing so can leave communities vulnerable to victim blaming without the necessary actions being taken to eliminate the structural inequities in place that often

12 make it difficult for people to achieve health and wellness (Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated, 2013, p. 6).

Similar tensions between structural explanations and narratives that locate ‘deficiencies’ in Indigenous communities are noted in discourse concerning Indigenous homelessness in Northern Canada (Christensen, 2017, p. 24), in mental health (De Leeuw et al., 2010; Kirmayer, Fletcher, et al., 2009), and in environmental health discourse more broadly, where pervasive reasoning that ascribes blame to Indigenous cultures and practices obscures systemic drivers of health inequalities (Stephenson & Stephenson, 2016, p. 303). Tensions between individual and systemic explanations, and political and apolitical understandings, also transect the food security literature. While the concept of food security has been contested, reinterpreted, redefined and deployed in myriad contexts since its inception in the 1970s, longstanding critiques suggest food security, like the concept of hunger before, is conducive to apolitical use, frequently divorced from questions of power (e.g. Alcock, 2009; Devereux, 2001; Wisner, Weiner, & O'Keefe, 1982, p. 12). Insofar as food (in)security represents an outcome, its analytical power to direct inquiry into the underlying political- economic causes of food problems remains constrained, and literature centred on this concept has developed with a consequential set of exclusions, including, often, Indigenous food systems and economies (Power, 2008). These exclusions have led some to advocate instead for the terminology of “cultural food security” (Power, 2008) and “food sovereignty” as complimentary or counter discourses in Inuit Nunangat (e.g. Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2019) and elsewhere (Patel, 2009). At the same time, insofar as food security puts language to the social phenomena of unequal access to food, it has been, and remains, conceptually important in drawing attention to health and social inequities. The language of food security is now widely adopted within Inuit Nunangat by Inuit organizations (e.g. Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2014), grassroots organizations (Papatsie, Ellsworth, Meakin, & Kurvits, 2013), and academic researchers alike. Indeed, the past decade has seen a sharp increase in food security studies across the Territorial North, particularly in Nunavut: thirty-three studies on food security in the Territory were published between 2005 and 2014 alone (Donatelli, Cunsolo Willox, Edmunds-Potvin, Lightfoot, & Elliot, 2016). Within human geography, researchers have emphasized connections

13 between food insecurity and environmental change, suggesting that climate change may act as an additional stressor on the food system, particularly the country food sector (Beaumier & Ford, 2010; Ford, 2008; Meakin & Kurvits, 2009; Statham et al., 2015). Within health and nutrition science, researchers have suggested that a ‘nutrition transition’ shifting Inuit diets away from traditional foods may contribute to food insecurity (Chan et al., 2006; Egeland, Johnson-Down, et al., 2011; Kuhnlein, Receveur, Soueida, & Egeland, 2004; Sharma, 2010). Across the food security literature, many studies have framed their work through the lens of vulnerability, identifying groups (such as Inuit children, single mothers, and individuals reliant on social assistance) particularly vulnerable to food insecurity (Council of Canadian Academies, 2014; Egeland et al., 2010; Findlay, Langlois, & Kohen, 2013; Huet, Rosol, & Egeland, 2012; Johnson-Down & Egeland, 2010). While this scholarship has yielded important evidence of the scale of food insecurity in Inuit Nunangat, there remain limitations and exclusions in the understanding of these issues. Among these gaps is the limited scholarly attention to the intersection of social policy and food in Arctic Canada, despite the outsized role of policy in shaping the social and political environment in the Government Era of the North, and the continued political importance of food today. A recent meta-analysis of food security articles on Arctic Canada and found that only 7 of 62 papers on food security focused on policy (Loring & Gerlach, 2015, p. 385), primarily by way of critique of individual policies like the Nutrition North Canada program (Achtemichuk, 2016; Chin-Yee & Chin-Yee, 2015; Galloway, 2014; St-Germain et al., 2019). Two studies offer overviews of food policies from past decades, such as the Food Mail program (Fergurson, 2011; Myers, Powell, & Duhaime, 2004). Meta-analyses of the topic, most notably a review by the Council of Canadian Academies (2014), provide more comprehensive overviews, but as they draw on existing published work, offer a limited interpretation of the politics of food. Limited attention to intersections of food and social policy reflects an enduring absence of research on policy and policy discourse in favour of community-based studies in Arctic Canada more widely (see Balikci, 1989, p. 108A). Today, as a growing number of food security papers propose policy interventions and seek to inform policy (Loring & Gerlach, 2015), it is important to critically evaluate and

14 understand the effects of past and present social policy interventions surrounding food. A great deal of colonial intervention in Northern Canada has been folded within rationales that appear neutral or well intentioned (improvement, modernization, development). Yet as Cameron (2012, p. 111) suggests, “governmental intervention has never been neutral for Northerners, even and perhaps especially when it was well-meaning and designed to specifically prepare Inuit for a changing world.” Better understanding how food security interventions fit into the broader arc of colonial social policy is critical to understanding the persistence of high rates of food insecurity in Inuit communities, while work on the politics of food may also shed light on the emergence of food as a key focus of Inuit protest and political action. This dissertation seeks to address these topics, analyzing both contemporary and historical intersections of food, politics, and social policy within the specific cultural, social and historical context of Nunavut, to contribute to a longitudinal understanding of issues of food insecurity in the Territory. In so doing, this research aims to develop a better understanding the politics of food and food security in Arctic Canada.7 I use ‘politics’ here not in its frequent conflation with the state alone, but in reference to the construction of political space and the practice of power, inclusive of community actions and resistance. Within the critical development scholarship, anthropologist Tania Li (2007), drawing on Foucault, asks, “is politics the name for a relation of power, or a practice of contestation? At what point does one slide into the other?” Answering the question, Li distinguishes “the practice of government, in which a concept of improvement becomes technical as it is attached to calculated programs for its realization” and “the practice of politics – the expression, in word or deed, of a critical challenge. Challenge often starts out as refusal of the way things are. It opens up to a front of struggle” (p. 12). In Nunavut, food insecurity has indeed emerged as a seminal “front of struggle” and “refusal of the way things are” (ibid). As Leesee Papatsie explained in out 2017 interview, protests emerged around food insecurity in Nunavut because it is both “something that could be worked on” and “something

7 While much of this research focuses on Inuit Nunagat, I here refer to ‘Arctic Canada’ to more accurately reflect the scope of analysis, including the understanding that high rates of food insecurity in the region are inextricable from experiences and enduring legacies of colonization, and relationships to the Crown and the Government of Canada.

15 that could be changed” (Interview, August 16, 2017). Following Li (2007), I use the term ‘politics’ to address this front of struggle, recognizing that it encompasses both the assertion of power as it is practiced by government, and the assertion of challenge, in rejection of overriding political, economic, and ideological conditions that produce inequality and hunger.

1.4 Positionality, research approach, and research objectives Inuit are among the most-researched populations worldwide; as of 2011, there was one publication related to Inuit Nunangat for every three Inuit living in Inuit Nunangat (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2018b, p. 17) – a number that has only grown in the past decade. This volume of work poses serious questions about research fatigue, subjectivity, and accountability (ITK and NRI, 2007; Moffitt, Chetwynd, & Todd, 2015). The present research coincided with a number of changes in the governance of research in Nunavut seeking to address such issues, including the release of Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami’s National Inuit Research Strategy in 2018 (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2018b), and the publication of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s Calls for Action in 2015 (Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, 2015). These documents call for profound changes in the practice of research in Canada, responding to calls for research to be led and informed by the priorities of Indigenous communities (ITK and NRI, 2007; TCPS, 2014, Ch. 9), following decades of work on this topic by Indigenous organizations, governments, and scholars (e.g. ITK and NRI, 2007). Today, efforts to incorporate research governance within the structures of Inuit democracy are ongoing, as Inuit assert rights to govern and benefit from research in their homelands. As a Qallunat (non-Inuit, white) graduate student, I have sought to work in solidarity with and support of these efforts, while recognizing the inherent limitations and obligations of research involving a community that is not my own. The work of individual researchers and students is always set within broader systems; as Indigenous scholar Linda Tuhiwai Smith (1999, p. 4) writes, the acceptance of an individual researcher does not detract from the power of research, nor render it useful to Indigenous communities. Research in Inuit Nunangat, as in other Indigenous homelands, poses questions about ethics and power relations beyond the scope of formalized research ethics processes in place through university-based research ethics

16 boards. Critical Indigenous scholars and allies write of the need to confront legacies of historical affiliations between research and imperialism (Gough, 1967; Tuhiwai Smith, 1999), and to account for continued asymmetrical power relations between Indigenous communities and research institutions (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2018b; Tuhiwai Smith, 1999; Wilson, 2008). Included within these efforts is an emphasis on engagement across the research process, including in identifying the research focus and aims of research, and working in relationship. In the present study, the research focus was developed in consultation with Nunavummiut and Inuit organizations through preliminary visits in April-May 2016 and September 2016. Early consultation marked the start to ongoing relationships that have developed throughout the course of this research, and informed the research direction, focus, and interpretation. This process, as well as a broader consideration of limitations and questions of positionality, are addressed in depth in Chapter 3 (Methodology). Through these consultation visits and conversations, research on the political dimensions of food security was identified as a priority at both the community and regional scale (for more detail, see Chapter 3). Working to address these priorities, the research is structured by four overarching objectives that build on one another as interlinked pieces:

1. To describe the historical and political context for transformations of the Nunavut food system and to address the role these changes have played in issues of food insecurity (Ch. 4). All of Inuit Nunangat has undergone tremendous and rapid change in the past century. Better understanding how these transformations have affected the Inuit food system may contribute to better understanding the historical roots of contemporary food issues of food insecurity in Nunavut. Drawing on community-based interviews and oral history interviews with Elders in Clyde River (Kangiqtugaapik) about changes in the food system over time, I describe the shift from a localized food system and Indigenous economy towards the mixed food system and mixed economy that persist today, showing how these transformations have introduced both new social adaptations and new forms of precarity with regards to food.

17 2. To show how food is entangled in histories and legacies of colonization in Arctic Canada8 (Ch. 5). Drawing on archival research (using primarily the Library and Archives Canada collection) and ethnographic sources, as well as themes raised within oral history interviews (see above), I explore intersections of food and social policy in the early part of the Government Era. This analysis focuses on the time period immediately before and after centralization (1945-1970), as the federal government rapidly expanded its control over Inuit Nunangat and intervention in all areas of Inuit lives. Archival analysis reveals that food was a critical medium of expanding colonial control over the Eastern Arctic in the post war period. I document how food rations administered through the Family Allowance program were treated as a tool of enticement and compliance towards centralization and school attendance, and as a medium to inculcate Euro-Canadian norms concerning diet, nutrition, child weaning, and gender and family roles. I argue that these practices reflected an extension of missionary activities, as colonial authorities sought to ‘improve’ Inuit lives and health while denying Inuit the right to determine the course of their own lives. I suggest this orientation of ‘secular missionization’ has animated much of Northern social policy in the Government Era and find that social policy has played a significant role in constituting the contemporary food system of Nunavut.

8 The concept of ‘entanglement’ has become increasingly popular within contemporary social sciences, borrowed from physical sciences, where it connotes quantum mechanics; this move, and the application of conceptual meanings across disparate disciplines has been critiqued, with suggestions the distance between “mathematical knowledge of entangled phenomenon” and “the social world within which humans reside” make “entanglement” a poor basis for ethical thought (Hamilton, 2017, p. 581). Without rejecting such critiques or the necessity of exploring the conceptual applications of ‘entanglement’ more deeply, I here borrow the term in its common parlance meaning of twisted together (-tangled) and enmeshed (en-) in a complicated situation/relationship. The Oxford Advanced Dictionary defines ‘entangle’ as ‘to make someone or something become caught or twisted in something’ or ‘to involve someone in a difficult or complicated situation,’ definitions that resonate with Inuit characterizations of the post-war Government Era well (see Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b).

18 3. To characterize contemporary policy approaches to food insecurity in Nunavut and investigate the narratives and beliefs that underpin them (Ch. 6). Focusing on the past decade, I examine the manner in which food security has emerged as a policy and research priority in Nunavut, and how food security is conceptualized within policy discourse today. Drawing on key informant interviews, I seek to better understand how policy articulates across and between levels of government, and how those working on food issues in a professional capacity understand and interpret food insecurity. Though cooperation is widely regarded as necessary, I find that issues of mandate and jurisdiction have in recent years continued to preclude a clear sense of ownership on the issue of food insecurity. Contemporary food programs, including the Nutrition North Canada program, have been implemented by government without an explicit food security mandate, and reflect the entrenched power of private sector over the Northern food system, limiting the capacity of such interventions to prioritize Inuit food security and self-determination. Setting this analysis in conversation with ethnohistorical work (above), I ask what has – or has not – changed over time, noting continuities in top- down approaches to policy, and reliance on the private sector to deliver social programs. Meanwhile, I argue that popular narratives casting Inuit food insecurity as a product of high prices, remoteness, and individuals’ food choices continue to naturalize high rates of food insecurity in Nunavut while bracketing out questions of power and inequality.

4. To describe how Nunavut Inuit communities navigate, experience, and address food (in)security at the local level (Ch. 7). By way of a case study in Clyde River (Kangiqtugaapik), this chapter documents Nunavummiut experiences and perspectives on food (in)security and food-related policy measures, and efforts to address food security at a local level. Community-based interviews and economic diaries affirm the ongoing burden of food insecurity on Nunavut communities, while making clear that there is much more to the food system in Nunavut than high costs and high rates of food insecurity. Food – especially country food – remains a culturally significant source

19 of connection, meaning, identity, and relationality. Despite financial burdens facing harvesters, food sharing is a continued source of social security at the family and community scale. Efforts to address food insecurity on local terms, while constrained by inconsistent support and funding, include school programs, youth hunting programs, a local food bank, and distribution of country food through the Hunters and Trappers Organization. This analysis highlights the continued importance and survival of an Inuit food system and economy that, despite profound effects of colonization and socio- economic transformation, continue to play a meaningful role in sustaining Inuit communities – and continues to be widely overlooked within market-oriented conceptualizations of and approaches to food security.

Through these layered research objectives, this work contributes to a longitudinal perspective on food and social policy and deepens understanding of the historical and political contexts surrounding the disproportionate burden of food insecurity facing Nunavummiut communities.

1.5 The geography of Nunavut and research sites Nunavut, meaning ‘our land’ in Inuktitut (Nuna, land) is the ancestral homeland of Inuit in the Central and Eastern Arctic, and the newest and Northernmost territorial government in Canada. Geographically, Nunavut encompasses most of the and mainland from to the Northwest Territories, and from the Arctic coast south to Manitoba and Saskatchewan. The region has supported continuous Indigenous populations for approximately 4000 years. The majority of the Territory is characterized by Arctic ecosystems, experiencing a polar climate (with summers below 10 °C) above the tree line. The Territory is among the most sparsely populated regions globally, with 25 communities unconnected by road to the rest of Canada and spread across a region of 1,877,787 km2 (approximately one fifth of Canada’s land mass). Nunavut is the youngest and fastest growing population in Canada, growing 21% over the past decade to a population estimated to be 38,787, with approximately 84% of the population identifying as Inuit (Statistics Canada, 2018, 2019).

20

Figure 1.2 Map of Inuit Nunangat and Nunavut research locations

Politically, the Territory of Nunavut was established in 1999, born out of the Nunavut Land Claims Agreement (N.L.C.A. or Nunavut Agreement9) and Nunavut Act (1993). This Agreement divided the Northwest Territories in two and established a new treaty relationship between Canada and Nunavut Inuit seeking to gain greater control over their lands and lives, building on more than two decades of negotiations led by Inuit Tapiriit of Canada and the Tunngavik Federation of Nunavut. The Nunavut Agreement established new orders of Inuit government, including Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated (NTI), which is responsible for ensuring

9 In this dissertation, I use the terms “Nunavut Agreement” and “Nunavut Inuit” in line with Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated’s preference for this language over the terms “Nunavut Land Claim Agreement” and “Beneficiaries” to better reflect the extent of the agreement (beyond land rights) and the role of Nunavut Inuit as active participants in a modern treaty agreement (Nunatsiaq News, 2016).

21 that promises made under the Nunavut Agreement are fulfilled, and three affiliated Regional Inuit Associations, serving the Qikiqtani, Kitikmeot, and Kivalliq regions of the Territory. These structures of Inuit democracy have rights and responsibilities relating to everything from co- governance of land, water and wildlife;10 to negotiating Inuit Impact and Benefit Agreements with businesses that wish to invest in Nunavut; to governing science and research undertaken in the territory (see Ch. 3). The Territorial Government of Nunavut (‘the GN’) is a public government serving both Inuit residents and growing population of non-Inuit residents, while grounded in a consensus- based model that attempts to integrate Inuit knowledge, principles, values, language, and beliefs as guiding principles (Government of Nunavut, 2013). These principles are collectively termed Inuit Qaujimajatuqangit (IQ), meaning “that which Inuit have always known to be true” (Tagalik, 2010, p. 1). Many interrelated variations on IQ principles have been developed by both the Government of Nunavut and Inuit organizations. In the context of health, IQ principles have been described by Tagalik (2010, p. 2) as: 1. Pijitsirniq (or the concept of serving) 2. Aajiiqatigiingniq (or the concept of consensus decision-making) 3. Pilimmaksarniq (or the concept of skills and knowledge acquisition) 4. Piliriqatigiingniq (or the concept of collaborative relationships or working together for a common purpose) 5. Avatimik Kamattiarniq (or the concept of environmental stewardship) 6. Qanuqtuurunnarniq (or the concept of being resourceful to solve problems)

Efforts to govern with IQ at times are characterized by tensions of codifying Inuit Qaujimajatuqangit into conventional bureaucratic structures (see Government of Nunavut, 2013), while also reflecting the work of Inuit leaders to emphasize Inuit epistemology and societal values in decision making (see Lévesque, 2014; Wenzel, 2004). Today, 20 years after its creation, many of the same issues that animated the Nunavut land claim negotiations remain at the forefront of Inuit democracy and politics, including efforts

10 The Nunavut Agreement also created new co-management Institutions of Public Governance concerning land, water, and wildlife, that include representatives of Territorial, Federal and Inuit levels of government (White, 2008).

22 to govern and steward land, water, and wildlife; strengthen and maintain Inuktut11 (the Inuit language); and expand access to education and employment opportunities for Nunavummiut. While the mining sector has expanded since the 2000s, foremost with the development of Baffinland Iron Mine Corporation’s site, a ‘mixed economy’ comparing both waged labour and harvesting activities continues to characterize the territory’s economy (Usher et al., 2003). The implementation of the Nunavut Agreement is ongoing, from the negotiation of Inuit Impact Benefit Agreements with industry, to an expanding Inuit-Crown relationship between Inuit representative organizations and the Government of Canada. While Nunavut’s geographic isolation continues to profoundly shape local realities, increasing access to Internet and telecommunications has further connected Nunavummiut to southern Canada. New concerns have gained prominence, including the accelerated impacts of climate change, and the potential for opening waterways to catalyze shipping traffic and resource extraction (Prowse et al., 2009). Health and social policy priorities continue to evolve, for example with a renewed focus on tuberculosis, suicide prevention, mental wellbeing, housing insecurity, and food insecurity (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2014). However, while food security in Nunavut is rooted in this broader geography, policy decisions that affect communities across Northern Canada have historically been – and in many instances, continue to be – driven from the South. Understanding the politics of food in Arctic Canada necessitates looking across scales. For this reason, I have approached the research questions identified above by way of a multi-sited study at the federal, territorial and local level working across three communities: Clyde River (Kangiqtugaapik), Nunavut; Iqaluit, Nunavut; and Ottawa, Ontario.

11 The Government of Nunavut now uses the term “Inuktut” to refer to all Inuit dialects spoken in Nunavut, including both Inuktitut (spoken in the central and eastern parts of the Territory, including Iqaluit and Clyde River) and Inuinnaqtun (spoken in the western regions of the Territory).

23 1.5.1 Kangiqtugaapik (Clyde River) Kangiqtugaapik, meaning “nice little inlet” (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a) or “small fjord- shaped bay” (Gearheard et al., 2013) and known in English as Clyde River, is an Inuit hamlet on the east shore of . When I visited Clyde River between 2015 and 2019, residents reported the population to be between 1100 and 1200; the 2016 Canadian census reports 1053 residents, 97% of whom identify as Inuit (Statistics Canada, 2017a). The community is located on a shallow gravel slope bordering the shore of what is in English called Patricia Bay, backed by dramatic views of the mountains. A distinctive bluff, Naujaaraaluit (Govan Point) on the southwest corner of the bay serves as a landmark. Kangiktugaapingmiut oral history speaks of longer term (multi-year) occupation of the Clyde River region,12 with a seasonal cycle of occupation between inland caribou grounds and coastal seal hunting grounds at the headlands of the region’s fiords (Gearheard et al., 2013; Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a; see Ch. 4; Wenzel, 2008). A Hudson’s Bay trade post was established in 1923 and contact between Clyde River Inuit and traders expanded. A weather station was constructed by the American Army Air Corps (subsequently managed by the Canadian Department of Transport), followed by an American Coast Guard LORAN station at nearby Cape Christian in the 1950s, bringing new sources of waged employment (for details, see Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a; Wenzel, 2008). However, the majority of Inuit in the area continued to live in smaller settlements along the fjords and coastline to both the north and south of the present townsite through the 1950s (Gearheard et al., 2013). Kangiqtugaapik became a year-round Inuit settlement in the 1950s and 60s, with shifts in federal policy including expanding social programs and the construction of a school in 1960 (discussed in greater detail in Ch. 4). Some of the last winter settlements moved into Clyde River in the 1970s, when in 1976 the residents of Aqviqtujuq relocated to Clyde River, though to a more

12 Early documentation by ethnographer Franz Boas, based on information recorded further south at Home Bay, suggested that the Clyde River area did not have a distinct population, instead suggesting seasonal use of the area by the Akudnarmiut (Home Bay area), and Tununirmiut (Pond Inlet area) (Boas, 1888); however, more recent accounts and oral histories suggest year round occupation of the region occurred prior to the fur trade era (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a; see Ch. 4; Wenzel, 2008).

24 limited extent, ‘outpost’ settlement persisted into the 1980s (Gearheard et al., 2013; Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a; Wenzel, 2008).

Figure 1.3 Clyde River, looking towards Angijuqqaaraaluit (Sawtooth Mountain) (Author, July 12, 2017)

Today, Clyde River is representative in many ways of smaller Baffin Island communities (not including Iqaluit), with similar demographic and wage conditions (Quintal-Marineau, 2016; Statistics Canada, 2017a). Inuktitut is the primary language spoken within the home and community, with 96% of the population reporting Inuktitut as their first language; English is also spoken in one third of residents’ homes and is widely spoken as a second language (Statistics Canada, 2017a). Clyde River continues to combine subsistence harvesting with participation in the waged economy (Harder & Wenzel, 2012). The median waged income in 2015 for individuals was $20,320 (Statistics Canada, 2017a). Travel across the traditional territory

25 (encompassing most of Qikiqtaaluk, or Baffin Island) and other communities remains common (Gearheard et al., 2013), with the land-use (and sea- and ice-use) area of the community concentrated between the Buchan Gulf and Home Bay (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a). The present research builds on longitudinal research on the Inuit mixed economy and mixed food system in Clyde River (Gearheard, Aipellee, & O'Keefe, 2010; Harder & Wenzel, 2012; Wenzel, 1991; Wenzel, 1995, 2011; Wenzel et al., 2016). Clyde River was selected as a research site because of my research supervisor George Wenzel’s longstanding relationships within the community; and to ensure the research undertaken at wider scales (both policy- related and archival) was grounded in and informed by local realities. Research in Clyde River took place in June – August 2017 and May – June 2018, preceded by a consultation trip in April 2016, and followed by a results-sharing trip in May 2019.

1.5.2 Iqaluit Iqaluit (formerly Frobisher Bay) is, in the words of the Qikiqtani Truth Commission, “a community unlike any other in Nunavut” (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, p. 215). Iqaluit is the largest population centre in Nunavut, with a population recorded at 7,082 in the 2016 census (Statistics Canada, 2017b), and has served as the Territorial capital since the creation of Nunavut as a distinct Territory. Historically, the region is an important fishing site (Iqaluit: ‘place of fish’), and transit route for Inuit from the Frobisher Bay area to access interior caribou hunting grounds (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, p. 215). Iqaluit’s more recent history is bound up in changing geopolitical agendas, and it has been the site of the most significant contact between Inuit and Qallunaat in Nunavut in the post-war period. The development of an American military landing strip in the 1940s and subsequent expansion of military activities during the Cold War dramatically reshaped the region. Early settlement drew Inuit from the Frobisher Bay, Hudson Strait, and Cumberland Sound areas (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, p. 215), while later migration included Inuit from across the Baffin region. Some came to Iqaluit in search of opportunities associated with the airfield and subsequent military developments, including the DEW line, while others became caught in painful situations of displacement, unable to move

26 back to home communities after being sent to residential school or to receive medical treatment (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a).

Figure 1.4: Iqaluit, looking towards Frobisher Bay (Author, July 14, 2017)

Today, the majority of Iqaluit’s population is Inuit (Statistics Canada, 2017b), with heterogenous family ties across Nunavut, but many ‘incomers’ continue to arrive from Southern Canada and internationally to work in government and business, with a great deal of turnover that deeply affects the Territory as a whole (Inutiq, 2019). The median income for individuals is considerably higher than Nunavut’s average, at $68,250 (Statistics Canada, 2017b), but the community also experiences significant disparities in wages between the Inuit and non-Inuit population. In a recent assessment of social disparities in Inuit Nunangat as a whole, ITK finds that the median income for Inuit is $23,485, while for non-Indigenous people in Inuit Nunangat, it is $92,011 (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2018d, n.p.). English is more prevalent in

27 Iqaluit day-to-day life than elsewhere in Nunavut. However, 42% of the population speaks Inuktitut as a mother tongue (ibid). Although the Territorial government is decentralized, with ministries across Nunavut communities, Iqaluit remains the administrative centre of Nunavut, serving as a hub for education, medical services, justice, and transportation. For the purposes of the present research, Iqaluit was an important site for meetings and interviews with key informants. It is home to Nunavut Tunngavik Inc., the Qikiqtani Inuit Association, many departments of the Government of Nunavut, many member organizations of the Nunavut Food Security Coalition, and grassroots and non-governmental organizations involved in food security work in the Territory. My time in Iqaluit also included time spent in the community to become more familiar with local activities and initiatives and better contextualize interviews, for example by attending meetings of the Nunavut Food Security Coalition; participating in the local food bank monthly distribution; joining in community events like the Alianait arts festival and a community feast; and taking part in activities like camping, berry- picking, and bonfires. My research in Iqaluit took place over 5 trips between April 2016 and May 2019, totaling approximately 7 weeks, with most interviews conducted during a month- long stay in July 2017.

1.5.3 Ottawa Ottawa, as Canada’s federal capital, is home to ministries relevant to this work including Health Canada, Crown-Indigenous Relations and Northern Affairs Canada and Indigenous Services Canada (formerly Indigenous and Northern Affairs Canada); as well as national level Inuit representative organizations, including Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami. In Ottawa, I met and undertook key informant interviews with current and former policymakers and key informants working at the national level; and met with other stakeholders to better understand the federal policy environment. Ottawa is also home to the national Library and Archives of Canada, where I conducted archival research on government reports, correspondence, and photographs concerning food programs in the North (see Ch. 5). My research in Ottawa took place in fall and winter 2017-2018, through a series of short trips from my home in Montreal. In November

28 2016, I also travelled to Ottawa to observe the supreme court case Clyde River (Hamlet) v. Petroleum Geo-Services Inc. (SCC 40, [2017] 1 S.C.R. 1069).

1.6 Language and style Inuktitut words, place names, and concepts, in this text appear in North Baffin dialect (spoken in Clyde River) unless noted. A growing number of Nunavut communities have replaced Anglicized names with Inuktitut names. To date, Clyde River continues to be the official name and is in continued use when speaking in English within the community; however, Kangiqtugaapik and Kangiqtugaapingmiut (people of Kangiqtugaapik) are also used, particularly in Inuktitut and in translation. In keeping with local use, I have used the term Qallunaat to describe settlers and those of settler descent. The writing of this dissertation coincided with an evolving conversation on and steps towards the creation of a unified Inuktut called Inuktut Qaliujaaqpait, which was approved by Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami in 2019. This common writing system and grammar aims to improve access to educational materials across Inuit Nunangat and uses Roman orthography instead of syllabics that are more typical in Nunavut. While recognizing the continued importance of syllabics within Nunavut, I have presented translations in Roman orthography within this dissertation (except for the dedication and abstract), because this was the format in which they were shared with me, and for comprehension outside Nunavut. Where I have drawn on other ethnographic sources, I have retained Inuktitut spellings as they appear, meaning there are some discrepancies within this text (e.g. Nasaklukuluk/ Naqsaalukuluk). Elsewhere, I have drawn on the Clyde River Place Names Atlas created by Ittaq Heritage and Research Centre in Clyde River to confirm Inuktitut spellings of place names in the region.

1.7 Chapter conclusion: ‘Something that could be changed’ Perspectives differ over what has changed since the first food protests in Nunavut in 2012. Nunavummiut still share pictures of high food prices through Feeding My Family, and rates of food insecurity in Arctic Canada have not improved since the Inuit Health Survey results were published (Tarasuk et al., 2016, p. 16). However, this continuity obscures other important

29 changes, and attention to food issues in Nunavut has foreshadowed public resistance drawing attention to other social priorities also. In our 2017 interview, Papatsie says that the biggest change she sees is not about food at all; it is that there are now more protests in Nunavut: I started to see a lot more people speaking out about an issue. We tried, when we did this it was – we stood up. It's not going to change immediately. We have to remember that. We have to keep reminding people, but at least step up to do something about it. At least do something about it. That was really, really neat, to see people voicing concerns on the health system, on the RCMP, on housing. So really, to me, that's my prize. That's my ‘oh, really? Wow.’ That's my awesome moment. (August 23rd 2017).

Several Inuktitut words have been used in Nunavut in recent years to describe the act of protesting, among them, Akaqsarnatik, meaning ‘they are not comfortable’ with something, and naammagusunnginniq, which can be translated as ‘they are not okay’ with something.13 This sense of discomfort – of not being okay with the way things are – was a consistent theme within this research, yet also arose because of the sense that food issues were something that could be changed; where there was hope also. Just as food insecurity is part of vicious cycles of poverty and ill health, many Nunavummiut I interviewed in the course of this work suggested that addressing food insecurity can also be part of healing – indeed, is fundamental to many of the health priorities identified in Nunavut today, including suicide prevention and mental health (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2016, p. 30), eradicating tuberculosis (Bhullar, 2017), and enriching early child development (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2014). Although this analysis is explicitly place-based, and concerned with the specific cultural, historical and political context of Nunavut, many of the themes and processes explored here also pertain to other settler colonial nations, including the , (), Australia, and New Zealand, as commonalities in experiences and

13 These terms appear in the Hansard record from the Nunavut Parliament. The Nunavut Hansard Inuktitut-English Parallel Corpus of the UQAILAUT Project (http://www.inuktitutcomputing.ca/NunavutHansard/), developed by Benoît Farley at the National Research Council of Canada, allows web users to search terms and see parallel translations of the Legislative Assembly of Nunavut, providing a valuable resource for Inuktitut- English translation. Other terms may also be used to describe protest or political action; these are among them.

30 legacies of colonization have translated to shared disparities in health, opportunity, and standard of living between Indigenous and non-Indigenous populations today. Inuit organizations have suggested that improving food security is essential to reconciliation and decolonizing the relationship between Nunavut Inuit and non-Inuit Canadians (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2019). All of this also requires hope that food insecurity is indeed, as Papatsie explained, “something that could be changed.”

31 Chapter 2 Theory and context: Towards a politics of food and food security in Arctic Canada

“There is no such thing as an apolitical food problem” – Amartya Sen, 1981

2.1 Chapter introduction: Theory and context This chapter outlines a conceptual framework (Figure 2.1) through which to address the research objectives outlined in Chapter 1, situating the present study in relationship to other research. A conceptual framework serves various functions, including lending coherence to a study, clarifying the research issue and context, linking the particular with the generalizable, organizing ideas and questions, and explaining both the purpose and foundations of the study (Leshema & Trafford, 2007). In this case, I have chosen to present theory and context together, recognizing – as addressed in greater detail below – that some of the conceptual limitations of food security discourse arise in the application of universalizing concepts to a specific cultural and political context, absent attention to the exigencies of that context. For this reason, I look at how concepts and theories, from food security to entitlements, and social to structural determinants of health, resonate in Inuit Nunangat and Nunavut specifically, before turning in greater depth to the Nunavut Inuit food system through literature on Inuit foodways and the social economy. I look at how these different bodies of scholarship complement one another, in light of both their contributions and limitations, and clarify how they inform the research objectives. I first trace the evolution of the concept of ‘food security’ through its seminal texts, showing how the concept has come to have meaning within a specific set of institutions that have shaped what is made visible, and the types of food security interventions advanced and legitimized. I foreground the way in which the concept both draws attention to and renders apolitical problems of food access – problems that I argue are best understood as political ones. In the context of Inuit Nunangat, I draw attention to the conceptual limitations of food insecurity as a means to direct inquiry into underlying causes, inequalities, and inequities rooted in colonialism and political economic inequities. To address some of these limitations, I

32 then turn to literature on social and structural determinants of Indigenous Peoples’ health, looking at how this literature can help direct inquiry and frame questions to better understand the politics of food security in Arctic Canada. Finally, I turn to literature on Inuit foodways and social economy, drawing on both the work of Inuit writers and organizations and the ethnographic literature to contextualize Inuit food systems and the economies in which they are embedded. This literature reveals what is excluded from market-oriented conceptualizations of food security and reiterates the importance of place-based inquiry. Throughout, I pay particular attention to the role of narratives of responsibility and blame in discourses of food insecurity and environmental health. Returning to these themes in the chapter conclusion, I explore how narratives that locate ‘deficiencies’ in individuals, communities, and indeed cultures obscure systemic inequalities within and beyond Inuit Nunangat. I explore the potential for critical social science to make more legible the roots of health and social disparities, including food insecurity. While discursive and materialist approaches are often understood as contrasting positions, my interest here is not in relitigating post-modernist debates about the material and the discursive that have been explored more fully elsewhere (Gregory, Johnston, Pratt, Watts, & Whatmore, 2009, p. 166). Rather, following recent critical development scholarship (see for e.g. Li, 2007), I do not reject materialist approaches that highlight interests served and political economy, but amend them with attention to the politics of interpretation. In this way, I use ‘discourse’ not in the formal methodological sense of Critical Discourse Analysis, but rather as a critical interpretive approach to aid in interpretation (Gregory et al., 2009, p. 167), and show what is at stake in how the issue of food insecurity is understood and conceptualized. This interpretation of ‘discourse’ resonates with the much wider understanding – present across many Indigenous cultures – that the stories we tell are powerful and can have material consequences. Bringing this perspective together with the various concepts reviewed above, I conclude by turning to questions of methodology, suggesting the potential of an ethnographic and ethnohistorical approach to the present research objectives.

33 Geographies of Northern food (in)security

• Food insecurity represents a critical health inequity and burden on health and wellbeing within Arctic Canada. • Uneven geographies of food insecurity exist in context of broader social, structural and contextual factors, including colonialism and economic inequities.

Food security: Social & structural determinants Inuit foodways & Origins and exclusions of Indigenous health the social economy • Terminology of ‘food security’ • Social circumstances, not just • Locally harvested country shapes what can be seen in individual behaviours, food is an integral part of consequential ways important for understanding the Inuit food system both • In its focus on outcomes, ‘food unequal health outcomes nutritionally and culturally security’ framing can obscure • Food security is a key social • Social economy reproduces underlying causes determinant of Inuit health relationships as well as country food • Common metrics of food and part of larger picture of security re-inscribe a market- social and economic inequity • Cash is an important input oriented conceptualization of in Inuit Nunangat for harvesting, and sectors food issues, even where non- • Colonialism and self- interlinked in ‘mixed market food systems are determination are important economy’ important determinants of Indigenous • Inuit food system not well • Limitations and exclusions peoples’ health globally accounted for within have inspired counter- • Environmental health mainstream food security discourses such as food discourses that ascribe blame metrics sovereignty to Indigenous communities • While profoundly affected • ‘Food insecurity’ nonetheless can obscure systemic health by colonialism, circumpolar important grounds for inequalities, including food mixed economies persist engagement on equity issues insecurity and continue to play important role in sustaining communities

Objective 1: Objective 2: Objective 3: Objective 4: To describe the To show how food is To characterize To describe how historical and political entangled in histories contemporary policy Nunavut Inuit context for and legacies of approaches to food communities navigate, transformations of the colonization in Arctic insecurity in Nunavut experience, and Nunavut food system Canada and investigate the address food and to address the role narratives and beliefs (in)security at the local changes have played in that underpin them level issues of food insecurity

Research aim: To investigate the intersections of food, social policy, and power and to develop a longitudinal perspective of issues of food insecurity in Nunavut.

Figure 2.1 Conceptual framework diagram

34 2.2 Food security: Origins and exclusions Concepts of food security have been endlessly refined and redefined in the past fifty years; even 25 years ago, dozens of definitions of the concept were in circulation (Maxwell & Smith, 1992). In this section, I trace the origins of the concept and its influential redefinitions over time. I argue that while new articulations of the concept have created the appearance of a broader scope, they have at the same time reinforced foundational assumptions that defined the scope of action within an existing context of institutionalized development – often to the exclusion of Indigenous ontologies, economies, and worldviews that exceed the parameters of liberal economic frameworks grounded in the individual economic actor.

Figure 2.2 Use of food security terminology, 1970–2008 (Google Books Ngram Viewer - http://books.google.com/ngrams)

35 The term ‘food security’ originated in the early 1970s (Figure 2.2), and was first formally adopted at the UN Food and Agricultural Organization (FAO) World Food Conference in 1974, which established food security, then taken to mean “adequate world food supplies of basic foodstuffs,” as a priority for international development14 (United Nations, 1975, n.p.). Food security soon supplanted prior terminology of malnutrition and food shortage (Figure 2.2). The FAO, mandated to inform development with regards to food, led a push to create global grain reserves and expand comprehensive monitoring of food security at the international level (Alcock, 2009). While the new terminology of food security was readily naturalized as an object of inquiry, and adequate supplies of basic foodstuffs reflected an inarguable imperative, the emergence of food security discourse was, at once, inextricable from broader structures of international power. Notably, this new terminology unfolded against the backdrop of 1970s food crisis and Sahelian famine and amidst growing international concerns about the stability of the global food supply, and the balance between supply and demand (FAO, 2006). Marxist critics have argued that the construction of food security as an issue of agricultural productivity operated as a new lever of intervention through which to enhance the spread of capitalism into agriculture, giving rise to solutions to food insecurity and hunger rooted in the creation of new markets for Green Revolution technologies (see Wisner et al., 1982, p. 12). Critics of international relations further argue that the militaristic connotations of ‘security,’ while reconfigured into concerns for human liberty, also reflected concerns about the potential for global unrest amidst conditions of unprecedented inequality, and the destabilizing effects of the 1970s food and oil crises (Alcock, 2009). As Alcock argues, “human security… begs the question of which humans it is concerned to secure” (Alcock, 2009, pp. 53-54). In turn, simplified views of agriculture productivity – a view critiqued as “neo-Malthusian” – overlooked the role of unfair trade agreements, legacies of colonization, economic inequalities, and distribution issues in the 1970s economic and food crises (Maxwell, 1996).

14 The complete World Food Summit (1974, n.p.) definition of food security is, “availability at all times of adequate world food supplies of basic foodstuffs to sustain a steady expansion of food consumption and to offset fluctuations in production and prices.”

36 This neo-Malthusian, production-oriented conceptualization of food security was conducive to an apolitical rendering of food problems, drawing attention to hunger while also, perversely, naturalizing them as a product of limited supply. In a seminal review of food literature following the 1970s global food crisis, Wisner et al. (1982, p. 12) argue this Malthusian approach remains historically inaccurate and “ideologically blames hunger on the hungry.” Closely related, the authors suggest, is the depoliticizing logic of environmental determinists who “blame nature instead of people” (p. 13) and in so doing, naturalize hunger and food insecurity. Meanwhile, excluded from this agricultural productionist conceptualization of food security were local and peasant food systems, Indigenous food systems, and the role of social relations and solidarity in securing access to food – practices actively undermined by the expansion of corporate agriculture and commercial food systems that treat food as a commodity like any other. The 1980s brought about a path-breaking redefinition of food security towards its more contemporary meaning, shifting away from productionist interpretations focused on supply towards a focus on access to food, culminating in a definition of food security as “access of all people at all times to enough food for a healthy and active life” (World Bank, 1986, p. 1). This revision drew on influential work on causes of famine, particularly economist Amartya Sen’s seminal text, Poverty and Famines (1981), which showed that famine could result not from a decline in food available per capita, but unequal “entitlements,” both economic and political, to food.15 Entitlements, implying legal title or ownership of a good, are interpreted as a manner of property rights over food in Sen’s analysis, and are defined as “the set of alternative commodity bundles that a person can command in a society using the totality of right and opportunities that he or she faces” (Sen, 1981, p. 3). Drawing on analysis of the Bengal Famine of 1943 and Ethiopian famine of 1973, Sen found that starvation could occur even when at the population scale, supplies are sufficient and markets are functioning – in part, because markets have no moral imperative to meet basic

15 Sen himself used the term “food security” only infrequently, but his entitlements framework became closely associated with the (redefined) concept and continues to be widely cited in food security literature today (Alcock, 2009).

37 food needs (Devereux, 2001, p. 246; Sen, 1982, p. 456). In the Bengal Famine of 1943, Sen’s best known case study, an urban economic boom raised food prices, while rural workers’ wages did not keep pace; millions died of starvation within a broader political economic context that included hoarding and intervention by British military (Sen, 1981). Sen’s entitlements framework shifted links between food security and crop failure towards analysis of food insecurity as a social and political construct (FAO, 2006). Yet, while Sen’s emphasis on access broke with “the mesmerizing simplicity of focusing on the ratio of food to population” (Sen, 1981, p. 8), subsequent critiques argue that the entitlements framework both reveals and conceals the political and economic roots of unequal access to food. The problem, in Sen’s entitlements framework, is no longer the simple ratio of food to population. However, Sen’s framework does not itself cut through the underlying assumptions of unjust economic relations or political structures (as above) that give rise to inequitable entitlements. By directing focus to outcomes and not causes, and reifying a phenomenon without demanding its explanation, critics argue that the entitlements approach, like hunger before (Wisner et al., 1982, p. 12), may mask power relations and inequalities as much as it clarifies them (Devereux, 2001; Nolan, 1993). In particular, by focusing on legal property entitlements like production, labour, trade, and transfer payments (FAO, 2006), the entitlements approach simultaneously clarifies the presence of economic inequalities, while overlooking the political-economic systems that give rise to them. Excluded are the social exigencies of deprivation, hunger and famine, including deliberate harm, looting or raiding, and more broadly, the fact that some groups stand to gain from the deprivation of others (Alcock, 2009, p. 34; Devereux, 2001). Intra-household dynamics and inequalities (such as gender relations) are similarly invisible, as are the complex and interdependent social dynamics of non-market food systems (Devereux, 2001). Devereux (2001, p. 248), summarizing critiques, argues that the “entitlements [approach] is too apolitical and ahistorical to tell us much about the structural causes of famines,” contending that the simplification required to make entitlements work as an economic theory with universalized application remains ill-suited to understanding varied and contextual social realities of hunger, famine, and deprivation.

38 These limitations of entitlement theory made it amenable to co-option by a view that foregrounds only (market) economic relations – and indeed, this is what followed Sen’s early formulation of entitlements theory. In 1986, the World Bank reformulated and republished Sen’s Poverty and Famines to produce a new and influential articulation of food security. The report borrowed heavily from Sen’s text, while rewriting its most central tenets in the language of economic growth, arguing that millions of poor people “suffer from a lack of food security, caused mainly by a lack of purchasing power” (World Bank, 1986, p. 1). In a revealing intertextual analysis, Alcock (2009, p. 30) explains, “Sen’s entitlement theory of famine echoes throughout the [World Bank] text but in a modified form – ‘entitlement’ has become ‘income’, ‘access’ has become ‘purchasing power.’” This rewriting of entitlements theory contrasted with Sen’s vision, as he cautioned against interpreting entitlements as income alone, and promised that ‘entitlements’ would direct inquiry into underlying causes of insufficient and unequal income (Sen, 1981, p. 156). However, instead adopting the language of income and purchasing power, the World Bank rewrote the question of food security such that the answer was not political shifts in service of greater equality, but macroeconomic restructuring in the service of economic growth. In turn, the World Bank’s conflation of food security with monetary income re-inscribed the solutions of the neo-Malthusian, productionist approaches that had preceded it: the problem was not understood to be unequal opportunity and access to food rooted in political inequities, but rather unequal access to capitalist markets and their products. In this way, the World Bank’s re-interpretation of Sen’s entitlements theory fit well with the solution to poverty and global inequalities that the World Bank was prepared to offer at the time: Structural Adjustment programs to spur growth through deregulation, privatization, and a smaller state. This re-definition further overwrites systemic inequities identified above, obscuring the role of imbalanced international power relations and the inequalities produced by an increasingly globalized capitalist food market. At the same time, this definition of food insecurity excludes non-market relations (own production, food sharing and redistribution) that figure significantly in impoverished peoples’ ability to secure food, and obscures the role that traditional foodways and economies might play in social security and ‘food security,’ which, by its very (re)definition,

39 does not account for these (non-market) activities. This includes food systems rooted in cooperative modes of production and relationships that contrast with market relations and the commoditization of food. The 1990s and early 2000s brought about new definitions of food security in the context of shifting priorities of international development institutions, bringing the concept in line with contemporary language of human and social development. The 1996 World Food Summit produced what remains the most widely circulated definition of food security: Food security exists when all people, at all times, have physical and economic access to sufficient, safe, and nutritious food to meet their dietary needs and food preferences for a healthy and active life (FAO, 2006).

In the intervening decades, this broadened scope of food security has been taken up into a food security policy agenda that spans diverse mandates (health, environment, social welfare), sectors (public, private, and non-governmental), and dimensions (often defined as availability, access, utilization, and stability) (FAO, 2006). This is the definition in widespread use within Inuit Nunangat also (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2014, p. 29; Nunavut Food Security Coalition, 2014, p. 1). While addressing some of the critiques of the economically oriented definitions that preceded, the expanding conceptualization of food security also contributes to its depoliticization. The re-articulation of food security as a sweeping development imperative – and largely unrealized ideal – broadens the discursive scope of the concept, maintaining its legitimacy as an inarguable imperative. At the same time, to the extent that the updated definition of food security is all encompassing, it draws attention to nothing, constraining its critical interpretive power. Critical scholars have thus argued that the shifting definition and conceptualization of food security may owe at least as much to the “changing parameters of global liberal governance,” and expanding international development apparatus, as to an enlarged understanding of lived experiences of hunger (Alcock, 2009, p. 50). By focusing food issues through an outcome (“when all people, at all times, have sufficient access to food”), the underlying power relations of capitalism, colonialism, imperialism, and inequity that have produced these conditions remain out of view. Also excluded are the same social exigencies omitted by prior definitions, that exceed that which can be taken up in the institutional context

40 of international and state-based governance, such as the role food plays within collective identities, or the meaning derived from local food practices, traditions and cultures. This depoliticization is of course not unique to food security and pertains to development discourse more broadly; in what Ferguson (1990) influentially describes as the anti-politics of development, the development industry “renders technical” development issues, including hunger, admitting only the knowledge that it can apply, assembling solutions from a limited repertoire of “blueprints” at hand. These blueprints remain dependent on existing political-economic structures and, consequently, leave those structures intact. Problems of poverty and hunger are thus depoliticized, instead rendered amenable to technocratic solutions “under the cover of a natural technical mission to which no one can object” (p. 256). Insofar as food security is embedded institutionally in international development institutions and agendas, it remains inconducive to directly engaging and critiquing the political economic and power relations that produce disparities in access to food. Instead, food insecurity is readily translated from a problem of poverty, imperialism, colonization, capitalism, or inequity into a technical problem of local growing conditions or individuals’ food habits. While the concept of food security continues to be widely defined within the language of the early 1990s (“when all people at all times…”), its conceptualization still shifts with contemporary development discourses. Recent trends link food security conceptually to climate change adaptation and disaster risk reduction – international concerns that share similar internal contradictions, in that they are at once deeply political, and apt to be rendered in a manner that removes the potentiality for responsibility, echoing the Malthusian and environmental determinist narratives of the 1970s. As Alcock (2009, p. 47) writes: Blaming the climate for people’s hunger serves many political functions. The most powerful of these is the displacement of responsibility away from politics onto the uncertainty and malevolence of nature.

Within this discursive environment, solutions proposed lean heavily on modernization and intensification – with climate change cast as “both threat and opportunity,” particularly for investment in biofuels and agribusiness (p. 49). In this way, the concept of food insecurity

41 continues to both draw attention to and render apolitical problems of food access – problems that I argue, as above, are best understood as political ones.

2.3 Conceptualizing food security in Arctic Canada In the context of Nunavut, food security discourse reflects many of these same exclusions and limitations. Popular conceptualizations of food security rooted in environmental determinism persist in narratives that focus on the Arctic as an ‘extreme’ environment, blaming food insecurity on remoteness and poor agricultural growing conditions – thus naturalizing hunger, absent attention to political economic conditions or the effect of colonialism on Inuit food systems. In parallel, neo-Malthusian narratives that focus on individual harvesting efforts and food choices have echoed the wider discourse that “blames hunger on the hungry” (Wisner et al., 1982, p. 12). This line of reasoning is perhaps most evident in the outright denial of food insecurity in Inuit communities under Prime Minster Stephen Harper’s Conservative government, which in 2012 rejected a scathing report from the UN Special Rapporteur on the Right to Food (De Schutter, 2012), and claimed Inuit could not experience food insecurity because they “hunt every day” – a characterization Hicks (2012 n.p.) argues casts food insecurity as a matter of individual effort, and in turn, a problem “internal to Indigenous peoples” (see Ch. 6). While more recent political shifts have renewed attention to food insecurity as a public health issue, and re-focused attention on access to food, the conceptual limitations of food security continue to enable a comparatively apolitical and ahistorical understanding of Northern food issues that struggles to direct inquiry into underlying causes (see above; Devereaux, 2001). Here, the concept of anti-politics resonates, with food insecurity in Nunavut often rendered as a technical problem amenable to technical solutions that can be enacted within the existing institutional context, exemplified in proposed food security solutions like greenhouses and airships (Nunavut Food Security Coalition, 2014; Nutrition North Canada, 2016). Indeed, recent initiatives include a pilot program by Canada’s space agency to grow in extreme conditions, “to develop reliable plant production systems that astronauts could one day use on the moon or Mars” while also “enhancing access to nutritious food” (George, 2020a

42 n.p.). Without discounting the potential of such projects to achieve their technical objectives, or indeed respond to communities’ interest in new solutions to profound food challenges, narrow technological solutions risk leave intact the structural political economic conditions that give rise to conditions of food insecurity. They do so while drawing considerable funding and attention – in the case of the space agency project, to the order of $450,000 (George, 2020a), all while casting Inuit Nunangat as a colonial frontier akin to Mars. As elsewhere in the food security literature, climate change in Inuit Nunangat has been similarly portrayed as both a threat to food security (Beaumier & Ford, 2010; Ford, 2008; Meakin & Kurvits, 2009; Statham et al., 2015), heralded by some as an opportunity for agricultural or pastoral production in the “greening Arctic” (Zellen, 2009). This trend, as Alcock (2009) notes, risks contributing to overriding narratives that displace responsibility from politics onto nature – a nature that is seen within Euro-centric cosmologies as being separate and dichotomous from human influence and culture. These depoliticizing narratives surrounding food security are underpinned by wider epistemological questions of how knowledge about food security in Inuit Nunangat is produced and reproduced – or, put differently, how ‘food security’ itself is produced as a legible research or policy objective. Research on Inuit food security has expanded rapidly since the early 1990s, becoming a dominant focus within Northern studies in Canada (Loring & Gerlach, 2015). Surveys like the Inuit Health Survey have been integral to monitoring food insecurity, reporting regional disparities, and drawing attention to the food crisis Inuit communities face within Canada. However, quantitative data can offer only a limited portrait of the underlying causes and contextual realities, and tells us little about the effects of colonization and wider contemporary political economic circumstances (see Ch. 1). Indigenous food systems and economies are not readily visible within the data produced by mainstream metrics of food insecurity, which continue to be rooted in in market economic conceptualizations of the concept first introduced in the 1980s (see above). For example, the USDA’s Household Food Security Module, adopted by food security studies worldwide for benefits of comparability and reliability, focuses on measures of “access to money” to purchase food (Bickel, Nord, Price, Hamilton, & Cook, 2000; Ready, 2016a; USDA, 2012). Variations of the

43 USDA model have been used by all major surveys that address food insecurity in Inuit Nunangat date (including the Inuit Health Survey, Aboriginal Peoples’ Survey, and Canadian Community Health Survey).16 Developed for households in the continental United States with little reliance on local harvesting for food production, the USDA model offers only a limited portrait of self- production and food sharing.17 As a consequence, food security studies based on this model (absent additional contextual information) offer limited understanding of access to the foods that are most culturally significant to many Inuit, including those termed by some Inuktitut speakers niqituinnaq, or ‘real food’ (Chabot, 2003; Searles, 2015; Wenzel, 2016). Food insecurity rates from these surveys are widely reported with no mention of this important limitation in the measurement tools themselves (e.g. CBC News, 2014). Egeland et al. (2010, p. 247) acknowledges the limited perspective on the traditional sector as a limitation: The questions related to food security in our survey were specific to whether participants had the financial means to buy groceries and did not cover access to traditional indigenous food-related systems. Given this limitation, further investigation is needed in which the availability of traditional food is also evaluated to determine overall food security status among indigenous peoples in Canada.

This limited understanding of and appreciation for country food is particularly critical for Inuit Nunangat because access to traditional food acquired through harvesting and food sharing networks may form a critical social safety net (Harder & Wenzel, 2012). In epistemological terms, market-oriented metrics of food security reshape research conclusions towards what is most legible, emphasizing a particular set of causes that are

16 The Canadian Community Health Survey uses the USDA core survey module questions (though employs a different scale to determine food insecurity). The Aboriginal Peoples’ Survey uses a short form (6 item) of the USDA questionnaire, and includes a separate section on harvesting, though it is not used to calculate prevalence of food insecurity. Nunavut Inuit Health Survey and Child Health Survey (2007-2008) used a modified version of the USDA module and added additional questions on why household was unable to afford food, and access to school nutrition programs (Egeland et al., 2010; Lambden, Receveur, & Kuhnlein, 2007). 17 The module asks participants if they agree that “the food we bought just didn’t last”, “we couldn’t afford to eat balanced meals”, or if they cut or skipped meals “because there wasn’t enough money to buy food” (USDA, 2012, emphasis mine).

44 identifiable through these metrics, including high food prices and low incomes, producing only a limited picture of the underlying causes of food insecurity. In turn, this market-oriented interpretation of food insecurity has corresponded to, and arguably helped legitimize, the introduction of market-based policy solutions like the Nutrition North program. These data are not, alone, conducive to unpacking the systems and structures that give rise to food insecurity. Writing on the Inuit Health Survey results that showed almost 70% of Nunavut Inuit preschoolers to be food insecure, Nunavut Tunngavik Inc. argues that the survey, “confirms that too many Inuit households are in need of food, yet the survey does not tie food security back to issues like education, employment, and poverty” (Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated, 2013, p. 3). As NTI notes, this can leave communities “vulnerable to victim blaming” (p. 6). These types of epistemological limitations and exclusions of food security discourse have inspired various competing counter-discourses, such as food justice, the right to food, geographies of hunger, and food sovereignty (Patel, 2009), each with their own sets of discursive influences and origins. While the fine details of each of these critiques would constitute another dissertation, uniting many critiques is the suggestion that what is excluded from a universalizing discourse and framework of food security – social exigencies, local economies and foodways, and power relations – is necessarily contextually and culturally specific. In Inuit Nunangat, counter-discourses include attempts to redefine what food security might mean for Inuit. Papatsie et al. (2013, p. 1) write: For Inuit, achieving food and nutrition security is about more than ensuring people are free from hunger, it is about the right to harvest and pursue a traditional subsistence way of life. In other words, Inuit view food security as a right that encompasses the cultural and environmental aspects of their lives.

Harder and Wenzel (2012, pp. 314-315) similarly suggest, “Inuit food security is more than being able to buy and eat desirable food; instead, it is critically linked to social access to culturally important country food.” Power (2008, p. 95) advocates for a re-framing towards “cultural food security,” explaining “public health has operated with conceptualizations of food security that were developed in non-Aboriginal contexts; they do not take full account of the

45 traditional food practices of Aboriginal people or Aboriginal conceptualizations of food security.” More recently, the Qikiqtani Inuit Association (2019) has argued, “Nunavut needs a shift from thinking about food security to food sovereignty. This means empowering Inuit to feed our own communities” (p. 4), adding “QIA prefers using the term food sovereignty rather than food security because food sovereignty allows for a culturally and community-minded approach to food management” (p. 7). While the concept of food security is often depoliticized, it continues to perform political work. Insofar as ‘food security’ describes unequal access to food, the concept has played an undeniable role in making legible issues of social inequity and unequal access to the most basic necessities of life. In Inuit Nunangat, the concept also continues to be a significant ground available for grassroots and community-driven engagement on issues of food access and social equality. Food security metrics continue to be used by Inuit organizations as a means of revealing the depth of social and economic inequities facing Inuit Nunangat today, and Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami identifies food security as a key “social determinant of Inuit health” (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2014, 2018d). Inuit grassroots organizations like Feeding My Family have adopted the term (Papatsie et al., 2013). At the same time, the concept of food security is useful in some instances specifically because it operates within the bounds of what is politically possible, bringing together diverse stakeholders, as, for example, in the Nunavut Food Security Coalition (Wakegijig et al., 2013). Simply enshrining ‘food security’ in policy has been a struggle at the national level (see above; Hicks, 2012) and food-related programs continue to operate without an explicit mandate to improve food security. In the context of this dissertation, I pay attention to how ‘food security’ (re)configures political space and shapes what can be seen. I examine how the concept has been institutionalized in Inuit Nunangat, asking in particular how those involved in policy creation – as well as those policies seek to benefit – understand and interpret the concept, and how it comes to have meaning within a specific set of institutions (see Figure 2.1, Objectives 3 & 4). At the same time, recognizing the limited scope of the concept, and its comparatively recent entry into the lexicon, I extend my scope of inquiry to prior and parallel discourses of ‘hunger’ and ‘malnutrition’ that framed policy interventions in the 1940s, 50s, and 60s. In so doing, I seek to

46 address political dimensions of food issues that are not well accounted for within ahistorical discourses of food security (Objectives 1 and 2). In my contemporary analysis, I pay attention to social policies that are associated with food access absent an explicit ‘food security’ mandate. Finally, I examine how the concept resonates with Inuit community-led initiatives related to food and food access (Objective 4). I also turn to other bodies of literature and theory that can help address some of the conceptual limitations of food security. With this in mind, the next sections review theorizations of the social and structural determinants of Indigenous health, and Inuit foodways and the social economy.

2.4 Food security as a social and structural determinant of Indigenous peoples’ health Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami identifies food security as a key social determinant of Inuit health (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2014). In the introductory chapter, I have argued that understanding the uneven geographies of food insecurity in Arctic Canada necessitates situating the issue within a wider set of social, structural, and contextual factors framed by political and economic realities at wider spatial and temporal scales. Here, the literature on both the social and structural determinants of Indigenous peoples’ health provides a useful approach, and also helps to address some of the conceptual limitations of food security frameworks explored in the previous section. The World Health Organization (WHO) defines social determinants of health as “the conditions in which people are born, grow, live, work and age,” which are “shaped by the distribution of money, power and resources at global, national and local levels” (2019, para. 1). The understanding that health follows a social gradient has been demonstrated in quantitative terms since the 1970s, with seminal studies like the Whitehall study of British civil servants showing the sensitivity of health to conditions of inequality, with poorer standards of health present among not only for those living in poverty, but at every step of the social gradient (Marmot et al. 1978, as cited in Marmot & Wilkinson, 2005). The social determinants of health framework builds on this empirical work, recognizing that the underlying causes of unequal health outcomes lie outside the domain of health entirely, in social, economic, and political realities (Commission on Social Determinants of Health, 2008). There is not a definitive

47 taxonomy of social determinants of health, and ambiguities remain (Islam, 2019). However, education, housing and living environment, early childhood development, employment and income are widely identified as social determinants, while recent literature has expanded focus on social determinants including gender and sexual orientation, family status, discrimination and racism, and colonialism (Islam, 2019). Literature on social determinants of health and health inequities explicitly ties health disparities back to political contexts, contesting the naturalization of unequal burdens of ill health. In its seminal Commission on Social Determinants of Health (2008, p. 1), the World Health Organization writes, “unequal distribution of health-damaging experiences is not in any sense a ‘natural’ phenomenon but is the result of a toxic combination of poor social policies and programmes, unfair economic arrangements, and bad politics” (Commission on Social Determinants of Health, 2008, p. 1). The Commission finds “the social determinants of health and are responsible for a major part of health inequities between and within countries” and calls addressing these inequities an ethical imperative: Where systematic differences in health are judged to be avoidable by reasonable action they are, quite simply, unfair. It is this that we label health inequity. Putting right these inequities – the huge and remediable differences in health between and within countries – is a matter of social justice. Reducing health inequities is, for the Commission on Social Determinants of Health (hereafter, the Commission), an ethical imperative. Social injustice is killing people on a grand scale (Commission on Social Determinants of Health, 2008, executive summary).

The social determinants of health framework enlarges the scope of public health and medicine, beyond biomedical models rooted in the individual, recognizing that disparities in individuals’ health status are shaped by social realities (Marmot & Wilkinson, 2005). This conceptualization of health as a holistic concept extending beyond the individual to their community and environment is already at the centre of many Indigenous conceptualizations of health and wellness (De Leeuw, 2015; Dyck, 2008). Indigenous representative organizations, including Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami (2014), the Native Women’s Association of Canada (2007), and Métis Nation (Dyck, 2008) have created Indigenous-focused frameworks for the social determinants of health, enlarging the scope of existing frameworks

48 (e.g. Marmot, 1978) towards a more holistic understanding of determinants of Indigenous peoples’ health including self-determination, colonialism, discrimination, land, spirituality, gender, and cultural continuity. Despite the diversity of Indigenous peoples, cultures, and local circumstances, the shared experiences and effects of colonization have translated into shared disparities in health outcomes associated with poverty, malnutrition, overcrowding, environmental contamination, and infection, exacerbated by inadequate access to both allopathic and preventative health care (Gracey & King, 2009, p. 65). Food issues are widely defined as a social determinant of health (Islam, 2019), and are at the heart of many health disparities experienced by Indigenous peoples globally, who often experience insufficient access to traditional foods and reliance on poor quality commercial foods (Kuhnlein, Erasmus, Spigelski, & Burlingame, 2013). This shift in diet or ‘nutrition transition’ is thought to play a role in food insecurity and nutritional health, and is linked in turn to health conditions including obesity, diabetes, hypertension, cardiovascular disease and kidney disease (Egeland, Johnson-Down, et al., 2011; Kuhnlein et al., 2004). Malnutrition associated with poverty and insufficient access to nutritious food further contributes to health consequences associated with poor maternal health, childhood stunting, susceptibility to infections, and chronic disease (Gracey & King, 2009, p. 67). In Canada, research on the social determinants of Indigenous health has highlighted population health disparities affecting Indigenous peoples, and described these disparities in health as an “embodiment of inequity” (Adelson, 2005). The 1996 Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples (RCAP), while preceding contemporary language on social determinants of health, also drew particular attention to the health and social disparities between Indigenous and non-Indigenous peoples within Canada. RCAP called for sweeping changes in the relationship between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal peoples and governments, including recommendations related to health, wellbeing, and healing (Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, 1996). In recent years, Inuit representative organizations in Canada have increasingly turned to the language of social and health inequity in Inuit Nunangat (see for e.g. Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2016, 2018a) to highlight significant disparities in health between Inuit and non-Inuit living in

49 Canada. Inuit have a lower life expectancy than non-Indigenous Canadians, and experience the highest suicide rates in Canada (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2014). The median income for Inuit in Inuit Nunangat is $23,485, while for non-Indigenous people in Inuit Nunangat it is $92,011 (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2018d). In terms of housing, 52% of Inuit in Inuit Nunangat live in crowded homes, while only 9% of non-Indigenous people do. At a national level, rates of food insecurity documented by the 2007-2008 Inuit Health Survey showed 70% of Inuit households in Nunavut to be food insecure, while only 8% of all Canadian households are food insecure (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2018d). These symptoms and outcomes reflect the socio-economic conditions in Inuit communities (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2014) and the continued effects of colonization as a foundational determinant of Indigenous peoples’ health in Canada and globally (Gracey & King, 2009, p. 65; Jardine & Lines, 2018; Richmond & Ross, 2009). In a review of determinants of Indigenous peoples’ health globally for The Lancet, Gracey and King (2009, p. 65) argue, “We need to understand how colonisation affected the lives of Indigenous peoples to understand their health today.” The authors point particularly to the devastating introduction of infectious diseases like TB and smallpox, dispossession of traditional lands and resources, and entrenched and institutionalized racial prejudice that cause severe inequalities in health status (ibid). In Northern Canada, Indigenous peoples suffered from epidemics of smallpox, measles, influenza and tuberculosis as a direct result of colonization (Abele, 2009). Canada’s Aboriginal Policy, including the Residential School system and Indian Act, has been described by the Truth and Reconciliation Commission as part of a policy “cultural genocide” intended “to eliminate Aboriginal peoples as distinct legal, social, cultural, religious, and racial entities in Canada” (Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, 2015, p. 2). The consequences of colonization and Canada’s Aboriginal Policy for health and wellbeing have been described through several “idioms of distress” including “historical trauma” (Waldram, 2014) and “cultural wounds” (Chandler & Dunlop, 2015 as cited in Jardine & Lines, 2018, n.p.), affecting not just the individual but communities as a whole. With regards to health, colonization both deeply affected health and wellbeing, and undermined Indigenous medical knowledge and systems increasingly brought under the control of the church and state (Waldram, 2014).

50 Colonial institutions have had a particularly profound effect on Indigenous food systems within Canada. To date, most research concerning the entanglements of food and social policy have addressed residential school histories (Mosby, 2013; Mosby & Galloway, 2017), and colonial expansion in the Southern Canada plains, where the instrumental withholding of food was inextricable from colonial expansion, “clearing the plains” for white settlement (Daschuk, 2013; Lux, 2001). This scholarship shows that colonial institutions, including the Indian Act and pass system, both denied Indigenous peoples the opportunity to produce sufficient food to meet their needs, and used food rations as a means of coercion, compliance, and assimilation (Bodirsky & Johnson, 2008; Daschuk, 2013; Kelm, 1996, 1998; Lux, 2001; Mosby, 2013; Mosby & Galloway, 2017; Shewell, 2004). Less research attention has focused on the impact and legacies of colonization of Inuit Nunangat, and connections between food and colonization in the North has been described elsewhere as an “overlooked history” (Burnett et al., 2016, p. 2). However, in a recent submission to the forthcoming “food policy for Canada,” Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami identified “institutionalized discrimination” as the first challenge facing Inuit food systems, writing “The Inuit food systems have largely been shaped by colonialism which continues to overshadow the relationship Inuit have with government.” (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2017, p. 16). Seeking to better account for these unique experiences, realities and histories of Indigenous peoples in Canada that contribute to health disparities, more recent critical Indigenous health scholars have argued for approaches that look “beyond the social” determinants of health (Greenwood et al., 2015). In a recent anthology, Greenwood, De Leeuw and Reading (2015) advocate for an expanded focus on “structural determinants.” These are defined as geographic, economic, historical, narrative, and genealogical factors that converge and affect Indigenous peoples’ health status, all of which unfold in the context of colonialism (Greenwood et al., 2015). The authors draw attention to multiple health determinants and their interplay, including colonialism, culture, gender, environment, geography, medicine, and policy. Charlotte Loppie (publishing as Reading, 2015) offers the metaphor of a tree for integrating the structural determinants of Indigenous peoples’ health. Proximate determinants, such as early child development, income, education, and employment are the tree’s crown; intermediate determinants that may help or hinder health, such as health promotion and kinship networks,

51 are the trunk; and distal or structural determinants are the roots. These structural determinants “represent the historical, political, ideological, economical, and social foundations… from which all other determinants evolve” (Reading, 2015, p. 5). Reading concludes, “[j]ust as maladies observed in the leaves are generally not the cause of unhealthy trees, inequities in human health frequently result from corruption or deficiencies in the unseen but critical root system” (p. 5). Similar models are found in the “upstream and downstream” analogy for social determinants of health (Islam, 2019, p. 1), and notions of “causes of causes” of health disparities (Rose, Khaw, & Marmot, 2008, p. 132). Advocates of a structural approach to addressing Indigenous peoples’ health inequities argue that renewed attention to underlying structures can better focus attention on underlying causes of disparities, while a myopic focus on proximal determinants and symptoms risks perpetuating structural inequities for future generations (Jardine & Lines, 2018; Reading, 2015). At the same time that structural approaches to Indigenous health prescribe attention to underlying determinants rather than distal symptoms, there are calls for nuance in applying this lens. Within health research, Indigeneity is often cast as a social determinant of health (Jardine & Lines, 2018) – yet this characterization risks casting Indigeneity as, itself, a risk factor. Indigenous peoples in Canada, including Inuit, have experienced an over-pathologizing and essentializing bias, with mental and emotional health concerns often explained in terms of Indigeneity and culture (Waldram, 2009, p. 71). Locating distress and poor health in culture change or “acculturation” may disavow contemporary sources of oppression and inequity and obscure socioeconomic explanations for poor health (Waldram, 2009, p. 73). Critical work in Indigenous health notes also that conflating the personal and political origins of individual suffering may overlook specific and unique circumstances of individuals (Kirmayer, Brass, & Valaskakis, 2009). More broadly, such work risks re-inscribing fatalistic attitudes towards Indigenous peoples’ health and wellbeing, denying agency and obscuring the “mechanisms through which many Aboriginal peoples have achieved and maintained a healthy state in a culturally complex and challenging world” (Waldram, 2009, p. 73). Responding to such issues, critical scholars have also called for “strength-based” approaches to Indigenous health within the frameworks of social and structural determinants,

52 looking to positive determinants that are “health promoting” (Jardine & Lines, 2018 n.p.), and seeking to identify factors that promote wellbeing (Kirmayer, Brass, & Tait, 2000). Jardine and Lines (2018 n.p.) write: “We need to promote, encourage, and enable people to experience positive determinants of health in a culturally appropriate way, and accept these as legitimate health determinants.” This includes greater recognition of Indigenous medical knowledge and systems, as well as activities and resources that are health promoting, such as relationships and connectivity, knowledge sharing, and language (Jardine & Lines, 2018 n.p.). In the context of Inuit Nunangat, Shirley Tagalik draws on interviews with Inuit Elders to describe a more interconnected, holistic approach to health and healing to regain harmony and balance, recognizing the spiritual dimensions of health within Inuit knowledge systems (Tagalik, 2018) – practices that were explicitly suppressed through missionization and colonization (Waldram, 2014). In its work on the “social determinants of Inuit health,” ITK has identifying positive efforts for each social determinant of health, including early childhood development, culture and language, livelihoods, income distribution, housing, personal safety and security, education, food security, availability of health services, mental wellness, and the environment (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2014, p. 2), The report concludes with an overarching statement of what is most health promoting: “a key action for future success is the support of increasing levels of self-determination in Inuit regions” (p. 4). Situating the present study within the social and structural determinants of Indigenous health helps direct inquiry beyond the symptoms of food insecurity, towards the underlying roots. A social determinants approach contests the naturalization of food insecurity (as a matter of remoteness, individual effort, or food choice), and directs attention to the combined effects of “poor social policies and programs, unfair economic arrangements, and bad politics” (Commission on Social Determinants of Health, 2008, p. 1). Meanwhile, the “structural determinants” approach directs attention to underlying “causes of causes” (Rose et al., 2008, p. 132) or “distal roots” (Reading, 2015). Food security is itself an important social determinant of Inuit health (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2014). In the context of Indigenous health more broadly, Loppie characterizes it as an “intermediate determinant” for other health disparities, as it may help or hinder health (Reading, 2015). Yet Loppie’s tree metaphor can also be adapted to apply

53 to understanding food insecurity, hunger, or malnutrition as significant health inequities. Proximate determinants of food insecurity – such as unemployment, high food prices, and food choices – do not alone explain the roots of food insecurity, or how it might be effectively tackled. Intermediate determinants, like access to health care or social support, may help or hinder food security. In turn, the roots of these issues lie deeper, with colonialism and self- determination foundational determinants of health. This analysis suggests that understanding the political dimensions of food insecurity necessitates looking beyond proximate factors like cost and remoteness and integrating these within the wider contexts of colonialism (Figure 2.1 - Objective 2) and social policies and programs (Objective 3). At the same time, this analysis calls for nuance and attention to how social and structural determinants of health are cast and mobilized within policy approaches (Objective 3). Finally, this analysis calls for renewed attention to the health-promoting and strength-based approaches, including community driven responses and self-determination (Objective 4). Food, of course, is critically ‘health promoting.’ In the context of Inuit Nunangat, food, particularly country food, is a source of nourishment, identity, and relationality. Control over the food system is central to self-determination, access to land, and governance. The next section turns to address more directly Inuit foodways and the social economy, situating this literature within the analysis of food security and structural determinants of health developed above.

2.5 Inuit foodways and the mixed economy Above, I argue that mainstream characterizations of food security have foregrounded market economic relations while often obscuring Indigenous foodways and economies (see section 2.2), and that food may fit within strength-based approaches to Indigenous health (see section 2.3). Against this backdrop, this section reviews ethnographic and Inuit writing on food and economy as a theoretical and empirical foundation for understanding the mixed (market and traditional) food system that persists in Nunavut today – and for better understanding what is at stake in food security and nutrition interventions. In parallel, I explore how the resources and

54 social relations associated with the Inuit food system contribute to strength-based approaches to health and wellbeing. As I discuss in Chapter 1, the contemporary food system of Nunavut is mixed. Locally harvested country food is an important part of the region’s food system, which also includes a market sector that is characterized by high-cost, low-quality options that must be airfreighted to dispersed, fly-in communities, or barged during the summer open-water season. According to the 2001 Survey of Living Conditions in the Arctic (SLICA), 73% of Nunavummiut households got half or more of their meat and fish from harvesting (Tait, 2001). More recently, the 2007-08 Inuit Health Survey of communities in Inuit Nunangat found that more than three quarters of Inuit households share country food; at the same time, more than 80% said they would prefer to eat more country food (Egeland, 2010, pp. 12-13). The importance of harvesting is reflected in commitments of time and effort. Between 59 and 69 percent of Inuit living in Canada had participated in subsistence activities in the week prior to the SLICA survey, while 58 percent had participated in waged work (Abele, 2009, p. 43). Country food marks an irreplaceable source of nutritious, fresh food in a region affected by high rates of food insecurity – and a culturally significant source of wellbeing for both physical and mental health (Kirmayer, Fletcher, et al., 2009). The mixed food system is the product of a mixed economy inclusive of both a social economy oriented towards harvesting and local food production, and a market economy resting on waged work and the production of money.18 Across the Circumpolar North, various terminologies – each with their own discursive connotations and limitations – are used to describe Northern Indigenous peoples’ economic relations, including Indigenous economy (Kuokkanen, 2011), social economy (Harder & Wenzel, 2012; Natcher, 2009), and subsistence

18 I here use ‘economy’ not in the neo-classical sense of ‘economic man’ but in the substantivist tradition, considering the social institutions in which economic relationships and modes of production are embedded (Peck, 2013; Polanyi, 1944). This view recognizes the historical anomaly of a capitalist market economy predicated on continuous growth. In recent years, this work has also been taken up under the mantle of ‘diverse economies’ scholarship that draws attention to the existence of non-capitalist economic relations, rejecting a perspective that centres only capitalist relations to better recognize the broader diversity of human economic potential, inclusive of Indigenous economies (Gibson-Graham, 2008).

55 economy (Lonner, 1980). All refer to a distinct economic system that is both materially vital and embedded in social relations that are themselves a source of wealth and security. ‘Subsistence’ is perhaps the most fraught because of its popular connotation to a bare minimum for survival (see Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2019), but its meaning to many Northern Indigenous peoples exceeds this impoverished view. The 1992 Inuit Circumpolar Conference, bringing together Inuit delegates from Alaska, Canada, Greenland, and Chukotka, highlighted the importance of subsistence in its foundational Principles and Elements for a Comprehensive Arctic Policy: Subsistence means much more than mere survival or minimum living standards. It is a way of life that requires special skills, knowledge, and resourcefulness. It enriches and sustains Inuit communities in a manner that promotes cohesiveness, pride and sharing. It also provides an essential link to, and communication with, the natural world of which Inuit are an integral part. [...] These practices are not static, but evolve with changing Arctic conditions and circumstances. Inuit subsistence must not be defined by the technologies used nor simply by whether income is generated… (Inuit Circumpolar Council, 1992, pp. 36-37; see also Kuokkanen, 2011).

Studies of Inuit subsistence practices are extensive and date to Franz Boas’ 1888 book The Central Eskimo. In the ethnographic literature concerning the Circumpolar North, subsistence is characterized as a system of economic activities (hunting, fishing, gathering) largely contained within a region and governed by cultural norms and patterns of transfer and exchange centred on the extended family (Burch, 1988; Damas, 1971; Fienup-Riordan, 1983; Lonner, 1980; Natcher, 2009; Usher et al., 2003; Wenzel, 1995). What this literature suggests is that while its material contribution is vital, subsistence is as much about how resources flow through a community as it is about hunting and fishing (Lonner, 1980; Natcher, 2009). Working with Inupiat communities in Alaska, Lonner (1980, p. 13) suggests, “[w]hat appears to be maximized in subsistence economies… is not profit or wealth but security.” This security stems not from individual self-sufficiency or accumulation, but from relationships reinforced on an ongoing basis through sharing and reciprocity, constituting a social economy that provides a meaningful social safety net (Abele, 2009; Harder & Wenzel, 2012; Natcher, 2009). The traditional socioeconomic system for sharing food is described in Clyde River as ningiqtuq (Wenzel, 1995, p. 46), encompassing exchanges of country food and other subsistence resources within and between family groups, with equipment and purchased goods

56 also partially integrated into exchange relationships (Harder & Wenzel, 2012; Quintal- Marineau, 2016; Wenzel, 2013). Because country food is shared widely, it may be accessed through family networks and provides an important source of social security (Harder & Wenzel, 2012, p. 305). At the same time, disparities can persist even in the context of widespread food sharing (see Ready, 2016b). In a year-long study of food security in Kangiqsujuaq, Nunavik, Ready (2016b) found a strong association between limited access to both store food and country food. While a small minority of households reported sufficient access to traditional foods and insufficient access to store foods due to limited financial means, most households who experienced insufficient access to store-purchased food also experienced insufficient access to country food. Nonetheless, strong family ties appear to be important for food security in Inuit Nunangat: Drawing on the 2012 Aboriginal Peoples Survey, Statistics Canada finds that “among Inuit adults aged 25 and over living in Inuit Nunangat, those with strong or very strong extended family ties have a significantly lower probability of living in a food insecure household compared to those with weaker family ties (46% versus 66%)” (Arriagada, 2017, p. 5). At stake in food production and sharing are not only relationships between people, but relationships with animals and the land, and the two are inextricably bound together, with success in hunting traditionally described as reflecting not simply an individual’s material effort, but also the quality of relationships that the hunter upholds within both human and animal communities (Fienup-Riordan, 1995, p. 51; Stairs & Wenzel, 1992, p. 4). This potentiality – for sentience, relationship, and reciprocity – is fundamental to traditional Indigenous economic relations across the Circumpolar North. Sámi scholar Rauna Kuokkanen (2011: 219) explains, The key principles of indigenous economies—sustainability and reciprocity— reflect land-based worldviews founded on active recognition of kinship relations that extend beyond the human domain. Sustainability is premised on an ethos of reciprocity in which people reciprocate not only with one another but also with the land and the spirit world. Indigenous economies are thus contingent upon a stable and continuous relationship between the human and natural worlds.

The enduring relations that underpin Inuit harvesting and economies are more complex than an economic conceptualization of animals and land as ‘common property’ to be managed. Indeed, the notion that humans can ‘manage’ a natural resource, particularly animals, is traditionally

57 inimical not only to Inuit, but to many Northern Indigenous peoples (Nadasdy, 2005; Natcher, Davis, & Hickey, 2005; Stevenson, 2006). Inuk writer Rachel Qitsualik (2013, p. 33) distinguishes classic Inuit concepts of sovereignty from property relations: Inuit, who know the Nuna so well, cannot define sovereignty via mastery of their home, but rather of their own hearts. For they never owned the Nuna — not in the sense of apportioning or weighing its utility — but were blessed with enjoyment of it; with wisdom gleaned from it; healthful lives modelled from it.

Inuit harvesting can be understood not simply as an economic activity constituted through the extraction of (or, recalling food security frameworks above, ‘entitlement’ and ownership of) food resources, but as an economy that enriches and sustains communities through reciprocal relationships. The social economy does not operate in isolation from the market economy, and the resilience of subsistence harvesting across the Circumpolar North is not despite increased contact with this global capitalist market, but alongside it (BurnSilver, Magdanz, Stotts, Berman, & Kofinas, 2016; Chabot, 2003; Natcher, 2009; Wenzel, 1991). Cash has become an essential input into harvesting. Today, Inuit hunters rely on rifles, snowmobiles, all-terrain vehicles, boats, radios, and other costly equipment to reach harvesting sites (Sahlins, 1999). Indeed, a transition to mechanized hunting, including the use of snowmobiles, was an essential adaptation in allowing Inuit hunters to reach harvesting sites from centralized communities (Kemp, 1971; Wenzel, 1991) that were rarely selected for their rich harvesting grounds, and favoured the convenience of fur trade posts and government administration (see Ch. 5). While Inuit participation in global markets extends historically to the whaling industry and fur trade, the presence of the monetized economy in the Eastern Arctic has expanded rapidly over the past 70 years, following the government-driven centralization of Inuit communities in the 1950s and 1960s (Damas, 2002; Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b; Tester & Kulchyski, 1994). Until the 1980s, commodity sales of sealskins (byproducts of harvesting) played a particularly important role in supporting harvesting and capitalizing equipment; however, the European Union’s ban on sealskin imports and subsequent collapse of the sealskin market foreclosed this livelihood, devastating Inuit communities (Arnaquq-Baril, 2016;

58 Wenzel, 1991). Arguments against sealing included reference to a narrow view of subsistence, absent participation in a cash or market economy, that denied the dynamic adaptation of Inuit economic activities to changed circumstances (Arnaquq-Baril, 2016; Wenzel, 1991). As the Inuit Circumpolar Conference writes, “Inuit subsistence must not be defined by the technologies used nor simply by whether income is generated” (Inuit Circumpolar Council, 1992, pp. 36-37; see also Kuokkanen, 2011). Today, combinations of waged and domestic labour persist in diverse forms across the North, and the contemporary mixed economy of Inuit Nunangat includes harvesting, waged labour and entrepreneurship, sales of handwork and carvings, and transfer payments, integrated across scales (Natcher, 2009). This mixed economy provides a buffer from boom- bust economy cycles associated with extractive resource industries in the North, supports cultural continuity, and plays a particularly significant role in smaller communities relative to larger waged centres (Abele, 2009). It defies a simple delineation into market and subsistence sectors, or their conflation with ‘traditional’ and ‘modern’ modes of production. As Usher et al. (2003: 185) explain, “because there are not two separate economies, people do not choose between living in a ‘traditional’ economy or ‘modern’ economy, nor are they in transition between the two.” Usher et al. (2003) characterize the (extended) household as a ‘micro- enterprise’ that draws together a diversity of production and consumption strategies. In recent years, some Inuit organizations have moved away from the language of ‘traditional’ economic activities or ‘subsistence,’ in favour of terminology like ‘food sovereignty’ (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2019) – and, as Qitsualik writes, sovereignty also has a culturally specific meaning that exceeds land title and property relations (Qitsualik, 2013). Although modern harvesting relies on the market sector to provide cash inputs, structures of the social economy continue to shape household labour strategies (Natcher, 2009), with wage earners often financially supporting the food provisioning activities of harvesters (Harder & Wenzel, 2012; Quintal-Marineau, 2016). Quintal-Marineau (2016) highlights in particular the importance of women’s waged labour contributions to male hunters, a gendered contribution to subsistence production that is often overlooked (see Kuokkanen, 2011).

59 While mixed economies are shown to be persistent (BurnSilver et al., 2016), market and domestic sectors of production are not always in harmony, nor is the mixed economy necessarily egalitarian. Foremost, hunting is expensive; a new snowmobile can cost upwards of $15,000 (CAD). Consequently, as Usher et al. (2003, p. 178) suggest, “[t]he successful harvesting household is often also the successful wage-earning household, as this cash income is used for purchasing harvesting equipment.” Working in Kangiqsujuaq, Nunavik, Ready (2016b, p. 143) finds that relatively high levels of inequality can persist even in the context of widespread sharing; while food sharing distributes wealth and resources, it does not inherently equalize opportunities. Contrasting expectations within the market and subsistence sectors may also produce difficulties. While subsistence is deeply ‘embedded’ in social relations and cooperation, the market sector is comparatively ‘disembedded’ from social relations (Polanyi, 1944; Wenzel, 2019). It is governed by the logics of capitalist production, and more directly, through institutions – both public and private sector – that often fall outside the community’s social sphere or indeed political influence. Wenzel (2019, p. 577) suggests that the inherent tensions between the rules of the socially embedded subsistence sector and disembedded market sector are today exacerbated by high costs – and high opportunity costs – of harvesting. These conditions place a strain on both wage earners responsible for supporting extended families, and active harvesters, particularly as they face the imperative to share food that is costly to hunt (Quintal-Marineau, 2016; Wenzel, 2019). The buying and selling of country food has emerged as one response to these conflicts, and to the high financial costs of harvesting. Many Inuit express reservations about the selling and marketing of foods that are traditionally shared within the community (Gombay, 2010; National Indigenous Economic Development Board, 2019; Searles, 2016). At the same time, sales of country food are affirmed as a right under the Nunavut Land Claims Agreement – and are asserted against narrow views of subsistence that have been so detrimental to Inuit communities, particularly concerning the collapse of the sealskin market (Arnaquq-Baril, 2016). Perspectives on country food sales in Nunavut are diverse, and depend in part on how and why

60 food is sold, with distinctions between sales for personal gain or profit and those that support essential needs or permitted a hunter to continue provisioning activities (Searles, 2016). Subsistence practices, as the Inuit Circumpolar Conference (1992) explains, are ever evolving as Arctic conditions and circumstances change, and continue to do so today. The understanding that mixed economies persist today is not to suggest that the mixed economy is invulnerable, but rather that it is a resilient mode of production, exchange, and social organization, belying “the simplistic narrative that household subsistence is dying in an inexorable march toward the market” (BurnSilver et al., 2016, p. 6). Abele (2009) suggests that the mixed economy “nurtures both body and spirit,” supporting cultural continuity and meaning alongside material wellbeing: Without idealizing the past, we must recognize that both the original economies of northern Aboriginal peoples and the mixed economy to which they adapted over the years provided a substantial safety net – and not merely in terms of material survival. The net of social obligations and social expectations rooted in generalized reciprocity and cooperation contributed to this; it reduced anxiety and created meaning and a sense of worth. So did the intergenerational transmission of knowledge and values rooted in the landscape and what people did there (p. 56).

This mode of production has withstood tremendous pressures of colonialism and state-led development over the past century – and has done so at least in part by co-opting the market economy’s means to social ends. The mixed economy is neither a pre-capitalist anachronism, nor a post-capitalist alternative, and it faces ongoing threats and challenges in meeting communities’ fundamental needs, yet, across Inuit Nunangat, it is also vital. In the present research, this focus on the Inuit food system and mixed economy directs attention to those elements of food and culture often left out of mainstream metrics of food security, and in turn, food security solutions and discourse. It informs an understanding of that what is at stake in food interventions exceeds calories and nutritional needs alone and looks to the mixed economy as a foundational source of wellbeing. It looks at the implications of Inuit foodways and the mixed economy in both historical (Objectives 1 and 2) and contemporary terms (Objective 3), and by directing attention to how communities navigate food issues today (Objective 4). Finally, throughout, it pays particular attention to, and contests, longstanding

61 narratives of acculturation that cast Indigenous food systems and economies as anachronisms to or natural casualties of progress.

2.6 Discussion and conclusion: Towards a politics of food and food security in Arctic Canada This chapter has drawn together literature on food security discourse, social and structural determinants of Indigenous peoples’ health, and Inuit foodways and the social economy to develop a contextual and conceptual foundation for the present study. Throughout, I have paid particular attention to narratives of responsibility and blame, drawing attention to the tensions between individual and systemic explanations, and political and apolitical understandings, that transect both health and food security discourse. Returning to these themes more explicitly in this section, I critically examine narratives that locate blame for health inequities within the communities that experience them, and I explore the role research might play in contesting the naturalization of health inequities. In Inuit Nunangat, the concept of food security has become an important focus for grassroots efforts to raise awareness and articulate issues of social inequality. At the same time, popular understandings of food insecurity in Inuit Nunangat have focused largely on proximate determinants – high costs, low incomes, individual food choices – without necessarily tying these determinants back to their underlying causes, or the contexts in which they unfold (NTI, 2013; see above). Insofar as the food security literature pertaining to Arctic Canada has focused primarily on the nutrition transition and climate change vulnerability (see Ch. 1), there remains a need to critically evaluate dominant narratives that cast food insecurity in Inuit Nunangat as a problem primarily of changing food preferences and individual behaviour, while overlooking the structural issues that impede health and wellbeing in Inuit communities, including the legacies of colonization. Food security and environmental health discourse focused on more proximate determinants delimits the sphere of policy action, shaping and legitimizing policy decisions in Northern Canada and elsewhere (Raphael, 2016). The emphasis on proximate determinants results in a broad focus on educating individuals to make healthy choices, instead of the context in which those choices are made. For example, this conceptualization of food security has

62 legitimized government decisions to focus on market-based policy approaches, like Nutrition North Canada, absent attention to the way such interventions extend unequal power relations between Inuit, the private sector, and the State that were laid early in the Government Era, when federal authorities relied on fur trade companies to deliver social services. When food insecurity is cast as predominantly a problem of lack of money, changing food preferences, and acculturation, these broader questions of power and inequality are bracketed out, rendering food insecurity a technical problem with technical solutions (greenhouses, airships, extraterrestrial-style grow towers). Thus, while food (in)security is often depoliticized, the concept continues to perform political work – foremost, in relocating responsibility in the food insecure population that is experiencing health disparities, not the systems that give rise to the problem. Elsewhere, I have argued that such narratives reflect the pervasiveness of reasoning that ascribes blame to local cultures, values, and practices for environmental health problems from food insecurity to respiratory health, while obscuring systemic drivers of health inequalities, rendering marginalized populations responsible for poor health outcomes (Stephenson & Stephenson, 2016, p. 303). This dynamic reflects discursive environments in both environmental management – in which communities are blamed for overharvesting or mismanaging local resources, including food (Hardin, 1969) – and population health, in which individual patients are held accountable for societal ills (Rose et al., 2008). On the latter, Rose et al. (2008, p. 130) write: The problems of sick minorities are considered as though their existence were independent of the rest of society…. This position conveniently exonerates the majority from any blame for the deviants, and the remedy can then be to extend charity towards them or to provide special services. This is much less demanding than to admit a need for general or socio-economic change.

The authors argue that this “convenient” view is manifestly ineffective and advance a moral argument for collective responsibility (p. 130). At stake in such narratives is quite literally the insult to injury, as these narratives play an exculpatory role where outside intervention fails, sanctioning populations resistant to the imposition of externally defined solutions to health inequalities (Stephenson & Stephenson, 2016, p. 303).

63 Food insecurity in Inuit Nunangat is a perfect storm of these pervasive environmental health narratives that locate blame in individuals and cultures. Food (in)security lies at the intersection of discourses of environmental management and health, and understandings of the issue are animated by both tropes of environmental mismanagement (laziness, poor management decisions, overharvesting) and individualized understanding of health disparities (individual choices, self-control, deviance). Environmental management pertains directly to Inuit access to food, and here, historical narratives have condemned the purported ‘wanton slaughter’ of animals by Indigenous hunters (Campbell, 2004; Sandlos, 2007). In terms of health, historically colonial authorities invoked hygiene and education, and legitimized interventions in the name of combatting ‘ignorance,’ absent attention to colonization and growing contact with Qallunaat as a primary source of infectious diseases and ill health (Kelm, 1996).19 Narratives that locate “deficiencies” in Indigenous communities are pervasive and have also been identified in discourse concerning Indigenous homelessness in Northern Canada (Christensen, 2017, p. 24), and pertaining to disparities in mental health (Kirmayer, Fletcher, et al., 2009). These narratives reflect, as Gracey and King (2009, p. 70) note, “[w]idespread prejudice about perceived inadequacies of Indigenous people.” Narratives of blame are thus further animated by these racist and prejudiced views towards Indigenous peoples, while serving an exculpatory role towards colonial institutions and legacies. These specific prejudices are situated against the backdrop of wider narratives of acculturation and attitudes of fatalism towards Indigenous economies that have tended to conflate capitalist relations with progress, and Indigenous subsistence as ‘backwards’ and anti-modern (Kuokkanen, 2011). Writing back against such ‘convenient,’ apolitical renderings of health, social, and environmental outcomes, critical social, environmental and health scientists are often

19As I discuss in greater detail in Chapter 5, this phrase appears in Canada’s Health and Welfare magazine in the early 1950s as part of a rationale for colonial intervention in Inuit Nunangat (LAC RG85. Vol 269. File Part 1. DNHW bulletins, “Indian and Eskimo Health”: Canada’s Health and Welfare special supplement number 18, p. 6).

64 concerned with drawing attention to social and structural explanations for social, health and material disparities. Indeed, elsewhere within critical Northern social sciences scholarship, structural approaches to health have been called a “new orthodoxy” (Christensen, 2017, p. 25). In Inuit Nunangat, critical decolonizing scholarship from across the health and social sciences increasingly foregrounds the colonial roots of Indigenous health inequities (Adelson, 2005; De Leeuw et al., 2010; Greenwood et al., 2015; Kral & Idlout, 2009). Such work finds a parallel in political ecology studies that contest apolitical characterizations of environmental issues, seeking to restore their political-economic circumstances (Stephenson & Stephenson, 2016). There nonetheless remain critical questions to ask on these topics, to provide a more holistic and longitudinal perspective on health disparities – and a mirror on how they are interpreted, taken up, and understood in both policy and popular imagination today. In a recent critique of the social determinants of health framework, Islam (2019, p. 1) observes that despite a growing awareness of the social determinants of health, even textbooks and journal articles on the social determinants of health rarely cover public policy, often emphasizing mid-level factors instead. At the same time, as critical work on the social determinants framework suggests, there is a need for nuance and care in applying and contextualizing such ideas, retaining attention to communities’ agency and sources of wellbeing. Here, an ethnographic and ethnohistorical approach offers one path forward faced with tensions between particularism and universalism; between beginning with outcomes or causes; and between taking an a priori theoretical lens or interpreting results ex post facto. It provides a path to addressing complex colonial histories without the presentism of relegating asymmetrical power relations safely to the past or foreclosing on the possibility of more equitable relations. As Cruikshank (2014) observes, A postcolonial metanarrative that depicts coherent, homogenous colonialism as an intractable template with predictable outcomes… now seems too globalizing and too ahistorical. Such representations of history also err in their apparent relegation of colonialism safely to the past (p. 9).

Recent scholarship writing in solidarity with critical decolonizing approaches have similarly suggested approaches that mitigate, to some degree, the risk of “rendering a theoretical critique of colonial relations” and underestimating their contexts (Cameron, 2015, p. 24).

65 Cameron (2015), writing on the workings of settler stories in the Western Arctic, responds to this challenge by taking up Latour’s call for a certain “agnosticism” and “commitment to empiricism” – not by abandoning anti-colonial values but by focusing on the specificity of “how relations are made, and undermined, and with what consequences” (p. 25-26; emphasis mine). Ethnography and ethnohistory permits such questions, and scope to examine individual experiences and relationships alongside institutional ones, in the name of denaturalizing familiar stories. Ethnohistorical approaches often work with limited use of theoretical language in text, instead presenting ethnographic and historical records (archival materials, oral histories) in detail, with light interpretation, to leave room for the reader to draw their own conclusions (Damas, 2002, p. 4; Tester & Kulchyski, 1994, p. 10). An ethnohistorical and ethnographic approach does not mean averting any a priori theorization of the issues (as above); rather, it suggests that theoretical contributions can only be fully defined in the process of inquiry, leaving scope for open-ended exploration of the issues. With this foundation, the next chapter turns in greater detail to these questions of methodology.

66 Chapter 3 ‘Think of it in its finished form’ Research approach and methodology

You communicate as best you can. My father used to say, think of the end result more – as though it’s finished. It might be daunting but think of it in its finished form. Don’t buckle or be overwhelmed or give up. Some things are weighty but think of it as though you’ve finished it. Like, when we make an igloo, we don’t just do it, block by block, but at an angle, continually going up, interacting. It’s not just putting blocks down, you form it at its base, and when you finish you can stand on top because it’s well made, even though it’s only snow. How do we stay warm with water? Freeze it, make it a home! Block by block, you’ll put it up. You see the finished product before you begin, see how you’ll approach it and put it up. Then do the seams from the bottom up too. Start with a string to outline it and make the base.

- Charles Kalluk de Rome, Clyde River, NU 3.1 Chapter introduction – Atii My methodological thinking has been shaped both by both my academic training within the social sciences, and time spent in Kangiqtugaapik (Clyde River), Nunavut, over the past 4 years. The above is a reflection shared by my friend Charles Kalluk de Rome as we reviewed parts of a prior interview we had done together, and I shared some of the preliminary results of my community-based research. This was an opportunity to seek feedback, see if my interpretation made sense, check translations and meaning of particular words, and visit. We were discussing more broadly the importance of speaking carefully and precisely, and the ways in which interpreting the observations, interviews, stories, photographs, archival documents, and experiences that make up research is also an act of translation. As such, it also risks the loss of meaning, and requires care and precision. I was reminded of this again when I shared a small photo book with participants that I had prepared based on oral history interviews, in which I referenced the introduction of new “Qallunaat foods” in the 1940s and 50s to the Clyde River area. Translated word-for-word, this phrase is rendered as “Qallunaat Niqigha.” The term, I am told, is used occasionally today by younger people, in contrasting “Qallunaat food” with “Inuit food” (country food, Niqituinnaq or Inuksiutinik), a comparison I had heard and drawn upon when I prepared the English text for

67 translation. But, particularly for older people, this phrasing can also be translated to mean, more literally, “Qallunaat flesh” – a double meaning pointed out to me by one of the Elders who took part in the research when I shared the booklet. No offence appeared to be taken, and we shared a laugh together, but it occasioned an interesting observation about the malleability of language – and the potential missteps of researchers who do not speak the language! When I shared the book with another participant the following day, I learned that the double meaning of this phrase had been the subject of conversation on community radio the night prior. Seeing my twinge of mortification, I was told it was not so much about the specific wording of my report, but about the ways Inuktitut is used across generations, and possibility for one phrase to have multiple meanings. I thought back on the importance of being precise in language, the invariable loss of meaning that can occur, and the importance of leaving room for multiple interpretations. When faced with this challenge, start by thinking about the end result, Charles had suggested, then communicate as best you can. This conversation echoed other interviews and conversations I had throughout my time working in Clyde River; conversations of generous encouragement, clarification, teaching, and correction that shaped my research, not only in terms of the topic, but in ways of learning, creating, and sharing knowledge. Impressed upon me was the value of learning by being present, watching, listening, and continually trying, whether to stitch leather without impaling myself, or speak a few new words of Inuktitut. Attempting something new or difficult, I was met with the expression of encouragement, Atii. Rushing and making mistakes – for example, sewing two left-handed mitts – I was reminded to slow down and work with care. This chapter outlines the methodology for this research project: the string that comes full circle to trace an outline, the plan for laying blocks that intersect and support one another, and the vision for a finished form. It shares my attempt to build something “strong enough to stand on,” and the myriad ways this act of compilation relied on the generosity of participants and collaborators who shared in the creation of this work. The chapter is organized chronologically: I first address consultation and research design and situate this process within the emerging context of Inuit research governance and discuss my own positionality as a researcher. I then turn to methodology, methods, and interpretation. Finally, the chapter

68 concludes with a discussion on the potential and limitations of a multi-sited ethnographic approach to research.

3.2 Inuit research governance and research ethics The research and writing of this dissertation coincided with important changes in research governance in Inuit Nunangat, culminating in the 2018 release of Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami’s National Inuit Research Strategy (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2018b) and subsequent Implementation Strategy (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2018c). These documents assert Inuit rights to govern and benefit from research undertaken in Inuit communities and on Inuit lands. They stand alongside the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s Calls for Action (Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, 2015) in highlighting the need for foundational shifts in research in Canada to advance Indigenous communities’ ownership, agency, and priorities in research, and amend research governance in Canada to address the specific needs of Indigenous peoples (see TCPS, 2014, Ch. 9). The National Inuit Research Strategy also builds from existing guidelines for researchers wishing to work in the North, such as Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami and the Nunavut Research Institute’s joint Guide for Researchers (ITK and NRI, 2007), which emphasizes the importance of consultation and working in relationship. These actions respond to statements by many Indigenous communities in Canada and elsewhere that they have been ‘researched to death’ by outsiders (Castellano, 2004; Tuhiwai Smith, 1999) – concerns that have been raised about the growing volume of research activity underway in Inuit Nunangat specifically (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2018b; ITK and NRI, 2007; Moffitt et al., 2015). They coincide with increasing recognition of profound abuses of power that have occurred in Inuit Nunangat in the name of research that have been brought to light in recent years, including skin graft experiments in Igloolik (Oudshoorn, 2019) and nutrition studies undertaken on malnourished children in residential schools (Mosby, 2013). However, these emerging frameworks for Inuit research governance and assertions of rights do not only address abuses of power, but also respond to decades of stories about well- intentioned researchers who appear in communities, as if by parachute, to collect what they want, never to return. Across many Arctic communities, researchers are referred to jokingly

69 being as like one animal or another who appear only in the summer, including snow geese, mosquitos, or ground squirrels, only to make a lot of noise and mess, and be replaced by a new flock or swarm the next year. Such dynamics are not unique to Inuit communities, but rather have been expressed by many Indigenous communities worldwide, extending from the individual to the entire research apparatus. In her pioneering work, Decolonizing Methodologies, Maori scholar Linda Tuhiwai Smith writes, The power of research was not in the visits made by researchers to our communities, nor in their fieldwork and the rude questions they often asked. In fact, many individual researchers remain highly respected and well-liked by the communities with whom they have lived. At a common sense level research was talked about both in terms of its absolute worthlessness to us, the indigenous world, and its absolute usefulness to those who wielded it as an instrument. (1999, p. 4).

Responding to these dynamics, Indigenous research methodologies emphasize research as a site of more than ‘data collection,’ and addressed the importance of respect, reciprocity, humility and trust within research relationships (e.g. Castellano, 2004; National Aboriginal Health Organization, 2004; Tuhiwai Smith, 1999; Wilson, 2008). These efforts to improve research have recognized the inadequacy of appeals to extending the state of knowledge as a rationale and seek to find ways to ‘stand with’ and engage with communities and sites of research (TallBear, 2014). These approaches also have precedents in efforts to democratize knowledge production and rethink binaries between researcher and subject, whether in action anthropology and allied fields, which seek to emphasize the political relevance of research in advancing goals of research participants (Tax, 1975) or in feminist approaches that have emphasized an ethics of care (Schuurman & Pratt, 2002; TallBear, 2014). The National Inuit Research Strategy does speak to the potential for collaborative and respectful research to benefit Inuit Nunangat, while recognizing the fundamental changes in research infrastructure required. Research in Nunavut is governed by the Nunavut Scientist’s Act, with the Nunavut Research Institute the central hub through which research proposals circulate to stakeholders, including community research organizations (like Ittaq in Clyde River). Comments and changes (if any) requested by reviewers are shared with the research applicant, and the research license is granted or refused. Where strong local research organizations exist

70 and may choose to accept, refuse, or amend applications this process provides important oversight, and I benefited from this infrastructure. However, there are still limitations in the process, and Inuit representative organizations are seeking to further develop research governance processes within the structures of Inuit democracy. As a non-Indigenous (Qallunat) scholar from southern Canada working with Inuit communities, my aim throughout this research has been to work in solidarity with these and allied efforts and navigate evolving spaces of Inuit research governance – recognizing, at the same time, that this work is ongoing.

3.3 Situating myself in the research context Research is a social endeavor, animated by political and power relations that interpellate the individual. Indigenous communities and researchers, in Canada and elsewhere, have drawn attention recognize the institutional power and complicated histories that researchers bring to work with Indigenous communities (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2018b; Tuhiwai Smith, 1999; Wilson, 2008). These include inextricable links between research, European imperialism and colonialism raised in seminal critiques (Gough, 1967; Tuhiwai Smith, 1999). Critical Indigenous scholars write of the need to reckon with these histories, and recognize, confront and account for asymmetrical power relations that have favoured researchers at the expense of Indigenous peoples (TallBear, 2014; Wilson, 2008). I have benefited from opportunities to listen to these conversations. The early stages of my work were, in particular, informed by the National Gathering of Graduate Students in 2016, which offered valuable feedback on going about research in a good way, and upholding respectful relationships. Critical geographers, among others, have contested the notion of the ‘objective’ researcher, arguing for more reflexive approaches that attempt to account for the complex social terrain in which knowledge is situated (Haraway, 1988). More reflexive approaches highlight the subjectivity, positionality, and contextual creation of knowledge (Cope, 2010), and seek to make legible the implications of positionality, reflecting the notion that knowledge depends on who its makers are (Dowling, 2010; Rose, 1997). This array of literature recognizes the importance of situating oneself in the spaces navigated as a researcher. Dowling (2016, p. 34) characterizes this as a process of “critical reflexivity” and “self-conscious scrutiny of the

71 self.” Critical reflexivity does not make research more objective but rather begins to account for why research is not, and cannot be, objective (Rose, 1997). Addressing positionality has been an ongoing dialogue and reflection with my colleagues, collaborators, and advisors throughout the course of this research. At times this results in discomfort of trying to navigate a conflicting role, both as part of larger research apparatus deeply embedded in colonial relations, and an individual working to uphold good relations and work towards goals of decolonization in research. Foremost, my positionality as a young Qallunat woman from southern Canada deeply links me to colonialism in Nunavut. In addressing changes in the food system over time and policy impacts, many of my interviews included accounts of lived experiences of colonization and asymmetrical power relations with Qallunaat. My interviews in Nunavut involved the participation only of those who felt comfortable and willing to speak to a Qallunat researcher, and my positionality undoubtedly inhibited certain topics and statements. My gender and age (27 when I began this project) meant I was frequently mistaken for a new teacher or nurse in town – roles with their own distinct connotations. At the same time, I was also acutely aware that I could only complete this research with the assent of community members and institutions. Though positionality is paramount, individual situations, personalities, and experiences also factor into research relationships. I was situated within a wider network of relationships. My involvement built on my supervisor’s work and longstanding relationships to the community of Clyde River, and those of his previous students. I heard stories about these previous students, some from the 1980s and 90s, saw their pictures in family photo albums, and benefited from positive relationships of students that had come before me. Meanwhile, I suspect many of my interviews with key informants working in policy had a greater degree of candor because of my positionality. Many health and service providers in Nunavut were other young Qallunaat women from southern Canada, who spoke to me as a peer. Within interviews with more senior policymakers, I found my positionality as a young graduate student was not a hinderance; my impression was that some of these individuals felt more comfortable speaking candidly to me than they might have a more senior scholar.

72 3.4 Consultation and research design This research project began with two preliminary consultation trips to Nunavut, in April-May 2016 and September 2016. While I had previously worked in the Northwest Territories as research assistant in the NWT on a project about health, wellbeing, and climate change, this was my first time in Nunavut. Initially, I had explored the scope for collaborative research on Clyde River’s opposition to seismic testing, and what this said about evolving politics of Arctic energy and resource development. Inquiries the year prior had signaled interest in research on the topic within the community, but closer to the trip, it became clear that, amidst a flood of media, research, and NGO inquires in the lead up to the hearing, people were exhausted with talking about ‘the seismic issue.’ Instead, I approached this consultation trip Clyde River, accompanying my supervisor, without a strong predetermined research focus. Food security was one of several possible topics of interest, in light of both evolving policy debates, and my prior research experience as a research assistant on various food-related projects. I had been following media coverage and begun to read up on the topic, but was unsure where this would lead; would there be a similar level of ‘research(er) fatigue’ here? This preliminary, open-ended trip informed the research focus and design, and established lines of communication, many of which have remained open throughout this research, which have helped inform the methods, design, and interpretation of this research. This visit allowed me to get to know people. Meeting with community members provided a small window into lived experience of high food costs and limited options; the continued importance of harvesting and sharing country food that was not, at the time, reflected in policy approaches; and frustrations with policy responses to the issue. During this trip, I also met with individuals involved in local institutions, including the Ittaq Research and Culture Centre (the designated local reviewer for research license applications), the Ilisaqsivik Society that provides a range of community services, Quluaq School, and the Hunters and Trapper’s Organization. Conversations with community members and representatives raised several potential research topics, including extending Dr. Quintal-Marineau’s research about women’s role in hunting and the social economy in the community (Quintal-Marineau, 2016); documenting efforts to improve the education system by expanding both academic offerings and on-the-land

73 programs; researching the impacts of the Baffin caribou quota; and looking into federal food programs, including to address concerns food security had become a ‘buzzword’ without action being taken to address it, a sense there were still perspectives missing in policy conversations about food security, and lingering mistrust about policy benefits reaching the community. These conversations also addressed the process of doing research in a good way, in Clyde River and in Nunavut more broadly. This included frustrations about researchers who ‘just show up’ without permission and outside of the formal research review processes, including reviews conducted by Ittaq’s board as part of the Nunavut Research Licence process. Good practices extend beyond formalized licencing and research ethics processes, and impressed on me was the importance of taking time and coming back. Many of these same conversations spoke to the potential for research to play a role in advocating for issues that are important and spoke of precedents for this within Clyde River, including work that has documented the continued significance of the social economy. On the plane returning from Clyde River to Iqaluit, I read an op-ed in Above and Beyond magazine by Natan Obed, the president of Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami (ITK), calling for decolonizing Northern research, and asking for those who will stand in solidarity with this call (Obed, 2016). I made plans to return to Nunavut, trying to make sense of how best to take up what had been shared with me. My time in Clyde River had affirmed interest in research relating to the politics of food – yet at the same time, had made clear that some of the policy decisions that most deeply affected the community’s food system originated elsewhere, and that research might also take place at a wider scale. On this consultation trip, I also set up a few preliminary meetings in Iqaluit with Inuit representative organizations, as well as individuals working within the Government of Nunavut. These meetings broadly discussed the current state of research and policy in the Territory, addressing topics including food security, harvesting, and resource extraction. These conversations suggested to me that the volume of research on food insecurity in Nunavut was fast becoming an industry of its own, but also raised some research questions and gaps. These included missing connections between harvesting and food security research; the place (or lack thereof) of country food in policies geared towards food security and

74 nutrition; and the ever-changing political relationships surrounding these topics, as food security became a political ‘hot potato’ passed between departments and governments. In September 2016, I returned to Nunavut to attend the Food Security Coalition’s annual in-person meeting, held in Igloolik, which brought together individuals representing approximately a dozen of the organizations and government departments with an interest in food security in the Territory, as well as Northern airlines, retailers, and federal representatives from Indigenous and Northern Affairs Canada and Nutrition North. Although I did not collect data, this experience provided valuable context on the state of policy and political relationships around food security in the Territory and allowed me to reshape my research direction and focus. This trip further affirmed interest in research on policy approaches to food security that would situate this topic in its wider contexts.

3.5 Methodology: Multi-sited ethnography After my initial trips to Nunavut in 2016, it was clear to me that there was something to be addressed about what is at stake in food programs and policies in Nunavut, and helped me better understand food security as a deeply political issue, with connections to Indigenous rights, self-determination, governance, and colonization. It was important that any such work be grounded in lived experience. Yet from my consultation trip, it was also apparent that decisions deeply affecting food systems and food security in communities like Clyde River were occurring at wider scales. I saw potential in turning the research lens back on government to address the political and economic realities that have animated decision making over time, and consultation at the community level had raised explicit suggestions to interview and speak with policymakers at the federal and territorial level. Most of all, I wondered how research might bring these sites into conversation, addressing the disconnect between policy discourse and local realities. By juxtaposing and triangulating perspectives and narratives, I hoped to shed light on how food security is understood, and what beliefs and narratives underpin policy, recognizing that the ellipses and contradictions across sites and methods are, themselves, revealing (Nightingale, 2003). Based on these considerations, I chose to employ a multi-sited ethnographic approach. Multi-sited ethnography denotes a method through which the ethnographer “maps an object

75 of study” across geographical, institutional, and/or temporal scales and “posit logics of relationship, translation, and association among these sites,” allowing comparisons to emerge (Marcus, 1995, p. 102). In turn, the posited “logic of association or connection among sites… defines the argument of the ethnography” (ibid). The argument of my research concerns how policy articulates with the Nunavummiut food system across geographic and temporal scales. I conceptualized this research as an “ethnography of encounters” (Cruikshank, 2014, p. 10) between Nunavummiut and wider institutions concerned with food and food security. Speaking of the potential of such a comparative approach in work with foresters and farmers in Pakistan, Dove (1992, p. 14) argues: The most relevant subject of study for social scientists… is not always the rural population, the object of development and usual subject of social scientific inquiry; in some cases the proper subject is the agent of development, the government officers in charge of implementing development programs.

Insofar as food security is positioned as a development issue in Arctic Canada, and is still governed predominantly from the South, the same holds true – yet Arctic social sciences remain predominantly oriented to the community level.20 I saw potential in the idea of “studying up” to address structures of power that animate policy decisions “to get behind the facelessness of a bureaucratic society” (Nader, 1972, p. 5) and better situate food insecurity in its wider political, economic, historical, and social contexts.

20 A number of seminal ethnohistorical works that have addressed broad social and political questions related to Northern governance, dating back to work on “Eskimo administration” (Jenness, 1964), Inuit-White relations (Brody, 1975), welfare colonialism (Paine, 1977), and Canadian Northern development (Abele, 1987; 2009), as well as more closely bounded inquiries such as Clancy (1987)’s review of the Eskimo Affairs Committee, Damas (2002) on centralization, and Tester and Kulchyski (1994) on forced relocation. The extent to which such works on Northern policy root their conclusions or framing in specific methodological or theoretical perspectives varies. For example, Paine (1977) addresses welfare colonialism in terms of ideology, while Tester and Kulchyski (1994) address colonization in terms of totalization, and, more recently, the Qikiqtani Truth Commission draws on British historical approaches to ‘the official mind’ in its study of Canadian colonialism (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, p. 106). However, despite the proliferation of research in Arctic Canada, community studies continue to dominate Arctic social science research (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2018b).

76 A comparative, multi-sited approach takes on particular relevance in the context of colonialism. In a seminal text, Nader (1972) suggests ethnographic research might better recognize questions of responsibility, self-regulation, social structure, and indeed, culture of powerful political, social and economic institutions and organizations, posing the question, “What if, in reinventing anthropology, anthropologists were to study the colonizers rather than the colonized…?” (p. 5). This does not imply the confinement of Indigenous peoples to a particular site, and colonizers to another; the politics of scale as they pertain to Indigenous peoples and political institutions have been problematized by critical geographers and anthropologists who challenge the conflation of the ‘local’ with powerlessness, small, or isolated (Cameron, 2012, p. 105). Instead, a multi-sited approach, addressing both policy and community environments, allows for a deconstruction of the notion of a singular ‘field’ site, as circumscribed by the researcher who presumes a social unit, and may overlook the interacting relationships that extend beyond it – a problem of ethnographic inquiry that has been critiqued since the 1950s (Nader, 1972). Multi-sited approaches may similarly help trouble the false binaries between expert and subject; between raw materials and fields of knowledge production (TallBear, 2014). Finally, an ethnographic approach mitigates, to some degree, the risk of “rendering a theoretical critique of colonial relations” and underestimating their contexts (Cameron, 2015, p. 24), instead offering scope to investigate the cultural surrounds of policy, and explore the categories, practices, and rhetoric that persist within a colonial imaginary.

3.6 Methods Primary data collection for this research was completed over 5 trips to Nunavut between April 2016 and May 2019; and multiple trips to Ottawa in between. Research in Clyde River and Iqaluit took place over 4.5 months in total, from June – August 2017 and May – June 2018, with a follow up trip in May 2019 to share and discuss preliminary results. Research in Ottawa took place in fall/winter 2017-2018, over five trips (ranging from a few days to a few weeks) from my home in Montreal. This work was approved by the Nunavut Research Institute (2017: Research

77 Licence #02 037 17N-M; 2018: Research Licence # 02 012 18R-M), and McGill Research Ethics Board (REB File #: 377:0217). As is typical of ethnographic research, I drew on multiple methods to combine and triangulate across different sources of data and provide a richer understanding of the ethnographic context surrounding food and social policy, drawing on traditions within geography and feminist geography that have highlighted the importance of combining and triangulating research methods (Nightingale, 2003). Methods of data collection included economic diaries, semi-structured interviews, and archival research.

78 Table 3.1 Summary of research activities Location Research Activities Consultation trip Clyde River, NU • Met community members and representatives of April-May 2016 Iqaluit, NU community organizations in Clyde River • Met with key informants working at regional and territorial level in Iqaluit

Consultation trip Igloolik, NU • Attended Nunavut Food Security Coalition (NFSC) September 2016 Iqaluit, NU annual meeting in Igloolik • Met with key informants working across regional, territorial, and federal levels

Primary research Clyde River, NU • Economic diaries with initial 7 households in June-August 2017 Iqaluit, NU Clyde River • Key informant interviews in Clyde River • Developed oral history project in Clyde River • Presented research to Nunavut Food Security Coalition in Iqaluit • Key informant interviews at territorial level in Iqaluit • Reviewed archival materials at Nunatta Sunakkutaangit Museum in Iqaluit

Primary research Ottawa, ON • Key informant interviews at federal level Nov 2017- • Archival research at Library and Archives Canada March 2018 Primary research Clyde River, NU • Oral history interviews in Clyde River May-June 2018 Iqaluit, NU • Community-based interviews in Clyde River • Economic diaries with 3 additional households in Clyde River • Followed up with key informants and contacts in Iqaluit

Results sharing Clyde River, NU • Shared oral history results with Elders and other trip Iqaluit, NU community members, and local institutions May 2019 including Ittaq in Clyde River • Shared and reviewed preliminary results of project with participants and research collaborators • Shared preliminary results of project with Ittaq, Qikiqtani Inuit Association, and Nunavut Research Institute

79 3.6.1 Economic diaries (10 households, Clyde River)While I have contested the frequent conflation of food security with food costs in Nunavut (see Ch. 1), I did want to situate my qualitative research against the economic realities of both the market and country food system, and both community members and researchers who had previously worked within the community suggested this as a potential entry point to broader conversations about what is at stake in food security interventions. To understand local economic realities with regards to food, I drew inspiration from Dr. Magalie Quintal-Marineau’s recent work using income and expenditure diaries to document women’s economic contributions in Clyde River (Quintal-Marineau, 2016, p. 90). This approach draws on economic diary methods that have been used to explore expenditure decisions (Farrell & Shields, 2007; Wiseman, Conteh, & Matovu, 2005). Because the economics of harvesting were already a key focus of ongoing work (the Kangiqtuqaapik Harvest and Hunting Frequency Study led by Dr. George Wenzel), I built upon this study and focused on access to market foods. I developed a simple ‘economic diary,’ asking households to collect any store receipts and make note of other food purchased or acquired over a two-week period, providing an envelope and calendar to facilitate this process. I invited 10 households in Clyde River to participate in the research, representing a total of 44 individuals (see Appendix I: Economic diary results). Some of these households were already involved in the Kangiqtuqaapik Harvest and Hunting Frequency Study, including households both with and without employment, and of different ages and household sizes. This approach allowed me to keep up relationships from previous time spent in Clyde River, when I had met and gotten to know many of the families involved in the harvesting study. To recruit participants, I asked individuals in person if they were interested in taking part in a follow-up study. All agreed. I also invited three additional households headed by single women to participate, because no single women had been involved in the harvesting study. The diary consisted of three parts. I completed a short, initial interview with the person most responsible for purchasing food for the household, which included basic questions about the household composition, income, access to country food and store food, and food sharing. Addressing food sharing was particularly important to mitigating the impact of a research focus

80 on ‘households,’ which is a problematic unit of analysis in Inuit society (Usher et al., 2003); in this way, the diaries revealed something of the extent to which provisioning is undertaken across the extended family, with individual wage earners often supporting multiple households in the extended family. Participants were then invited to document store food purchases by collecting receipts and taking note of food ordered over a two-week period. This showed how different families access store food, as well as the amount of Nutrition North Canada subsidy they received. To compensate participants for their time, each received an honorarium for completing the initial interview and beginning the diary, and an additional honorarium if they chose to complete the diary (all participants did so). Finally, upon conclusion of the diary, participants were invited to complete a second short interview about the experience of completing the diary, and anything they wished to share. This led to more open-ended responses, and elicited observations from participants about power relations with the store and government, the impact of policies (such as social assistance being issued as a store gift card), food quality, and local strategies for food security, including foremost statements about the need to secure better support for hunters. These themes informed subsequent in-depth interviews, and completing the diaries provided an opportunity to get to know different families, and better understand local experiences surrounding food security and policy. I organized and tallied data from the economic diaries using MS Excel, which allowed me to compute basic descriptive statistics (average expenditures and benefits, percentage of income spent on groceries, spending per household member) that are included in the results section of this dissertation (see Chapter 7).

3.6.2 Semi-structured interviews An interview, Lune and Berg (2016, p. 65) suggest, is “a conversation with a purpose.” Semi- structured interviews are perhaps the best-known method within qualitative geographic research. In contrast to unstructured (or conversational) interviews, they draw on prior preparation (ranging from an interview guide to prepared themes), while allowing more flexibility and follow up than the rigidity of a structured interview (DiCicco‐Bloom & Crabtree, 2006). They are particularly useful for producing rich, narrative data with depth and detail, and

81 understanding individuals’ values and experiences. They are challenging insofar as they demand rapport and skills of the interviewer, and an awareness of bias as respondents provide answers they imagine are sought (Briggs, 1986). An interview is still a social encounter imbued with power relations and the positionality of the interviewer and interviewee (Valentine, 2007), including those dynamics addressed above (see section 3.3). In the present research, I conducted a total of 35 semi-structured interviews in Clyde River, Iqaluit, and Ottawa, to gather data on the contemporary and historical experiences of Nunavummiut with regards to food and food security, as well as to gain insight into how food security was being addressed at the local, territorial, and national scale. Though I tailored each interview to the individual, I drew on three different general interview guides, designed for: 1) Community-based interviews in Clyde River, 2) Oral history interviews in Clyde River, and 3) Key informant interviews in Clyde River, Iqaluit, and Ottawa. Table 3.2 Summary of semi-structured interviews Sector Number of participants NGO/grassroots organization 3 Inuit government/Inuit representative organization 3 Territorial government 6 Federal government 8 Northern retail sector 3 Community members in Clyde River21 12 Total 35

3.6.2.1 Community-based and oral history interviews (n=12) These interviews focused on the cultural, social, economic and political context of the food system in Clyde River, and how this context influenced issues of food (in)security and policy, addressing food-related programs and interventions, changes in the food system over time, and perceptions of food security policies. Some of the additional topics that emerged within the course of open-ended interviews included: local cuisine, food sharing, seasonal cycles for

21 This total includes both oral history interviews with Elders and other community-based interviews. An additional 4 interviews in Clyde River used the key informant interview guide, as individuals spoke from both professional and personal experience. A total of 16 interviews were completed in Clyde River. This is reflected in the results chapters.

82 harvesting and berry picking, stories about food and animals, food protests, local efforts to improve food security, access to government programs, relationships to the store, and connections between food and governance. I took a purposive sampling approach, inviting participants to take part based on their perspectives and experience, and the rapport we had established; most interviews fell towards the end of my research, during my third year returning to Clyde River. Many community members spoke from both personal and professional experience, including work with local community organizations, in the Northern retail sector, and in health and social services. This breadth of experience is reflected and represented in the results portion of this research; however, I have not attempted to break down these roles here, as individuals spoke about several roles and positions, and all also spoke about their first-hand experiences living in the community of Clyde River. Most interviews were around an hour in length and were completed in participants’ homes or workplaces, or at my temporary home. Although interpretation was made available, all of these interviewees chose to be interviewed in English.22 Participants were compensated with an honorarium for their time. During my first research trip to Clyde River in 2017, I explored the potential for collaborating with community members in Clyde River to conduct Inuktitut-language oral history interviews with Elders concerning changes in the food system over time, and the historical impacts of government food programs, in addition to the existing community-based interviews. Dr. Shari Fox, a locally based researcher and coordinator with Ittaq Heritage and Research Centre, provided essential guidance on developing this aspect of the project, and I included a proposal to complete oral history interviews in my annual research licence renewal application, which was approved by Ittaq and NRI. When I returned to Clyde River the following year, I worked with local interpreter Tina Kuniliusie, who facilitated and interpreted interviews in Inuktitut with Elders in Clyde River. All participants consented to have their contributions, stories and experiences shared in the interviews recognized and attributed by name, which is

22 Interpretation was available to any interview participant who wished to participate and complete an interview in Inuktitut. Ultimately, only oral history interviews with Elders, all of whom were unilingual Inuktitut speakers or more comfortable speaking in Inuktitut, were conducted with the assistance of an interpreter.

83 reflected in the results (see Chapter 4). These interviews addressed changes in the food system over time, and the history of different government food programs, providing a longitudinal perspective on the food system and food-related policies. Interviews were around one hour in length, and participants were compensated with an honorarium for their time. These interviews were also the basis for a community report produced in Inuktitut and English titled Oral histories about food in Clyde River, copies of which were shared with participants and their families and Ittaq’s library in May 2019. This also provided a means of sharing results and seeking feedback.

3.6.2.2 Key informant interviews (n=23) I conducted interviews with key informants working at different levels of government, in the private sector, and for community-based programs, with the aim of better understanding approaches to tackling Northern food insecurity. With these key informant interviews, I sought to document key informants’ perspectives on policy challenges and opportunities, and better understand work on food security at the territorial and federal level, and in turn, better understand how food security was being conceptualized, approached and managed; how participants perceived current policy measures and decision-making power surrounding food security; and where they thought policy measures should be amended. I recruited participants through purposive sampling, seeking to achieve representation across scales and sectors involved in work on food security. While most participants spoke primarily from a professional engagement (past or present) concerning food insecurity, a smaller number of key informants also spoke about their personal experiences concerning food and food security in Nunavut, lending personal insight to these interviews. I contacted participants primarily through email or by phone, and wherever possible, did so via an introduction from a mutual contact (snowball sampling) to facilitate rapport. I pursued representation across all levels of government and relevant departments until I had reached out to everyone in the pool of potential informants I had developed, and a level of saturation on the topic was achieved. These interviews were conducted at a location of the participants’ choosing. These interviews ranged in length from

84 approximately 45 minutes to more than 2 hours, and in several instances, I arranged a follow- up interviews if individuals had more that they wished to share.

3.6.3 Archival research (Library and Archives Canada, Ottawa, ON) In this research, I drew on historical and archival materials both for analysis, and to elicit discussions within interviews. For analytical purposes, I drew extensively on archival materials concerning historical food interventions, to understand how food was enmeshed in colonial relations, and what this revealed about the ‘official mind’ of the Northern Administration early in the Government Era (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b). I wanted to learn about the role food programs played in the Government of Canada’s expanding presence in and control over Inuit lives in the Post-War period, as a step towards understanding what this history means for food security interventions today. Temporally, my focus was on role of food programs early in the Government Era from the mid 1940s until the late 1960s, such as the Family Allowance program; education programs concerning health and nutrition; experimental recipes and foodstuffs; and efforts to introduce farming to Arctic and Sub-Arctic Canada (see Ch. 5). I drew primarily on materials in the Library and Archives Canada (LAC) collection in Ottawa, Ontario. I conducted an initial search for materials available online, then took a preliminary trip in May 2017 to familiarize myself with the use of the archives, consult with the archival librarians at LAC, and explore materials. I am also particularly grateful for, and relied extensively on, the Social History of the Eastern Arctic Database, a finding aid hosted by the University of British Columbia and created by Dr. Frank Tester, Dr. Peter Kulchyski, and Paule McNicoll working with the assistance of Nunavummiut Elders. I spent several weeks using the archives over a number of sequential trips, allowing me to amend my search strategy based on what I found and giving me time to order up additional materials. These trips coincided with my key informant interviews in Ottawa. I studied government reports and correspondence, RCMP patrol records, publicity and propaganda materials, media clippings, maps and historical photographs, among other materials, drawing extensively on specific fonds such as RG 85 (Northern Administration Branch). I also drew on a number of additional archival materials and

85 sources that were shared with me in the course of my research, such as copies of historical photographs from Clyde River from Dr. George Wenzel, copies of historical policy reports on Arctic farming shared by key informants in Iqaluit (individual names kept confidential), and photo archives available at the Nunatta Sunakkutaangit museum in Iqaluit. I also consulted with community archivist Philippa Ootoowak at the Pond Inlet Archives, who particularly assisted me with identifying materials on Northern agricultural experiments and government research that I was then able to locate and access remotely. Archival research was an interactive compliment to other methods of data collection, and the majority of this research fell in the winter between my two primary trips to Nunavut. Conversations and interviews prompted and informed my research strategy and questions, guided me towards specific search terms, and aided in interpreting archival materials. In turn, archival materials allowed me to better develop interview questions and understand particular stories, reference points, and explanations that emerged within community-based and oral history interviews (see Ch. 4 and 5). I also used different archival materials to elicit conversations with interviewees. For example, in my interviews with key informants at the federal and territorial scale, I drew on copies of historical photographs from the Eastern Arctic patrol concerning new foodstuffs and food programs (e.g. ‘propaganda’ photographs promoting the Family Allowance program taken in the 1940s, with captions touting benefits), to explain my interest in understanding changes in policy approaches to food over time, and to introduce my research. This proved a powerful entry point for explaining my research interests and opening space to reflect on the implications of contemporary policy more broadly.

3.7 Isumaqsavuq – Spending time These methods were situated within the broader understanding afforded through time spent in the community of Clyde River. Passing along knowledge, or isumaqsavuq in Inuktitut, is seen to be fundamentally different from lecture methods of classroom teaching (Stairs, 1995; Wenzel, 1991), and is fundamental to Inuit pedagogy (Briggs, 1970; Stairs, 1995). Isumaqsavuq reflects knowledge acquired through direct experience, through observation, listening, watching, and trying within the context of daily activities (Wenzel, 1991). Individuals demonstrate their

86 readiness for instruction by listening, watching, and trying, and in so doing, cultivate skills in problem solving, patience and cooperation (Wenzel, 1991). The transmission of intergenerational knowledge is embedded in daily family and community activities (Stairs, 1995, p. 139) and normative values are also developed in the context of harvesting activities and time spent on the land (Wenzel, 1991). Within its grammatical structure, Inuktitut allows the speaker to easily differentiate things one has seen, and only heard – a contrast to lecture methods of classroom teaching, or indeed literature reviews, and the authoritative tone of research. In conversations in Clyde River, this importance of learning directly through daily activities was impressed upon me repeatedly in interviews that emphasized first-hand knowledge. Long-term ethnographic engagements with Inuit, as well as other Northern Indigenous peoples, by scholars like Jean Briggs (Inuit), Ann Fienup-Riordan (Yup’ik), Julie Cruikshank () and Peter Collings (Inuvialuit) speak in greater depth about the limited knowledge one might gain by asking direct questions (which may be considered rude, nosy, or limited), and the importance of spending time and learning by doing (Briggs, 1970; Collings, 2014; Cruikshank, 2014; Fienup-Riordan, 1983). These features of Inuit pedagogy resonate with ethnographic teachings that speak about the value of being present and participating in daily life without scrutinizing; taking part in community activities allows the researcher to be an active learner in everyday, immersive contexts (Crang & Cook, 2007); and providing space to engage with community members as co- researchers, not research subjects (Castellano, 2004). As Sherman (2013) notes, many people enjoy teaching others far more than they enjoy the sense of being studied. In keeping with the value for differentiating first-hand knowledge, throughout this dissertation, I have relayed in a narrative fashion my own presence in interviews, instead of removing myself from the narrative. This approach resonates with the techniques of ‘thick description’ within ethnographic traditions that, in part, attempt to show the scope and depth of primary research engagement (Geertz, 1973). More broadly, this approach situates knowledge, and seeks to avoid approaching another cultural context with the kind of detached scrutiny (the ‘voice from nowhere’) for which social science research has been widely critiqued (Haraway, 1988; Rose,

87 1997). This is not to suggest that any degree of description renders interpretation valid; rather, this marks an attempt to better reflect the layered relationships surrounding research. Research is, at the same time, enmeshed in power relations, and can connote overtones of surveillance (Rose, 1993). Inherent to ethnographic work is the tension between building relationships of trust, humility, and mutual respect, and noting the potential for researchers’ presence to act as an exercise of power and scrutiny. I continuously navigated this tension in the course of my research, respecting the boundaries and overlap of personal friendships, some of which included no formal ‘research’ activity and which I have not written about, but that still taught me a great deal about life in the North and shaped the research; and research relationships, some of which remained exclusively in a quasi-professional realm, particularly concerning key informant interviews. In taking part in everyday life, my intention was to better understand, contextualize, and situate the topics my research addresses, while recognizing the potential for my presence to be intrusive or unwanted – and recognizing that research is always also an exercise of power. In this regard, I was fortunate to have several friends in Clyde River who kept me up to date on what was happening in the community, so that I could avoid intruding on space and privacy. Although taking part in daily life was important for contextualizing my work through the course of this project, it changed over time as I returned over time and got to know individuals and families who invited me to visit. I recognized the need to be comfortable and at ease myself, such that others might also be comfortable around me. Often, this came about through enjoying activities together – handcrafts like sewing and bead work, playing with kids, visiting just to sit and watch TV, or simply being together. Trips out on the land also provided a particularly important context for developing friendships and relationships, and ease within these relationships. These included trips to go fishing, pick berries, collect fresh water or ice, travel to visit cabins, trips to explore former cabin and military sites, or just to go for a drive by snowmobile or ATV after work. Planning for and travelling out on the land also opened different conversations, including names of important places, stories from past trips, and places people used to live, themes which – while not the primary focus of this research or data collection – helped me better contextualize subsequent interviews.

88

Figure 3.1 Spending time on the land near Clyde River (Clockwise: fishing at the Kuuviniq River, collecting rocks, cooking over heather, pitsi drying)

I also attended or participated in a number of public events, such as a Greenpeace presentation to the community of Clyde River (April 2016), the Nunavut Food Security Coalition monthly meeting in Iqaluit (June 2017), the hearing of the Clyde Supreme Court Case against seismic testing in Ottawa (Nov. 2017), Nunavut Day and Hamlet Day celebrations in Clyde River (August, 2017), a community feast for the visit of Prince Charles in Iqaluit (June 2017), the Alianait Arts Festival in Iqaluit (July 2017), celebrations for seismic case victory in Clyde River (July, 2017), and numerous other community events (C-hall sales, magic shows, pizza day, fishing derby) that helped contextualize this research more broadly. Spending time in the community and taking part in daily life allowed me to better contextualize interview and archival data, for example to prepare more precisely for interviews, better understand the significance of particular archival materials, and develop collaborations

89 that made the oral history aspect of the research possible. More broadly, the time I spent in Clyde River informed my thinking and the structure of this work. I did my best to uphold the guidance I had been offered at the outset – that people who do well keep coming back. Returning to Clyde River over the course of four years allowed me to develop relationships that immeasurably enriched this research.

3.8 Interpretation and analysis The process for interpreting and analyzing data continually evolved through the course of this project, with different steps for different sources of data. I chose to use descriptive coding (or topic coding), a common first step in data analysis across many qualitative studies for breaking data into constituent parts, looking for themes, commonalities and differences, and opening potential theoretical directions (Saldana, 2013, p. 100). Descriptive coding is often used for documenting and analyzing the environments of ethnographic work specifically, as it allows one to reflect on broad questions of what the study is about, and what is happening (Hammersley & Atkinson, 2007). It is appropriate for use across multiple sources of data, including in my case, interview transcripts, economic diaries, and archival documents (Saldana, 2013, p. 88). The result of descriptive coding is a richer index of the contents of data (ibid, p. 89). I also incorporated In Vivo coding, highlighting words or short phrases from interview transcripts, some of which I have drawn on as chapter titles and headings. In Vivo codes are thought to better speak to and provide a means of reflecting participants’ voices and experiences within the written results of research (ibid, p. 91). My strategy for coding and analysis differed across sources. Initially I settled on manually-coding interviews, a technique recommended for first time coders and analyses of limited sets of interviews (Saldana, 2013, p. 26). I printed off all my interview transcripts in hard copy to review, and spent time with a pencil, highlighter, and notebook looking for themes I may otherwise have missed. For oral histories, I attempted to code interviews but found that because of the small number of interviews and because most of these interviews were based on a pre-determined, translated interview guide (to facilitate interpretation), this did not add much to the analysis. Instead of further refining my coding strategy, I tried to include as much

90 as possible from the original interviews, quoting extensively and presenting Elders’ observations in their own words, rather than consolidating and paraphrasing. For my other semi-structured interviews, which were more open ended, I approached coding as a means to look for patterns and themes I may not have anticipated (Saldana, 2013, p. 78). After first round descriptive coding, I identified overarching thematic categories of the research, then created a digital spreadsheet to allow me to group common observations and quotes, as a resource for writing up results. For archival sources, I recorded extensive notes and quotations from original materials as I went through them, taking note of anything related to food and policy, using Evernote software that allowed me to photograph and file materials on the spot. When I returned to materials for analysis, I wrote based on these extensive notes, while checking back against copies of the originals. I did not attempt to quantify any coded data.

3.9 Engagement and results sharing As I discuss above, many of the ethical considerations for research involving Indigenous communities speak to what happens with research once initial data is collected. Critical feminist and decolonizing scholars suggest that traditional research frameworks of ‘returning results’ and ‘giving back’ risk re-inscribing a linearity to research and a divide between researcher and subject (Bhan, 2014; TallBear, 2014). TallBear (2014, para. 2) writes, [T]he goal of ‘giving back’ to research subjects seems to target a key symptom of a major disease in knowledge production, but not the crippling disease itself. That is the binary between researcher and researched—between knowing inquirer and who or what are considered to be the resources or grounds for knowledge production. This is a fundamental condition of our academic body politic that has only recently been pathologized, and still not by everyone [….] It is also helpful to think creatively about the research process as a relationship-building process, as a professional networking process with colleagues (not ‘subjects’), as an opportunity for conversation and sharing of knowledge, not simply data gathering. Research must then be conceived in less linear ways without necessarily knowable goals at the outset. For the institutions that employ and fund us, we will articulate specific goals but these are only guideposts. A researcher who is willing to learn how to ‘stand with’ a community of subjects is willing to be altered, to revise her stakes in the knowledge to be produced.

91 Writing back against linear frames of ‘giving back,’ Bhan (2014) advocates continuous and multiple engagements with communities and sites of research. This is largely the approach I have attempted, which differed across sites and individuals, and evolved in the course of research. In Clyde River, I discussed ongoing research on return trips with individuals in different capacities – some who had participated in interviews, others who had been involved as translators or advisors, and some who became involved only later. These conversations varied by individual, from conversations that rapidly moved on to other (more interesting!) topics, to conversations that revisited prior interviews, and informed the overall research (as I describe in the chapter introduction). In some instances, I revisited specific interviews to confirm details, words, place names, or definitions, and ensure I had understood correctly, and in places I have described this process (as in the chapter introduction). I did not invite participant validation from key informant interviews with policymakers, or in other contexts of ‘researching up,’ unless a participant asked to review their interview (as in two instances). In terms of formal research dissemination, I produced a number of materials and presentations. As a requirement of my Nunavut Research Licence, I produced short annual reports, translated to Inuktitut in Clyde River, that were shared with the Nunavut Research Institute and Ittaq. These outlined research activities of the previous year, preliminary results, and forthcoming work. I shared copies of these reports with other institutions and individuals, including the Qikiqtani Inuit Association, Nunavut Research Institute, and Nunavut Tunngavik Inc. This allowed me to discuss my ongoing research on return trips, understand where my work might fit within the current priorities of Inuit organizations. I presented preliminary archival research to the Nunavut Food Security Coalition’s in-person meeting in Iqaluit in June 2017. At the conclusion of my research, I prepared a preliminary results summary about my work for Ittaq and the Nunavut Research Institute, with copies to the Qikiqtani Inuit Association and Nunavut Tunngavik Inc., which I shared in advance of my trip back to the community to share results in May 2019. I received feedback from some organizations and some individuals who had been involved in the research in Clyde River, which shaped the writing of this dissertation. In particular, feedback at this stage influenced my writing of the oral history and archival history chapters to draw more extensively on the work of the Qikiqtani Truth

92 Commission to describe the impact of the RCMP ‘Ordinance Respecting Dogs,’ which I have done in the results chapters of this dissertation. When I returned to Clyde River in May 2019 to wrap up the project, I also prepared a photo booklet based on interviews with Elders about local food histories, translated to Inuktitut and illustrated with line drawings I produced based on stories from the interviews, as well as historical photographs shared with me by Dr. George Wenzel based on his work in the community in the early 1970s. I printed 35 copies and shared these with Elders who had taken part in the research, other community members who were interested, and Ittaq’s library. Sharing and discussing the contents of this booklet led to several important additions and corrections (including the terms mentioned at the start of this chapter) which have been incorporated in the chapters that follow. Invariably such processes were incomplete; I also missed participants who were out of town for medical appointments, who had gone fishing at Sam Ford Fjord, or were busy with family obligations. Finally, while I have begun this section critiquing the framing of giving back, I do want to note the importance of reciprocity in research relationships. Reciprocity is not a binary framework ‘giving back’ but rooted in relationships, and in the course of this research, it has been clear to me that reciprocity only rarely looks like a glossy leaflet of research findings and is better understood in the context of generosity of spirit across relationships – something I have experienced, and also sought to uphold, in the course of this research.

3.10 Discussion and conclusion: Limitations, lessons, and future methodological considerations Nader (1972) speaks to the potential of a comparative frame, including those in positions of power, yet as I note above, this type of ethnographic approach remains underdeveloped today. This approach is not without limitations, some of which I address here as I consider the limitations and potential of the approach, and under what circumstances it may be appropriate. Most notably, this approach stretches resources (time, money, energy) comparatively thin. In this case, my work stretched the topic both spatial and temporally, across multiple sites and both contemporary and historical contexts. In taking this approach, I hoped that the project would be more than the sum of its parts, setting different pieces, methods, and perspectives in

93 juxtaposition in a way that would give new meaning. However, this approach runs the risk of doing all the individual pieces badly, or at least in a limited manner. My efforts to include oral histories enriched this research enormously, but do not fulfill the academic expectations of an in-depth ethnohistorical study, and my efforts to include analyze policy contexts through interviews and policy analysis could have been a more fully realized institutional ethnography. The time I spent in Clyde River, while integral and foundational to this research, was not the kind of deep ethnographic commitment of scholars who exemplify relationships with the communities with which they work rooted in long-term engagement (Cruikshank, 2014; Fienup- Riordan, 1983). My time in Nunavut was only about four and a half months in total, over the span of 5 trips and 4 years. At the same time, I found that a multi-sited and mixed methods approach did allow me to ask questions that would have been impossible to ask in any other way. A number of factors specific to this project made doing so possible. As I address above, this work was facilitated by existing research relationships within the community of Clyde River of my supervisor, Dr. George Wenzel. I also benefited from the strong research infrastructure in Clyde River, in the work of Ittaq and their board, who reviewed my research licence applications. I was able to complete this work (across several trips and sites) because of access to funding that allowed me time, in particular time to spend weeks in Clyde River to develop relationships and frame the research questions, meaning I was able to complete interviews towards the end of my time in the community (the third year I returned). Access is also conceived of as an inherent challenge and critique of studying up, rooted in notions that powerful institutions are animated by secrecy, confidentiality, and legalistic protections, that impede the flow of information and democratic access (see Nader, 1972). In my comprehensive exams, I was asked for my ‘Plan B’ and how I would deal with issues of access to policymakers or key informants should these fail. I braced myself for rejection, skepticism, dismissal, and secrecy as I pursued research on policy. This is not what I found; instead, I found policymakers and other key informants generally eager to speak from their professional experience and perspective – often because they were deeply committed to the work, as well as limited in what they could do within their mandates or roles; felt they lacked

94 information and context in aspects of their work; were eager to defend their record; or wished to discuss frustrations and limitations in tackling complex social issues. I interviewed some people in ongoing roles as well as others who had moved on to new positions or retired. I certainly did contact people who did not want to be interviewed, or were barred from doing so by their employer, but they were often willing to provide background information or suggest others who might be interested in taking part. Access is challenging, but these challenges should not dissuade attempts to study up and instead seek to access environments within which the ethnographer benefits from lopsided power relations. Challenges of access are perhaps not as significant as challenges of navigating institutional relationships while seeking to uphold principles of community-engaged and relevant research. While I have described above the relationships that informed my work within Clyde River, I have also noted that much of my research encompassed questions at wider scales, and this included researching institutions that I hoped my research would later inform. While my research was guided by consultation with a variety of Inuit representative and community-based organizations in Nunavut, I felt at the time that it was important to prioritize academic independence – and the perception thereof – while conducting research within a policy environment, particularly in light of consultation that made clear the topic of food security in Arctic Canada was, and continues to be, politically fraught. With this in mind, I did not seek to formalize research partnerships with Inuit representative organizations or governments at the territorial or national scale, instead relying on the oversight provided under the Nunavut Research Institute research licensing process, and the presence of a community review system that meant my work was reviewed by Ittaq’s board in Clyde River, and communication with the organizations I consulted early on in this work. For future research, I would revisit this decision, to instead explore how formalizing research partnerships or relationships, at wider scales also, might better uphold principles of self-determination in research as well as offer greater accountability and protection for a student researcher (for example, clarity around obligations and institutional continuity in case of turnover as individuals leave organizations or change roles).

95 Despite these limitations, I found in this work that bringing an ethnographic sensibility to developing relationships and working across levels of power enabled me to ask more incisive questions and develop critiques that are responsive to complex realities unfolding at larger scales. Looking beyond the immediate context of Northern Canada, this approach has relevance to other pressing global social-environmental challenges; in the context of globalization and climate change, many of the interlinked social and environmental challenges facing communities originate, and can only be addressed, at wider scales.

96 Chapter 4 ‘They lived here because it is plentiful’ Social transformation and the Nunavut food system

4.1 Chapter Introduction Food, it is widely noted, tells a story about almost every aspect of our lives – cultures, families, environmental and economic relations, and values. In Arctic Canada, the rapid transformation of the food system tells the story of profound and rapid social and political change and upheaval across the past 70 years. With this in mind, this chapter addresses the research question, how has the food system of Nunavut changed over time, and what role do the wider sociopolitical transformations play in contemporary issues of food insecurity? I take an ethnohistorical approach to understand lived experiences of social transformation of the food system through a case study centered in Clyde River, Nunavut. Foremost, I rely on community- based and oral history interviews with Elders who generously shared their experiences of changes in the food system over time in the Clyde River area: Josie Enuaraq, Igah Palluq, Regilee Piungituq, Mary Illauq, and Charles Kalluk de Rome.23 (All participants consented to have their names and contributions shared.) Oral history interviews focused on changes in the food system over time and effects of food-related policies and programs. Most interviews were conducted in Inuktitut, drawing on a short interview guide that included questions about favourite foods from childhood, stories about the introduction of new or imported foods, changes in the food system brought about with centralization, historical nutrition/healthy food messages, and perceptions of the most important changes over time. Where a mix of 1st and 3rd person occurred in the process of interpretation, excerpts and quotes have been re-written in a consistent first-person voice;

23 While all of the Elders interviewed for oral history interviews spent time in the Clyde River area as children or young adults, several were born and grew up in part elsewhere on Baffin Island, and shared experiences from these places, including the Generator Lake area and Arviqtujuq (Josie Enuaraq); Inukshuit, on south Baffin Island, the Pond Inlet area, and Arviqtujuq (Igah Palluq); Qulliqtaalik, Nattiqsujuq, Naqsaalukuluk, Arviqtujuq, and Ittiliruluk (Regilee Piungituq), Qilanaqtuq and Naqsaalukuluk, near Sam Ford Fjord (Ilkoo Angutikjuak), and beyond Nattiqsujuq (Nattiqsujup Ungataani) and elsewhere on the north side of Baffin Island (Mary Illauq).

97 these changes are noted in square brackets. Sections of this chapter were included as part of a prior illustrated community report, Oral histories about food in Clyde River, shared with participants, research collaborators, and local institutions in Clyde River in May 2019 (see Ch. 3). The analysis focused on the period immediately before and after centralization, from approximately 1945 to 1975. This chapter, and interviews on which it is based, focused specifically on experiences of change and adaptation with regards to food. For a broader understanding of Inuit experiences of colonization and social policy in the Government Era, the work of the Qikiqtani Truth Commission provides in depth insights into Inuit experiences in this time period, and includes in-depth Inuit testimonies, community histories, and thematic reports (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, 2013b). Experiences of sociopolitical transformation with regards to food are heterogenous and Clyde River does not represent all communities in Nunavut or Inuit Nunangat. However, looking in greater depth at experiences in one particular context may provide a deeper, grounded understanding of changes in the food system over time, and the meaning of food and social policy interventions for Inuit families. At the same time, these histories also speak to and offer an appreciation for the Inuit food system and all that it embodies.

4.2 ‘They lived here because it is plentiful’ - The food system of ilagiit nunagivaktangit Until the late 1950s and 60s, when people increasingly moved into the centralized settlement of Clyde River, Inuit lived to both the north and south of the present-day townsite in ilagiit nunagivaktangit, “places used regularly for hunting, harvesting and gathering” (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, p. 7). The term is used by the Qikiqtani Truth Commission (QTC) to replace the English term ‘outpost camp,’ and more accurately describe these settlements. It evokes both the extended family (ilagiit) and land-based activities (nunagivaktangit). Inuit hunting and fishing places could be occupied and returned to over generations, reflecting a sustained relationship that ‘camp’ does little to convey.24 Living well over centuries in the Arctic

24There are inherent tensions between the terms ‘outpost camp,’ ‘settlement,’ and ‘community,’ and their varying connotations of permanence and modernity. The term ‘outpost

98 environment has required a deep knowledge of the land, animals, and their patterns. Living off the land, and harvesting country food, also affords a sense of connection to ancestors who chose this place to live (see also Fienup-Riordan, 1983, p. 345). In an interview in Clyde River, Charles Kalluk de Rome described the importance of choices in where to live: If you look at a map, where communities are, that’s where the animals congregate. If you look at where people traditionally live, that’s where the animals come. People live where animals are not too far from them. So, this is the area these people lived. [….] Happy hunting ground. In other areas, other regions, time and again we’d hear of people starving or something. It was dark times, far away, inland […]. From other regions, we would hear of people starving. […] We’ve heard of stories that have happened in such a manner. People would go on, would get hungry in periods of late times [waiting for the ice to form here], but not all year round, just a period, just a season. In some other areas, [these times were] prolonged and they started starving, [the] families. Here, I haven’t heard. Killapik, they say, chose this area – one of the earlier founders – and he chose this area25 [...] Even to his old age, [he was an] able hunter, provider and they never starved, because this is – they tell us, when you make a home, plan and choose wisely. They did that I think, when they picked where they’re going to live. They chose. Even from a long, long, long time ago, this has been occupied many years, many, many years. Many generations. (Interview, May 2018).

camp’ came into formal use in 1975, with the creation of the Outpost Camp Policy by the Committee for Original Peoples Entitlement. This policy provided grants, fuel oil, and supplies like medical kits to groups of less than 60 people who wished to pursue a subsistence livelihood, up to the equivalent cost to maintain the group in a ‘community’ (GNWT, 1975). Meanwhile, government ‘settlements’ with fixed dwellings initially housed Qallunaat occupants who were almost always transitory (a dynamic largely unchanged today). As the Qikiqtani Truth Commission argues, “how outposts staffed by transients came to be called ‘settlements’ and multi-year settlements came to be called ‘outposts’ deserves to be considered” (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, p. 114). Permanent settlements did not necessarily reflect cohesive ‘communities,’ often bringing together disparate family groups into co-residence. Aware of these shortfalls, I use ‘settlement’ and ‘community’ when speaking of Clyde River for the sake of clarity. Following the Qikiqtani Truth Commission, I have used the term ilagiit nunagivaktangit to describe family-based settlements prior to centralization. The term ‘outpost camp’ is used within Clyde River when speaking in English and appears in quotations. 25 Killapik’s family is remembered as having wintered at Eglinton Fiord, , and Dexterity Inlet through the 1930s, in a highly mobile group that may have been involved in early trade in this region (see Wenzel, 2008, p. 13).

99 Early ethnographic records, where they exist, also attest to the long-term occupation of this region. Ethnographer Franz Boas (1888) provides the earliest account of ilagiit nunagivaktangit in the Clyde River area. Boas’ travels did not extend as far as Clyde River, and based on interviews he undertook in the Home Bay area 200km further south, Boas suggested only limited, seasonal occupation of the region surrounding Clyde River, identifying it as a late summer fishing place (Boas, 1888). However, oral histories and later ethnographic accounts suggest year-round occupation in the region prior to contact with outside traders, which brought about increasing settlement in the region (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a; Wenzel, 2008, p. 3). Based on long-term ethnographic work, Wenzel (2008) notes that the arrival of several fur trade companies in the 1920s further drew Inuit families to the region to trade. The period from Boas’ recording to centralization saw increased contact with fur trader companies, the RCMP, and later government administrators. However, this period largely reflected the continuation of seasonal patterns of settlement and activity, as trapping occurred in conjunction with the seal hunt. Though the fur trade provided important additional income in the area, it was never as profitable as the Hudson’s Bay had hoped.26 Instead, the local economy remained oriented primarily towards domestic production (Wenzel, 2008). By the 1940s, between 140 and 180 people lived in the area between the and Coutts Inlet (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013, p. 89). Important winter ilagiit nunagivaktangit at this time included Natsilsiuk, Nasaklukuluk, Akuliahatak, and Aqviqtujuq (Wenzel, 2008, p. 13). Ethnographic and historical sources also speak to the abundance of this region with regards to food. The Fifth Thule Expedition of 1921-24 reported that “River Clyde is a place where there is never lack of meat” (Degerbøl & Freuchen, 1935, p. 243)27. A 1928 patrol report from the RCMP detachment at Pond Inlet reported nine family groups in the Clyde River area

26 Indeed, The Bay relocated trappers from elsewhere on Baffin Island in an (unsucccessful) attempt to increase fur production (Wenzel, 2008). 27 Interestingly, the Fifth Thule group also identified the islands of Inugsuin Fiord as an important walrus hunting site, and the region supported a commercial harvest sponsored by the Hudson’s Bay company until the 1940s (Wenzel, 2008, p. 11). Today, walrus is rare, and rarely harvested, in the vicinity of Clyde River.

100 (at Dexterity Harbour, Scott Inlet, Egnlinton Fiord, and Cape Henry Kater) “all to be living with sufficient access to game” (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, p. 89). Nattiq (, Pusa hispida) was, and remains, among the most important local food sources in the Clyde River area, and can be hunted year-round, owing to the dynamic landfast ice environment in winter, and the abundance of shrimp and krill in summer. Other important food species include Iqaluit tisuajut (Arctic char, Salvelinus alpinus), nanuq (polar bear, Ursus maritimus), qilalugaq (narwhal, Monodon monoceros), and tuktu (caribou, Rangifer tarandus tarandus) (Borré, 1990; Gearheard et al., 2013, pp. 125-131; Wenzel, 1991; Wenzel, 1995, p. 44). In Inuktitut, food from animals is niqituinnaq, meaning ‘real food’ (Freeman, 1988) or ‘just meat,’ and may also be specified by species, such as nativiniq (seal meat), tuktuviniq (caribou meat), or timiaviniq (meat of fowl) (interview, Charles Kalluk de Rome, May 2018). In Inuktitut, animals are categorized by where they live and how they move. They include Pisuktiit (‘walkers’) like polar bear, caribou, Arctic fox; Puijiit (‘surface breathers’) like ringed seal, bearded seal, harp seal, walrus; Tingmiat (‘flyers’) like eider duck, fulmer, guillemot, dovekie, murre, Arctic tern, loon, duck, jaeger, gull; Iqqarmiutat (‘sea floor dwellers’) like clams, snails, sea urchin, mussels; and Iqaluit (fish) like sculpin, cod, turbot, char, shrimp, and grenadier (Gearheard et al., 2013, pp. 125-13128). While classic portrayals of Inuit foodways emphasize hunting and fishing, local plants are also widely harvested. Tariup piruqtungit, ‘sea plants,’ like kelp and spiny sour weed, can be collected in summertime (ibid). Terrestrial plants and berries, such as qungulit (Mountain Sorrel), paunnat (Dwarf Fireweed / Tea), and crowberries and blueberries, can be eaten during spring and summer (interviews, May 2018). Qungulit in particular remains a favourite of children for its mouth-puckering taste, which intensifies when rolled into a bright red mash in the palms of small hands. Plants that cannot be tolerated alone are traditionally eaten from the stomach contents of animals, like caribou or ptarmigan, providing additional variety and nutritional value. The stomach contents, particularly of caribou, can also be a flavourful

28 These are species that are harvested on the sea ice, from a recent community-based book that documents relationships with the sea ice in Kangitugaapik (Gearheard et al., 2013, pp. 125-131); other exclusively terrestrial species, such as ptarmigan, are also harvested.

101 condiment. Salt is also used for seasoning and was traditionally acquired from the sea by sinking a kettle deep for saltier water (interview, Charles Kalluk de Rome, May 2018). Though many of the species harvested at Clyde River are typical of subsistence harvesting across much of the Central and Eastern Arctic, there are also regional specialties and variations. The Clyde River area is known for its bearded seal and ringed seal, which has a particularly good flavour because of its diet of shrimp and krill, and for Arctic char harvested from Sam Ford Fjord Lake. Specific harvesting sites are valued for their abundance. Igah Palluq recalled a site for berry picking: I remember seeing crowberries for the first time, when I moved here to marry, because [we] went to Naqsaq and there are a lot of crowberries there. When there are so many crowberries, and you have picked them, even when you close your eyes it’s like you are just seeing crowberries! (Interview, May 2018).

Living from this land (and sea), mobility was essential. When I asked in an interview the naïve question, “where did you grow up?” Mary Illauq replied, “definitely not in one place!” and described the various sites on the north side of Baffin Island she lived in as a child, before moving into to the settlement at Clyde River (interview, May 2018). Ilkoo Angutikjuak similarly described the mobility that characterized his childhood: In a year, [we] would travel so many places that there was really no one place called home [...] Naqsaalukuluk, that’s the place where [I] grew up. Most of the time, all the time, [we] would go back there after being in different camps throughout some of the time in the year. [We] would always go back to Naqsaalukuluk (Interview, May 2018).

Prior to centralization, the prevailing seasonal cycle of activities (hunting, travel and preparations) shifted from winter sealing in the region’s many fiords, to spring fishing areas near their headlands, before passing and through river valleys inland towards interior caribou areas for the summer (Wenzel, 2008). Families then travelled back to the coastal headlands for autumn char fishing and returned by boat or over ice to winter sites (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a; Wenzel, 2008, p. 12). Wintertime ilagiit nunagivaktangit, including Naqsaalukuluk, were primarily located near the headlands of the region’s fjords (Gearheard et al., 2013; Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a; Wenzel, 2008), reflecting a maritime adaptation typical across the Circumpolar North (Freeman, 1988). “Our attitude is towards the sea,” Charles Kalluk de Rome

102 explained (Interview, May 2018). Prior to centralization, the seasonal cycle of travel and harvesting could involve traversing enormous distances. Igah Palluq shared a memory of going caribou hunting as a young woman: We reached Arctic Bay one time when I was younger, not as much of a kid anymore, going caribou hunting. There was not a lot of caribou at that time. So, we even reached Arctic Bay by walking. We would walk a lot of times to [go] up there. There’s Mary River where they go work now [at Baffinland Iron Mines Corporation] – we would pass by that area. The first time it would be tiring. It was hot, and we’d be carrying babies on our back, and a bunch of other stuff too that we have on our back, so it would be tiring. The next time was not so tiring anymore! It’s extremely hot when you’re walking, and the sun is high in the sky (Interview, May 2018).

The understanding of the Clyde River area as a “happy hunting grounds” did not preclude experiences of food scarcity or hunger while living in ilagiit nunagivaktangit. In an interview, Josie Enuaraq recalled stories from his grandfather’s time, when the ice did not form, and people became hungry and starved while waiting to travel. Others recalled stories of scarcity during the Second World War, when the animals did not come. These were attributed to disturbances to animals from military activities and disruptions in resupply that resulted in a shortage of ammunition; they could also be explained in personal terms, as consequences for individual actions that kept animals away. This period coincided with the collapse of the fur trade, as global fur markets fell amidst the war, profoundly affecting the economic wellbeing of Inuit families across much of the Eastern Arctic. In the interior , the collapse of the fur trade exacerbated conditions of scarcity when caribou migration patterns changed, and leading to famine in the late 1940s and early 1950s (Graburn, 1969; Tester & Kulchyski, 1994); this may be the “far away interior” from which stories of starvation reached Clyde River. More recent experiences of food shortage in Clyde River were seasonal, occurring in the fall while waiting for the ice to form. Based on ethnographic work at Aqviqtujuq in the early 1970s, George Wenzel recalls a food shortage in November 1971, when the ice would not coalesce because of wind – an exception to the community’s usual good access to food, especially seal (personal communication, October 2017). Ilkoo Angutikjuak recalled memories of waiting for the ice to form to be able to go to the Hudson’s Bay store:

103 For about 2-3 months we couldn’t come here to go to the store to buy some goods, food, store-bought food, because there’s no ice, but once the ice formed in the wintertime, we had no problem coming here. Because during the summer, we didn’t have boats to come here to buy some. The main food we would want would be tea and tobacco – those were the very popular things, and the main things to get. At times we would run out of those and we would make tea out of plants – it’s called fake tea – for them to drink because we had run out. The ones that were really addicted would try and make cigarettes out of one of the plants (Interview, May 2018).

Inherent to living from the land, and navigating periods of both abundance and scarcity, was the socioeconomic system of sharing resources, known in Clyde River as ningiqtuq (Wenzel, 1995). This system saw food and other resources flow from the extended family to the isumataq, who took responsibility for taking care of the family and ensuring access to food (Wenzel, 1995). The practices of ningiqtuq extend from normative rules of harvesting, foremost that animals that share themselves should be given generously in order to ensure a hunter’s future success (Wenzel, 1995). Charles Kalluk de Rome explained these principles of sharing: There’s a saying which was their principle. If you give, it’s, if you give - without holding back - that thing it will not run out. It will not run out. […] They give themselves, so you do not abuse that fact. You take it with the understanding that it’s given to you. (Interview, May 2018).

While living in ilagiit nunagivaktangit, certain imported foodstuffs were also integrated into the structured sharing relationships of ningiqtuq. Products like tea, flour, and sugar came to be considered ‘Inuit food’ in Clyde River (Wenzel, 1991) and elsewhere in the Qikiqtani region (Brody, 1975). In an interview, Regilee Piungituq explained the integration of store-bought foods into the dynamics of sharing: When we were living in outpost camps, there would be people going to the store, but when they would come back, no one would show us anything that they had bought. The place they were going to go to, was the eldest person’s place. That person was the one in charge of it all. He or she was the one to know all the food. And if we ran out of something, we would have to bring a container and go there and to pick some up (Interview, May 2018).

Wenzel (1995, p. 52) similarly describes the camp isumataq visiting the Hudson’s Bay store every four to five months to trade furs on behalf of the community, returning with a supply of imported foods like tea and sugar that would be distributed to other households.

104 The close kinship ties and ningiqtuq interactions of the ilagiit nunagivaktangit meant that these practices of interdependence were integrated into the rhythms of day-to-day life. Mary Illauq explained that it was not necessary at that time to ask for food, the way people do today over the radio and Facebook: There were certain things [we] would ask for from another person, like thread, if [my] mother ran out – [we] would be able to ask for it. And today, if we pass by another person we can ask them and share food or something. […] The reason why we wouldn’t ask is we knew each other – there were not as many people in the town. [We] knew each other so well that [we] wouldn’t even need to ask – there were only 5 houses or so. It’s because the people that have more of a certain thing, if they knew a family needed it, they would share (Interview, May 2018).

Living in ilagiit nunagivaktangit, the types of imported foods available were limited. Until the 1960s, the Hudson’s Bay store in Clyde River carried only dry goods delivered by annual ship, such as flour, dried milk, tea, crackers, oatmeal, dried beans, sugar, molasses and rice. Sweets such as raisins, gum and candy were occasionally available. The store also carried hunting supplies, such as bullets and traps, and cooking pots and teapots. The store itself was small and windowless, and was always cold, because there was no furnace and the door had to be kept open for light. The manager opened the store only when there were customers, Ilkoo Angutikjuak explained: Because there was only one store manager at the time, he or she wouldn’t follow the clock like we do today. Whenever someone arrived to go buy some stuff, he would just go to the store with them, no matter what time of the day. As long as it wasn’t in the middle of the night. Sometimes he’d even go to the store with them in the evening as long as it’s not too late in the nighttime. But sometimes they’d have to wait until tomorrow too. Since he was the manager, he was the only one who had the power to actually be a cashier there. He did have helpers that were Inuit, and a maid at home that would do dishes and things like that at his place. But he was the only one that was able to actually get people the things that they need. (Interview, May 2018).

No money was exchanged; the store manager would weigh food, such as sugar, with a scale, and the customers would use metal tokens, which were placed on the counter and counted in exchange for furs and sealskins. Josie Enuaraq described this system: They used tokens back then, so if my father went to the store and had a seal or a polar bear skin, and gave it to the manager, the manager would then give

105 us tokens. They were aluminum and they were a square or a circle, and he would put a certain amount on the table, and once we start to get the items, he would start taking some off. They were not real money. They were tokens that they used back then. (Interview, May 2018).

While the store provided useful and increasingly essential items like hunting and trapping equipment, ammunition, tea and tobacco, it was foremost the lands and waters of the Kangitugaapik area that provided food, clothing, and shelter for a good life while living in ilagiit nunagivaktangit. Mary Illauq described the wealth of living from the land: “As long as the father had some bullets to kill an animal – if they had those, they were rich. They would never consider themselves poor” (May 2018). Charles Kalluk de Rome similarly described the wealth of the land: “That’s what this area was – where the animals are plentiful. That’s what the community is based on, traditionally. They lived here because it is plentiful” (Interview, May 2018). Living in ilagiit nunagivaktangit, these foodways relied on mobility and adaptability, following the seasonality of animal migration and working within the dynamic environment of the Eastern Arctic, particularly the formation and break-up of sea ice. The foodways and food system of the Kangitugaapik area are rooted in a depth of Indigenous knowledge of the land, animals, and their patterns. The social economy of this food system facilitated the cooperative production of food, organized through ningiqtuq interactions. Even though periods of hunger and scarcity occurred, living from the land continues to be remembered as a life that was plentiful. The period immediately prior to centralization while living in ilagiit nunagivaktangit also saw the beginnings of new forms of contact with the federal government, a government that had thus far played a minimal role in Inuit lives across Arctic Canada, even when medical care or relief was needed (Abele, 2009, p. 24). Igah Palluq recalled a memory from her teenage years that was profoundly emblematic of the wider shift that was just beginning: There was an RCMP named Qallū that had travelled to many different outpost camps in 1947. That’s when he started to document kids’ names because the Family Allowances were going to be introduced. He was the first one to start documenting kids’ names, and he would be travelling by dog team. [Do you remember when he came to your camp?] Very much so! I recall making kamiit for myself, and this time, this time the top part was not seal skin, I had

106 put in dog fur, and as I just had finished them, I recall the RCMP coming in and entering our cabin, when he had arrived by dog team. He was a Qallunaat. English people did very well dog sledding back then. The priests, the RCMP officers and the store managers would be very capable of dog sledding, and they would be able to do it alone, and that guy was alone dog sledding. (Interview, May 2018).

Family Allowances, locally called “child tax,” were the first of a series of social policy interventions by the Government of Canada that marked the onset of what scholars and Inuit organizations have called the “Government Era” of the North (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b; Wenzel, 2008, p. 4). The Allowances, a universal benefit to which all Canadian children were entitled, were instead issued to Inuit children in kind, in the form of powdered milk and Pablum and other ‘nutritious’ foods for babies and young children. RCMP officers were responsible for enrolling children in the program, producing records in triplicate to be returned to headquarters in Ottawa. The program represented the beginning of a shift towards greater reliance on imported foods; towards centralized settlement; towards greater involvement in the monetized economy; and most of all, towards greater government control over Inuit lives.

4.3 Social transformation, food, and precarity in the Government Era Across the Qikiqtani region, as elsewhere in Northern Canada, the end of the Second World War precipitated the rapid increase in the federal government’s involvement in the lives of Inuit, following renewed interests in Northern sovereignty, security, and state-led development (Abele, 2009). These interests culminated in an intensive program of interventions that saw Inuit families moved from ilagiit nunagivaktangit into centralized government settlements, including Clyde River. As elsewhere, these changes did not happen in one event or with one rationale in Clyde River, but rather through a series of rapid – and at times contradictory – shifts in Canada’s federal policy (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, 2013b). The Qikiqtani Truth Commission describes this time period as Sangussaqtauliqtilluta, meaning “when we started to be actively persuaded (or made to) detour (or switch modes)” and in its later stages, Nunalinnguqtitauliqtilluta, “the time when we were actively (by outside force) formed into communities” (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, p. 9). Such changes had profound implications for all aspects of Inuit life in the Qikiqtani region, including the food system.

107 4.3.1 The ‘Policy of Dispersal’ The 1950s saw increasing involvement in waged labour and the expansion of government services in the Clyde River area. New trade and waged labour opportunities were associated with the construction of a weather station at Clyde River, established by the American Army Air Corps in 1943 (and later taken over by the Canadian Department of Transport), and an American Coast Guard and long-range navigation (LORAN) station at nearby Cape Christian in the early 1950s. The Qikiqtani Truth Commission marks 1953 as the beginning of the Sangussaqtauliqtilluta period in Clyde River, when the construction of the Cape Christian Coast Guard station precipitated the beginning of a ‘switch in modes’ towards greater involvement in the monetized economy and the growth of the settlement at Clyde River. The Inuit population living in Clyde River as of 1953 was approximately 20, and included individuals employed by the US military and the Hudson’s Bay Company and their families (for details, see Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, p. 90; Wenzel, 2008). The changes associated with the increased presence of Qallunaat are evident within the food system also. Those whose family members worked with Qallunaat recalled growing up with access to both country food and imported products like canned ham (interview, Josie Enuaraq, May 2018). For children growing up in or near Clyde River and Cape Christian at that time, Coast Guard line workers and radio workers were also a source of occasional candy, gum and chocolate (interview, Mary Illauq, May 2018). Early in the Post-War period, Inuit casual labourers were compensated not with money, but with food rations, and would be paid on Saturdays. Ilkoo Angutikjuak explained that this practice is why Saturday is called Sivataarvik in Inuktitut: The English people that here to do some work, like the store manager, and DEW line workers and police officers, would hire Inuit to have them as a helper. It was not just the store managers, but the different people that were also here to do some work. Although they might not have paid with a lot of money…. I recall [a friend] working at a store and being a helper there. They would work all throughout the week and end of the week, on Saturday, that’s when they would get cookies and other things like that, even though they were not paid with money. In Inuktitut it [Saturday, Sivataarvik] is literally called ‘a day to get crackers’ and cookies and other things like that. I guess that’s where Saturday’s Inuktitut name came from. The store here was doing that. I don’t know if other places were doing that too, on the same day, at the

108 end of the week to pay their employees. Sivataarvik, that was the original payday back then. Everyone knows it, that end of the week after you have worked, you get paid with these things, these kinds of food, even though they’re not money, foods you can eat during the weekend. (Interview, May 2018).

The Canadian RCMP soon followed the American Coast Guard, opening a new detachment at Cape Christian. The RCMP carried out customs inspections for goods arriving directly from the United States (or by way of posts in Greenland), and restricted contact between Inuit and American military personnel. This action was described in terms of discouraging ‘fraternization’ and ‘loitering’ (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013, p. 91). In particular, the RCMP actively discouraged the military workers at Cape Christian from sharing food and materials (which they termed ‘handouts’) with Inuit (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013, p. 92).29 This practice reflected a wider ‘doctrine of dispersal,’ as the Canadian government sought to prevent Inuit from settling near trade posts and American military sites in the region throughout the 1950s, amidst growing concerns about ‘dependency’ and in the interest of minimizing the size and cost of the Northern Administration (see Damas, 2002; Tester & Kulchyski, 1994). Consequently, most Kangiqtugaapingmiut continued to live in ilagiit nunagivaktangit throughout the 1950s, travelling only seasonally to Clyde River during the annual supply ship’s arrival, to receive medical care, collect social transfer payments, and purchase supplies (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013, p. 90). In particular, the RCMP instructed Inuit living in ilagiit nunagivaktangit to come to the settlement for annual medical visits aboard the C.D. Howe, which visited annually between 1950 and 1969 (QIA, 2013, p. 96). For many, the C.D. Howe was a source of fear, associated with tuberculosis evacuations that saw Inuit sent south for treatment, at times returning only years later, or not at all (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, 2013b) – a practice for which the Government of Canada apologized only recently (Trudeau, 2019). Aboard the ship, X-rays and medical exams were conducted; patients also received

29 The Coast Guard officers, while technically permitted to come into Clyde River, were prohibited from taking a vehicle to do so, and the 6-8-hour walk dissuaded most (personal communication, George Wenzel).

109 rations (boxed meals) that contained breakfast, lunch, and dinner for an individual. Elders who visited the ship as children recalled trying to identify unfamiliar foods, and recognizing some items like small containers of liquid Carnation brand milk. Hankins (2000, p. 60), in his biography of C.D. Howe physician Otto Shaefer, describes tea and biscuits provided after medical visits as a “bribe” to entice patients to come to the ship. However, the Qikiqtani Truth Commission explains that the fear that many Inuit felt towards Qallunaat, described in Inuktitut as ilira, meant that directives from the RCMP about when to come to or stay away from Clyde River and other government settlements had a strong effect (Qikiqtani Truth Commission, 2013a). While in town to work, trade or attend medical appointments, Kangitugaapingmiut were also increasingly exposed to new government health and social welfare programs, including Family Allowances and old age pensions. Elders who spent time in Clyde River as children remembered seeing the original Family Allowance poster up around town in the 1950s and early 1960s. “[I] recognize it very well from seeing it around,” Mary Illauq recalled (Interview, May 2018). Josie Enuaraq recalled the introduction of Family Allowances also: “There was a book that was made, and [I] recall seeing one when [I] was a child. […] In that book there was an RCMP with a hat, like that [gestures]. And I’m sure there was not only child tax information in there.” (Interview, May 2018). The book Josie Enuaraq recalled is the ‘Book of Wisdom for Eskimos,’ published in 1947. On page 19, a drawing of an RCMP officer appears with the message: The King is helping all the children in his lands. He is giving aid to the Eskimo children also and has instructed His servants the Police to proceed in this way […] The traders are working with the Police to help you and your family, and the King has instructed them to issue goods only when it is necessary. He does not wish you to become lazy and expect to receive goods any time. You are to continue to work hard at hunting and trapping, teaching your children to be good hunters and workers (Department of Mines and Resources, 1947, p. 19).

110

Figure 4.1 Left: Family Allowance poster, late 1940s; Right: ‘Book of Wisdom’ image, 1947

The paternalism of this passage of the Book of Wisdom reflects wider federal attitudes of this period (see also Chapter 5). Josie Enuaraq described his memories of new social transfer programs: Around 1951 was the time I heard for the first time about child tax, Family Allowance. And that was also the first time [I was] hearing about old age pension. Because I recall my father going to an outpost camp to tell my grandpa that instead of him being a hunter, he could get monthly money to buy some food, and I recall him talking about that, how he can get money even though he’s not going to be a hunter anymore. That was the time [I] heard for the first time about the old age pension plan. [We] would get things like flour, baby food, Pablum, milk, oatmeal, crackers. There were some candies too, but I’m sure [we] didn’t buy it with child tax because there were some policies and [we] would listen to those policies. [We] were not allowed to buy tobacco, tea and other drinks, but if [we] needed a shirt or clothing [we] would be able to buy it with the child tax, once they were enough. […] It was mentioned that the child tax was started because of the king’s authorities in England as well. [I] had said earlier that [I] recall [my] grandpa being told that instead of being a hunter, he could get monthly old age pension plan. They were trying to let them stop hunting. But they didn’t do that with the child tax, it was not to restrict [us]. [I] was told at age 16 that [I] will no longer be receiving child tax because [I’m] 16 now, and for the last child tax [I] got, [I] was given a rifle. (Interview, May 2018).

111 In Clyde River, as elsewhere in the Eastern Arctic, the Family Allowance was issued ‘in- kind’ as credits to buy food, such as powdered milk, Pablum (dry baby food), flour, oatmeal and crackers. In the early days of the program, people could also use the allowance for sewing materials and hunting equipment, using credits that had built up as the government introduced the program or in between visits to the settlement (see Ch. 5). For their final payment at aged 16, boys, including Josie Enuaraq, received a rifle, while girls, including Igah Palluq, recall receiving a sewing machine. Elders’ recollections of the program and its impacts were mixed: When they started introducing child tax, Family Allowance, it was around that time and I had run out of food to eat. And it turned out I had child tax. And back then, they would ship big [containers of] powdered milk here. I recall getting one of those. We would really enjoy that milk […] I think it was government that would send these items. (Igah Palluq, Interview, May 2018).

It felt like they were not enough at all. When they accumulated because we wouldn’t be coming here for months, they would accumulate, that’s when we were able to finally buy some clothes. But it didn’t even reach to buy some food. There was not enough money to buy some food with it. (Regilee Piungituq, Interview, May 2018).

Living in ilagiit nunagivaktangit, country food remained the most significant part of the diet. However, the Family Allowance program did mark some shifts in overall diet, particularly concerning breastfeeding and foods for infants. Traditionally, children breastfed until age 3 or 4, before beginning to eat country food alongside the mother. Mary Illauq explained: Back then, when little babies started to grow up and be more interested in eating – like, staring at you when you’re eating – that’s when the mother would start to feed the child, putting things from the mother’s mouth. It was all country food, because you cannot be too young for country food! (Interview, May 2018)

As new products became available, young children were also given Carnation milk or powdered milk mixed with water, and around 1950, powdered milk – and wire whippers to prepare it – started to become more widely available from the Family Allowance program, with mothers encouraged to feed it to their children as a ‘healthier food for babies’ (see Chapter 5). Regilee Piungituq described this change: I don’t really recall a time when they started to give formulas to babies, because we were separated in different kinds of camps. I never knew my

112 mother giving formula, milk, to her kids. [….] The carnation milk, you had to measure at a certain point, and then add water to it. (Interview, May 2018).

As the federal presence expanded in the coming decade through new programs like Family Allowance, education and health interventions, and ultimately centralization, changes in the food system and way of life in ilagiit nunagivaktangit would accelerate rapidly.

4.3.2 Centralization Kangiqtugaapingmiut families and individuals moved into town at different times, for many individual reasons, including for children to attend school, to meet a spouse and marry, or because of illness or death in the family (see also Wenzel (2008). Others moved to take advantage of economic opportunities associated with the Cape Christian site. At the same time, individual decisions were shaped by broader political realities. The Qikiqtani Truth Commission explains that centralization of Clyde River, as elsewhere in the Qikiqtani region, was “encouraged directly and indirectly by the promises of education, health care, and housing” (2013a, p. 102). The Commission reports that “[h]ousing, in particular, was used to entice Kangiqtugaapingmiut to move to the settlement” (p. 95). Igah Palluq described the impact of government promises of housing: “We were provided with a matchbox house that cost $2 [/month]. It felt really high when they changed the price to a higher price, to $10. It felt scary.” Today, many Nunavummiut in Clyde River and elsewhere feel that the government had not upheld its promises of housing, with housing insecurity of widespread concern in Nunavut today (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, p. 82). These changes were part of a broader social transformation underway in the Eastern Arctic in the 1960s, with the reversal of the federal government’s ‘doctrine of dispersal’ to a policy of encouraging and instructing Inuit to move into centralized settlements (Damas, 2002; see also Ch. 5). At Clyde River, the Qikiqtani Truth Commission marks the beginning of the Nunalinnguqtitauliqtilluta period (‘the time when we were actively (by outside force) formed into communities’) as beginning around 1960. The construction of a school in Clyde River in 1960 was a further catalyst for the shift towards centralization, as parents and entire families moved closer to or remain in town to be close to children, who were being instructed to enroll

113 in school (Damas, 2002, pp. 145-146; Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, p. 95).30 Many families relocated to Clyde River at the encouragement or direct instruction of the RCMP, government administrators, nurses, and teachers (Wenzel, 1995). With this change and the expansion of government programs in the 1960s, the population of Clyde River more than doubled (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, p. 82). In an interview, Ilkoo Angutikjuak discussed connections between Family Allowance, school and centralization: [I] recall the time when [we] started getting child tax, because once [we] were going to go to attend school, I think that’s when [we] started getting child tax. Because I’m sure someone had gotten our date of birth, had collected them, and then the day finally came to get child tax. Some even bought a boat and some hunting supplies, so that the children could have some food to eat, and things like 100lbs of flour and sugar that were bigger than the usual ones. Because I guess they gave out all the years that they didn’t get child tax and summed it all up and gave it to them when they first introduced the child tax. Therefore, some were able to buy a boat and bigger things like that. Fox furs and other kinds of furs like that, were not as expensive when we’d sell them to the store. We wouldn’t get a lot for them, and I recall the time once we started receiving child tax and buying things like boats and other big things like that. Around 1959 or 1960, they started to collect the people that were in outpost camps outside of Clyde River, all around, and they were told that they are preparing them to go to school, and so they built a school and had them living here in the community. (Interview, May 2018).

During this period, the food rations of Family Allowances became entwined with policy agendas of education and centralization. Family Allowance could be denied if children did not attend school in newly centralized communities, a practice noted across Arctic Canada (Berger,

30 The Qikiktani Truth Commission explains in detail: “The school prompted renewed concern amongst the RCMP about the potential of loitering. Constable R.E. Boughen reported that Kangiqtugaapingmiut were bringing their children to the settlement for school but waiting around for a few days. He cautioned that it could lead to parents hanging around to avoid ‘breaking up’ the family. Again, the RCMP approach to loitering was contradictory. Children were being encouraged to attend the new school, but the RCMP and others saw negative consequences if parents and siblings were expected to live apart from students. Inuit and most Qallunaat understood that children were an integral part of Inuit life and that families relied on their labour, keen eyes and ears, and companionship” (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, p. 95).

114 1977, p. 170; Coates, 1985, p. 188). In an interview, Regilee Piungituq explained how her extended family responded to, and resisted, these changes: There was a policy that the kids needed to go to school in order to receive child tax. It was that, that if they didn’t go to school, they would not get child tax. But we were never explained about any of this. [...] We would get worried, but my father-in-law was not worried at all, I think, because he didn’t want to just accept qallunaat decisions, and that’s why [we] stayed there. […] My father-in-law died just still living in an outpost camp, trying to live in an outpost camp. It’s because he didn’t want to just follow along with what qallunaat were saying, and that’s why they stayed there. [His name was] David Piungnituq. (Interview, May 2018).

The 1960s was a transitional time, when some families continued living in ilagiit nunagivaktangit, at the same time as an increasing number of Kangiqtugaapingmiut moved into the permanent settlement of Clyde River (Wenzel, 2008, p. 5). Ilkoo Angutikjuak explained, “not everyone immediately moved to Clyde River all at once. Some still lived in other outpost camps like Naqsaalukuluk” (interview, May, 2018). However, for those who moved into town amidst expanding government presence and pressures to relocate, centralization deeply affected hunting and fishing livelihoods. The period immediately following centralization was remembered by several Elders as a time of scarcity and precarity: Once we started living here, after having lived other places, it was not good to be in one place. We started to be hungry once we started living here – we did not have enough fat or oil, so we started to feel uncomfortable. (Mary Illauq, Interview, May 2018).

We would be craving and starving for country food when we moved here, because the food would easily spoil, because of no good food storage. But once we started to get refrigerators and freezers it became better, because we were now able to keep our food in there. And at that time, we didn’t have a lot of hunting equipment. Things like skidoo and other things, so we would have to walk, and because we had to walk we wouldn’t be able to go to further destinations, and it was around that time we started not having dogs as much, so we would be hungry for country food. (Regilee Piungituq, Interview, May 2018).

The family became hungry when [we] moved here. Because back then [we] lived in an outpost camp where there are animals. At that time, since [we] were relocated here, many of the times [we] would be hungry. And, [I] was wrong, but [I] thought that the school was going to start to provide food for

115 us. Once the student start going to school, things like flour and sugar, but that was not the case unfortunately. (Igah Palluq, Interview, May 2018).

The location of the Clyde River townsite was selected not as an ideal place for hunting and fishing, but as a harbour suitable for cargo ships and administrator’s needs, building on the existing infrastructure of the Hudson’s Bay trade post and the weather station (Gearheard et al., 2013, p. 21). The Qikiqtani Truth Commission further explains some of the consequences: Hunters were no longer living in areas they were familiar with, choosing instead to move as they pleased to follow game. They now found themselves in a more concentrated community, meaning they had to travel farther to hunt. Settlement living also meant more qimmiit [dogs] were living in one place, resulting in increased potential for the spread of disease among qimmiit and for conflict between humans and qimmiit. (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, p. 102).

The latter included, most significantly, the enforcement of the RCMP’s Ordinance Respecting Dogs, which saw the RCMP to shoot qimmiit in Clyde River and elsewhere (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b), a practice many Nunavummiut today refer to as the RCMP dog slaughter. The loss of sled dogs compromised the mobility of Kangiqtugaapingmiut that had been a central feature of Inuit life in ilagiit nunagivaktangit (ibid). The Qikiqtani Truth Commission explains, “Shooting qimmiit would have limited the ability of Kangiqtugaapingmiut to travel to and from the settlement, ultimately resulting in many moving into the community. Regardless of the reasons provided, the loss of qimmiit had deep impacts on Kangiqtugaapingmiut.” (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, p. 105). To cope with the difficulties of the changed situation of living in the Clyde River settlement, Elders recalled families going fishing for sculpin and seal hunting nearby and relying on one another: “Once they started living in a community, I guess people started to help each other out, and that was what was good,” Ilkoo Angutikjuak explained (Interview, May 2018). Elders recalled relying more on the dry foods that were available at the store, which as Mary Illauq explained in an interview, staved off hunger but did not offer the nutritional value of country food: It’s not that [we] completely ran out of food – there were not even canned foods at the store, there were only dry goods – but it did get harder to have. Canned foods and ready to cook foods were not always available, not until

116 around 1960. In fall time, that’s when [we] would be lacking food. [We] were able to buy food only if [we] had money. (Interview, May 2018).

One of the most significant changes that came about in the 1960s was this growing importance of money – not only to purchase imported food and other goods, but to allow the continuation of hunting, including foremost the ability to purchase snowmobiles. This marked the transition to a mixed economy, as Inuit living in Clyde River and elsewhere in Nunavut adopted new technologies that allowed the continuation of hunting. While this change marked an important adaptation to the circumstances of centralized communities, it also introduced new challenges.

4.3.3 ‘Dogs eat fish, but snowmobiles eat money’ – The mixed economy The process of centralization in Clyde River coincided with the development of the snowmobile. The first five snowmobiles arrived in Clyde River in 1964, bought for between $700 and $800, with more soon to follow (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, pp. 106-107). In centralized settlements, snowmobiles became a necessity, enabling the kind of mobility that had been so essential to living from the land in ilagiit nunagivaktangit (Kemp, 1971). Snowmobiles allowed hunters to reach areas beyond the immediate ‘harvest shadow’ of the concentrated population of the townsite. They became particularly important in Clyde River as caribou migratory patterns shifted further away in the 1960s (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, pp. 106-107). Many families left Clyde River to camp for the summer between May and late August, often returning to ilagiit nunagivaktangit that their families had previously occupied. The Hudson’s Bay store would sell out of essentials like matches as people stocked up for summer, and the store would close for a period during summertime before the September sealift (personal communications, George Wenzel, June 2019). Snowmobile ownership expanded throughout the 1960s and 70s, with summer construction wages an important source of capital for equipment. Photographs taken in and around Clyde River in the early 1970s show the mustard yellow Bombardiers in almost every scene: parked at all angles in front of the Hudson’s Bay store in Clyde River; amidst a crowd of adults and children who have gone to meet the Nordair supply flight; or disassembled for repair

117 with parts splayed across the snow (copy in possession of author31). In one image, a Bombardier snowmobile sits surrounded by sled dogs at Arviqtujuq (the last ilagiit nunagivaktangit to move into town) – different modes of transportation overlapping. While permitting the freedom of mobility, snowmobiles and other mechanized hunting equipment cost money to purchase and maintain, and precipitated greater reliance on cash income (Kemp, 1971; Sahlins, 1999; Wenzel, 1991). As the cliché in Nunavut goes, ‘dogs eat fish, but snowmobiles eat money.’ Snowmobiles also contributed to greater dependency on the Hudson’s Bay Company, then the only store in town, as people had to take on debt for machines, and to keep up with replacement parts and fuel (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, p. 107). Wenzel (1991, p. 53) explains: By the mid 1970s, Inuit hunting required money. The capital value of an outfit – snowmobile, guns, canoe and motor – could reach $10,000, although, by sharing within the village and kin group, harvesters kept these costs considerably lower. Of more immediate consequence was the everyday expense for maintenance and operations. Hidden items like gasoline, ammunition and spare snowmobile parts might reach $2500 a year or more (Wenzel, 1991, p. 53).

People were also at the mercy of their machines, and if they broke down beyond repair, could leave one in debt and stranded, unable to reach hunting or fishing grounds (personal communications, George Wenzel, June 2019). Access to money came from diverse sources. Waged employment was important but limited, with only about seven full-time, wage-earning jobs as of 1966 (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, p. 109). Seasonal waged labour opportunities (particularly construction) and carving and handicrafts economies expanded through the 1960s, providing other sources of revenue. Josie Enuaraq explained that he started working around 1965 and worked until his retirement: “all those years [I] worked, so during weekends [I] was able to go hunting for animals” (Interview, May 2018). Until the collapse of the sealskin market in the early 1980s, one of the most important sources of cash was products of hunting (Arnaquq-Baril, 2016; Wenzel,

31 These photographs were shared with me by Dr. George Wenzel from his time in Arviqtujuq and Clyde River in the early 1970s; they are also on display at the Piqqusilirivvik Inuit cultural learning facility in Clyde River.

118 1991): In the 1970s, hunters living in Clyde River were covering approximately one third of harvesting costs with sealskin sales, as well as more limited exports of polar bear hides and ivory (Wenzel, 1991, p. 53). After relocation to Clyde River in the 1950s and 60s, new flows of ningiqtuq interactions also emerged to adapt to these changed circumstances. Snow mobiles and small boats were commonly included within these structures of exchange in the early 1970’s, as well as gasoline, and, at times, money (Wenzel, 1995, p. 46-48). Resource sharing patterns began to include more unrelated hunters sharing in their joint harvest, and exchanges between leaders of the Anglican church (an important community institution) and the wider community (Wenzel, 1995). While snowmobiles played an important role in the continuation of harvesting, imported commercial foods became a more prominent part of the diet after centralization, especially for those without access to harvesting equipment. Mary Illauq explained that her younger siblings experienced a very different lifestyle, and especially diet, as a child: [I] was raised travelling all around, but my brother […] was raised in one place. [We] realized it last year because [my] brother came here and he said that [we] were raised differently, even though [we] had the same parents. [I] grew up eating more of country food rather than store-bought food, but the rest of [my] siblings grew up eating more store-bought food. When you are used to eating country food, you miss them a lot – you crave for them. (Interview, May 2018).

Canned food and ready-to-cook store-bought foods started to become available in Clyde River around 1960, and more store-bought prepared foods like pastas were introduced in the 1960s and 70s. By this time, the token system was abandoned, and items were purchased with cash. Money, in Inuktitut, is termed kiinaujaq, meaning ‘the one with a face,’ reflecting the British monarchs who appear on the back of Canadian currency (Gombay, 2012, p. 23). The store in Clyde River began to carry items like kilo-sized tins of corned beef from Argentina, Klik (tinned meat), sardines, tinned bacon, tinned butter from Denmark, Shirriff’s instant mashed potatoes, canned pears and fruit cocktail, and peanut butter, alongside longstanding items like pilot biscuits (two varieties), canned molasses, and Klim-brand powdered milk (interviews, 2018; personal communication, George Wenzel, 2017). However,

119 the range of imported food available – and access to it – remained limited. In interviews, those who visited Clyde River from the remaining ilagiit nunagivaktangit in the late 1960s recalled feeling hungry, particularly for fresh food, while in town (interviews, May 2018). The Hudson’s Bay Company store started to receive more regular shipments of fresh fruits and vegetables in the 1970s, brought in once a week by Austin Airways on a Twin-Otter flight, as the store increasingly reoriented its role from fur trade operations to food sales (personal communication, George Wenzel, 2017). Josie Enuaraq recalled a story about the first watermelon shipped to Clyde River: Around 1970s was the time [we] started to have fruits and vegetables at the store here, although there were not many at the time. But they started having it. They’d always gotten apples and oranges before that. When they started having fruits and vegetables, when there were some watermelon there, [a coworker] and I were working for the store and instead of getting paid with a token, we wanted to get paid with a watermelon, because it was so good. The store manager had said it was his last one and he was going to take it, so [we] could halve it, and [we] could split it in half. (Interview, May 2018)

By the mid 1970s, most Kangiqtugaapingmiut relied on a mixed food system, encompassing both a growing variety of imported foods, and locally harvested species. Despite the profound changes have taken place that deeply affected the local food system – including the move of the townsite across the bay, hamlet status, the creation of Nunavut, and particularly, the collapse of the sealskin market – many features of the mixed food system that persists today were in place by the 1970s. In 1976/77, the last remaining ilagiit-based group, at Arviqtujuq, moved into Clyde River (Wenzel, 2008, p. 16), with only one extended family living in an officially designated ‘outpost camp’ settlement into the mid 1980s (see above; personal communication, George Wenzel, 2019).

4.4 Discussion & conclusion: Social transformation, food, and power The preceding material shows some of the varied ways in which rapid social transformation played out in the food system of Clyde River through the period of centralization (roughly 1950 to 1970). Foremost, this period marked the transformation of the Inuit food system from one rooted almost exclusively in locally harvested species and the wealth of the land and sea, to a

120 mixed food system that included a growing range of imported foods brought in by annual resupply ship and later air freight (and to a lesser extent, by individual Qallunat workers). This fundamental change in the food system reflected shifts in the economy, from a subsistence economy towards a mixed economy, in which hunting persists alongside increased participation in waged labour and expanded access to social transfer programs. With limited access to mechanized transport, and absent other economic opportunities, the early years following centralization resulted in experiences of hunger and limited access to nutritious food in Clyde River and elsewhere (Berger, 1977, vol. 1 p. 170). This was a direct result of government policies concerning centralization, including the RCMP ‘Ordinance Respecting Dogs,’ and the minimal Family Allowance program that did not make up for the loss of access to locally harvested foods. While mechanized hunting subsequently allowed for a measure of reclamation of mobility, it introduced a greater reliance on the Hudson’s Bay Company, as money became an essential input to hunting as well as store-bought food. Centralization also brought changes in economic and institutional responsibilities for feeding the family and allocating resources. Family structures of ningiqtuq remained highly important. However, these were experienced alongside the expanding control of the Government of Canada, beginning with the RCMP’s authority over Family Allowances. Food rations were employed instrumentally, as a means of coercion to compel school attendance and as part of the wider program of centralization (see Chapter 5). Many of these policies rested on ideologies of modernization and improvement, in which Inuit had no say (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a; 2013b). These paternalistic approaches to social policy formed part of the government’s wider Northern agenda of moving Inuit into the market economy and centralized settlements (see Chapter 5). Food was an important medium of qallunaat authority and colonial power during the period surrounding centralization. Government authority remained ambiguous, exerted with reference to the Crown (the ‘King’ was responsible for delivering Family Allowances; money was named for its portrayal of the monarch), but enacted through a diversity of institutions, including first the RCMP, but later also teachers and nurses reflective of a growing welfare state. Throughout, this authority involving the active cooperation of the Hudson’s Bay and its

121 competitors, who were responsible for distributing Family Allowance credits, and increasingly controlled communities’ food supplies. Individual store managers held a great deal of power over Inuit communities, particularly where, in the absence of other federal agents, trade post managers were responsible for issuing social transfer payments. Food was also an important medium of economic relations between individual Inuit and qallunaat workers, including those who employed and paid Inuit workers with food rations on Saturdays. At the heart of colonial authority was the fear (ilira) that many Inuit felt towards qallunaat authorities (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a). Hugh Brody, who lived and worked in Pond Inlet in the early 1970s, describes conversations with his Inuktitut teacher Anaviapik about ilira: So ilira is to do with being afraid? I asked. Like kappia? [the root of words for danger] No, not that kind of fear. [...] Anaviapik gave examples of what might make you feel ilira: ghosts, domineering and unkind fathers, people who are strong but unreasonable, whites from the south. What is it that these have in common? They are people or things that have power over you and can be neither controlled nor predicted. People or things that make you feel vulnerable, and to which you are vulnerable. Anaviapik explained further: when southerners told Inuit to do things that were against Inuit tradition, or related to the things that Qallunaat wanted from the North, the Inuit felt that they had to say yes. They felt too much ilira to say no […] The word ilira goes to the heart of colonial relationships, and it helps to explain the many times that Inuit, and so many other peoples, say yes when they want to say no, or say yes then reveal, later, that they never meant it at all. Ilira is a word that speaks to the subtle but pervasive results of inequality. […] It is the fear that colonialism instils and evokes, which then distorts the meanings, social life and politics. The power of colonial masters is indeed like that of ghosts – appearing from nowhere, seemingly supernatural and non-negotiable (Brody, 2002, pp. 43-44).

Relations concerning food and the essentials of life were a source of ilira, present in fears about consequences for not enrolling children in school, attending annual medical visits that could result in tuberculosis evacuations, or in asking questions of the RCMP about social benefits to which Inuit were legally entitled. At the same time, the land, the social economy, and Inuit cuisine and foodways, continued to be sources of sustenance throughout and beyond the time period surrounding centralization, and indeed in the mixed food system that persists today. During hard times

122 following centralization, people relied on and turned to locally available species and existing sources of social security within the community. As mechanized harvesting equipment became available, new materials were integrated into social exchange, and resources were pooled to procure snowmobiles and regain the mobility that had been lost in the move to Clyde River (Wenzel, 1995), and because of the killing of qimmiit (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a). This incorporation of new technology into existing social structures and institutions, and indeed the broader persistence of the social economy and Indigenous food system, contrasts with the acculturative and assimilationist paradigms of federal policy that animated the post-war period, which were predicted on the imminent replacement of harvesting with an extractive resource economy (see Ch. 5). While much has changed, in Clyde River and elsewhere in the Eastern Arctic, the past decades continue to reflect many of the trends set in motion in the 1950s and 60s, including increased reliance on imported foods, intensive programs of ‘education’ concerning health and nutrition driven from the South, and the persistence of a mixed economy (see Ch. 5). However, interviews also gave rise to conversations about what has not changed, including this understanding of the land as a source of wealth. Many of the Elders interviewed expressed hopes that harvesting practices and local food traditions would continue on. When asked at the conclusion if there was anything else she would like people to know about food in Clyde River, Igah Palluq said: I want to say that the food prices are very high now, so I would like seal hunting to continue on, and other sources of country food. I’d like people to continue to go out on the land and catch fish or other kinds of country food. Although my kids say that they have food, that they had gotten food from the store, I myself get tired of eating them easily, and so I would love going out on the land to be continued on. (Interview, May 2018).

This sense of the wealth of the land is inextricable from wider questions of governance, and the future that Nunavut holds. Charles Kalluk de Rome described these links through the metaphor of a house: I call it a house, Nunavut. Nunavut now becomes a term by politics. Actually, Nunavut means Canada. Northwest Territories. Nunavut. Your land. You call your land, ‘your land’. Same thing. Nuna. When I say it’s ‘my land’, that’s how it sounds like, ‘Nunavut.’ Nunavut, ‘our land’. So, this land has got a house

123 now. But it needs to be furnished. How do we furnish that? Education. Institutions. We’re going to need institutions. Pillars in a house, to hold it up. These are principles, laws, like that law – if you can half it, don’t let that other one go hungry, while you are full (Interview, May, 2018).

Also expressed was the desire for people, particularly non-Inuit, to better understand this history. Regilee Piungituq said, “In the agreement it was mentioned about confidentiality – I don’t want any of this to be confidential. I want everyone to hear them [my answers]. Because I really want people to understand.” (interview, May 2018). Ilkoo Angutikjuak explained, “These are the real experiences that had happened. […] We’re not just assuming what had happened; we have actually lived it, and they’re true” (interview, May 2018).

124 Chapter 5 Secular missionaries and the gospel of health: Food and colonial policy in the Eastern Arctic

5.1 Chapter introduction: Food, Indigenous peoples, and colonial institutions While experiences are diverse, Indigenous peoples worldwide share stories of profound and devastating effects of colonialism on their foodways, food systems, and economies. To date, analyses of the role of food in Canadian colonialism have focused primarily on settler expansion in Southern Canada (Daschuk, 2013; Kelm, 1998; Lux, 2001; Shewell, 2004) and the dire conditions with regards to food in the residential school system (Kelm, 1996; Mosby, 2013; Mosby & Galloway, 2017; Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, 2015). This literature shows that colonial institutions, including the reserve system, pass system, Indian Act, and residential schools, denied Indigenous peoples both the opportunity to produce or harvest sufficient food to meet their needs, and used food rations as a means of coercion, compliance, and assimilation, perpetuating conditions of hunger and vulnerability to disease that resulted in the widespread loss of life (Bodirsky & Johnson, 2008; Daschuk, 2013; Kelm, 1996, 1998; Lux, 2001; Mosby, 2013; Mosby & Galloway, 2017; Shewell, 2004). The instrumental withholding of food was inextricable from colonial expansion and the conditions of Canada’s Confederation; John A. Macdonald, Canada’s first Prime Minister, ordered that food rations promised under treaty be withheld until First Nations, facing hunger and starvation, complied with moves to federally established reserves, “clearing the plains” for white settlement (Daschuk, 2013). The intergenerational impacts of these colonial institutions are among the root causes of health disparities between Indigenous and non-Indigenous people living in Canada today (Greenwood et al., 2015; Mosby & Galloway, 2017; Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, 1996). Inuit Nunangat has a distinct history of colonization, marked by the expansion of the federal welfare state following World War II, and its domination of Inuit economic, social and political life (Abele, 2009). Colonialism, here taken to mean the exploitation or subjugation of a people by a larger or wealthier power,32 describes the ongoing relationship between Canada

32 This is the definition used by the Qikiqtani Truth Commission report in its investigation into Inuit experiences of colonization in the post-war era, drawing in turn on the Canadian Oxford

125 and the Northern territories, which are treated as “internal colonies”33 (Hicks, 2004). In the case of Inuit Nunangat, colonialism reflects the taken for granted belief that Canada had, and continues to have, sovereign rights over both Arctic lands and people. The Qikiqtani Truth Commission, an Inuit-led inquiry into experiences of colonization in the Qikiqtani region of Nunavut, explains: “Colonialism does not necessarily require a large settler population, military force, or even formal political control, if the colonizing power can meet its objectives more cheaply or with less effort” (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, The official mind of Canadian Colonialism, p. 15). In the case of the Arctic, colonization took the shape not of widespread white settlement, but assumed sovereignty over Inuit Nunangat, and control over Inuit lives through the bureaucratic apparatus of the federal government. Until the late 1960s, political authority over Northern affairs in Canada rested with a single federal administrative unit, the federal Northern Administration Branch, which assumed complete political responsibility for the region.34 The Qikiqtani Truth Commission (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, The official mind of Canadian Colonialism, p. 31) reports: The northern administration staff based in Ottawa grew from three or four in the 1920s to over three hundred in the 1960s. They helped develop and implement the visions that imagined Inuit, initially, as a primitive people whose way of life should be disturbed as little as possible, but later as vulnerable people who needed to be integrated quickly to avoid being crushed by economic development.

Throughout this period, administrators and parliamentarians regarded Inuit as having a different legal status than First Nations subject to the restrictions of the Indian Act.35 In

English Dictionary definition (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, The official mind of Canadian Colonialism, p. 14-15). 33 Hicks (2004, n.p.) defines internal colony as “a colony that exists inside the boundaries of the state which colonized it.” 34 In 1967, many of the administrative responsibilities formerly assumed by the Northern Administration Branch were transferred to the Territorial government of the Northwest Territories. 35 A 1939 Supreme Court ruling, brought about because of a dispute between the federal and provincial governments over relief to Inuit in arctic Quebec, had ruled that Inuit were a federal responsibility under the Indian Act (Clancy, 1987, p. 192). Although the decision created a legal precedent for applying the Indian Act to Inuit, it was generally ignored, with most

126 parliamentary debates, arguments for the different legal status of Inuit suggested that Canada was unlikely to appropriate Arctic lands – ignoring the fact that it already had (ibid, p. 32). While considerable postcolonial scholarship has examined the Indian Act as a colonial institution, the Northern Affairs Branch has not been subject to the same degree of scrutiny; however, the Q.T.C. finds that its assumed authority over Inuit was “as complete” as that of the Department of Indian Affairs over First Nations (ibid, p. 32). This authority included significant interventions in, and control over, the Inuit food system. Yet while contemporary issues of food insecurity in Arctic Canada are broadly linked to colonization, the specific connections between colonial institutions, food, and power in the North have been described as an “overlooked history” (Burnett et al., 2016, p. 2).36 Inuit testimonies recorded by the Qikiqtani Truth Commission (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, 2013b) and related ethnohistorical work on social policy (for example, Brody, 1975; Damas, 2002; Tester & Kulchyski, 1994) does suggest that food-related policies, such as the Family Allowance program, played a significant role in the expansion of colonial control and power in Arctic Canada in the decades following World War II. These connections between food and histories and legacies colonization require careful consideration, both to better understand the roots of contemporary issues of food insecurity and to understand what is at stake in food security interventions. Taking an ethnohistorical approach through the close reading of archival documents, this chapter seeks to develop a better understanding of issues of food and social policy in Inuit Nunangat in the post war Government Era. It examines how colonial institutions intervened in the Inuit food system during this time period, and the role food and food relief programs played in the broader trajectory of colonial policies and ideologies. The chapter addresses both policy and policy discourse, including propaganda materials produced to disseminate messages about

administrators instead viewing Inuit as Canadian citizens in need of “special protection,” absent legal Aboriginal rights (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, The official mind of Canadian Colonialism, p. 32). However, Family Allowances, discussed below, marked the first time wardship policies under the Indian Act were formally applied to Inuit (Tester & Kulchyski, 1994, p. 78). 36 See for exception Burnett et al, 2016; Tester & Kulchyski, 1994.

127 health and nutrition to Inuit and to the southern Canadian public, which illustrate the ideologies of modernization, health, and nutrition that framed social policy interventions. The analysis is bounded spatially and temporally, focusing on the Eastern Arctic between approximately 1945-1967, documenting the role of food in centralization and the expansion of the welfare state in the decades following World War II prior to devolution of responsibilities to the Territorial level beginning in the late 1960s.37 I do not address the specific histories of hunger, starvation, and relocation in and from the Kivalliq region and Nunavik, including the experiences of the Ahiarmiut, which are examined in depth in Tester and Kulchyski’s 1994 book Tammarnit (Mistakes); the criminalization of harvesting (Sandlos, 2007); or the consequences of the killing of Qimmiit (dogs) for Inuit mobility and food systems (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, 2013b). I also do not address the profound issues of hunger and food in the residential school system (Kelm, 1996; Mosby, 2013; Mosby & Galloway, 2017; Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, 2015). Instead, I have focused on national policy interventions in the Inuit food system, particularly the Family Allowance program, which marked the first widespread food-related social policy intervention in Arctic Canada and exemplifies the role food played in the Northern Administration’s growing control over the Eastern Arctic in the decades following World War II. The archival material presented here is drawn primarily from the Library and Archives Canada (LAC) collection, held in Ottawa, Canada. Of particular relevance are the fonds of the former Department of National Health and Welfare (RG 29); and fonds of the Department of

37 This temporal limitation is in light of the profound changes in administration that occurred with devolution of responsibility from the federal level to the Territorial Government of the Northwest Territories, which began in 1967, which merit consideration in their own right. It should not be interpreted, by any means, as the end of a colonial relations, which continue to overshadow the relationship between Inuit and the nation state of Canada today. Geographically, the Eastern Arctic refers to the part of Inuit Nunangat inclusive of contemporary Nunavut and Nunavik that was treated by the Northern Administration Branch as a single administrative region distinct from the Western Arctic and Labrador. However, federal and territorial (Northwest Territories) policies address a wider geographic scope, and some elements of this analysis extend to the broader Northern and national contexts also.

128 Indian Affairs and Northern Development and its predecessors (RG 85).38 The materials analyzed include government reports, internal and external correspondence, and RCMP patrol records, alongside publicity and propaganda materials, media clippings, and historical photographs of the Eastern Arctic Patrol. A smaller number of materials reviewed, notably secondary publications related to agricultural production in Arctic Canada, were located through the Pond Inlet Archives in Pond Inlet, Nunavut; and photographic collection of the Nunatta Sunakkutaangit museum in Iqaluit, Nunavut. The first section of the chapter is organized in chronological sequence, tracing the rapid shift in Canada’s administration of the Eastern Arctic from the wartime Doctrine of Dispersal to centralization and the expanding presence of the state in the form of health, education, and housing programs throughout the 1950s and early 1960s. In the second section, I examine how these histories might be understood and interpreted within the broader context of colonization and ideologies of modernization. Here, I propose the concept of ‘secular missionization’ as a lens for better understanding relations between Inuit and Canada’s Northern Administration in the early part of the Government Era. Finally, I conclude by drawing attention to changes and continuities in the structural relationships between Inuit, the federal government, and the private sector, and the questions they pose for understanding issues of food security in Inuit Nunangat today.

5.2 The Doctrine of Dispersal and preoccupations with ‘dependency’ The Government Era of the Eastern Arctic describes the period, beginning in the 1950s, that saw a dramatic expansion of the federal intervention in health, housing and education (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, 2013b). However, these interventions were shaped by the conditions that preceded, including the collapse of the fur trade, the ‘Doctrine of Dispersal, and both government and private sector preoccupations with Inuit ‘dependency.’

38 The Social History of the Eastern Arctic Database created by Dr. Frank Tester, Dr. Peter Kulchyski, and Paule McNicoll together with Nunavummiut Elders, was an invaluable finding aid for this material.

129 Prior to the post-war expansion of the welfare state, the Northern Administration’s involvement in the lives of Inuit was largely limited to RCMP posts and annual visits of the Eastern Arctic Patrol ship.39 Federal policy sought to maintain a ‘Doctrine of Dispersal,’ dissuading Inuit from settling near trading posts in the name of promoting ‘self-sufficiency’; and the continuation of hunting livelihoods (Damas, 2002). As epidemics of tuberculosis, smallpox, influenza, and measles associated with the growing influx of Qallunaat devastated Indigenous populations across the North, medical care was restricted to occasional visits of a medical officer aboard the Eastern Arctic Patrol (EAP), missionaries, police, and the Hudson’s Bay Company (HBC) and its contemporaries (Abele, 1987, 2009; Brody, 1975; Damas, 2002; Jenness, 1964). For the Dominion Government, the Doctrine of Dispersal was a cost-saving measure, keeping the Northern Administration Branch small. Meanwhile, the Doctrine served fur traders’ interest in maintaining a steady supply of furs, while minimizing relief costs of ‘grubstaking’ trappers with credit and imported food in lean years (Hughes et al., 1965). The result of framing and legitimizing the Doctrine of Dispersal in terms of ‘self- sufficiency’ and as a means of averting ‘dependency’ was to ignore profound changes to the Inuit economy and food system that had already occurred, as the fur trade reoriented local production from food towards furs. Harvesting economies have always involved a degree of risk, and are not without histories of hunger or starvation (Bone, 2012); however, Indigenous peoples across the Arctic and sub-Arctic developed strategies to manage these risks, migrating and dispersing to draw on diverse resources (Damas, 2002), relying on a diversity of species if preferred game were not available, and creating economic structures that reinforced cooperation and sharing (Ray, 1984): “When game failed, people moved” (Damas, 2002, p. 15). Entry into the fur trade engendered structural changes that threatened to undermine these

39 The Eastern Arctic Patrol was inaugurated in 1922, supervising the administration of ‘crown lands,’ wildlife and resource management, scientific explorations, and generally affirming sovereignty in Canada’s Arctic sector. After the patrol ship RMS Nascopie went aground and subsequently sank in 1947, the Patrol was replaced by a number of smaller ships and subsequently the advent of “Inspection Flights” (LAC RG85-D-1-A. Vol.79 File Part 24. File 201-1. Eastern Arctic Patrol - 1949. “letter from A. Stevenson to Mr. WH van Allen, Dept. of transport” Aug. 19, 1949).

130 adaptations. In the short term, access to imported foods and credit could be a safeguard against times of shortage (Bone, 2012, p. 90). However, Ray (1984), writing on the subarctic, notes that integration into the fur trapping economy both increased the risk of serious resource shortages as species became depleted, and undermined the adaptation strategies, including migration, that previously buffered against such shortage. While the fur trade did not reach Arctic Canada until the 20th century pursuit of arctic fox, the economic shift may have been even more stark; Tester and Kulchyski (1994, p. 26) argue that in the Northern environment, trading and subsistence were often mutually exclusive: running a trapline by dog team necessitated time and energy formerly allocated to subsistence hunting, and created dependence on supplies from the Hudson’s Bay Company like tea, sugar, flour, and rifles and ammunition. Entrenching these conditions, the Hudson’s Bay Company routinely moved trappers to more lucrative trapping areas, and employed debt to create dependency on ongoing trade and ensure a steady supply of furs, while withholding credit to ‘inefficient’ trappers40 (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, 2013b; Tester & Kulchyski, 1994, p. 20). Consequently, the extractive economy of the fur trade engendered structural changes in the Indigenous economy that, for many, undermined a stable supply of country food. Federal interventions in the name of game management and wildlife conservation further restricted harvesting (Sandlos, 2007). With the collapse of the fox fur trade in the late 1940s, Inuit trappers faced with a sharp loss in income could not readily return to the economic practices prior to the fur trade41 (Damas, 2002). Particularly where the economic involvement in the fur

40 Practices of issuing and withholding credit to produce debt and conditions of ongoing dependency, where there is no reasonable hope of repaying debt, represent debt bondage, tying trappers to companies who in turn defined the price of supplies and staple goods. The practice of debt bondage was first defined in the 1956 Convention on the Abolition of Slavery as, “the status or condition arising from a pledge by a debtor of his personal services or of those of a person under his control as security for a debt if the value of those services as reasonably assessed is not applied towards the liquidation of the debt or the length and nature of those services are not respectively limited and defined” (United Nations, 1956 Article 1, section a). 41 The period between 1947 and 1950 was marked by an abrupt drop in the price of furs; by 1952, Family Allowance overtook furs as the primary source of income for Inuit of the Central Arctic (Damas, 2002, p. 111)

131 trade was more extensive, Inuit in the Eastern Arctic faced increasingly dire conditions (Tester & Kulchyski, 1994). Conditions were particularly severe in Kivalliq interior, where hunger and starvation occurred in the late 1940s and 1950s, the combined result of shifting caribou migration patterns and the closure of trade posts in the wake of the falling fur market (Bone, 2012; Clancy, 1987; Tester & Kulchyski, 1994). The collapse of the fur trade was overlaid on public health issues exacerbated by the influx of Qallunaat military personnel and others in the preceding decades, including outbreaks of tuberculosis and other infectious diseases (Abele, 1987; Qikiqtani Truth Commission, 2013a, 2013b). As the fur trade collapsed in the late 1940s, the federal government initially extended its policy of non-engagement and undertook what Tester and Kulchyski (1994, p. 7) describe as a policy of “strategic neglect.” Suggestions that the government intervene in the fur market or control the price of staple goods were dismissed (p. 68). While the Dominion Government attempted to hold the HBC responsible for food relief costs, the private sector minimized such payments, and increasingly sought to reduce its responsibility, turning instead to the government for payment. Subsequent government-issued emergency food aid was handled at the discretion of the RCMP, who administered relief while “taking great pains to justify their decisions and to reassure Ottawa that they were being as miserly in its distribution as possible” (Tester & Kulchyski, 1994, p. 63). Food relief was issued in kind as a credit at designated trading posts, for goods such as beans, prunes, and tomatoes, cementing the Hudson’s Bay Company monopoly on trade in the Eastern Arctic (Tester & Kulchyski, 1994, pp. 68-70). Policymakers framed these policies as efforts to avert ‘dependency’ on outside food or materials, and ‘educate’ Inuit into a return to self-sufficiency, arguing that their way of life should be maintained unchanged (while overlooking those changes that had already occurred). However, a national policy change, initially far removed from the concerns of the Northern Administration, would soon bring about unprecedented intervention in the Inuit food system: The 1944 Family Allowance Act.

132 5.3 Family Allowances, wardship, and the ‘Book of Wisdom’ The 1944 Family Allowance Act introduced monthly credits to which all Canadian children were entitled, as a means to improve child welfare. The program formed part of the broader suit of post-war social welfare programs, including expanded Old Age Security Pensions. At the same time, the newly created Department of National Health and Welfare (D.N.H.W.) turned its attention to issues of public health and assumed responsibility for improving health amongst Inuit in Arctic Canada. Its first superintendent for the Eastern Arctic was Dr. Percy Moore, whose aggressive program of enforced tuberculosis evacuations resulted in thousands of Inuit being sent to southern sanatoria in the following years (Nixon, 1989).42

Figure 5.1 ‘Book of Wisdom’ instructions for the preparation of baby foods, 1947 (Department of Mines and Resources, 1947, p. 28)

The expanding social welfare state in the immediate post-war period brought about tremendous changes for Inuit families in the Eastern Arctic. The Family Allowance program, in particular, became a conduit for unprecedented intervention in the Inuit food system and economy. While for non-Indigenous Canadians, the Act introduced a universal benefit paid directly to parents, for Inuit the Family Allowance program instead exemplified the institutionalized paternalism that would characterize the decades to come. Federal policymakers initially debated whether the Family Allowance Act applied to Inuit; however, as it became clearer that Inuit children were legally entitled to benefits, their debate turned to how

42 In 2019, after decades of calls for an apology for the handling of the TB program, the federal government apologized for this colonial policy and purposeful mistreatment of Inuit with tuberculosis (Trudeau, 2019).

133 the program would be administered to Inuit families in the Eastern Arctic while still maintaining the federal policy of dispersal. A news headline from the period, appearing in the January 26, 1945 Vancouver Sun, poses the question: “Headaches in New Child Allowances: Who’s Going to Round Up Families of Eskimos?”43 Government officials rejected outright the idea of issuing Family Allowances as a universal benefit to Inuit parents, as in Southern Canada. Instead, the Family Allowance program marked the first time that the government formally treated Inuit as ‘wards of the Crown,’ shifting its prior approach and applying legal provisions of the Indian Act to Inuit (Tester & Kulchyski, 1994, p. 78). Allowance payments for Inuit children were to be given ‘in trust’ to the Department of Mines and Resource, under the direction of Deputy Commissioner Roy Gibson (Lands, Parks and Forests Branch).44 The Department, in turn, replaced a universal benefit with a conditional welfare scheme. Instead of issuing cheques, the Department assumed wardship by issuing Allowances to Inuit parents in kind, with a predetermined set of trade goods – a decision attributed to “the environment, racial characteristics and local conditions” of the Eastern Arctic: [T]he form of the family allowance grant to the Eskimo must through necessity take the form of equivalent value in trade goods and essentially be distributed to the best advantage of the Eskimos and not issued in such a manner as would defeat the policy of the Mines and Resources Department in its endeavors to make the Eskimos self-supporting.45

The environmental conditions included the highly dispersed pattern of settlement that the Dominion Government was keen to maintain. The “racial characteristics” reflect the continuation of racist stereotypes towards Inuit. The Qikiqtani Truth Commission writes, “Inuit

43 LAC RG 85. Vol. 1125. File 163-1 Vol.1. “Vancouver Sun: Headaches in New Child Allowances: Who’s Going to Round Up Families of Eskimos,” Jan. 26, 1945. 44 LAC. RG 85. Vol. 1125. File163-1, Part 1. “Application of Family Allowance Act in the Northwest Territories and Yukon Territory” by Col. H.C. Craig (undated, but from context appears to be January 1945). 45 LAC. RG 85. Vol. 1125. File163-1, Part 1. “Application of Family Allowance Act in the Northwest Territories and Yukon Territory” by Col. H.C. Craig (undated, but from context appears to be January 1945).

134 were imagined to be incapable of long-term planning or of recognizing or adjusting to important changes in their environments, such as trends in game shortages” (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, The official mind of Canadian Colonialism, p. 12). “Local conditions” included the near monopoly of The Hudson’s Bay Company over certain regions, engendering concerns that traders would not pass on the full Allowance to Inuit families if it arrived as a cheque, extending prior struggles over the issuance of relief funds.46 With the decision to apply wardship to the dispersal of Family Allowance funds, the Department of Mines and Resources assumed the role of parent, treating all Inuit, including adults, as children. Dissenting voices within government suggesting otherwise were quickly dismissed. For example, in a February 5th 1945 memorandum to Gibson, Major D.L. McKeand (with the Department of Mines and Resources’ Bureau of NWT and Yukon Affairs) suggested, “The solution to the problem, in so far as the Eastern Arctic is concerned, of administering the payment of family allowances in the Eastern Arctic will not come from Ottawa or the R.M.S. Nascopie [the Eastern Arctic Patrol ship] or any other outside source but from the Eskimo themselves,” suggesting the creation of local advisory boards.47 However, his superior, Col. H.C. Craig (Treasury Officer of the Bureau of NWT and Yukon Affairs, Department of Mines and Resources) two days later overruled McKeand’s suggestion, and reaffirmed the policy of wardship: Major D.L. McKeand has apparently completely misinterpreted the object and system of operation of this Act [….] The Dominion Government represented by the Department of Mines and Resources is charged with the responsibility for the welfare of its wards, the natives, and therefore is relatively in the

46 This concern was expressed in a December 1944 Memorandum, which reads “It would seem to be inadvisable to turn over cheques to the Eskimos periodically, as the only facilities they would have for cashing them would be the traders and the allowance would, in effect, be a bonus to the latter” (LAC. RG 85. Vol. 1125. File163-1, Part 1. File 14494, “Memorandum from A.L. Coming (Bureau of Northwest Territories and Yukon Affairs) to R. Gibson,” Dec. 28, 1944). Seventy years later, concerns have persisted about whether the private sector can be entrusted to pass on federal credits for food to Inuit families, emerging as a central political debate concerning the Nutrition North Canada program (Nutrition North Canada, 2016; Office of the Auditor General of Canada, 2014). 47 LAC. RG 85. Vol. 1125. File163-1, Part 1, “Letter from Major D.L. McKeand to R. Gibson,” February 5, 1945.

135 same position as a parent and as such must naturally assume this responsibility.48

Major McKeand warned his superiors, including Deputy Commissioner Roy Gibson, of gross inadequacies in the government’s management of health and welfare in Arctic communities, advocating for greater devolution of authority, but his warnings produced little action in the face of the Northern Administration’s entrenched paternalism towards Inuit (Tester & Kulchyski, 1994, p. 368). Also shaping the in-kind Allowance was the limited presence of the federal government in the Eastern Arctic, and reliance on the Hudson’s Bay Company by the Northern Administration. The administrators were keen to avoid the suggestion that their policy was benefiting the traders at the expense of Inuit children. At the same time, administrators acknowledged that the program would operate only through the cooperation of traders. A prescient 1945 Memorandum from McKeand acknowledges that setting up of Family Allowance “will rest on post managers of licenced fur trading concerns,” elaborating: In the last fourteen years, the administration of the Eastern Arctic has been largely by trial and error with the co-operation of government officials and the assistance and advice of fur traders and missionaries. I do not think it could be otherwise in the future.49

The RCMP was responsible for enrolling children and issuing Allowances, while in many areas without an RCMP detachment or doctor, they would be issued by post managers operating as ‘sub-registrars.’ Parents of children registered would be required to present identification disks to collect the Allowances, expanding the practice of registration using ‘E-numbers’ in place of Inuit names.50 In turn, registration for Family Allowances increased the government’s scrutiny of Inuit family structures, including customary adoption.51

48 LAC RG 85. Vol. 1125. File 163-1, Part 1, “Letter from Col. H.C. Craig to R. Gibson,” February 7, 1945. 49 LAC RG 85. Vol. 1125. File 163-1. Pt 1. Memorandum from D.L. McKeand (Bureau of NWT and Yukon Affairs) to Mr. Gibson. April or May, 1945. 50 LAC RG 85. Vol1125. File163. Part 1. “Application of Family Allowance Act in the Northwest Territories and Yukon Territory” (undated, from context appears to be January 1945). 51 LAC R216-711-0-E (former RG22-A-1-a) Family Allowances and Mother's Allowance Indian and Eskimo.

136 Traders, meanwhile, lobbied officials for measures that would best suit their business interests and expand Inuit purchasing power, arguing for example for the dispersal of backdated credits and a markup on goods dispersed under the program. Both the Baffin Trading Company and Hudson’s Bay Company argued that they should be entrusted to issue the Allowance to Inuit families, and determine how and when the Allowances be spent.52 While the Department, under Gibson’s direction, did not agree to turn the program wholly over to the trading companies, Family Allowances were nonetheless a boon for them, as federal funds filled the void of fur sales amidst a collapsing market (Clancy, 1987, p. 196), and traders were given a “large measure of freedom in making the issuances” (Damas, 2002, p. 109). Unwilling to commit to either the HBC’s plan for outright control, or a counterplan for state-run trade, the Northern Administration established the Eskimo Affairs Committee to advise on Inuit economic development and invited the Hudson’s Bay Company (alongside churches) to take part (Clancy, 1987); however, there remained no Inuit representation in decision making concerning the program. These decisions also largely foreclosed the possibility of the state entering the marketplace or more heavily regulating it in the decades to come; though the proposal for turning over the handling of credit and relief to traders was rejected, so too were proposals for a crown corporation trading company, which were rejected – as they had been before, and would be in the decades to come – on ideological grounds, including concerns about the purported communist leanings of Inuit (see Clancy, 1987). With the decision to issue Family Allowances under the wardship provision of the Indian Act, the Government of Canada assumed responsibility for deciding what foods and goods Inuit

52 Correspondence at the outset of the program shows regular correspondence between the administrators charged with the program, and that representatives of the trading companies, including R.H. Chesshire (Hudson’s Bay Company) and James Cantley (Baffin Trading Company; from 1950, Department of Indian Affairs and Northern Resources and Development). James Cantley writes: “[W]e believe that on the whole, the trader, provided he acts impartially and is not influenced by short-sighted business considerations, is in the best position to judge when a family would benefit most by receiving assistance” (LAC RG 85. Vol. 1125. File 163-1 Part 1. Letter from J. Cantley to R. Gibson, April 1945). R.H. Chesshire also argues that the HBC should be permitted to withhold and disperse Family Allowance credits, suggesting the traders are best positioned to decide how and when the allowances are spent. In his reply, Gibson clarifies that the HBC must still ‘grubstake’ trappers (LAC RG 85. Vol. 1125. File 163-1 Part 1).

137 children should consume – a decision that at once raised questions of how Inuit families should secure a livelihood and feed their children. Officials debated a list of foodstuffs and other trade goods to be issued under Family Allowances. The Department of National Health and Welfare in Ottawa drew up a tentative list of foodstuffs argued best suited to improve the nutritional value of the diet of Inuit children, including items such as dried fruit, dried milk, canned milk, molasses or jam, oatmeal, salt, canned tomatoes, and dried vegetables.53 Northern field officers weighed in on practicalities, suggesting, for example, that canned tomatoes and grapefruit “would not be advisable” in Arctic conditions.54 In the early days of the program, officials within the Department of Mines and Resources promoted using the Allowances to supplement a diet of country food and proposed that guns and ammunition – perhaps even tobacco – could be justified Family Allowance claims, if they improved the welfare of children.55 An April 17th 1945 letter to Dr. Moore, Mr. Gibson explains: There seems to be general agreement with the idea that families are better off living on country produce and consequently there will be justification for paying for rifles and ammunition and other weapons of the chase.56

53 LAC RG 85. Vol1125. File163. Part 1. “Food Allowances for Eskimos: In place of Family Allowance Cheques. Tentative List. Division of Nutrition, D.N.H.W.” April 3, 1945. 54 A 1945 memorandum to Mr. Gibson, from Col. H.C. Craig (Treasury Officer, Lands, Parks and Forests Branch), reads: “all experienced Northern officials, missionaries and traders were unanimous in stating that, due to the extreme climate and the habits of the Eskimos, it would not be advisable to supply canned tomatoes and canned grapefruit to the natives (LAC RG 85. Vol. 1125. File 163-1. Pt 1, “Memorandum from to Mr. Gibson, from Col. H.C. Craig” June 1945). 55 LAC RG 85. Vol1125. File163. Part 1. “Application of Family Allowance Act in the Northwest Territories and Yukon Territory” (undated, from context appears to be January 1945). 56 RG 85. Vol. 1125. File 163-1. Pt 1, Letter from R.A. Gibson (Deputy Commissioner, Dept of Mines and Resources) to PE Moore (Indian Affairs), “Re: Re: Payment of Family Allowances to Eskimo Families.” April 17, 1945. An extract from the minutes of the Northwest Territories Council, dated April 15th, 1947, similarly suggests that rifles and fish nets should be among the items supported by Family Allowances: “If, by extending the ability of the hunter to bring in food and fur the condition of the child is improved, then it is considered more satisfactory than providing milk and vitamin pills” (LAC RG 85. Vol. 1125. File163-1. Pt 1B. “Extract from the Minutes of the one Hundred and Seventy-first Session of the Northwest Territories Council” April 15, 1947).

138 This reflected nutritional advice of the day, which noted that proximity to trade posts and increased reliance on imported food was compromising Inuit health (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, Aaniajurlirniq, p. 39). At the same time, for the Northern Administration, permitting harvesting equipment under the Allowance was conducive to the Doctrine of Dispersal. Meanwhile, the Hudson’s Bay Company also favoured a limited set of goods, including ammunition, that would continue to facilitate trapping and not weigh so heavily on its inventory (Tester & Kulchyski, 1997, p. 77). A letter, May 21st 1945, from Mr. R.H. Chesshire, Manager of the HBC Fur Trade Department, to Mr. Gibson frames this proposal in terms of concern for the nutritional consistence of children’s diets, asking whether “milk, fruit juices, rolled oats, etc., are essential to the good health of the Eskimo children or whether their ‘natural diet’ when obtainable in adequate quantities is not better for them. [….] As far as foods are concerned, why not consider limiting them to cod liver oil, and perhaps dried milk?”57 Inuit children’s nutrition provided a useful mask for operational concerns of government and private sector traders alike. However, suggestions of supporting local harvesting activities to improve child welfare were soon overruled by medical advisors with the Department of National Health and Welfare, led by Dr. Moore, who promoted the superiority of “white man’s food” for infants and young children. These debates, and tensions between Departments, culminated in a meeting in March 1947, as Dr. Moore called key administrators of the Family Allowance program in Arctic Canada together in his Ottawa office.58 Minutes from the meeting recorded by S.J. Bailey (the D.N.H.W.’s director of Family Allowances for the Yukon and N.W.T.) note that Dr. Moore spoke first, arguing against the practice of withholding credits for use in lean times. Instead, Moore argued that Inuit should, like non-Indigenous Canadians, receive a universal payment. At the same time, Moore suggested the program be used to promote Euro-Canadian dietary practices for young children:

57 LAC RG 85. Vol. 1125. File 163-1 Part 1. Letter from RH Chesshire, Manager of the HBC Fur Trade Department, to Mr. Gibson. May 21, 1945. 58 With the DNHW were Dr. W.L. Falconer, Dr. H.W. Lewis, Dr. H.A. Proctor, and S.J. Bailey; with the Department of Mines and Resources were J.G. Wright, and Col. H.C. Craig.

139 [Dr. Moore] felt it would be preferable to institute among the Eskimo the same procedure as is found among all other [C]anadian people as far as F.A.’s are concerned — i.e., that credits should be made available to them as often as is practicable, considering their particular method of living, in order that these younger children may be able to have as nourishing food as it is possible or them to obtain during the long winter months when all they are given to eat after they are weaned is seal meat. Dr. Moore considered that any child’s health would be adversely affected by such a radical change as being fed seal meat directly after having been taken from the breast. 59

On behalf of the Department of Mines and Resources, Assistant Superintendent Mr. J.G. Wright contested Moore’s attribution of child malnutrition to traditional diets, stating that Inuit children are traditionally given nutritious seal meat broth, and suggesting, “the death rate of Eskimo children is most apparent in those areas where European culture has had the greatest impact” and where families are subsisting on “tea and bannock.” At the same time, Wright argued for the continuation of a punitive approach to withholding credits, suggesting it would compel Inuit to trap and maintain more “traditional” food habits. Tester & Kulchyski (1994, p. 83) argue that the position created an impossible set of contradictions: Inuit were to remain self-sufficient and reject Qallunaat foods and technologies, while participating in the white trapping economy that had given rise to many of the conditions of poor health Inuit were experiencing at this time. Behind the scenes, another layer to the conflict played out: Roy Gibson (Department of Mines and Resources) wrote privately to Mr. Wright, suggesting that Dr. Moore had been influenced into expanding the Allowances at Hudson Bay Manager R.H. Chesshire’s urging that “the company would like to see the government a little more generous with the Family Allowance expenditure.”60 In short, the operational concerns of government are difficult to untangle from the business interests of the Hudson’s Bay Company, which in turn shaped their respective positions on how to address reports of malnutrition amongst Inuit children. Yet officials were united in locating deficiencies in Inuit culture, foodways, and parenting, while

59 LAC RG 85. Vol1125. File 163-1. Pt 1A. “Memorandum to Mr. R.B. Curry, National Director of F.A.’s Re: Holding up of credits for Eskimos, by S.J Bailey” March 24, 1947. 60 LAC RG 85. Vol1125. File 163-1. Pt 1A. “Letter from R.A. Gibson to Mr. Wright” March 24, 1947

140 overlooking the role of the accumulative pressures of the fur trade, outbreaks of infectious disease, and growing contact with Qallunaat, in producing conditions of poor health and high rates of mortality.

Figure 5.2 Dr. H.W. Lewis posed showing a canister of Pablum to two Inuit mothers, 1948 Photographer S.J. Bailey titles the photograph, “Propaganda again! – at Repulse Bay.” (S.J. Bailey / Canada. Dept. of Indian and Northern Affairs / LAC / e010983718)61

61 LAC records identify the man in the photograph as Mr. S.J. Bailey; however, corresponding records indicate that Bailey was the trip photographer; elsewhere in the Album, this individual is identified in Bailey’s signed photo captions as Dr. H.W. Lewis of the Department of National Health and Welfare.

141 The exchange in Dr. Moore’s office in 1947 marked the beginning of a shift from policies of enforced protection from ‘modern’ life, towards policies seeking to accelerate Inuit exposure to such trends. Dr. Moore, in favour of engineering a change in Inuit diets, had the final word in the meeting, nominally agreeing with Wright then arguing, “food habits of people are hard to change and that probably now is the time to start inculcating better food habits among this group of people. F.A.s seem to be an ideal implement for purposes of nutritional education.” His perspective was framed by popular beliefs that the meat-rich Inuit diet led to vitamin deficiency (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, Aaniajurlirniq, p. 40). Such ideologically-driven beliefs overwrote prior Qallunaat studies of Inuit nutrition that had already suggested the benefits of a traditional diet, including most famously Vilhjalmur Stefansson’s writing and experiments concerning the traditional Inuit diet in the 1920s, which found the traditional diet prevented symptoms of scurvy common among European explorers (Stefansson, 1935). Instead favouring a change in diet, Dr. Moore argued for an expansion of nursing stations and education materials that would be “not only instructive but inspiring,” and stimulate nurses, RCMP, and post managers “to expend every effort” to address child mortality and malnutrition, instigating a program of intensive tutelage concerning Inuit diets that would particularly target Inuit women. Federal officials proposed an unprecedented intervention in Inuit diets. While Dr. Moore and others with the DNHW compelled a shift towards a universal program of Allowance benefits, like that offered to non-Indigenous Canadian children, they did not consider changing the in-kind delivery of such benefits. Instead, a combined program of “auxiliary feeding and education” was proposed.62 Subsequent internal correspondence from the D.N.H.W. extended arguments that the “crux of the cause of infant mortality” lay in traditional child weaning practices: Plenty of food is not the solution; plenty of the right food probably is. Because of the difficulty in providing proper nourishment to the Eskimo baby at the

62 LAC RG29. Volume/box 2989 File Part 1. “Directions For Feeding Indian Babies”. DNHW Intradepartmental correspondence: Anti and Post Natal Care (Eastern Arctic), from Dr. H.W. Lewis, Regional Superintendent for Eastern Arctic, to Dr. P.E. Moore, Director, Indian Health Services.” Oct 23, 1947.

142 normal weaning time (9th to 12th month) the Eskimo mother is almost forced to continue breast feeding until available native foods can be handled by the growing child. [….] It is hoped that the steps already started to provide auxiliary infant feeding, plus an active educational campaign will do much to help correct this prime cause of early infant death among these people.63

While Inuit were encouraged to continue to hunt and trap to provide for their families, young children would now be weaned onto powdered milk and Pablum baby cereal. Those within government who suggested investing in hunting supplies and activities to improve child mortality and malnutrition were increasingly “seen as hopeless romantics” living in a bygone era (Tester & Kulchyski, 1994, p. 76). Powdered milk and Pablum, in particular, became emblematic of the myth of the superiority of the ‘modern’ diet. The logic applied by Dr. Moore and colleagues marked the continuation of decades of efforts by the dairy industry to marketing modified milk for infant feeding within Canada, promising powdered milk was a healthier and more hygienic alternative to breastfeeding64 (J.C.K., 1914). Questions of the benefit of breast feeding and risks of formula feeding would not be posed for years to come, nor would the marketing of milk to lactose intolerant populations (Duncan & Scott, 1972) – a trend that continues today (see Ch. 6).

63 LAC R227-147-3-E, Volume/box 2989 File Part 1. “Letter from Dr. H.W. Lewis (Regional Superintendent for the Eastern Arctic, Indian Health Services) to R.A. Gibson”. May 17, 1947. 64 An increasingly powerful food and agricultural lobby had long sought new markets for its commodities. An example of the early marketing of milk can be found in the 1914 article published by the Canadian Public Health Association, titled ‘Solving the milk problem,’ which reads “Canada Milk Products intends shortly to inaugurate a publicity campaign, using as a name for the product ‘Klim,’ which, it will be perceived, is ‘milk’ spelled backwards. Modified milk and sweet whey powder are used principally for infant feeding and the company states that it knows of hundreds of recent cases where infants whose lives were despaired have been successfully restored to health. The company further states that it has never known an instance of a normal infant intelligently fed on these products that has not thrived; and that in very numerous cases infants whose digestive organs were greatly impaired by improper foods have been restored to health” (J.C.K., 1914, p. 505). This preceded the formula scandals of the 1970s, when companies like Nestle aggressively marketed formula to mothers across Asia, Africa and Latin America, preying on mothers’ fears to create a need where none had existed, and contributing to malnutrition and diarrheal disease that resulted in widespread declines in breastfeeding, and contributed to child mortality as many infants suffered diarrheal diseases from formula prepared in the absence of safe water (Solomon, 1981).

143

Figure 5.3 Powdered ‘Trumilk’ issued as a Family Allowance credit at Cape Smith, 1948. The manufacturer, The Borden Company, used this picture for advertising purposes, and the Department of National Health and Welfare used it to promote Family Allowances - note poster in background. (S.J. Bailey / Canada. Dept. of Indian and Northern Affairs / LAC / e008446971)

In March 1947 three years after the Family Allowance program was introduced, the federal Department of Health and Welfare and Bureau of the Northwest Territories agreed to introduce Pablum and dried whole milk in the Eastern Arctic under the Family Allowance program. In a letter to Mr. Gibson dated March 28th, 1947, Dr. H.W. Lewis of the DNHW explains that the decision was taken “after consultation with Nutritional and Children specialists.” He suggests that the Hudson’s Bay Company should be requested to stock conservatively, noting:

144 It must be realized that this will be a radical dietetic change for most Eskimo infants and that pressure will have to be exerted to get these primitive people to accept these foods and make proper use of them.65

Mr. Gibson relayed the message to traders, altering Lewis’s rhetoric while maintaining his advice that traders should “encourage the use of these foods recommended by the doctors.”66 In May of 1947, the Department of National Health and Welfare received assurance that the Hudson’s Bay Company would stock Pablum, dry milk and wire whippers to prepare it. In an open circular addressed “to all Serving Eastern Arctic Eskimos” dated June 24 1947, the Department explains the details of the program: The traders of the Eastern Arctic have been requested to stock Dry Milk and Pablum at their posts for the use of Eskimo mothers with small children. It is hoped that this auxiliary feeding will help overcome the prevailing condition of malnutrition in these children and aid in reducing the present high mortality rate. [….] It was for such specific purposes that family allowances were inaugurated and here we have an ideal situation for demonstrating the real worth of this humanitarian legislation.67

Inuit recipients of the new program, meanwhile, did continue to attempt to secure hunting equipment by pooling accumulated Family Allowance credits, integrating the program into the existing Indigenous economy and the production of country food. In the early years of the program, accumulated credits were used to pay for small boats, while Inuit in several

65 LAC R227-147-3-E, Volume/box 2989 File Part 1A. “Letter from Dr. H.W. Lewis (Regional Superintendent for the Eastern Arctic, Indian Health Services) to R.A. Gibson,” March 28, 1947. 66 Gibson alters Lewis’s language, removing the phrase “primitive people,” writing in a June 1947 letter to James Cantley of the Baffin Trading Company, “On the advice of nutritionists it was suggested that Eskimo children should be supplied with dried whole milk and pablum to supplement their native diet. It was felt that this would be a most justifiable charge against family allowance. This year the traders at all posts will carry in stock dried whole milk and pablum. It is, of course, realized that the general use of these foods will constitute a radical change of diet for most eskimo infants and some explanation of the necessity should be given to the parents so that they will accept these foods and make proper use of them for the improvement of the health of their children. Proper preparation of the food is essential. Those in contact with the natives can do much to encourage the use of these foods recommended by the doctors.” (LAC RG 85. Vol1125. File163-1 Pt 1B, “Letter from R. Gibson (Department of Mines and Resources to J. Cantley (Baffin Trading Company).” June 24, 1947). 67 LAC RG29. Volume/box 2989 File Part 1. “Circular: To all Serving Eastern Arctic Eskimos: Auxiliary feeding of small children under Family Allowance Benefits.” April 2, 1947.

145 communities attempted to pool resources and purchase larger ‘Peterhead’ style hunting boats. An example from Clyde River shows that in 1947, a request was made to the Eastern Arctic Patrol to buy a Peterhead boat on Family Allowance credits.68 In Inukjuak, a group of eight Inuit sought to use credits to pay down the balance on an existing Peterhead boat (Tester & Kulchyski, 1994, p. 81). Initially, boats were treated on a case-by-case basis, and supported where they were deemed to improve child nutrition;69 as the program was increasingly consolidated towards imported foods, it is unclear how this policy was applied, though in the Inukjuak case, the boat was refused (Tester & Kulchyski, 1994, p. 82). In a letter to the RCMP commissioner, R.A. Gibson writes: “We do not think that the entire Family Allowance credit should be used up for boats. A reasonable amount should be left for other items which may be required including special foods for infants.”70 The use of Family Allowances for larger boats also appears to have inflamed ideological fears – at least in the popular press – that boats might encourage communist leanings.71

68 LAC RG29. Vol 2874 file 851-1-12 Pt 2A “Report on relief expedition SS North Pioneer to Eastern Arctic by Alexander Stevenson.” Oct. 4. 1947. 69 LAC RG 85. Vol1125. File163-1. Pt 1B, “Letter from R.A. Gibson to Commissioner of RCMP,” April 5, 1947. 70 RG 85. Vol1125. File163-1 Pt 1B, Letter from R.A. Gibson to Commissioner, R.C.M.P., April 5, 1947. 71 A Globe and Mail article dated April 16th 1947, reporting on a Northwest Territories Council meeting that had debated boats, quotes Roy Gibson: “the point is that now some of the Eskimos want to buy a boat. They’re all communists at heart. They want to go out together and the police and traders think it’s a good idea to let them pool their resources.” (LAC RG 85. Vol. 1125. File 163-1. Pt 1B. “Globe and Mail: Eskimos favour pooling cheques for hunting boat” April 16th 1947). Elsewhere Gibson promotes boats, and speaks favorably of encouraging the “communistic spirit” of Inuit (RG 85. Vol1125. File163-1 Pt 1B, Letter from R.A. Gibson to Commissioner, R.C.M.P., April 5, 1947). This reflected a wider trend towards sensationalized media coverage of the issuance of Family Allowances in Inuit and First Nations communities (see Tester & Kulchyski, 1994).

146

Figure 5.4 Inuit men aboard a Peterhead boat near Kangiqsualujjuaq, 1948 (S.J. Bailey / Dept. Indian and Northern Affairs / LAC / e006609878)

While “auxiliary feeding” with imported baby foods marked half of the DNHW’s approach, considerable emphasis was also placed on education. Publicity and propaganda materials of the time promoted these visions of modernization to both the intended Inuit recipients of new state welfare programs, and the general Canadian public. Epitomizing such propaganda is the 1947 Book of Wisdom for Eskimo, a leaflet that reflected the growing federal intervention in Inuit affairs, with sections covering health and disease prevention, wildlife conservation, good housekeeping, and diet (Department of Mines and Resources, 1947). The

147 latter included information on the new Family Allowance program and instructions on how to prepare new foods. In a passage typifying the government’s paternalism towards Inuit, it reads: The King is helping all the children in his lands. He is giving aid to the Eskimo children also and has instructed His servants the Police to proceed in this way [….] The traders are working with the Police to help you and your family. The King has instructed them to issue goods only when it is necessary. He does not wish you to become lazy and expect to receive goods any time. You are to continue to work hard at hunting and trapping, teaching your children to be good hunters and workers. [….] You must work hard to get foxes and food for your family and the King will help you in times of scarcity. In this way Eskimo families will be prosperous, their children will be healthy and everyone will be happy (Department of Mines and Resources, 1947, pp. 19-20).

The printed copies of the Book of Wisdom, including informational drawings and an Inuktitut translation, were printed and sent north for delivery by the 1947 Eastern Arctic Patrol aboard the R.M.S. Nascopie, as it made stops at posts across the Eastern Arctic. However, on its trip northward, the Nascopie ran aground and subsequently sank. Passengers and crew were rescued, but almost the entire print run of the Book of Wisdom was lost at sea. Not to be deterred, the Department ordered a hasty reprint to accompany essential restock materials like food, fuel, and medical supplies on the replacement vessel North Pioneer, with correspondence celebrating the Department’s “considerable pride” that the Book would reach Inuit “on schedule.”72

72 A Departmental press release from August 15th, 1947 reads: “Essential Government supplies lost on the Nascopie were reordered, rushed to Shed [46?], Port of Montreal, and loaded on the vessel which will sail on Saturday, August 16. Not all items lost on the Nascopie could be replaced in time. Much valuable scientific equipment intended for use in the north will be missing, but essential things like food, fuel, clothing, and medical supplies in full measure have been loaded on the North Pioneer. The Department takes considerable pride in announcing that the “Book of Wisdom for Eskimos” will reach all Eskimo families as scheduled. Almost the entire edition of this departmental publication, printed in Eskimo syllabic script, the first of its kind, was lost on the Nascopie. In the brief intervening period a new edition was rushed through and will be distributed by the North Pioneer in the far north and by vessels in Hudson Bay which are taking over the work of the Nascopie” (LAC RG 85 Vol 78 File 201-1 Part 221947, “PRESS RELEASE - Department of Mines and Resources,” Aug. 15. 1947).

148

Figure 5.5 ‘Book of Wisdom’ instructions ‘To all mothers with small children,’ 1947 (Department of Mines and Resources, 1947, p. 28)

Family Allowance posters soon followed, posted at trading posts and the growing number of nursing stations in the Eastern Arctic. They included an updated the list of available rations, added to obligatory supplies of Pablum and milk, that the Northern Administration considered to be of sound nutritional value: Flour, rolled oats, oatmeal, sea biscuits, sugar, corn

149 syrup, molasses, marmalade, jam, eggs, peanut butter, cheese, meat, fruit or juices, tomatoes, vegetables, rice, beans, and salt.73

Figure 5.6 Woman and child looking at Family Allowance poster in Baker Lake, 1949 This photograph was produced by the Eastern Arctic Patrol to promote the Family Allowance program; the original caption by photographer S.J. Bailey reads, “More propaganda.” (S.J. Bailey / Canada. Dept. of Indian and Northern Affairs / LAC / PA-211280)

73 LAC RG85. Vol 269. File Part 1. DNHW bulletins. Canada’s Health and Welfare special supplement number 18, p. 6. No date but from context appears to be 1951.

150 These materials were situated within a growing campaign to ‘spread the gospel of health,’ with popular and political rhetoric that blamed northern Indigenous peoples for their ill health. A copy of Canada’s Health and Welfare magazine supplement from the early 1950s, exemplifying this campaign, reads: Contributing to the ill health of the early Indians and Eskimos was their abject ignorance. Through the efforts of missionaries, traders, the RCMP and the Indian Affairs Branch of the Department of Citizenship and Immigration, this pall of ignorance is gradually being swept away. Education is reaching ever greater numbers of the native population. Through the Indian Affairs Branch and in many cases with the cooperation of provincial authorities, Indian Health Services is spreading the gospel of health.74

The archival record shows that federal officials also preached the benefits of modern foods directly, through visits to Northern settlements. Mr. S.J. Bailey, Regional Director of Family Allowances and official photographer, made several trips north investigating the Family Allowance program and promoting the new Family Allowance foods to Inuit and First Nations communities, visiting the Mackenzie Valley in 1947 (from Fort Smith to Aklavik) and Eastern Arctic in 1948. The national news carried sensationalized updates on Bailey’s travels with guide Hugh Cunningham down the Mackenzie River by 18-foot canoe, depicting poor living conditions amongst Arctic and sub-Arctic peoples, and the benefits of state-led development. A story carried by The Standard, Montreal opens: “Along with their cash benefits, baby bonuses have brought a secondary boon to Canada’s Indians and Eskimos – a new contact with official Ottawa.”75 A 1947 July 26 letter from Dorothea Dewdney, Field Matron at Ft. McPherson, records the fervor of Mr. Bailey’s visit: [T]he meeting at night was Mr. Bailey’s triumph…. the community hall was full, and all the children were there…. He spoke in English with occasional recourse to an interpreter for the benefit of older people. It was a simple pep talk on the family allowance and the need to drink milk. [.…] There is no doubt at all about Mr. Bailey’s success with the people, and about his ability to handle them. I would strongly recommend that he comes down the river again. It is a straight fact that he really has started many more people drinking

74 LAC RG85. Vol 269. File Part 1. DNHW bulletins, “Indian and Eskimo Health”: Canada’s Health and Welfare special supplement number 18, p. 6. No date but from context appears to be 1951. 75 RG 85. Vol1125. File163-1 Pt 1B. “The Wide Open Slums,” The Standard, Sept. 1947.

151 milk, and has given them a much better understanding of the F.A. [Family Allowance].76

Bailey’s subsequent report records some of the issues with the Allowances: with limited personnel, and relying on the RCMP and traders as registrars, many Inuit children remained unregistered. Meanwhile, in the Mackenzie valley, traders were manipulating their records to issue Family Allowance goods in place of relief and circumvent their obligations to grubstake trappers, substituting unapproved items like lard, baking powder, and tea. Mr. Bailey’s report notes, “‘Cooking’ of [Family Allowance] vouchers to a limited extent was admitted by almost every store, Hudson Bay Company or other-wise, from Fort Chipewyan north.” 77 Bailey’s report blames the Indian Agents for hinting at this method of by-passing the regulations, and calls for more publicity on the regulations and the Family Allowance program itself. On receipt of Bailey’s report, R.A. Gibson complained, “Mr. Bailey has not a good word to say what has been done,” but conceded limitations to the current policy approach: Some features have complicated the situation. In the first place we had to make it clear that the grub-staking arrangement with the trading companies and our arrangements for relief did not affect the Family Allowance which was for the benefit of the children. Evidently in some cases, by falsifying accounts, the traders have defeated this object.78

In short, cracks were beginning to appear in the practice of relying on the private sector to deliver a federal social program. While officials with the Department of Mines and Resources conceded limitations to the approach, it would continue largely unchanged in the years to come. Undertaking a similar trip to the Eastern Arctic in 1948 aboard the new Eastern Arctic Patrol ship M.V. Regina Polaris, S.J. Bailey produced what he describes in his captions as “propaganda” photographs, illustrating the success of the program for the Department of

76 RG 85. Vol1125. File163-1 Pt 1B. “Supplementary report of the field matron, Ft. McPherson, NWT, from Mrs. Dorthea Dedney, Field Matron”. July 26, 1947. 77 RG 85. Vol1125. File163-1. Pt 1B. Letter from R.B. Curry to R.A. Gibson enclosing File of Memorandum of SJ Bailey visit to the Mackenzie River District. September, 1947. 78 RG 85. Vol1125. File163-1 Pt 1B. Letter from R.A. Gibson to Mr. Meikle, Sept. 27, 1947.

152 National Health and Welfare.79 In staged photographs, Inuit children drink milk; mothers serve modern foods, with cans of Klim brand milk and Pablum in the foreground; post managers and their wives dispense powdered ‘Tru-milk’ to Inuit families; and Qallunaat are depicted as saviours of Inuit children.80 Alongside promoting powdered milk and Pablum, Bailey was to investigate the potential for distribution of other new nutritious foods, including a concoction named “Bannock Mix 10” prepared with powdered milk and powdered egg. Bailey photographed the final result before a canister of “Soluble Spray Egg,” and in his caption claims he found the product “much lighter and tastier, besides being more nutritious.”81 Other feedback to the Department from its field agents was more circumspect, stating that the product was “rubbery and did not look pleasing.”82 The Department of Mines and Resources also embarked on a multi-year long search for a cheaper replacement for pablum, testing and rejecting various experimental foods, including ‘Lactomeal,’ a mix of oatmeal with powdered milk developed by the DNHW’s Nutrition Division,83 and ‘crumbled muffets,’ byproducts of a Quaker Oats Company breakfast cereal.84 Such efforts were situated against the rise of nutrition science, as products were tested and re- engineered for their nutritional composition, as well as easy shipment and shelf stability. Companies like Quaker expressed keen interest in securing lucrative federal contracts, though its crumbled muffets were rejected on the grounds of both nutritional value and texture.85

79 LAC RG85. Vol 269. File Part 1. DNHW bulletins. Canada’s Health and Welfare special supplement number 18, p. 6. No date but from context appears to be 1951. 80 LAC R216. Volume/box number 14977. “Album 38, Eastern Arctic Patrol.” 1948. 81 LAC R216. Album 37 Eastern Arctic Patrol. Photograph 75, caption by SJ Bailey. 1949. 82 LAC RG 85. Vol 98. File 252-1-2[2]. "Eskimo Nutrition Study – NWT." File 252-1-2 [2]. 1948-49. 83 LAC RG29. Volume/box 2989 File Part 1. “Directions For Feeding Indian Babies.” Letter from Dr. L.B. Pett (DNHW) to Dr. P.E. Moore (DNHW) Re: Lactomeal.” Feb 12, 1948 84 LAC RG29. Volume/box 2989 File Part 1. “Directions For Feeding Indian Babies.” Letters from J.G. Wharry, Vice President, Quaker Oat Company to Dr. P.E. Moore (DNHW), January 21 & 22, 1948. 85 In correspondence between January and February, 1948, Dr. Moore approached the Quaker Oat company about the potential development of a cheaper alternative to Pablum. J.D. Wharry (Vice President, Quaker Oats) replied, “I want you to know, Dr. Moore, we are very definitely interested in your inquiry…” and proposed several options, including the byproducts of Muffets

153 Following S.J. Bailey’s 1948 voyage aboard the Regina Polaris, his photographs appeared in the popular press, documenting the benefits of the Allowances for Inuit children. Several of appear in a 1949 issue of Canada’s Health and Welfare magazine (Vol. 4, No. 5, February 1949). Its cover shows a young Inuk girl drinking a large glass of milk. Bailey’s original caption for the photograph reads: Family Allowances is a good educational medium through which is being inculcated a taste for more nutritious foods in the north. Milk is becoming a basic requirement for all families. If this was all Family Allowances had done, it would have proved its value.86

However, expanding the consumption of milk was not all the program would do; it soon had more far-reaching effects, becoming both a catalyst for, and inextricable from, the expanding presence of the colonial state throughout the 1950s and 60s.87

5.4 Centralization and the welfare state Political shifts following World War II dramatically reversed Northern policy from the prior Doctrine of Dispersal towards a policy of centralization. As the Cold War escalated, questions of Arctic sovereignty took on new significance, and expanding Canada’s presence in the Arctic through permanent settlements became a strategic priority for the government (Abele, 2009). Growing public concern in the wake of reports of malnutrition and starvation conditions in the Barren grounds translated into arguments for expanding the federal program of centralization, with permanent settlements argued to best facilitate the provision of social services (Bone, 2012). In the decades that followed, the federal government made decisions about how Inuit cereal, and pressurized tins of rolled oats that had done well in other colonial contexts (India, South Africa, Central and South America). (LAC RG29. Volume/box 2989 File Part 1. “Directions For Feeding Indian Babies”). 86 LAC R216. Volume/box number 14977. “Album 38, Eastern Arctic Patrol.” Photograph 154 (50-1). 1948. 87 A memorandum from February 7th, 1945 by H.C. Craig foreshadowed the profound intervention in Inuit lives, reading, “If the existing departmental field and office organization is not adequate to properly assume the duties and obligations necessitated by the administration of the Family Allowance Act in the Northwest Territories, it will be essential to expand this organization…” (LAC RG 85. Vol1125. File163-1 Part 1, “Memorandum in reply to Mr. Gibson from H.C. Craig, Treasury Officer, Bureau of NWT and Yukon Affairs,” February 7, 1945).

154 should live in the new communities and promoted sweeping changes in Inuit lives that would range from interventions in health and education to the minutia of housekeeping, child care, and food preparation, all without Inuit say in these decisions (see Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, pp. 101-103, 106-108). In Inuktitut, this time period is described by the Qikiqtani Truth Commission as Sangussaqtauliqtilluta, or “when we started to be actively persuaded (or made to) detour (or switch modes)”, and subsequently, Nunalinnguqtitauliqtilluta, “the time when we were actively (by outside force) formed into communities” (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, p. 9). The push for centralization gained momentum throughout the 1950s and 60s. It was not a coherent federal policy, but rather a rapidly evolving shift in priorities that produced a series of contradictory directives, as Inuit were first discouraged from settling near trade posts, and then instructed to do so (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, 2013b). In some regions, Inuit who had been prohibited from settling near trade posts under the Doctrine of Dispersal moved to access services and pursue economic opportunities (for a more comprehensive review of centralization and migration, see Damas, 2002). However, centralization occurred amidst profoundly unequal relations of power, and was encouraged directly and indirectly with government promises of housing, education and health care, and was carried out under the authority of government agents including the R.C.M.P. (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a). The Government of Canada, like the Hudson’s Bay Company before, was responsible for numerous forced relocations in the 1950s, moving Nunavik Inuit to the High Arctic, and relocating the Ahiarmiut from the area in the interior of the Kivalliq region multiple times, resulting in conditions of starvation (Damas, 2002; Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a; Tester & Kulchyski, 1994). These relocations were legitimized in the name of improving hunting conditions, while their failure underwrote new rounds of intervention and relocation. For details on these histories of relocation, starvation, and social policy, see Tester & Kulchyski (1994). Centralization had profound implications for the Inuit food system. Settlement locations selected for the convenience of Qallunaat administrators and traders were rarely ideal harvesting sites for food, and concentrated hunting pressure on what species were available,

155 producing a strong local harvesting shadow (Bone, 2012). The killing of qimmiit (dogs) by the RCMP in newly centralized communities, under the Territory’s Ordinance Respecting Dogs, resulted in the loss of autonomy and the principle means of transportation for hunting; this policy and its devastating consequences are examined in depth by the Qikiqtani Truth Commission’s investigation of Inuit experiences of colonization in the post-war period (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, 2013b). The Commission’s work shows that regardless of the stated intentions of the Ordinance, the killing of dogs had devastating consequences for Inuit families, who, with the loss of mobility, became more dependent on (often insufficient) store bought food and federal social programs. More broadly, the Commission found that the killing of qimmiit was situated within Canada’s assertion of political control over the Arctic in the absence of Inuit political representation or say in profound changes in their lives (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, 2013b). As centralization undermined access to local foods, imported food was deployed as both currency and enticement. The federal government’s promise of Family Allowances and relief in lean times served as an incentive for Inuit families to move into permanent settlements (Hughes et al., 1965). Federal officials also used the food Allowances instrumentally to compel parents to send their children to school. The Family Allowance Act (as amended February 1, 1947) disqualified parents from receiving the Allowance if they did not send their children to school or ensure they received equivalent training. The Department of Mines and Resources had previously considered hunting and trapping “equivalent training” for Inuit children in the Eastern Arctic.88 However, with more schools built in centralized settlements in the 1950s, RCMP officers increasingly instructed Inuit parents that if they did not send children to school, Family Allowance payments would be withheld (Berger, 1977, p. 170; Coates, 1985, p. 188; Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, 2013b; Tester & Kulchyski, 1994, p. 89). The policies of centralization and mandatory school attendance were closely interlinked, as entire families

88 In response to an inquire from S.J. Bailey, R.A. Gibson writes, “in the case of children who will live the lives of Indians and Eskimos, training in hunting and trapping is just as essential to their welfare as another form of training, and is, therefore, considered equivalent training by this Administration” (LAC RG 85. Vol1125. File163-1. Pt 1A. “Re: School Attendance in N.W.T. and Y.T., letter from R.A. Gibson to S.J. Bailey” March 1, 1947).

156 moved into newly centralized settlements so that parents could remain with children (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, 2013b). By 1951-52, Family Allowances had overtaken furs as the primary source of income for Inuit in much of the Northwest Territories (Damas, 2002, p. 111). In the new wave of acculturative policy approaches surrounding centralization, the Family Allowance program continued to be treated as a means to inculcate Euro-Canadian norms concerning diet and nutrition, breastfeeding and child weaning, and gender and family roles. Messages concerning nutrition and diet were reinforced with messages about the use of newly constructed houses, for example promoting designated mealtimes and place settings.89 Interventions focused particularly on the roles of women as homemakers, fitting within broader shifts in Canadian society, as gender roles that had expanded in wartime again contracted. This included the establishment of a rehabilitation centre in Iqaluit in 1959, teaching classes in home economics (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b). While food was instrumental to school attendance, diet was also to be a central focus of education. In his report from the Eastern Inspection Flight in 1950, S.J. Bailey called for education that would include “training in the care of the home” alongside “[c]leanliness, and in particular proper diet” (Damas, 2002, p. 124) – language that matched that used in southern Canada by advocates of residential schools (Kelm, 1996). Such interventions reflected a sustained and expanding effort to reshape all aspects of Inuit family life and parenting – particularly maternal care. By the mid 1950s, Family Allowances were issued as store credit, which could be spent at the trade post but remained restricted to inventory the Department of National Health and Welfare deemed suitable to improve the nutritional welfare of children, such as flour, oats, and tinned meat, reinforcing the Department’s position that Inuit could not be trusted to manage their own affairs (Tester & Kulchyski, 1994, p. 341). Correspondence between the trading

89 A subsequent example that exemplifies the integration of food and housing interventions can be found in a booklet titled Living in the new houses, produced by the Department of Indian Affairs and Northern Development in 1970. It instructs: “The body is like an engine. It needs fuel to work. Fuel for the body is found in the foods we eat. Engines need oil to keep them running smoothly; our bodies need certain foods to keep them working well. Engines cannot repair worn-out parts. Our bodies can use the food we eat to repair worn-out body tissue. Good food helps children to grow in size and feel well. Well children do better at school” (Department of Indian Affairs and Northern Development, 1970, p. 7).

157 companies and D.N.H.W. celebrated the program as a success, particularly with regards to increased consumption of dairy milk. In a letter in January 1955, R.H. Chesshire (Manager, Hudson’s Bay Company) reassures Dr. P.E. Moore (D.N.H.W.) of the benefits of the program, writing: No pablum and powdered milk were used by the Eskimo before Family Allowances and neither of these items were stocked by us at our Arctic Posts. […] Powdered milk has been most beneficial and its use is on the increase from year to year. Eskimo parents not only welcome it on Family Allowance issues but purchase additional quantities themselves with income other than Family Allowance payments. The advent of Family Allowance has been a great boon to the Eskimo and the health of the small children has undoubtedly improved since milk and pablum has been a regular part of their diet.90

Family Allowances continued to be the subject of ongoing and sometimes fractious divisions internal to government, including tensions between the Northern Administration, RCMP, and Department of Health and Welfare over the administration of the program. By 1960, these tensions produced a compromise, whereby some Inuit would be paid directly by cheque, while some would continue to be paid ‘in trust,’ a move reflecting the shift towards assimilationist policies of “guided integration of Inuit into Canadian society and economy” (Tester & Kulchyski, 1994, p. 342). The interwoven policies of centralization, compulsory school attendance, and “guided integration” were situated within wider ideologies of both economic modernization and assimilation, backed by expanding government control. Mainstream scientific and political thought in the 1950s and 60s suggested Inuit subsistence livelihoods would inevitably wither and disappear following centralization of communities, to be supplanted by waged employment and a market economy (see for example Hughes et al., 1965; Murphy & Steward, 1956). Acculturative social development policies now sought to speed up this process, with the promise that economic modernization would be fulfilled by resource extraction, most notably through the mining and oil and gas industries, that in turn would deliver national economic benefits (Abele, 2009; Brody, 1975; Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, p. 12; Usher et al., 2003,

90 RG29. Volume/box 2989 File Part 1. “Directions For Feeding Indian Babies”. “Letter from R.H. Chesshire (HBC) to Dr. P.E. Moore (DNHW)” January 13, 1955.

158 p. 117). With this shift came a change in language, away from ‘civilizing’ endeavors towards ‘northern development,’ reflecting the increasingly popular belief, beginning in the 1950s, that the future of Canada lay in the North. The Qikiqtani Truth Commission (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, The official mind of Canadian Colonialism, p. 11) describes this shift: By the 1960s, [remote officials] were no longer speaking about civilizing ‘primitive’ people; they were describing their intentions to promote community development by delivering universal social programs, new technologies, and investments that would benefit both Inuit and southern Canadians. However, most of their investments did not yield an immediate financial return. Furthermore, this desire to benefit Inuit was imposed by outsiders in the name of Canada and its cultural norms. It largely denied Inuit opportunities to define the main problems as they saw them or to apply traditional environmental knowledge or Inuit Qaujimajatuqangit to the search for solutions.

While efforts to modernize the Inuit economy and food system largely focused on expanding Inuit labour in extractive industries and dependence on imported foods, there were also modest attempts to develop agricultural and livestock industries in newly centralized settlements – many of which exemplify the limited returns on investments and promised benefits that the Q.T.C. describes above. Agricultural endeavors were more prevalent in the Western Arctic, where mission farms had operated from the early 19th century onward,91 but by the early 1960s these efforts extended to the Eastern Arctic also. Charles Hughes’ (1965, p. 23)

91 The earliest farmers in northern Canada were Roman Catholic priests and missionaries, followed by Anglicans, as well as traders of the Northwest Company and HBC. They were gardening at missions and trade posts up and down the Mackenzie Valley as far back as the 1820s, with large areas under cultivation were in Fort Simpson, Fort Liard, and Fort Providence (Territorial Farmers Association, 1995). Missionaries and traders used sled dogs to pull ploughshares. They produced seasonal crops like barley, potatoes, turnips, and cabbage, largely for domestic consumption to supplement imported food supplies. The Department of Agriculture also supported ‘garden trials’ by Roman Catholic Missions along the Mackenzie valley as early as 1911 (Territorial Farmers Association, 1995). Subsequently, gardens were built to accompany mission hospitals and residential schools. We know from the Truth and Reconciliation Commission that such production provided an impoverished diet for many students, and that these farms relied on child labour. In some, proceeds of agricultural production were sold to help fund schools (Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada, 2015).

159 seminal paper, Under Four Flags, takes note of various government-sponsored efforts to bring agricultural production to the Eastern Arctic, including the (failed) sheep-rearing project near Fort Chimo (Kuujjuaq). Today, the passage reads as colonial folly: Along with husbanding traditional sources of food – the sea and land mammals – steps are being taken to develop new industries in the North [....] Findlay (1957) reports the beginning of an experiment in sheep raising near Ft. Chimo [….]. This program, however, fell prey to ‘hungry sled dogs of the Eskimos’ (Jenness 1961:9). Possibilities of domesticating the musk ox and introduction of the yak into the Arctic have also been studied; and the attempts to develop herding of reindeer as a more reliable source of meat than the wandering caribou has been attempted but ‘has not been an unqualified success’ (Nicholson, 1959:22).

Other records also show similarly short-lived attempts at agricultural production. Chicken and pig farming operations were later attempted in , with animals fed mash and fish; a 1995 report from the Territorial Farmers Association states, “This project did not work out so well, as the meat from these swine had a distinctly fishy odour” (Territorial Farmers Association, 1995, p. 11). The Department of Agriculture established research stations in Fort Simpson, Kuujjuak, and Inuvik in the 1960s, to test the potential for growing crops, sharing results with prospective Northern farmers in publications like Gardening on Permafrost (Department of Agriculture, 1970). These followed smaller scale experiments, primarily by priests and mission stations, in the 1950s and 60s, including a lettuce garden established by Paulatuk priest Father Dehautevahn (Territorial Farmers Association, 1995, p. 11) and garden and chicken rearing experiments at , where the Roman Catholic mission had chickens and a greenhouse growing products like potatoes to feed the hospital, mission, and residential school in the 1950s and 60s (Laugrand & Oosten, 2019, pp. 288, 299). Following such attempts, a greenhouse also began operation in Iqaluit, growing crops like cabbage.92 While centralization brought about unprecedented government intervention in Inuit ways of life, the overarching paternalism of the 1950s and 1960s also conceals the origins of the

92 Photographs of Iqaluit’s greenhouse are held in the Nunatta Sunakkutaangit Museum photographic collection in Iqaluit, NU, dated to the mid 1970s. At the time these materials were reviewed, the museum was in the process of revising its system of organization, and it is not possible to provide a document number.

160 Inuit movement for self-determination and self-government, as Inuit contested the notions of progress put forward by the Northern Administration and its agents. Among the topics of concern was harvesting and food production, and the role these activities played in securing a good life. The tenth meeting of the Eskimo Affairs Committee in 1959, which for the first time included Inuit delegates, records comments of Mr. John Ayaruark, of Rankin Inlet, spoken before an audience that included Prime Minister Diefenbaker; Minister of Northern Affairs, Alvin Hamilton; and author Farley Mowat (as quoted in Tester & Kulchyski, 1994, pp. 347-348): He [Ayaruark] pointed out that, like the white man, the Eskimo had his own ideas about what he wanted to do with his life and his homeland, and the wishes of the Eskimo people should be respected. [….] He called for an organization to be set up along co-operative lines whereby people of the community who were free to hunt would be able to provide food for the wage-employed. At the same time, the skills of the employed could in turn produce goods for the benefit of the hunters. [….] The people wanted to know how to organize their lives in order both to hunt and to work. Now some of the people were confused and despondent simply because they did not know what was expected of them. This despondency was sometimes mistaken for laziness but it could be removed by a practical arrangement whereby men of the community could live together and decide who should play what part in providing ‘those things considered good’

As the colonial state bureaucracy expanded, new Inuit organizations responded to and opposed southern control over Inuit affairs, forming in political organizations that would ultimately contribute to the negotiation of comprehensive land claims agreements and the movement for self-government that accelerated throughout the 1970s. The late 1960s also saw the process of devolution to the Government of the Northwest Territories begin, as the Territorial government assumed responsibilities for a wide range of health and social programs, introducing a new set of relationships and intersections between food and social policy. These topics, beyond the current scope of analysis, deserve further attention in their own right. At the same time, many of the changes resulting in the contemporary mixed food system, and indeed issues of food insecurity, were set in motion in the early years of the Government Era. By the end of the 1960s, the vast majority of Inuit were living in communities where a main source of food was the supermarket (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b), introducing new reliance on cash income and the commodified food system. Much of the

161 nutritional advice of the post-war era would be reversed in years to come, as health authorities renewed emphasis on the importance of breastfeeding to reduce infant mortality (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b), and began promoting consumption of country food – a shift that, in turn, obscured the role that government policy had in undermining these practices in years prior (Burnett et al., 2016).

5.5 Discussion: Secular missionaries and the ‘gospel of health’ Existing literature on colonization and food in Canada has drawn attention to the use of food as an instrument of colonial power, coercion, and compliance in the settlement of Southern Canada. The later expansion of control by the colonial state in the Eastern Arctic has typically been overlooked, in part inspired by beliefs that the social policies of the liberal welfare state had a “more benign face” (Tester & Kulchyski, 1994, p. 4) and that the post-war era marked a new chapter in Indigenous-state relations (Burnett et al., 2016). The analysis in this chapter, and related ethnohistorical work cited throughout, shows that in the Eastern Arctic, food rations were also fundamental to colonization and federal control, including the instrumental use of food as a tool of enticement towards policies of centralization and school attendance in the post-war era. A close reading of the manner in which Family Allowances were administered shows that Inuit were also subject to treatment as ‘wards of the crown’ under the Indian Act, exemplifying institutionalized paternalism that denied Inuit the right to determine the course of their own lives. While imported foods became a significant medium of colonial authority, other interventions undermined the traditional food system, restricting harvesting and mobility essential to the Indigenous food system and economy. What is distinct from earlier colonial encounters in Southern Canada is the degree to which many such actions were undertaken and legitimized in the name of modernization, progress, health, and safety – universalizing ideologies that depoliticized the expanding control and authority of the colonial state.93 The expansion of colonial authority unfolded in an era

93 The use of this rhetoric is certainly not unique to Inuit Nunangat. Many studies that have noted is common across colonial contexts for the external power to believe it “has a mission to

162 marked by a liberal social welfare state that relied more heavily on these high modernist ideologies than its predecessors, seeking to modernize and assimilate Inuit into Canadian dominion with the promise of a better life (Tester & Kulchyski, 1994, p. 4). Indeed, the correspondence of many of the bureaucrats involved in implementing the Family Allowance program appeals to hopes that it would address high rates of infant mortality and “demonstrate the humanitarian potential” of the program (see above). Yet benevolent ideals were pursued in the absence of Inuit involvement in decision making or opportunities to define problems and shape solutions, and were inextricable from widespread racist attitudes of cultural superiority. The handling of the Family Allowance policy as a matter of wardship marked not only a southern intervention in the Inuit food system, but more broadly, implied that Inuit mothers did not know how to feed their children, and perpetuated a myth of “the Qallunat as a beneficial ‘saviour’ of poor, starving (and unknowledgeable) people” (Tester and Kulchyski, 1994, p. 76). Inuit women were particularly targeted by gendered policies that discounted women’s knowledge of how to feed and raise children, and treated Inuit women as incapable mothers. These ideas rooted in both sexism and racism form part of the persistent construction of Indigenous women as unfit mothers (Walters, 2012), a construction that formed wider arguments for removing Indigenous children from their mothers’ care (Kelm, 1996). These prejudices are evident in suggestions in the late 1940s and early 1950s that the traditional Inuit diet and poor maternal health were the sources of child malnutrition. Attributing child malnutrition to Inuit mothers’ care and traditional diets not only undermined Inuit parenting and foodways, but in turn obscured the wider realities of colonialism: the devastation and high mortality wrought by infectious diseases introduced through colonization, colonial policies that had restricted access to country food, and structural economic conditions that had privileged the accumulation of fur trade companies over Indigenous economic interests. Social policy oriented towards addressing food and health

provide a more secure present and future for the indigenous people of less developed or ‘backward’ regions” (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, The official mind of Canadian Colonialism, p. 15). Yet as others have noted, the degree to which policies appealed to and rested on these ideologies was distinct (Tester & Kulchyski, 1994).

163 issues at the level of individual behaviour and education in turn left the underlying economic relationships between Inuit, the private sector, and the state largely unchanged. The Hudson’s Bay Company in particular continued to hold tremendous power over Inuit, and successfully reconfigured its business model from furs to purveyor of groceries and imported goods, profiting from expanded transfer payments. Tester and Kulchyski (1994, p. 84) explain: The presence of the HBC and the logic behind the accumulation of wealth by the company, with Inuit bearing the social costs of this accumulation, was taken as a given. The task of those formulating government policy was to accommodate ‘The Bay.’ The result was distorted policy that couldn’t begin to deal with the serious problems of Inuit health and welfare developing at the time.

Questioning the presence and authority of the trade companies – companies at the very crux of colonial accumulation and occupation – appeared to be as unthinkable to the government as raising questions about Canada’s claim to Inuit Nunangat. Instead, Ottawa attempted work arounds to retain control and circumvent the profit-seeking behaviour of trading companies, for example through in-kind payment of Family Allowances, and intra- departmental correspondence about who might have sympathies with trading companies (see above). The social costs of the HBC and its competitors’ operations were overlooked, and the Dominion Government relied on this private sector to deliver a social welfare program from which it directly benefited as its profits from the fur trade fell. Expressed concerns about Inuit health and nutrition (dietary consistency of children, Inuit food habits) masked business interests of trading companies, power struggles between the various Departments involved in social programs concerning food, and the overarching expansion of government control over Inuit Nunangat. The health effects of these policy interventions were far-reaching. The Qikiqtani Truth Commission reports that the rate of infant mortality actually increased in the late 1940s and early 1950s, due to infectious diseases like TB and the decline in the proportion of mothers breastfeeding (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, Aaniajurlirniq, p. 40). The discouragement of breastfeeding and increase in bottle feeding was also shown in the decades to follow to contribute to inner ear infections amongst Inuit children (Tester & Kulchyski,1994, p, 67), while globally, it has been shown to contribute to poorer health outcomes for children (Solomon,

164 1981). The extensive promotion of dairy milk to populations with high rates of ‘lactose intolerance’ likely contributed to widespread digestive suffering (Duncan & Scott, 1972; Kelm, 1998).94 Today, the ‘nutrition transition’ towards increased consumption of processed foods and a ‘western diet’ is widely understood to contribute to population health issues disproportionately experienced by Indigenous peoples, including obesity, diabetes, and poor dental health (see for example Egeland, 2011; Gracey & King, 2009; Kuhnlein et al., 2004). More broadly, of course, food is at the heart of family life, parenting, social relationships and culture, all of which came under the scrutiny of Southern officials, nurses, and teachers, with far reaching effects. The Qikiqtani Truth Commission (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, Aaniajurlirniq, p. 39) explains: As a result of sustained Qallunaat contact, access to food changed, hunting patterns were affected, and transformations in diet and the nutritional content had major effects on the health and well-being of individuals.

Throughout the early years of the Government Era, Inuit families continued to pursue their own ideas for “those things considered good,” and for how new technologies and connections to non-Inuit society might be integrated into their livelihoods and ways of life. They advocated for policies that would meet their needs, and address problems as they saw them, for example seeking to invest in equipment that would facilitate harvesting and the maintenance of the Indigenous economy; petitioning the Eastern Arctic Patrol to send word to Ottawa about what materials might be most suitable under the Family Allowance credit; and using tokenistic invitations to participate in Southern institutions like the Eskimo Affairs Committee to speak to the right to determine their own lives and futures (as described above). Yet they did so amidst profound imbalances in power and with limited avenues of political

94 Kelm (1998, p. 37 as cited also in Burnett et al, 2016, footnote 2030) writes that for Indigenous peoples, “milk was hardly the miracle food of contemporary European-Canadian public health tracts. Instead, it was a source of abdominal pain and diarrhea. Euro-Canadian culinary imperialism, then, simply did not sit well in Aboriginal stomachs.”

165 representation; regardless of its intentions or stated goals, the control and authority of the Government of Canada remained absolute. These encounters – and how policymakers and medical advisors understood their own work – can best be understood not in isolation, but as part of the persistent orientation of Qallunaat and the colonial state towards Inuit and the Arctic. This orientation includes both unquestioned sovereign control over Inuit Nunangat, and practices of what might be described as ‘secular missionization’ directed towards Inuit. The literature on missionization has focused overwhelmingly on the practices of religious (primarily Christian) missionaries, yet missionization can be conceptualized more broadly. In its dictionary definition, missionization denotes mission work; the setting out of a group of people or ambassadors abroad (that is, outside their own cultural context), and the intensive spreading or preaching of a gospel or ‘word,’ for the purpose of salvation (OED, 2002). Stripped of its religious connotation, missionization describes the process at play in the Eastern Arctic in the Government Era: The sending of patrols, medical professionals, nurses, teachers, police and traders to spread or preach the good word (whether on conserving wildlife or caring for rifles or consuming dairy milk) for the purposes of salvation (from death and disease and impoverishment). The idea that, in working to ‘spread the gospel of health,’ government officials took up the role missionaries had served in years prior is not new; Hugh Brody (1975, p. 116) drew parallels between the missionary work of government agents and the Roman Catholic and Anglican priests who came before in his 1975 book, The People’s Land, observing the shared missionary impulse to ‘improve, save, and civilize.’ Historian Mary-Ellen Kelm (1996, p. 61) draws parallels between health education in Canadian residential schools and the pattern of cultural invasion of missionaries, arguing that just as Indigenous peoples were “told they must… abandon their own spirituality in order to gain entrance to the Christian heaven, health educators now demanded that Native people recast their own families according to the new health rules of the dominant culture to gain entrance to the ‘Kingdom of Health.’” The individual bureaucrats who so deeply shaped the trajectory of the Northern Administration in Inuit Nunangat, such as Dr. Percy Moore, have been remembered for their “powerful sense of

166 mission” in the face of criticism over uncompromising approaches, including T.B. evacuations (Nixon, 1989, p. 167). Secular missionization describes the particular form that colonial authority took in the early years of the Government Era in the Eastern Arctic, both ideological and operational. The colonial state, while a singular political authority, was not a monolith in its day-to-day functioning: it included internal contradictions, conflicts, and struggles between individual leaders and departments, as exemplified in the encounter that took place in Dr. Moore’s office in 1947 between the Department of National Health and Welfare, and the Department of Mines and Resources; or indeed in the conflicting views on ‘wardship’ of Major D.L. McKeand and Col. H.C. Craig, all further animated by the chain of command of the bureaucracy. However, across these divisions, the government’s orientation towards Inuit and the North cohered around shared ideologies of improvement, health, and modernization. Operationally, secular missionization describes the process through which the state exercised authority: spreading and preaching those benefits by a growing bureaucratic apparatus comprising nurses, teachers, Northern officers, and medical advisors evangelizing a new program of health directly, as S.J. Bailey did in his repeated travels North. As the Book of Wisdom (1947, p. 20) promises, by following its word, “Eskimo families will be prosperous, their children will be healthy and everyone will be happy.” The connotation of missionization captures not only these activities and ideals of colonial authorities, but the power relations at play within them. As Tania Li (2007, p. 5) writes in her book The Will To Improve on colonial governance in Indonesia, “Whatever the response, the claim to expertise in optimizing the lives of others is a claim to power, one that merits careful scrutiny.” The form that colonial control took in Inuit Nunangat, in the interlinked missionizing bureaucracies claiming to improve Inuit lands, lives, and health, was central to the claim to sovereignty and attempts to legitimize colonization and control. As elsewhere in Canada, Euro-Canadian policies and programs displaced Indigenous knowledge about health with treatments that were intended to prove the benefits of assimilation (Kelm, 1998; Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b, Aaniajurliriniq: Health Care in Qikiqtaaluk, p. 11).

167 Among other things, the missionary psyche may offers one explanation for why agricultural production in the Arctic has remained such a persistent fantasy of the Euro- Canadian imagination. For missionaries, whose very presence in the Arctic was inextricable from efforts to ‘save’ a cultural other and find redemption, mission gardens were pursued against the backdrop of Christian imagery of the Garden of Eden, bounty of the God-given harvest, and the desire for salvation. In his seminal report on the Mackenzie Valley Pipeline Inquiry, Justice Thomas Berger (Berger, 1977, p. 85) notes the religious connotations of agriculture and the origins of the sense of mission, describing the differences with which white settlers and Northern Indigenous peoples approached the Arctic: At the heart of the difference was land. To white Europeans, the land was a resource waiting to be settled and cultivated. They believed that it was a form of private property, and that private property was linked to political responsibility. This political theory about land was coupled with religious and economic assumptions. Europeans believed that the conditions for civilized existence could be satisfied only through the practice of the Christian religion and cultivation of the land. As an early missionary phrased it, ‘Those who come to Christ turn to agriculture.’ To the Europeans, the native people’s use of the land, based upon hunting and gathering, was extravagant in extent and irreligious in nature. But to the native people, the land was sacred, the source of life and sustenance, not a commodity to be bought and sold. [….] It was to be the white man’s mission not only to tame the land and bring it under cultivation, but also to tame the native people and bring them within the pale of civilization. This sense of mission has remained the dominant theme in the history of white-native relations.

As missionary presence gave way to secular authorities, agricultural production continued to represent progress towards an ideal form. Operating within a cultural paradigm that increasingly understand hunting as an ‘anti-modern’ way of life, agricultural production represented progress, mastery, and the improvement of both land and peoples – even as so many agricultural interventions were doomed to fail, and “sheep fell prey to hungry sled dogs” (Hughes, 1965, p. 23). Euro-Canadian cultural ideals continued to shape secular notions of community and economic development, including the belief in land as God-given, and the

168 understanding that humans have dominion over land for the purposes of its improvement.95 Where there was no hope of agricultural production, the mission to improve land and people remained unchanged, taking the form of bringing furs, then oil and gas and minerals, to market (Berger, 1977). Meanwhile, the mission of advancing the economic modernization reflected (now contested) theories of social evolution towards a market ideal that posited the inevitable collapse of subsistence and Indigenous economies (Kuokkanen, 2011). These abstractions – modernity, economic development, improvement – are at their most legible in the food system and food-related interventions. They are embodied in certain types of foods (powdered milk, Pablum) that were touted as ‘cleaner’ and ‘more hygienic’ improvements on breast milk and country food. The wider political economy is similarly legible: The tremendous and joint power of the state and the fur trade companies over Inuit lives is evident in close correspondence between federal administrators and trading company officials like R.H. Chesshire and James Cantley (indeed, Cantley would soon defect to the Northern Administration), including letters soliciting feedback from the private sector – but not Inuit – on new food interventions, and sincere suggestions that responsibility for determining what and when Inuit would eat be handed over to The Hudson’s Bay Company. Likewise, the wider shift towards a commodity food system is evident in the petitions Ottawa received from companies like Quaker Oats, seeking to find new markets for unsalable byproducts like crumbled muffets, and seeing in Indigenous children the potential for profit. In short, food was a critical medium of colonization in the Eastern Arctic – and this history is inextricably linked to contemporary issues of food insecurity.

5.6 Chapter conclusion: ‘We cannot be told what to eat’ In food protests organized through the grassroots group Feeding My Family that expanded rapidly across Nunavut in 2012, one of the signs held by protesters read, “we cannot be told what to eat” (Bell, 2012; CBC News, 2012b). The significance of this message can be better

95 These ideas of dominion and property relations to land are rooted deeply in European cultural history, for example expressed in John Locke’s seminal 1690 essay, On Property within The Second Treatise on Government.

169 understood in light of histories of colonization, coercion, and tutelage concerning Inuit foodways and diets, from the treatment of Inuit as ‘wards of the crown’ under the Family Allowance program beginning in the 1940s, to the drastic changes in the food system that took place in the decades that followed. Inuit had no say in these interventions in the food system; instead, in offices in Ottawa, it was debated whether canned tomatoes were a viable foodstuff for the Arctic; how best to distribute thousands of wire whippers to Inuit mothers across the Eastern Arctic; and whether Lactomeal, Soluble Spray Egg, and Bannock Mix No. 10 would improve the health and lives of Inuit children. The 2012 protests similarly expressed concern over whether the benefits of Canada’s present-day Northern food program, Nutrition North, were reaching intended recipients of the program (Bell, 2012; CBC News, 2012b). These echo concerns raised more than 70 years ago about the Family Allowance program, when some bureaucrats expressed their doubts about whether the Hudson’s Bay Company and other commercial enterprises could be entrusted to deliver social benefits in which they had a vested interest (concerns that were not, at the time, unfounded, as trading companies in the MacKenzie valley were subsequently found by S.J. Bailey to be ‘cooking’ their books with the Allowances96). Many of the trends visible in food and food interventions that were set in motion early in the Government Era persist today. The federal government continues to rely on close coordination with the Northern retail sector to deliver social programs and educational materials surrounding food, including the Nutrition North subsidy. The promotion of milk as a source of vitamin D and calcium in a lactose intolerant population continues to be problematic for health interventions (Egeland, Williamson-Bathory, Johnson-Down, & Sobol, 2011, p. 381). Greenhouse and grow tower initiatives initiated in the South that promise to deliver fresh fruits and vegetables to make Northern communities more food secure mark the continuation of longer-term experiments to make the Arctic agriculturally productive (see Ch. 6). Yet more broadly, food insecurity and the ‘nutrition transition’ continue to be widely understood as matters of food choices, and education continues to be invoked as a primary

96 RG 85. Vol1125. File163-1. Pt 1B. Letter from R.B. Curry to R.A. Gibson enclosing File of Memorandum of SJ Bailey visit to the Mackenzie River District. September, 1947.

170 solution – narratives that risk relocating responsibility solely with individuals experiencing food insecurity, not the systems that give rise to it. These systems and structures include, foremost, the legacies of colonization. This chapter shows how health and social policy are themselves important determinates of food security and have had tremendous effects on the Inuit food system, including precipitating roles in the widely described nutrition transition. Present-day issues of food insecurity cannot be understood apart from these histories. This points to the need for a longitudinal perspective on issues of food insecurity in Nunavut and elsewhere in Inuit Nunangat; and for careful attention to the relations of power at play concerning food interventions. These questions of change and continuity are taken up in greater detail in the following chapter.

171 Chapter 6 A decade of data, and what progress? Food security and policy in contemporary Nunavut

6.1 Chapter introduction In 2007-08, the Canadian Coast Guard icebreaker the CCGS Amundsen visited nearly every Inuit community in the Inuvialuit Settlement Region, Nunavut and Nunatsiavut to collect public health data for the Inuit Health Survey (a separate study was conducted in Nunavik97). Among the most widely publicized of results was the prevalence of food insecurity in Inuit communities, with 68.8% of Nunavut Inuit identified as food insecure – a figure described as “by far the highest documented food insecurity prevalence rate for any Indigenous population residing in a developed country” (Egeland, 2011, pp. 444-445). Within this figure, 34.1 % were classified as “severely food insecure,” reflecting “disrupted eating patterns and reduced food intake” (Rosol et al., 2011, p. 491). One marked limitation of the survey was its focus on store- purchased foods and “access to money to buy food,” which researchers note limited understanding of the role of locally harvested country food as a source of food security98 (see Ch. 2; Egeland et al., 2010, p. 247). The public attention resulting from the release of the Inuit Health Survey and Child Health Survey data was a turning point in public and policy attention to food issues in the Territorial North. While the concept of food security had been integrated into work within Inuit

97 A separate study, Qanuippitaa, was conducted in Nunavik in 2004, and found 24% of the population experienced household food insecurity (Anctil, 2008). 98 Regarding the Inuit Child Health Survey, Egeland et al. (2010, p. 247) explain: “The questions related to food security in our survey were specific to whether participants had the financial means to buy groceries and did not cover access to traditional Indigenous food-related systems. Given this limitation, further investigation is needed in which the availability of traditional foods is also evaluated to determine overall food security status among Indigenous peoples in Canada.” This limitation does not dispute the fact that food security remains a public health crisis in the North; the survey also asks about whether people have been concerned food will run out, cut or skipped meals, or gone hungry. As Tarasuk et al. (2016) note, those classed as moderately or severely food insecure have reported compromises in the quality or quantity of food consumed, including reduced food intake (p. 7). However, it does offer a limited assessment of foods that are both culturally and nutritionally significant in Inuit Nunangat.

172 Nunangat since the early 1990s through small scale case studies (Boult, 2004; Lawn & Harvey, 2001), the survey data shifted the conversation. In a later interview, a policy professional working in the Territory at the time explained: The Inuit Health Survey data, what it for us was, it gave us something tangible. We knew it [food (in)security] was the most important frontier, much more important than teaching people about the four food groups or whatever, that really everything else we're doing isn't that useful if people are so terribly food insecure. […] It was like this perfect storm, along came the Inuit Health Survey data that said that 70% of Inuit preschoolers live in food insecure homes. […] We all knew that there is a problem, but this public release of this information all of a sudden made it everybody’s business. (Interview, August 30th, 2017).

In the wake of the survey, this Northern food crisis received widespread public and political attention, marking the beginning of a decade that has seen food security become the primary lens on the Northern food system, and leading to an unprecedented level of national and international attention to the food system of Inuit Nunangat. Grassroots organizations like Feeding My Family formed; the UN Special Rapporteur on the Right to Food visited and condemned Canada’s track record; a new Territorial Food Security Coalition was created and a Food Security Strategy announced at the territorial level; and a series of policy changes unfolded at the federal level, including the creation of the Nutrition North Canada program.99 Public consultations have been held, and policy approaches to the Northern food system and food security vocally debated in public townhalls from Rigolet, Nunatsiavut, to Old Crow, Yukon (Nutrition North Canada, 2016). Yet to the extent that policy measures and interventions have placed a renewed focus on Inuit food systems and inequities in access to food in the North in the past decade, they have not succeeded in reducing the burden of food insecurity on Inuit communities – rates of food insecurity in Arctic Canada remain just as high, if not higher, than they did when issues of food insecurity in the Territory first became the focus of widespread attention a decade ago (Tarasuk et al., 2016, p. 16). The reasons for this are myriad and contested. However,

99 All of these organizations have a web presence, hyperlinked here: Feeding My Family, Nutrition North Canada, Nunavut Food Security Coalition.

173 contextualizing the past decade of intensive attention to food insecurity in a wider context, and addressing resonances between past and present, may shed light on what is at stake in contemporary policy debates concerning Northern food insecurity. As I show in chapters 4 and 5, social policy has played a significant role in constituting the contemporary food system of Nunavut and policy is itself a mediating factor in food (in)security (see Chapter 2). This chapter picks up this thread in the present day, examining the manner in which food security emerged as a policy priority in Nunavut and elsewhere in Inuit Nunangat in the past decade. This builds on other analyses of social policy and food in Arctic Canada, which to date have been largely restricted to critiques of the Nutrition North program’s effectiveness (Burnett, Skinner, & LeBlanc, 2015; Chin-Yee & Chin-Yee, 2015; Galloway, 2014, 2017). While I address Nutrition North, I expand the focus to contextualize issues of food security and governance in their wider political, ideological and discursive contexts, drawing on key informant interviews (n=23) with individuals with professional experience related to food security or nutrition, working with federal, territorial and Inuit governments and grassroots organizations, or in the private sector on grocery retail in Nunavut (see Table 6.1).

Table 6.1 Summary of key informant interviews Sector Number of interviewees100 Inuit representative organizations 3 Territorial government 6 Federal government 8 NGO/Grassroots organizations 3 Private sector/Northern retail 3 Total 23

100 Because only some individuals consented to be identified, interviews have been anonymized within this chapter for consistency, providing only the interview date (note that in some cases multiple interviews were conducted on the same date) and broad contextual information, such as sector or level of government, to contextualize quotes while preserving anonymity. Where participants consented to be identified or expressed a preference about how they wished to be identified, additional contextual information is included.

174 Interviews focused on both food security and food-related policy, asking how government is addressing food insecurity and how policy measures affect Nunavummiut, and invited key informants’ perspectives on policy solutions. Through these interviews, this chapter addresses my objective to characterize contemporary policy approaches to food insecurity in Nunavut and investigate the narratives and beliefs that underpin them. The chapter first traces the emergence of food security as the primary discourse through which Northern food issues are understood, focusing on the past decade, drawing out the key inflection points in this trajectory through the firsthand perspectives of those involved. The second section presents primary data collected through key informant interviews to juxtapose interpretations and explore the (varied) stories surrounding food insecurity and governance in Nunavut. Setting this analysis in conversation with ethnohistorical work in prior chapters, I then discuss what has – or has not – changed over time, in terms of both governance and policy discourse concerning food, nutrition, and hunger in Inuit Nunangat. This analysis connects the persistence – and indeed worsening – of food insecurity in the past decade with the deeper roots documented in the preceding chapters. Several limitations bound this study. While I address a range of programs to better understand how policy measures concerning food articulate across levels of government, I do not address in depth food or nutrition programs targeting specific populations, such as the Canadian Prenatal Nutrition Program, Aboriginal Diabetes Initiative, or Aboriginal Head Start program, many of which are documented in greater depth elsewhere in the health literature. Focusing on the past decade, I also do not address in great depth the Food Mail program cancelled in 2010 (for details on the program, see Lawn, 1993; for a critical analysis of the program, see Burnett et al., 2015). Finally, significant policy shifts have taken place in the last year, following interviews for this study. These are described through a literature review; however, results of these changes are still unfolding.

6.2 Timeline: Food politics in the wake of the Inuit Health Survey Both social policy and politics concerning food security in Nunavut have been highly dynamic over the course of the past decade. Individuals working across all levels of government

175 described this policy environment as difficult to follow, particularly in the context of high turnover in personnel. In interviews, many key informants expressed frustrations with the rehashing of old debates. Recognizing that patterns in recent histories become more apparent over time, this section primarily seeks to describe recent shifts in chronological sequence (see Table 6.2), before analyzing them in a longitudinal perspective.

Table 6.2 Timeline: Food security and governance in Inuit Nunangat 2007-08 Inuit Health Survey completed (Inuvialuit, Nunavut, Nunatsiavut) 2008, Aug. Dargo Report on Food Mail Program released 2010-11 Inuit Health Survey findings on food security published 2010, May INAC announces Nutrition North Canada (NNC), cancels Food Mail 2011 Nutrition North Canada begins (after delay) 2012, May-June Feeding My Family protests held across Nunavut 2012 Nunavut Food Security Coalition created 2012, Dec. UN Special Rapporteur on the Right to Food report released 2014 Nunavut Food Security Strategy and Action Plan released 2015, Nov. Auditor General report on NNC, changes to monitoring announced 2016 Public consultation and review of NNC 2017 An Inuit-Specific Approach for the Canadian Food Policy released by ITK 2018 New funding for NNC, including Harvester Support Grants, announced 2019 Funding for Harvester Support Grants approved, Inuit-Crown working group to look at NNC eligible foods and impact on Inuit food security 2020 COVID-19 pandemic response includes additional funds for NNC, support for community-based food programs administered by Regional Inuit Associations

6.2.1 The Dargo Report and creation of Nutrition North Canada At the same time that the Inuit Health Survey brought issues of food insecurity into the public eye, considerable policy shifts concerning the Northern food system were already underway at the federal level. In 2008, the federal government, under then-Prime Minister Stephen Harper, commissioned Dargo and Associates Consulting to produce a report on the Food Mail program. Since the 1960s, Food Mail (officially the ‘Northern Air Stage Program’) had provided a transportation subsidy on foods and essential goods for remote Northern communities reliant

176 on air freight, run through Canada Post with the involvement of INAC (for details on the history of the Food Mail program, see Burnett et al., 2015; Lawn, 1993). For much of this time, Food Mail was perceived primarily serve to Qallunaat teachers, nurses, and other temporary residents who could not access country food, and many Northern Indigenous peoples did not have the credit cards to place personal orders under the program (Stanton, 2011). However, others note that those without credit cards also accessed the program through smaller stores and independent retailers (Burnett et al., 2015). Over the decades, the cost of the Food Mail program had increased considerably from the time it was established, reaching $58 million in its final year of operations (Bell, 2011, as cited in Burnett et al. 2015, p. 143), and was increasingly perceived by government as a “black hole of funding” (Interview, former territorial professional, August 8, 2017). A former INAC employee explained, “the program was a victim of its own success because by subsidizing this nutritious food and not subsidizing junk food, the intent of that was to increase shipments and consumption of the healthy food.” (Interview, March 22, 2018). In his final report to the federal Government, Dargo (2008, p. 4), concluded that the Food Mail Program was “burdened with many problems” and its “costs [would] continue to soar” without significant changes. Dargo recommended the elimination of the Food Mail program, and its replacement with a new market-based retail partnership, suggesting that this would ultimately lower the cost of food in Northern communities by increasing efficacy.101 The Dargo report did not address the absence of a competitive retail market in many Northern communities, where a single retailer may manage services from food sales to banking to pharmacies to household goods102 (Burnett et al., 2015; Galloway, 2014).

101 Dargo writes, “I believe that retailers will take advantage of developing more efficient and effective delivery systems that may result in reduced cargo rates to communities” (p. 34). 102 The largest Northern retailer with the majority market share is the Canadian multinational grocery and retail corporation, the North West Company (NWC), which traces its origins to the 18th century fur trade. The Company merged with the Hudson’s Bay Company in 1821 and operated under the name “Northern Stores Division” until the mid 1980s, when it was renamed “The North West Company.” Describing its corporate history, the NWC says, “Today's North West carries forward the rich enterprising legacy as one of the longest continuing retail enterprises in the world” (North West Company, n.d.). In Arctic Canada, it operates the brands

177 In 2010, referencing Dargo’s report, the Government announced it would scrap the longstanding Food Mail program and replace it with a new retail subsidy program to be run through the private sector: Nutrition North Canada. The transition to Nutrition North removed the program from the hands of Canada Post, and instead relied on the private sector retailers to pass on the subsidy to customers. Proponents of the cancellation of Food Mail and transition to Nutrition North argued that retailers’ leverage over more of the commodity chain would permit gains in efficiency (Stanton, 2011). To contain costs, the program initially excluded non-food items, like hygiene products and harvesting equipment, that had previously been eligible under Food Mail; eliminated communities from the program entirely, mostly in the provincial Norths; and capped the budget at $54 million in its initial year (see Burnett et al., 2015). The list of subsidy-eligible foods was determined in Ottawa by Indigenous and Northern Affairs Canada (since renamed Crown-Indigenous Relations and Northern Affairs), drawing on the Canada Food Guide and focusing on store-purchased, perishable foods shipped by air freight, where costs are highest. Nutrition North also earmarked new funds for a nutrition education component to be run by Health Canada. The Standing Committee on Aboriginal Affairs and Northern Development debated the shift in policy in November and December 2010, questioning its eligibility criteria and its impact on access to food. Ultimately the committee proposed only minor tweaks to the program, while the Bloc Quebecois issued a strongly worded dissenting opinion on the program, stating, “In the end, only the government and major retailers, who necessarily benefit from the new program, agree that the NNC would be more effective” (Stanton, 2011, p. 68). From its inception, the Nutrition North program became the source of political debate. Indigenous organizations expressed concern about a lack of consultation in the program’s design,103 questioned its transparency in ensuring that the subsidy would be passed on to

Northern Store, Northmart, and Quickstop. The second leading retailer in Nunavut is the federated Arctic Co-operatives, with local stores owned by members but managed centrally by Arctic Cooperatives Ltd., headquartered in Winnipeg. 103 A Northern advisory board was created, though after issuing one report in 2013 (Nutrition North Canada Advisory Board, 2013), the board became inactive and rarely met (Office of the Auditor General of Canada, 2014). In 2015, a conflict of interest was identified between the

178 consumers, and critiqued its cost cutting measures (Burnett et al., 2015; Chin-Yee & Chin-Yee, 2015; Galloway, 2014). One professional working at the Territorial level explained, “We felt that Nunavut should be consulted about how Nutrition North should be run, but we didn't have any seat at any table” (Interview, Aug. 30, 2017). Two senior bureaucrats who had run the Food Mail program, Fred Hill and Michael Fitzgerald, publicly opposed the change, subsequently encouraging Northerners to take their issues with the new program to the ballot box (Hill & Fitzgerald). Many Northerners questioned the logic behind the list of subsidy eligible items, drawing particular attention to lack of support for hunting equipment or country food (Office of the Auditor General of Canada, 2014). While the subsidy technically applied to country foods, they were only allowable if sold by licensed, federally inspected processing facilities, of which there are only three in the North (Nutrition North Canada, 2016; Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2019). In an interview, a former senior INAC employee expressed doubts about the policy model behind Nutrition North: “The model of expecting a southern, for-profit retail model to work in remote Northern communities and deliver results anything like in the South is preposterous” (Interview, November 16, 2017). Meanwhile, proponents argued that Food Mail was not meeting its mandate, that a change was needed, and that working in partnership with the private sector was a practical option (Interview, federal professional, November 16, 2017). Although NNC’s mandate was to make nutritious food more accessible, several individuals involved in the federal and territorial bureaucracies said that its mandate was not explicitly to improve Northern food security. A former territorial professional explained, “There is a lot of scope for it [Nutrition North] to be tweaked to become more of a food security investment. But by definition, it isn't necessarily a food security investment originally” (Interview, Aug. 30, 2017). A former senior INAC official said: The focus was never ‘what can you do to alleviate food insecurity in Northern Communities.’ [….] If I had one takeaway for you, it’s that you have to understand that what developed in the 1950s, evolved in the 1960s, and what took place in the new millennium was always driven by political

Board and the federal Conservative Party (Chin-Yee & Chin-Yee, 2015). Following the Nutrition North engagement, there has been renewed effort put towards an active advisory board, with recruitment underway at the time the primary research for this project was completed in 2017 and 2018.

179 considerations – pressure points and interests – that shape what the discussion is, and it’s not necessarily food security. (Interview, November 16, 2017).

According to the same former official, political considerations that shaped the policy change included intensive lobbying from within the Northern airline industry104 and the disinterest of Canada Post in continuing its involvement in Food Mail (Interview, November 16, 2017). More broadly, the interviewee suggested the government at the time was motivated by cost containment and inspired by market-based ideologies: The challenge Canada Post had as a crown-commercial corporation was that they had a mandate to earn a return. It [Food Mail] was a legacy program they were involved in, but it didn’t fit with their strategic direction. […] You had lots of people in the Conservative caucus who weren’t well disposed against Canada Post as a Crown Corporation that ‘unfairly competes against the private sector’. […] The overconfidence in private sector forces just played into their bias. The challenge with a civil servant making public policy arguments is, you’re limited to what they think is within the realm of the possible, and the way the debate had already been framed. (Interview, Former senior INAC employee, November 16, 2017).

The shift in Northern food programs at the federal level between 2008 and 2011 was consequential: The shift to Nutrition North extended the authority of the Federal government to make changes in the food system that would affect Northern communities, absent consultation with the program’s intended recipients, and extended the already-considerable power of Northern retailers within Northern communities. The sector itself remains dominated by the North West Company, which traces its roots to 17th century fur trade operations (North West Company, n.d.). Though the retailers already operated with little competition (with many communities reflecting a duopoly between the N.W.C. and federated Arctic Co-ops Limited),

104 At the time, the airline industry in Nunavut included First Air (owned by the Makivik Corporation) and Canadian North (owned by the Inuvialuit Development Corporation). The two airlines merged in 2019, with continuing operations under the Canadian North name. In 2007, Canadian North filed a complaint first with the Canadian International Trade Tribunal, and subsequently the courts, alleging Canada Post conducted unfair procurement processes for the Food Mail program, seeking $75 million in damages. In 2016, the case was settled out of court, and the Superior Court of Justice (Ontario) dismissed the action on consent (Canada Post, 2016, p. 53).

180 the cancellation of food mail further limited ‘outshopping,’ and competitive threats of online retail to brick-and-mortar businesses. More broadly, the program reflected a preference within the federal government at the time for a smaller role for government – a move that would see the private sector held responsible for delivering social programs on food, while also pursuing their fiduciary duty to shareholders and seeking to maximize profits. In short, the largest policy shift concerning Northern food programs in recent decades was not centrally designed around what might be done to alleviate rising rates of food insecurity in Northern communities, which did not set the program up to succeed in either addressing these issues, or in terms of public opinion.

6.2.2 The UN Special Rapporteur’s visit and the politicization of food security These issues with the governance of Northern food programs came to the fore publicly in 2012, following a visit by the United Nations Special Rapporteur on the Right to Food, Olivier de Schutter, who completed an 11-day investigation into the state of food security in Canada in May 2012 (De Schutter, 2012). It marked the first such visit to a so-called developed nation since the Right to Food office’s 2000 inception (Hicks, 2012). De Schutter’s scathing final report concludes, “[a] long history of political and economic marginalization has left many indigenous peoples with considerably lower levels of access to adequate food relative to the general population” (De Schutter, 2012, p. 16). De Schutter echoed concerns about a lack of consultation in the Nutrition North program’s implementation and criticized the “absence of adequate monitoring by those it is intended to benefit” (p. 18). He also highlighted barriers to Indigenous peoples’ access to traditional foods, in terms of finances, skills and time, environmental contamination and development, drawing attention to the centrality of access to land in Indigenous peoples’ food security (p. 19). The Special Rapporteur called on Canada to develop a national strategy on the right to food, and called specifically for a “structural approach to tackling the socio-economic and cultural barriers” that affect Northern communities’ access to food, saying “[n]either the federal government nor the provinces consider that they have a responsibility to support off-reserve aboriginal peoples in overcoming the structural discrimination they face” (Murphy, 2012).

181 The issue became highly politicized. De Schutter’s report was rejected by the federal government under then Prime Minister Stephen Harper. Conservative M.P. Jason Kenney (now Alberta Premier) argued the UN should focus on countries “where people are starving” and not “waste resources” on Canada (Hicks, 2012 n.p.). Then-Health Minister and Conservative M.P. for Nunavut Leona Aglukkaq called De Schutter an “ill-informed and patronizing academic” and stated that Inuit do not face food insecurity because “they hunt every day” (Hicks, 2012, n.p.). A territorial policy professional reported that Aglukkaq’s comments generated a strong response among many Nunavummiut: “People went out on the street saying, ‘No, that's not right. We are food insecure.’ Inuit who normally are trying not to make too many waves or are not really that in your face, all of a sudden, we're in the world's face” (Interview, August 30, 2017). Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami president Mary Simon, who met with the Special Rapporteur to discuss the unique challenges Inuit face in access to food, supported De Schutter’s findings, saying “It is an unfortunate reality that a lack of available, accessible and adequate food continues to be an everyday struggle for many Inuit living in Northern Canada” and that “greater investment in this area is needed if Inuit are to ever realize the right to food” (Murphy, 2012, n.p.). The Special Rapporteur’s visit – and subsequent political fallout – revealed tensions between emerging narratives about food security. As Hicks (2012, n.p.) writes, the federal government’s characterization of Inuit as self-sufficient hunters “opened the door to ugly scapegoating of Aboriginal Canadians” responsible for the political-economic conditions that give rise to high rates of food insecurity. However, both Inuit representative organizations and grassroots responses contested this narrative, calling for greater attention to food insecurity. The Special Rapporteur’s visit was a source of political embarrassment – and yet another catalyst in the growing attention to food issues in the Territory (see also Hicks, 2012).

6.2.3 The formation of Feeding My Family As national and international attention to food insecurity in Inuit Nunangat grew, so did these grassroots responses – in turn drawing new rounds of public attention. The Facebook group ‘Feeding My Family’ formed in May 2012 and began to play an instrumental role in raising awareness of food issues by publicizing high food costs (see Chapter 1). Through Feeding My

182 Family, Nunavut residents posted photographs of high food costs in their stores, and expired or moldy food for sale, to draw attention to issues of food access and quality. An administrator of Feeding My Family said that it took courage for people to participate in the group, because they faced backlash from both within and outside their communities: Reality is, when we started Feeding My Family, now I see it took a lot of guts for people to post that they're hungry, that they don't eat so their kids will eat. That took a lot of encouragement. […] A lot of it was taken down because there was a lot of shaming [...] ‘Why are you showing this? Why are you putting our family down?’ There was a lot of that. […] A lot of, ‘Well, you do drugs. That's why you're hungry.’ ‘Well, you eat this kind of food. That's why you're hungry.’ Kind of a lot of that. Kind of, ‘Don't tell the world what we're going through’ situation. […] It took a lot of guts for people. [And] there was a lot of, in the beginning, when people started posting pictures, a lot of ‘Well, the store manager said I can't come to her store. I'm barred from the store for a month. What am I going to do? The store manager told me I can't come to the store.’ They got kind of, ‘Do not post pictures from the store.’ They didn't want people taking pictures of the food prices. (Interview, Aug. 16, 2017).

Despite these concerns, Feeding My Family grew rapidly, soon surpassing the population of Nunavut as a whole (see Ch. 1). Professionals working on food issues in the Territory described being struck by the momentum of Feeding My Family: It was unbelievable. I’m watching the Feeding My Family Facebook page grow to like 20,000 members overnight and you’re watching the dialogue in the feed. It was just – it was delicious. Like you’re just watching the community being mobilized in the Facebook feed. (Interview, Aug. 30, 2017).

The creation and rapid expansion of Feeding My Family brought new attention to the issue. An Administrator of Feeding My Family said the group quickly drew attention from all sides: There were more studies, more students, approaching us. A lot more media coverage. […] What else happened, [was] people spoke up a lot of the hardships they were going through on Feeding My Family. The Nunavut Government and the NWT Government and the Yukon Government, all passed an agreement to ask Auditor General to audit the [Nutrition North] program. […] That was awesome. As well, it pushed the Nunavut Government to come up with their Nunavut food strategy. (Interview, Aug. 16, 2017).

Public attention to the issue also spurred new grassroots organizations in Southern Canada like ‘Feeding Nunavut,’ an Ontario-based organization that provides financial support for a harvester support program run by community members in Igloolik, and ‘Helping Our Northern

183 Neighbours,’ a national group that began food hamper shipments in 2014. An Administrator with Feeding My Family described grassroots responses: “The amount of people willing to help is amazing. It's totally from all across the country. It's totally, totally amazing. It brought out the good in the people.” (Interview, Aug. 16, 2017). Feeding My Family reflected not only a response to high food costs, but a refusal to accept the status quo – including the continuation of existing power relations between Inuit communities, government, and the private sector. This included direct encounters at the local level, as community members chose to stand up and speak out regardless of fears that local store managers would ban them for taking photographs of high prices and spoiled food (see above). At the same time, as described above, the group pushed governments at both the Federal and Territorial level to do more to address Northern food issues and brought growing public attention to the issue, including new grassroots actions in the South. Finally, Feeding My Family represented an unprecedented form of public protest in the Territory, foreshadowing protests not only on food, but other issues of social justice also (see Ch. 1).

6.2.4 The Nunavut Food Security Coalition and Food Security Strategy As this momentum grew, the territorial government was also responding with new policy attention to food insecurity (see Wakegijig et al., 2013). Following the release of the Inuit Health Survey data, food insecurity became a “standing item” on the policy agenda of territorial government, according to one professional working in the Territory at the time (Interview, Aug. 30, 2017). Food security was enshrined in the 2011 Makimaniq Plan on poverty reduction (Government of Nunavut, 2011). Then-premier Eva Aariak spoke publicly, making poverty and food insecurity a territorial priority, and Minister of Health and Social Services Tagak Curley stated before the Legislative Assembly: “Food insecurity is a crisis in Nunavut that cannot be addressed by Health and Social Services alone. Many factors affect food insecurity and a collaborative and comprehensive approach is needed.” (Hicks, 2012, n.p.). The following several years saw new collaborations on food security form, while the issue was – and is – still animated by issues of jurisdiction and mandate.

184 The Nunavut Food Security Coalition, led by a joint secretariat between Nunavut Tunngavik Inc. (NTI) and the Government of Nunavut’s Department of Health and Family Services, was created in June 2012 out of The Makimaniq Plan to facilitate dialogue on issues of food security in the Territory and create an action plan (Wakegijig et al., 2013). The coalition invited any organization working on food issues in the Territory to take part, and private sector retailers including North West Company and federated Arctic Co-ops joined as members, as well as a number of grassroots organizations. A new Nunavut Food Security Strategy (2014) was drafted, with input from Coalition members and the wider community, identifying six themes for action: Policy and legislation, country food, store-bought food, local food production, and programs and community initiatives (Nunavut Food Security Coalition, 2014). Those involved say the Coalition has functioned as a space for dialogue and exchange, if not decision making. Its mission is described as being to “provide oversight, guidance and leadership for the Nunavut Food Security Strategy as well as the development, implementation, and evaluation of associated action plans” (Nunavut Food Security Coalition, 2014, p. 6). One policy professional familiar with the Coalition’s work explained that the newly formed group prioritized work within the members’ jurisdiction and existing resources: The entire conversation about the whole Food Security Coalition, one big premise that we integrated right from the start was, […] what we’re trying to do is figure out what we can do with what we have. We’re not trying to design something new, we’re trying to look at what we already have, like our cooking classes where they are teaching people to make chocolate chip muffins. Well, clearly that’s a missed opportunity to do something about food that’s more valuable. […] Once we are sure that we are all doing our best with the resources we have, then maybe we’ll add a layer of conversation to the Coalition about what we want other people to do. (Interview, Aug. 30, 2017)

Others described limitations facing the Food Security Coalition, including the fact that most decision-making power rests with individual members, not the Coalition itself. One policy professional explained, “When it comes to the Food Security Coalition too, like I said before, it is a dialogue body and it could be an advocacy body, but it's definitely not a decision-making body” (Interview, Aug. 11, 2017). Another former territorial professional involved in work on food security described limitations in the sense of “ownership” over food security:

185 I think at the Food Security Coalition table, if you have people who are from all different areas, food security is probably part of a little bit of what they do but it's not their main mandate. I think people got very hung up on their what's our mandate or what's my role? And I hear so often like, ’Oh, yes, we need this but that's not our role to do that so we're not going to do it.’ [….] Because it's a coalition, I wonder how much ownership all the members of the Coalition feel and I think one of the issues is, of any project at the territorial level, is someone feeling that ownership and responsibility, and taking the lead. (Interview, Aug. 10, 2017).

Turnover and limited institutional memory were also cited by multiple individuals as an issue for food security work at the territorial level, with progress frequently stymied when the individuals who had been instrumental in leading a given project left the territory or moved on to other positions. One individual working with an Inuit organization explained: Turnover is really disruptive. Also, we got a lot of folks who just left university and who are smart, intelligent, caring, and passionate, but there's some life experience and work experience to lead in discussions and work on those big problems that sometimes folks just don't have. […] When you're working on these big -- and I keep calling them wicked problems, but these big long- standing issues, the stuff that you're not going to fix right away, you need to have that long – I don't want to call it long-term commitment, but that when things keep turning over and are unstable, it's hard to address longer-term problems, like things that take decades to happen, or to create take decades to come out of, and if you're trying to come out of it. (Interview, Aug. 11, 2017).

Some involved in the food security coalition disliked the presence of the retailers on the Coalition, saying “They're not there to help the community […] They're a business. They're there to make money” (Interview, Aug. 14, 2017). At the same time, several individuals working at both the territorial and federal level said that policymakers lacked fundamental knowledge of how the Northern food market works and relied on the North West Company and Arctic Co- ops for an understanding of the logistics of the contemporary Northern food system: The only people who really understand the logistics are the North West Company and Arctic Co-ops. Others can give you a good understanding, but we never had enough. […] The challenge with problems in the North, is there is not a lot of expertise on this outside from the North West Company and Arctic Coops. (Interview, former senior INAC employee, November 16, 2017).

186 Several individuals who had been involved in the Coalition expressed pride in the Nunavut Food Security Strategy, saying it represented cooperation and an inclusive approach to governance (Interview, Aug. 30, 2017). Others saw it as a start, but there was more to be done to translate the strategy into action. An Administrator with Feeding My Family commented on both successes and areas for improvement with the strategy: The ‘Food Security Strategy’ the Coalition did is ‘a good approach on paper, but not in practice’. The GN [Government of Nunavut] has more community- oriented funding, and that’s good. It has even looked at changes to social assistance, since the Food Security Strategy and Poverty Reduction Strategy. It’s going to be hard to see a change right away because it’s too complex, but we can see small changes. It can be better. The strategy doesn’t say how they’ll implement it within the communities. (Interview, Aug. 16, 2017).

Feeding My Family did not join the Food Security Coalition, though did take part in consultations. Some key informants working at the territorial level saw the decision as a rejection of the private sector retailers’ membership in the Food Security Coalition. However, an Administrator of Feeding My Family said that the group’s decision not to take part in the Coalition also stemmed from a desire to preserve autonomy and limited resources: When you're part of a committee, you can't B.S. that committee. You can't badmouth that committee – you’re a part of it. That was a big part of it. Feeding My Family is about saying whatever we want to say, when we want to say it, how we want to say it. We don't want to limit what we say, you know, if they'd taken the wrong turn, or they're not taking the right approach. Really, with a public release, you need to have to be nice about it. To me, that's not what grassroots is about, that's not what community members are about. That’s not what people are about. So, we can give advice on how the program should change, but definitely not because - People often say, ‘well, be part of the change’ in that. Yes, you can, by giving advice and reading their reports and stuff like that, but – to be a part of different committees, really limits what you can say and how you can say it. (Interview, Aug. 16, 2017).

This perspective from an Administrator with Feeding My Family exemplified broader challenges of collaborative approaches to food issues. While those involved agreed that food insecurity could only be tackled through cooperation, no single department or area had a mandate to take a lead on the issue or in implementing the Nunavut Food Security Strategy. Consequently, the federal Nutrition North program continued to be the de-facto policy approach to Northern food

187 security in the eyes of many policymakers, including those working in the Territory, as well as the public. Meanwhile, several interviewees said that the conflicting interests of participants in the Coalition precluded certain types of policy action. Instead of directly calling for structural changes, the Coalition directed attention to what could be accomplished through a reordering of existing programs (for example, encouraging cooking classes to focus on healthy eating), and new programs that fit with the conditions of the Northern retail sector. For example, in Nunavut the Department of Health worked in partnership with Northern retailers to develop materials and resources for ‘healthy recipes’ to be promoted in the stores. A territorial professional recalled the program as a success – “the holy grail of public health retail partnerships”– and said this was successful because it did not conflict with the stores’ profit motive (Interview, August 30, 2017). Other efforts, such as arguing for changes to product placement of junk food, were reportedly less successful: “[We] didn’t make a lot of ground on that,” the same interviewee explained. These examples speak to what can be accomplished working “with the resources we have” – yet also attest to the limitations circumscribed by wider political economic conditions, and the bureaucratic divisions of mandate that allow political responsibility for addressing food security to be passed onward. Issues of jurisdiction and responsibility arose within the Territorial government, but also more broadly, with the division between levels of governments. Key informants across levels of government described limited coordination between federal and territorial governments on issues of food security at the time. One area with greater coordination between levels of government identified in interviews was the Nutrition North Education Initiatives program, with funds allocated by the First Nations and Inuit Health Branch of Indigenous Services Canada to partner organizations who oversee and deliver programs within communities.105

105 Recipients include the Government of Nunavut, which has supported varied nutrition programs, such as community kitchens, cooking classes, gardening, and traditional or country food preparation, and supported the “healthy recipes” initiative (Interview, federal policy professional, April 20, 2018).

188 6.2.5 The Auditor General’s report and revisions to NNC Some of these issues came to the fore in 2014, when Auditor General Michael Ferguson investigated Nutrition North, responding to calls from Indigenous organizations, territorial governments, and the UN Special Rapporteur, as well as the growing outpouring of public attention. His report found that the program was failing to ensure retailers pass the full subsidy provided by the program on to consumers, and made recommendations on revisions to monitoring (Office of the Auditor General of Canada, 2014). At the territorial level, the Nunavut Food Security Coalition echoed the Auditor General’s concerns in a 2014 report, making 15 recommendations on behalf of Nunavummiut concerning Nutrition North, including allowing retailers to ship in most cost-effective manner year round, reinstating subsidy for hygiene products, encouraging business development, and ensuring that subsidy is passed on to consumers (Nunavut Food Security Coalition, 2015). The report exemplified tensions already brewing between the Territorial and Federal levels of government, and between the public and private sector, with regards to Northern food programs. The federal government responded by saying it would remedy issues in monitoring, collecting information on profit margins over time, and introducing a new requirement that retailers break down subsidy amounts on customers’ receipts in an attempt to assuage public concerns. Those working at the federal level said that monitoring issues with the program have been resolved, but felt mistrust remained: "I think the biggest misconception is that we're not passing the subsidy on to the consumer” (Interview, federal professional, November 16, 2017). Similar sentiments were shared by those with experience in the private sector: “You become a bit of the scapegoat I guess maybe it can be a good word to use for everything, all the problems when you’re the only player in town” (Interview, July 12, 2017). Among those working at the territorial level and for Inuit representative organizations and grassroots organizations, many continued to express doubts about the program’s monitoring, saying the subsidy was “open to abuse” by private sector interests (Interview, Aug. 16, 2017). In 2016, the federal government, fulfilling a campaign promise of the newly elected Liberals to review Nutrition North, sought feedback on how the program could be “more transparent, cost-effective, and culturally appropriate” (Nutrition North Canada, 2016 n.p.).

189 Addressing Northern food issues appeared in the mandate letters following the 2015 election for the federal ministers of Health, Intergovernmental and Northern Affairs, and Crown- Indigenous relations, who were tasked with “updating and expanding the Nutrition North program, in consultation with Northern communities” (Office of the Prime Minister, 2015 n.p.). The government also added funds to expand the program to additional communities that had been excluded by the new eligibility criteria when Food Mail was cancelled. Public meetings held across the North as a part of this engagement suggested that despite the program, food prices remained prohibitively high; Northerners did not trust that program’s benefits reached them; and dissatisfaction remained about the list of subsidy-eligible items (Nutrition North Canada, 2016). In Iqaluit, for example, participants questioned whether subsidized dragon fruit and tofu burgers made sense, calling for the subsidy to prioritize items that Northerners eat or need most, as well as hunting equipment like fishing nets, tents, ammunition, or fuel to better support the local food system (Nutrition North Canada, 2016; Stephenson & Wenzel, 2017). Inuit representative organizations including NTI and ITK, through the Inuit Food Security Working Group, made written submissions to the engagement, calling for greater Inuit involvement in decision making (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2017; Nunavut Tunngavik Inc., 2016). Nunavut Tunngavik Inc. advocated for new policy approaches, including as a jointly administered harvester support program that would benefit Nunavut harvesters (Interview, Aug. 14, 2017). Inuit representative organizations also critiqued the underlying policy model of Nutrition North – notably its reliance on a market-based approach. ITK wrote, “Inherent in the market driven model of the NNC Program is the inability to prioritize Inuit health” (2017, p. 31). This followed from the 2014 ITK publication on Social Determinants of Inuit Health in Canada, which also called for renewed attention to food security, including support for harvester support programs, and to address “the broader socio-economic determinants of food insecurity,” highlighting issues of access to funding, wage-to-cost ratios, and disparities in employment, income and housing (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2014, p. 31). A policymaker working at the federal level described the feedback and focus on country food specifically, while drawing attention to the program’s limited mandate: “There were some

190 pretty clear messages outside the scope of the [Nutrition North] program – country food was huge. The mandate is store purchased foods, and the reality is that the bulk of country food is not bought – it is shared” (Interview, November 16, 2017). Another policy professional added, “The purpose of the program is to alleviate the high cost of food. The same issue arises in that it’s difficult to cost out country food. That’s why the program is more focused on store food. That’s the line. But we obviously engage – we hear a lot about country food. It is on the radar” (Interview, November 16, 2017). Food inspection issues were also described as a primary barrier to inclusion of country food in government food security initiatives, according to multiple policymakers at both the federal and territorial levels: I would say country food is a big thing that might be interesting for the policy development. I think these are the biggest challenges. These are the biggest new challenges. The fact that it is very limited right now, it's not a coincidence. It's not random. It is because of -- How can I say it? It is because of public policy regulations. We work with […] the food inspection [agency] and so on. (Interview, March 23, 2018).

However, others spoke to the wider difficulty of government understanding and working with Indigenous economies and outside the market: For policy, we want to provide better access to food – but you deal with two different access systems, based on two economies. One is you go buy from the store, and that’s the market economy. The other is the subsistence economy. I think for all governments across the Circumpolar North, it’s a hard challenge to deal with traditional and subsistence economies. Modern governments have not been designed that way. Government works on hard data, statistics, baselines, which are not – which it’s very difficult to capture, analyze and put into action traditional ways, Indigenous knowledge. (Interview, November 16, 2017)

Those working at the federal level also describe the NNC program’s mandate as limited to reducing the price of nutritious perishable food. A key informant at the federal level described NNC as a “no win” policy, saying the program cannot live up to the expectations placed on it: It’s the ‘no win’ policy – there is no way everyone will be happy. I’ll settle for a least negative response. There are huge expectations on this program, because there’s no other federal program like us. People are not looking to the territorial governments or institutions, and they should be. We didn’t do a good job of packaging it – saying, we do this piece, income support does that piece, NTI [Nunavut Tunngavik Inc.] does harvesters’ support. And if you take

191 all these pieces, you have the elements of a Northern food security strategy. [….] There are elements of a strategy there, but nobody looks at it holistically. (Interview, November 16, 2017).

Many working at the federal level also described the Nutrition North program as only one piece of necessary solutions: “food security is such a big thing and Nutrition North is a small thing into that food security, into that puzzle. It is one piece in the puzzle. It does support food security questions. Yes, it does, but it's a piece of a puzzle” (Interview, March 23, 2018). Another federal policy professional argued that the “[Nutrition North] program can’t do it all. If you look at it as solving food security, it can never live up to everything that’s expected of it. […] It’s not fair to put it on one program. Everybody has a role to play. It’s finding a way to coordinate it” (Interview, November 16, 2017). Others argued that the program, while meeting a narrowly defined mandate, was not well-suited to addressing the issue of food insecurity. A former senior INAC employee explained, “To some degree, I think the Nutrition North has demonstrated that prices did initially come down and that there was some stabilization. But could you ever match the expectations that were so oversold? Not likely. None of it really addressed the overwhelming problem of basically a market solution trying to solve this very local problem” (Interview, March 23, 2018). The Auditor General’s report, and the outpouring of commentary it generated, reveal many of the key tensions and issues that animate policy approaches to food security: the contested role of the private sector in delivering a social program while pursuing a profit; the imbalance in decision-making power between Inuit communities and government; and the scope of narrow policy interventions to tackle systemic issues. Those involved said that Nutrition North has achieved narrow technical objectives, yet insofar as the program became Canada’s de facto policy approach to Northern food insecurity, it left structural political economic conditions that give rise to conditions of food insecurity intact. While a great deal of attention has been paid to concerns about transparency, concerns about the Nutrition North program also stemmed from the perception that it further consolidated the (already considerable) power of the private sector retailers within Inuit communities, where many rely on a single branch of a multi-national corporation as their sole option for not only groceries, but banking services including access to social benefits, hunting equipment, pharmacy products,

192 and access to postal services – a longstanding dynamic in Inuit Nunangat (see Ch. 5). Meanwhile, in the absence of a strategy on food security that would integrate work across levels of government, issues of jurisdiction and mandate continued to preclude coordinated policy action on food security.

6.2.6 Towards a ‘distinctions-based’ approach to food policy At the same time that both federal and territorial governments adopted new policy approaches to Northern food issues following the Inuit Health Survey, Inuit representative organizations advocated for a change in the overall approach to food policy and food security to place greater decision-making power in the hands of Inuit communities and organizations. A policy professional working with an Inuit representative organization explained: We are passionate and enthusiastic about launching a program, a hunter support program that we can make a difference and help communities. But at the same time, again, the money's going to run out at some point. It would be nice to see the federal government and – all of this talk about reconnecting with Indigenous people and reconciliation and all this talk – it would be really good for a step to actually start listening to what people want, rather than subsidizing things that we don't. (Interview, Aug. 14, 2017).

The federal consultation process for a Food Policy for Canada (led by Agriculture and Agri-Food Canada) also generated calls from ITK for a “distinctions-based” approach to policy, recognizing the unique circumstances of Inuit Nunangat and the Inuit food system, including the centrality of non-agricultural harvesting (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2017). ITK’s report described the first challenge facing Inuit food systems as institutionalized discrimination: The Inuit food systems have largely been shaped by colonialism which continues to overshadow the relationship Inuit have with government. Inuit knowledge about the Arctic environment and animals continues to be marginalized and undermined in favour of western scientific knowledge. Inuit have been left out of important decision-making tables regarding wildlife management and other areas of health that directly impact our communities. Policies and programs such as the Nutrition North Canada Program (NNC), remove power from Inuit communities by dictating what can and can’t be supported by meager government funding and by placing that funding in the hands of companies that do not operate on the prioritization of community wellness (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2017, p. 16).

193 ITK called for that the upcoming Canadian Food Policy to “respect Inuit self-determination by utilizing Inuit governance structures for decision making,” calling for partnership with Inuit representative organizations; the development of an Inuit food security strategy; and for multi- year funding for sustainable food programming, indexed to inflation, to be transferred to Inuit organizations (p. 18-19). At the regional level, the Qikiqtani Inuit Association (QIA) called for renewed support for harvesting and a turn away from “food security” entirely, and towards “food sovereignty” approaches, writing in a 2019 report, “Making food sovereignty possible in the Qikiqtani Region would revitalize Inuit culture and be a significant step towards reconciliation between Inuit and the Government of Canada” (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2019, p. 4). QIA has called for a “shift in thinking” in policy frameworks, as well as concrete investments in infrastructure, including small craft harbours and training. The National Indigenous Economic Development Board (2019, p. 4) Recommendations on Northern Sustainable Food Systems has also argued for new models of food security interventions outside the commodity food system: Food as a commodity is considered an object of production to be bought and sold on free markets. However, for Northern Indigenous Peoples, food has a much more complex meaning. [….] These meanings and associations do not directly align, and in fact often conflict with economic development models of food as a commodity and influence discussions of how best to support sustainable food systems in the North. Northerners are seeking to develop sustainable food systems that support and enable Indigenous self-governance and that are resilient, locally-driven, and community-focused.

The Board recommended expanding harvester support programs, investing in infrastructure, addressing regulatory issues of food inspection, and addressing income disparities and poverty more broadly. These statements by various levels of Indigenous government and Inuit representative organizations reflect not just an alternative vision for policy approaches to Northern food security, but a change in the political discourse surrounding food security. In shifting the conversation towards the language of social (in)equity, self-determination, and meaning of food as more than a commodity, Inuit organizations have drawn attention to systemic issues that

194 extend beyond the scope of food cost or subsidization, describing self-determination as a cornerstone of meaningful policy approaches to food insecurity.

6.2.7 Food security and governance in Nunavut today: Harvester Support, COVID-19

At the time that this research was completed in 2017 and 2018, there was concern that the momentum on food security had been lost at both the federal and territorial levels of government. One key informant working with an Inuit organization explained:

It feels like all of that government energy around social issues that used to be around poverty reduction and food security is now focused on suicide prevention. Again, it's an important issue. It's not that it shouldn't be, but there's only so much capacity within government and Inuit orgs. to carry the weight of those big wicked problems that we have. I partly feel like that momentum has shifted a little bit. (Interview, Aug. 11, 2017).

Others working in policy at the territorial level and in grassroots organizations expressed frustration amongst that the federal government was not moving more quickly based on the feedback from the 2016 Nutrition North consultations (Interview, Aug. 14, 2017). However, in late 2018 (after the interviews for this primary research were completed), the federal government announced substantial changes to the Nutrition North program: $62.6 million (CAD) in new spending for Nutrition North over 5 years, including $40 million in new Harvester Support Grants designated to help country food harvesters, to be administered in partnership with Indigenous organizations (Bell, 2018b; Murray, 2019). When the Harvester Support grants were approved in 2019, ITK president Natan Obed stated support for the shift:

The Nutrition North program [doesn't] consider one of the primary ways in which Inuit get healthy food. And that is through hunting and harvesting and going on the land to do that. [….] Different regions have had different programs over time in relation to harvester support, and this [Harvester Support] grant is a continuation of the advocacy and the push from Inuit to subsidize and to allow for food security to flow through funds allocated toward harvesting activities. (Murray, 2019 n.p.).

Other Inuit representative organizations also welcomed the shift in policy, suggesting it would address more than just food security. Aluki Kotierk, president of Nunavut Tunngavik Inc. stated,

195 “Not only does this address food insecurity in our communities, but it also asserts our Inuit culture” (Patar, 2020). At the time of writing this chapter, the details for the Harvester Support Grants and the outcome of Inuit-Crown consultations on the topic have not been publicly announced. However, in April 2020 the Prime Minister’s Office stated that a first year of funding had been allocated to Indigenous partners (Prime Minister’s Office, 2020). In August 2019, the federal government also announced revisions to the list of subsidy-eligible items under Nutrition North, including subsidies on some hygiene products like diapers, and expanded subsidies on items like formula and milk (with dairy products marking a continued focus of Northern food initiatives – see Ch. 5). The shift was supported but also prompted calls from Northerners for more than a “tweak” to the program (Hill, 2019). The elimination of items was subsequently deferred for another year in the name of consultation, with a new Inuit-Crown Food Security Working Group slated to review the list, and more broadly, evaluate the impact of Nutrition North on reducing food insecurity among Inuit (Rogers, 2019). At present, details have not yet been announced. In the interim, the COVID-19 pandemic has once again highlighted issues of food and water insecurity in Northern communities. In particular, the pandemic and measures taken to prevent transmission have given rise to concerns about disruptions to Northern communities’ supply chains, the closure of school breakfast and lunch programs, and access to basic resources, including water for handwashing (Bell, 2020). As part of its pandemic response, the federal government has announced a temporary increase of $25 million in Nutrition North funding to increase subsidy levels (Prime Minister’s Office, 2020). Nunavut Tunngavik Inc. has allocated pandemic response funds for increasing access to water for hand hygiene. Regional Inuit organizations across Nunavut are using pandemic funds from the federal Indigenous Community Support Fund to invest in local food distribution programs, for example supplying food hampers to Elders and providing grants for traditional activities including harvesting (George, 2020b, 2020c; Nunatsiaq News, 2020). The Qikiqtani Inuit Association has put resources towards harvester support to help communities feed themselves, with QIA President P.J. Akeeagok stating “we need to ensure… no Qikiqtani Inuit are left hungry in these

196 unpredictable times” (George, 2020c). The tone from the federal government has also shifted considerably, with the pandemic precipitating a call for new approaches to food security in the Territorial North. Federal Minister of Northern Affairs Dan Vandal is quoted in Nunatsiaq News as stating, “COVID makes the systems that we have in place to get food up there more expensive […] I think over the long term, we have to rely less on that and more on things like the Harvesters Support Grant program.” (Patar, 2020). It remains to be seen how such programs will continue following the immediate influx of support during the COVID-19 pandemic or under a new government. However, this marks a considerable shift from the time of outright political denial of food insecurity as a problem following the Special Rapporteur’s visit. It also marks a renewed commitment to food security as a policy focus, suggesting that the issue – while at times competing for political attention – is not going away. Most significantly, the shift towards greater Inuit involvement in decision- making and oversight in the design of food security interventions, as well as the promise to evaluate food interventions’ impact on Inuit communities’ food security more explicitly, mark the culmination of decades of work to secure greater self-determination in the governance of food interventions (see Ch. 5 also) – work that is still ongoing. This timeline shows something of the evolution of a conversation about the ‘Northern food crisis’ across the past decade, as well as the considerable shifts in policy that have taken place during this time, and changes now underway. The significance of many of these changes will only be apparent in time. However, the underlying issues that animate these conversations remain, and will continue to affect policy and decision-making into the future. The next section digs deeper into the range of perspectives among key informants involved in issues of food security and governance.

6.3 Key informants’ perspectives on food (in)security Interviews with key informants across levels of government revealed a range of perspectives on food security and social policy, from frustrations to hopes and successes. Many identified limitations of current policy approaches established by elected officials – as well as their

197 experiences taking direction and working within these limitations. As one former senior INAC official explained: One thing you should never forget is that the role of a civil servant is to provide the fullest, best advice to the political leadership, but at the end of the day it is their democratic right to decide. […] You work in civil service; the governments come and go and change, and they have the legal authority to implement changes. Not all of which you’ll agree with. (Interview, November 16, 2017).

The perspectives key informants offered shed light not only on the policy process, but the underlying logics, beliefs and narratives that animate decision-making and shape this perceived space of political possibility. This section presents this diversity of perspectives, focusing on the conceptualization of food and nutrition insecurity, and recommendations for moving forward on these issues. In turn, I explore how the types of solutions advanced and legitimized in turn rest on how food security is understood.

6.3.1 Conceptualizing food (in)security The term ‘food security’ is widely used within both territorial and federal policy and political discourse. The Nunavut Food Security Coalition’s territorial strategy and ITK’s report on Social Determinants of Inuit Health both reference the FAO’s 1996 World Food Summit definition: “Food security exists when all people, at all times, have physical and economic access to sufficient, safe, and nutritious food to meet their dietary needs and food preferences for a healthy and active life” (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2014, p. 29; Nunavut Food Security Coalition, 2014, p. 1). However, in interviews key informants expressed varying perspectives on the conceptualization of food security. Some dismissed the term. A key informant with experience in the private sector stated, “‘Food security’ is a term for bureaucrats and people like you who come up here. It doesn’t mean anything – what food security?” (Interview, July 17, 2017). Many working in the health sector said that the issue continues to be oversimplified and viewed their work as trying to break down misconceptions. A territorial policy professional explained, A lot of people have a really binary, a really two-dimensional view of what food insecurity meant. Pulling a diagram [on food security] up on the screen

198 allowed us to identify the complexity of the issue. But I wouldn't say – You know what I mean? Sometimes it's almost, like, this slide is almost intended to just break down misconceptions more than it’s trying to actually be the defining chart. […] People would say, ‘Well, we just need more – people just need more money’ or people would say, ‘These stores need to just lower their prices’ […] You will know that isn't really it. I mean, there's a lot of issues… (Interview, Aug. 30, 2017)

An Administrator with Feeding My Family said that it does not matter what term government or researchers use; the essence is straightforward: When you're hungry, you're hungry. It doesn't matter what any government or what any person says. At the end of the day, if you're hungry, you're hungry. It doesn't matter what people say. How you feed yourself, I think a lot of it – traditionally, many ate when they were hungry. There were no mealtimes. There was no set defined time. When you're hungry, if you had the food, you eat. It didn't matter really what time of day it was or if you're – before your hunting trip, you eat when you could. It's not within that time frame. I don't think that defining ‘food security’ – I think there's too much wording to that, because reality is, when you're hungry, you're hungry. You feed yourself. (Interview, Aug. 16, 2017).

The juxtaposition of these perspectives shows that the conceptualization of food security in Nunavut (as elsewhere) is diverse, from experiences of hunger to frustrations with a perceived term for bureaucrats. This breadth can bring varied individuals and organizations together, with the interpretive flexibility of food security operating as a “boundary object” (Star, 1989) onto which diverse interests and actors mobilizes their own interpretation and interests. At the same time, the shared language of food security – and its tendency to characterize an end result, not the underlying conditions that give rise to it – may not translate into shared decisions or policy directions (see Ch. 2). As described above, underlying political considerations still motivate and shape the conversation and decision-making processes.

6.3.2 Explaining food insecurity When asked what they viewed as the most significant causes of food insecurity or barriers to food security in Nunavut, key informants across all levels of government overwhelmingly identified high food costs and low incomes as the primary causes. This fits with the definition of food security in widespread use, which emphasizes “physical and economic access” (see

199 above). These responses also echoed the results of the 2007-08 Inuit Health Survey, in which respondents identified unemployment, low income, and the high cost of food as the primary reasons for food insecurity (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2014, p. 29). In turn, key informants frequently linked low incomes to low paying jobs and seasonal work, high rates of unemployment, and reliance on income assistance. Some informants said that budgeting was key, drawing attention to individual behaviour and education. An informant with experience in the private sector explained: I think it has to start with education and then those family values, family culture to drive that education. Learn how to manage your money and I know that can be big part on that. Learn how to manage your money, how to budget your money, how to buy healthy foods. (Interview, July 12, 2017).

However, several other key informants said that income assistance (also referred to by interviewees as income support or social assistance) was not sufficient for Nunavummiut families to feed themselves an adequate diet, regardless of budgeting. One informant drew attention to the vast difference between income assistance and the per diem rate the Government of Nunavut pays its employees (Interview, Territorial professional, Aug. 10, 2017), and another to the difference between the “Northern Allowance” paid to government workers (Former senior INAC employee, March 22, 2018), suggesting the amount received for income assistance was insufficient to meet basic needs. As of April 1st 2018, the per diem rate within Nunavut for Government of Nunavut employees to cover meals and incidentals, not including accommodation, was $166.90/day (Government of Nunavut, 2018). In contrast, in 2018, the welfare income for an individual, not including housing costs (often subsidized separately through social housing) was $7782 per annum, or $21.32/day, a rate comparable to Southern Canada where costs are considerably lower (Bell, 2018a). A former senior INAC employee said that widespread narratives of “irresponsibility” in budgeting obscured the difficulties Nunavummiut face: When you read all these online comments, they take different views on this, all the problems, the irresponsibility of people making poor decisions, rather than the price of food and the amount of income that people have – but you couldn’t make the right decisions. (Interview, March 22, 2018).

200 Many interviewees linked high food costs to the geography of Nunavut, saying that remoteness and limited infrastructure (roads, airstrips, ports) drove up the cost of store-bought food as well as hunting equipment. A federal professional said, “Northerners want a standard of living equal to Southerners – but achieving that is difficult because of infrastructure and isolation” (Interview, November 16, 2017). A former senior INAC employee said, “I used to tell people, if you got a rock off the shore and tried to sell it in the store, it would still be expensive – a product I got for free has all these landed costs. If I’m dealing with food, even with a transportation subsidy, it’s going to be expensive” (Interview, November 16, 2017). Another interviewee pointed to the wide range of costs that are higher for the private sector in the North: There's a lot of factors that come into play. [….] Electricity costs for the store and […] operational costs in the North, and even to construct a store in the North is sky high. That has a lot to do with how prices are determined. Wages is a big part of it too, for staffing, electricity costs can be easily an excess of $100,000 for a store […] and I think it's higher than that now. […] We’ve got heating oil as well on top of that to heat all our warehouses and warehouse during the winter. The diesel oil can be quite expensive. There's a lot of factors that play into it. We’ve got warehouse staff, you've got head office staff, you've got staff in the store then the cost of everything. […] Being able to land 737 on a tar and asphalt tarmac as opposed to ATR 42 on a gravel runway, big difference in how expensive it is for them to maintain the planes because landing on gravel isn't great for tires and isn't great for engines and that can lead to increase maintenance costs by the airline as opposed to landing on a normal tarmac. (Interview, July 12, 2017).

Some interviewees said limited market competition contributed to high food prices, and more broadly, meant profits and money leave the Territory; these concerns underpinned many of the critiques of Nutrition North noted above. A former senior INAC official said, “Let's say they [the retailers] know where the money is, they know how to suck it out of you” (Interview, November 16, 2017). Another key informant working for an Inuit representative organization described the dynamic between Inuit and the North West Company: This scheme of targeting your business to groups that rely on government pay-outs because, like here a lot of times – I don’t know whether they still do with income support but you used to get vouchers, and they'd be a voucher

201 to go spend at the Northern store.106 [...] So, that’s guaranteed income for the Northern stores year after year because it’s coming from government. [...] This is very strategic how they’re doing their business here. How do you undo it at this point, I don’t know. (Interview, Aug. 14, 2017).

Others argued that the retailers were an “easy target,” saying the story was more complex. A key informant working in the territory said: I think that the retailers are an easy target for people's outrage. You walk into the store, your family is hungry, you look at the shelves, and the prices are astronomical, and you don't have enough money to buy stuff. It really hits people, so it's easy to be mad at them, but food security and insecurity isn't just about what's sitting on the store shelf, right? (Interview, Aug. 11, 2017).

In addition to geographic remoteness as a contributing factor to high costs, multiple interviewees identified climate change as a factor in food security, particularly in access to country food. A federal health professional suggested that awareness of climate change should shape food security and nutrition strategies: It’s hard to go out on the land at times due to other impacts – […] the animals may be farther away, and people have to travel farther and that takes both time and money. With environmental change, the ice is not stable for as long. Access to traditional or country food has been reduced in a lot of cases. All of those things are making access to traditional or country food harder, so people are turning to store food more often. Climate change in the North is happening at a rapid pace. We all experience changes in our diet, but it’s faster in the North. So, nutrition education initiatives are meant to help guide people – what are the healthier choices they can make with what is available in the community through the stores, and with the money they have, along with what is available on the land? (Interview, April 18, 2018).

At the same time, several key informants working in the Territory questioned the way climate change impacts are interpreted, suggesting the dominant narrative was too apolitical: “it’s devoid of politics and social history. I find that anthropological lens on climate change is missing. It’s all health and nutrition, divorced of history and people.” (Interview, Aug. 17, 2017). A key informant working with an Inuit representative organization added that the focus on

106 The practice of issuing income assistance as a store gift card has been in place at various times in the past decade, including when primary research for this project was conducted in Nunavut in 2017, while in 2018, income assistance was instead issued as a cheque (see Ch. 7).

202 climate change is important but must include respect for Inuit knowledge and decision-making on species that are affected by shifts in climate (Interview, Aug. 14, 2017). Many interviewees linked food insecurity to education, both in terms of gaining employment and food skills. Others agreed that education was a primary factor, but said that more understanding was needed, both of the struggles faced, and the layered issues that contribute to food insecurity: I think they [political leaders] need to do a bit more understanding, what the community struggles are, at the community level. I had one of my cousins from [a small Nunavut community]. I was talking to her and […] she said, ‘Sometimes, I only eat one meal a day.’ Because she wants her children to eat because they were going to school so sometimes, that’s the only way her four kids can eat. One meal a day for an adult, that’s meager and it shouldn’t be like that. […] We are a very wealthy country, one of the G7 countries. Why does that happen? It makes you really wonder. Then she said she wasn't working for a while but again she is one of these communities that has limited employment opportunities. It was a seasonal job […] but now that it’s Fall again, so it has gone back to very minimal operation because not a lot of people [who] go there. She says she’s back to a social assistance and they’re back to square one. These are the kind of things that I think sometimes with policy makers, don’t understand. […] There’s no easy answers to that because you can only do so much at the community level. Sometimes I think that the policy thinkers are so far removed from that actual situation and they don’t really understand the real issues. There are so many different aspects to it. What brought these people into that? Why they’re in that situation. (Interview, Aug. 10, 2017).

A number of interviewees situated food insecurity within the wider history of colonization and its ongoing effects. When asked about the most significant underlying causes of food insecurity, a policy professional working for an Inuit organization said: When you fail to meet the basic needs of somebody, meals and shelter and safety, those primal basic things that every human ultimately needs to feel safe and functioning in this world, I think the government has really failed to uphold the promises they made […].They weren't given the things that they were promised. […] When you have 16 people living in three-bedroom apartment, that says everything you need to know about food security. I always say our housing is the number one problem here because overcrowding is just a thing. […] If everybody had a safe roof over their head and a proper amount of space, then we can deal out with the fallout of these other issues. […] It really started with colonization and I hate to keep going

203 back to that. But I do really feel that's exactly what it is. (Interview, Aug. 14, 2017).

Housing insecurity and its intersections with social issues were mentioned by several individuals as a critical but underappreciated issue in food insecurity, linked to the lasting legacies of colonization: [T]here's other factors too, overcrowding, homelessness. Then you have extended family members living with you for temporary period. Sometime that may extend to you or maybe to until they could find housing. That tends to add more to that food insecurity at home. […] Housing, or family violence, and there's bunch of other things that become impediments to wellbeing of people and being able to prosper, because these are sometimes the hindrance. There’re so many others it becomes broader and broader and then the circle gets bigger, different layers. (Interview, Aug. 10, 2017).

Trauma and mental health difficulties, as well as lack of mental health and addiction treatment services, was also mentioned by several interviewees working with Inuit government as underappreciated elements of food insecurity (Interviews, Aug. 10, 2017; Aug. 16, 2017). Another key informant working in the Territory spoke from their own experience, saying that ultimately, the way you understand food insecurity depends on where you look from, and should be addressed one layer at a time: I've always been interested in Inuit, I guess, progress – how we progress since people moved into the communities, way back when, because I grew up in an outpost camp prior to going to a residential school. As we were going to school, more and more people were moving into communities or to the settlements so there was less and less people living in the camps. When people started moving into settlements, they started to use less and less of their traditional food like hunting and gathering or harvesting. They started relying more and more on store bought food. I remember, my parents would visit some Elders who are grownups, [I would] follow my Mom sometimes and when hungry we went to the communities, people who were always talking about missing their country food and having to rely on store bought food, which didn't last long and they were always hungry. That's how it started from my experience, but you know, having worked since, between finishing school and going to work – It's always been in the community people rely on store bought food and sometimes there's not a lot of choices out there. They're not the healthiest. [….] The way you look at it [food security] depends on your background, where you work. It's all different aspects to it, there is so many different areas. You could go back to history of how we are today and the settlements, the moving into settlements […]. It could be anything. That's

204 where we are now. How do we fix things? […] It's so complicated, so many different layers, that's where we're at right now. I think we need to try and address one layer at a time. Eventually, hopefully, we'll start to see some changes over time. (Interview, Aug. 10, 2017).

These diverse views explaining food insecurity can be interpreted through the lens of social and structural determinants of Indigenous health (see Ch. 2). As I explore in greater detail in chapter 2, attention to health disparities, including food insecurity, has tended to focus on proximate determinants of health, while critical perspectives are often concerned with tying these proximate causes back to their distal roots. Reading (2015, p. 5) offers the metaphor of a tree for integrating proximate, intermediate, and distal determinants of health. In the interviews, high food costs, individuals’ food choices, limited infrastructure, reliance on income support, poor employment prospects, and changing hunting conditions can be understood as proximate determinants of food insecurity. Intermediate determinants – those that help or hinder health, and more proximate determinants – might include access to education, employment, and housing. Finally, as scholars working on the structural determinants of Indigenous health suggest, these determinants of health all unfold in the context of colonialism (Greenwood et al., 2015). In the context of Inuit Nunangat, this includes the history and legacy of colonization, including paternalistic social policies that profoundly affected the food system (see Ch. 4 and 5).

6.3.3 ‘What am I supposed to eat?’ Conceptualizing nutrition and health While these layered “causes of causes” (Rose et al., 2008, p. 132) of health disparities can be interpreted in the abstract, they are also apparent in the concrete form they take in healthy food and nutrition interventions. In interviews concerning food security and how it might best be addressed, many interviews also addressed nutrition. The majority of interviewees across levels of government suggested that education and healthy eating campaigns had an important role to play in addressing nutrition and food security alike, particularly because of the larger role store food now plays in the diet of many Nunavummiut. One health professional said without a focus on healthy eating, food interventions subsidizing store foods would be “investing in chronic disease” (Interview, Aug. 30, 2017). The fundamental disjuncture between

205 commodified highly processed foods that are low in nutrition and the traditional food system was also raised in several interviews. The same key informant shared a story about nutrition interventions in Nunavut: I had this picture, a 100grams of potatoes on four different plates. One of them is just a boiled potato, one is roasted, one is French fries, and one is poutine. Underneath each picture is the number of teaspoons of fat that are on each plate and it shows obviously there are 12 spoons of a fat on a plate of potatoes that are poutine. […] None on that boiled potato, right? This Elder's jaw drops, and she's going like, ‘What? I feed poutine to my grandchildren. It's good. Am I making us all unhealthy and having heart attacks?’ Then the conversation went off between the interpreter and the patient. Everything got quiet, and I said, ‘What did she say?’ The interpreter said, ‘She said to me, “Why would anyone make food you are not supposed to eat?”’ (Interview, Aug. 30, 2017)

Individuals working in the health sector said that problems lie beyond what health and nutrition professionals can tackle alone. Without higher incomes, health professionals said effects of nutrition education programs focused on healthy eating would remain limited: “we can teach people food-related skills to till we're blue in the face but if they don't have access to food and they can't afford nutritious food […] Of course, skills is huge, but then another big one is, of course, food insecurity” (Interview, Aug. 30, 2017). A professional working at the federal level explained: The income side is critical. Giving more purchasing power to individuals, then maybe education can have more of an impact. Maybe you want to try broccoli but that’s not going to feed hungry bellies for the fourteen people living in your house. You’ll go with something that stretches more. There was a quote from a [Canada Prenatal Nutrition Program] session someone told to me, I think it was in Nunavut, where a participant said, ‘I don’t need five ways to cook chicken – I need chicken.’ (Interview, April 18, 2018).

Key informants working across all levels of government discussed misconceptions and work to be done in how healthy food is presented. A federal professional explained, “when people hear ‘healthy food’ they think fruits and vegetables. But meat is healthy, as well as all the other [Nutrition North] subsidized items, as is country food” (Interview, November 16, 2017). One interviewee spoke of a need to reckon with the history of nutrition interventions

206 that once taught country food was unhealthy (see Ch. 5), sharing a story about their own realization at a public meeting in Nunavut: There was an older gentleman who stood up and said, ‘When you came here’ – because he was referring to Southerners – ‘When Southerners came here and we were told our diet’s not healthy, and we need to eat store food. Food from the Hudson's Bay at the time.’ They were taught or told that their food was healthier and better. Then he said, ‘But now you’re telling us that our grocery store food is not healthier or better. So, what am I supposed to eat?’ […] For older generations, I imagine it's quite confusing to navigate that aspect of colonization, that process of going through being told your food is not good. What you do with – the way you do your food is not okay, and then being told, ‘well the food that we're giving you is also not good.’ It would be hard. I imagine there are feelings of confusion and maybe even shame and other things are coming out of that too that make that even more difficult to cope with. (Interview, Aug. 16, 2017)

Another interviewee said that misconceptions about the nutritional value of country foods still persist among a minority of non-Inuit health workers in the Territory: Sometimes a nurse or a group [here] for the very first time looking at a traditional diet will say, ‘I don’t know how these people can be healthy if they're not eating vegetables.’ Or something like that. We actually, know that not to be the case, right? […] That's big, that people really need to understand that traditional way of eating is healthy. (Interview, Aug. 30, 2017).

Several other interviewees spoke of various positive examples of promoting country food as a healthy choice, including the newly created Territorial food guide, which promotes all country food as healthy. A policy professional working for an Inuit organization said they hoped that in future, the new food guide could be used to guide policy interventions (Interview, Aug. 14, 2017). Other examples included the creation of Nutrition Fact Sheets about country food used by community health workers and others, that link particular foods to markers of good health like strong bones or eyes. A health professional explained: Today we are able to say what nutrition [country foods] have in them, that is good for the body. We now have the picture. ‘See, I told you. Our food was good in the beginning.’ We are able to prove or I'm able to prove [that] now. I'm able to prove that we always had it. It just wasn't in this binder [of Nutrition Fact Sheets]! [...] I can see today like there are certain families that are more into nutrition and traditional food than [others] – and they don't come [to the health centre] as much as sick people. […] I'm just happy that I'm

207 one of the people that is introducing back that nutrition of our own food. (Interview, July 17, 2017).

Several interviews with key informants in the health sector also highlighted ongoing issues in delivering culturally relevant nutrition interventions. One example cited was the promotion of dairy products as nutritious foods to a population with high rates of lactase impersistence107 or ‘lactose intolerance’: A lot of people still can't tolerate milk, milk products, because their bodies aren't made for it sort of. Like if I offered you igunaq, fermented foods, you couldn't tolerate, your stomach couldn't tolerate [it], just -- it's […] like our bodies are - how our body adapts to our climate as well. In order to be out in this cold in the wintertime, you have to have some meat. You have to have meat, all kind of meat in order for us to function in this cold weather. [….] People couldn't tolerate milk and they'd have diarrhea. Some older people still can't tolerate milk, but I guess you can get used to it. But how do you get - I know milk is good, proteins are good, but if you want to be an outside person, how do you get warm? (Interview, July 17, 2017).

Today, milk and other dairy products are among the highest-level subsidy items under NNC (see above).108 However, data is not available at the territorial level concerning lactose intolerance, and gaps in knowledge remain: “Cow's milk is not part of traditional Inuit diet, so […] I could see

107 Globally, most adults cannot digest lactose. Lactase persistence (the ability to digest lactose into adulthood) is found only in populations with distinct genetic mutations, including most of Northern Europe, and those of European descent. Critical health scholars have argued that the construction of “lactose intolerance” as a disorder reflects a “fallacy of medical normalcy” or manifestation of “bio-ethnocentrism” that position adult consumption of lactose-rich foods as normative, healthy, and desirable – and the opposite as deviant or abnormal (Wiley, 2008, pp. 117, 121). Around the world, dairy-based traditional cuisines rely on fermentation of unprocessed milk to derive products that have little or no lactose, from Mongolian yoghurt and cheese cultivation (Curry, 2018) to Tibetan yak butter tea (Guo et al., 2014). In turn, fermented foods, including igunaq in Inuit cuisine, often hold a particularly valuable place in culture and cuisine (Krebs, 2020), with practices and indeed starters/cultures handed down over generations, and fermented and traditionally prepared foods contributing to a rich microbiome and nutritional benefits that are still poorly understood, but that appear to confer health benefits absent from more microbially impoverished “modern” diet (Curry, 2018; Hauptmann et al., 2020). 108 When this research was completed in Nunavut in 2017-18, a reminder of the origin of dairy milk could be found on Northern stores’ receipts showing NNC savings grouped together under a single category, memorably labelled “Dairy Fluids.”

208 why lactose intolerance would be potentially more of an issue here, but I can't say that that's for sure the case. I don't know, I don't have that information,” another interviewee working in the Territory explained. “Another anecdotal thing that I've heard is that people are often grossed out if told or reminded that cow's milk is from cows” (Interview, Aug. 16, 2017). In the space of only a few generations, Inuit have been subject to conflicting messages on the health and nutritional value of their traditional foods from outside medical experts (see Ch. 5). The value of a traditional diet is increasingly recognized and celebrated, yet at the same time this shift obscures the effects of shaming and diminishing Inuit cuisine that took place within the living memory of Elders who are still alive today. There is ongoing work to address ethnocentrism in nutrition and food policies, such as those that continue to promote milk for reasons more deeply rooted in the historical lobby efforts of the dairy industry (see Ch. 5) than their value in improving the health and wellbeing of Inuit communities. More broadly, such examples draw attention to the health issues produced by an underlying industrial food system that produces food that you are “not supposed to eat” because it is profitable to do so.

6.4 Key informants’ policy recommendations Interviewees had many different recommendations for changes they would like to see in policy approaches to food security. Many suggestions, like expanding support for country food, or expanding nutrition education initiatives, are already well documented, including through the feedback on Nutrition North from the 2016 consultation process. Other suggestions – most notably for the government to intervene more heavily in the market sector – have not been pursued, because they were perceived to be too politically unpalatable. This section of the chapter summarizes interviewees’ suggestions and perspectives on tackling food security, from tweaks to existing policies and programs, to wholesale overhauls to governance. Where relevant, policy changes that have been addressed since the interviews took place are noted.

6.4.1 Strategies, cooperation, and self-determination Many interviewees called for greater cooperation within and between levels of government on food security, and changes in how food interventions are governed, including a reconfiguration

209 of power relations. Multiple interviewees, working at all levels of government, called for a more comprehensive food security strategy for Arctic communities. A former territorial policy professional working on food security said that the Nunavut Food Security Strategy needs funding and a stronger plan for implementation: The big question […] if you're talking about root causes and what creates the bed of food insecurity, where do you inject the effort and capacity and funding? I think that's a big question that's yet unanswered. I think it's just people going blindly trying to be like, ‘Maybe here, maybe here.’ (Interview, Aug. 10, 2017).

Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami has called publicly for an Inuit food security strategy at the national level (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2017, p. 16). Others interviewed felt that elements of a strategy were already in place, and simply needed to be brought into focus: “We have elements in there already, through the Nunavut Food Security Coalition – but the way our communications work, we talk about our own program. There are elements of a strategy there, but nobody looks at it holistically” (Interview, November 16, 2017). At the territorial level, several key informants also pointed to positive changes to income assistance that had addressed food security-related issues, such as addressing claw backs of funding when harvester support was received, while saying more could be done to include food security considerations in other programs. Another policy professional suggested a more strategic approach was needed to remedy policies that undermine food security, including the “red tape” surrounding food safety and country food (interview, Aug. 17, 2017). While a more explicit food security strategy was raised by several interviewees, so too was the question of who should manage and oversee the governance and implementation of food programs in the North. Several interviewees, across levels of government, suggested that Nutrition North – or a related, more comprehensive policy approach – should not be led in a top-down approach from the federal level. One former senior INAC employee explained that they felt too far removed from local realities to make the decisions they were called on to make: Nutrition North should have been devolved to the North, with the federal government providing money and support. INAC should get out of it. The

210 retailers want to be in charge of the entire supply chain. For communities, why would I want decisions on what I can put in my mouth made by people whose biggest decision is, ‘should I get my coffee at Starbucks or Second Cup?’ Who lives with the consequences? […] INAC should get out of it. It’s a bit paternalistic to expect the federal government, who’s the highest level removed from the ground, it’s too high level – for good reasons, but there are some issues that can’t be resolved. […] The best thing we probably might have done was just evolve and get out and just say, ‘Look, you figure this out.’ (Interview, November 16, 2017).

Others cautioned that putting the onus on the Territorial or Inuit governments to resolve issues was unfair and would overstretch their capacity. Another former senior federal official said: Another thing that worries me a bit is that some people […] seem to think that, well, if you just leave these kinds of decisions in the hands of Northerners, they will know how to deal with these. I'm not detracting from their knowledge and capability at all. That is a huge burden, I think, to be putting on them. (Interview, March 22, 2018).

Several suggested that some a model of co-governance was necessary. A key informant working with an Inuit representative organization said, "I do feel strongly that the Indigenous organizations should take a lead in that, but it can't be without federal government support. We're not – money doesn't come on trees and we all know that. We have a shared obligation, I think, to help our neighbours” (Interview, Aug. 14, 2017). Some of these steps are, at the time of writing this chapter, now underway (see above).

6.4.2 Support for Inuit foodways, skepticism about silver bullets The single most frequent suggestion that arose in interviews was to expand support for country food and harvesting, with more than half of interviewees suggesting some version of enhanced harvester support. This is something that recently announced changes in federal funding address (see above). In contrast to historical views, most in the health sector said there is now widespread recognition of the cultural and nutritional importance of country food. However, those working in the Territory said that, to date, funding support for access to traditional food has been inconsistent, with piecemeal programs that put too high an administrative burden on individual hunters. Some interviewees cautioned that while greater support for country food would be beneficial, this could not replace support for the market sector, commenting that

211 time could not be ‘turned back’ on changes in the food system. However, many also said there was unrealized potential to expand local economies and ensure money stays in Nunavut. An administrator with Feeding My Family said: The G.N. and Feds have to work together to look at what Nunavut has to offer. We still look to the South for strategy, but Nunavut is rich. Rich in wildlife, in minerals, in arts and culture. […] That’s money that stays in Nunavut, it doesn’t go down south to a Southern company, or another company down South. The money stays in Nunavut. That’s really the way to build it within Nunavut. [...] It’s not food that is forced as well, and it’s healthier. Forced, what I mean is ‘this is what’s available at the store, therefore this is all you’re going to get’ kind of thing. I know Inuit will never go back to the way they used to be, that’s guaranteed. A lot of Inuit know that. There’s no way we can go back. But there’s still lots of skills in our culture that we’re still very strong on, that will go forward. That’s what I think we should be looking at: What are the strength and skills that Inuit have, and let’s go forward with that. (Interview, Aug. 16, 2017).

Many suggested that governments could work more extensively with Hunters and Trappers Organizations to address food insecurity. Specific suggestions included support for skills training to ensure those who did not have access to someone to teach them could learn harvesting skills, and finding a means to pay hunters and position hunting as a career. Others noted that the commercialization of country food remains controversial, particularly if it is for profit, and suggested that directing funds through a community organization, like an HTO, could address these issues.109 The creation of new Harvester Support Grants announced in 2019, and newly funded in 2020, are in line with some of these calls for new investment in country food, and for greater cooperation between the federal government and Inuit organizations. It remains to be seen whether they can deliver on hopes for a new approach that would better support Nunavut food systems and food security.

109 Territorial policymakers explored the marketization of country food as a possible food security solution to the cash shortage hunters face (Ford, Macdonald, Huet, Statham, & MacRury, 2016; Nunavut Food Security Coalition, 2014). However, this approach has not been pursued to date, in part, according to interviewees, because of disagreements about the appropriateness of selling and marketing foods that are traditionally shared, and lack of consensus on such interventions within organizations and among their members (see also Gombay, 2010; Searles, 2016).

212 In discussing local food production, several interviewees working with the Territorial government and Inuit organizations expressed mixed feelings about greenhouse and grow projects, saying that while they might be part of a solution, ‘silver bullet’ thinking should be avoided. An administrator with Feeding My Family said, "I understand the greenhouses, because that works in the South but that doesn't mean it's necessarily going to work in the North." (Interview, Aug. 16, 2017). Another interviewee said the most important question for such projects is to ask who benefits: In the few years that I've been here, there's been successive waves of bright young things figuring out how to fix food security in the North and are trying to come up, and have communities and people invest in things like modified sea cans that will grow leafy greens […] Sure, the technology is cool and it is awesome that you can grow however many tons of leafy greens in an insulated sea can, but people keep coming and trying to save the North with their, ‘If you could just do this, you could fix your food security issue.’ […] Even our greenhouse here in Iqaluit. You've seen it, I'm sure. It's pretty small. Who's participating in that? It is not the people who are food insecure. I'm a huge fan of greenhouses. I like to farm. I like to grow things. Again, it's a sweeping generalization. Of course, there are Inuit who eat kale and lettuce, whatever, but is that the people who are most food insecure? That is not what they're after, you know? […] I don't really know what the answer is to that. I do think there is a place for that as part of the solution, but that is not the whole solution. I guess I just go back to, ‘Who are the end users of this product?’ and, ‘Is it actually the people who need the help the most?’ (Interview, Aug. 11, 2017)

Another key informant working in the territory explained that the magnitude of inquiries about greenhouse projects was at times overwhelming: We get a lot of pressure around greenhouses and I don’t think ‘x’ number of pounds of lettuce are going to save people from food insecurity. The amount of questions about greenhouses over the last year or so has been a lot. [...] I ended up making some files in my email for each one of these things because there’s relatively constant emails about this. People then often follow up on what’s happening with this company or that company. But the way I see it is, most of the time greenhouses are targeted as, not intentionally, but the target audience ends up being Southerners, people who want to eat lettuce and herbs and the stuff that they used to have down South. Herbs and various leafy greens are part of Inuit heritage here, but I don’t hear about anybody trying to grow those things in the greenhouse here. (Interview, Aug. 16, 2017).

213 Others saw potential place for novel forms of local food production, but questioned whether such projects would compete for funding with harvesting programs. Read against the ethnohistorical analysis presented in the previous chapter, such projects reflect part of a longer-term trend of interest in an agriculturally productive Arctic that merits further consideration. More broadly, the idea that no one ‘silver bullet’ would resolve food insecurity issues was widely shared within interviews, both in terms of addressing food security through a holistic strategy, and in looking to projects that might deliver multiple benefits.

6.4.3 Community initiatives, pilot projects, and knowledge sharing Several interviewees, working at both the territorial and grassroots level, called for more consistent funding for community projects – such as on-the-land programs, community-run freezers, or cultural programs – saying that offer holistic benefits in addition to food, by bringing together youth and elders; facilitating language learning; and benefiting mental health and wellbeing. Those working or volunteering with grassroots organizations said consistent support was needed to break a cycle of one-off calls for applications and grant funding that exhausted capacity that they said could be better spent implementing programs. Some situated this within a wider picture of devolution and self-determination, arguing that communities should determine their own priorities regarding food security, and suggesting a top-down approach was too far removed from local needs and undermined communities’ agency. A former territorial policy professional working on food security said: I think most simply it’s direct funding to communities, who can then decide how best to be getting food to the people in their community who need it the most. I think there's not one strategy that's going to fit all at all. Getting the money to communities is so difficult at the G.N. level. You have to have contributions and grants policy or something in order to move money to communities. Otherwise, it's very difficult to be just giving money to community groups. I think putting in place some mechanism that it's easy to be funding different programs and communities – then also to be sharing the successes between communities. I think at the community level, that's the biggest, and I think where you see the most impact the soonest. (Interview, Aug. 10, 2017).

214 Successful examples were highlighted by several interviewees as a source of hope and inspiration. Example offered in interviews included the ITK’s Nuluaq mapping project, which documents community-based food security initiatives, as well as specific programs that have received research and policy attention, including ‘Going-off, growing strong’ in Nain, Nunatsiavut (Interview, Former territorial policy professional on food security, Aug. 10, 2017). A board member with a grassroots food organization said, “The problems are so protracted, they're so integrated into cultural paradigms and it's really hard to see the way forward. This is the kind of space where successful anecdotes are going to be the game changer” (Interview, August 15, 2017).

6.4.4 Improving access to store-bought food While the most widespread suggestion was to improve access to country food, many interviewees said that there remains an urgent need to better support access to store food, particularly in terms of nutrition education and food choices. A health professional explained: Really taking steps to increase access traditional is pretty important but for those times when people are eating food from the store, which is at least half of most people's diet, getting those to be the best choices is really a huge important frontier to get to. (Interview, Aug. 30, 2017)

Several health and policy workers, across levels of government, also suggested expanding home economics content in schools, saying that food skills would play an important role. Another key informant working with an Inuit organization said: I think there need to be more nutrition, like, cooking classes – like in high school you have home economics? Somehow to that but more about nutrition training, cooking like for young mothers or even, you know, people that are on [income] assistance, to give them better understanding of what are healthy alternatives and may be more economical. […] If they have a nutritionist or people who have that specialty to go to the communities and have this discussion, that might be helpful as well. (Interview, Aug. 10, 2017)

Interviewees proposed various policy changes, including increasing income assistance or enacting a universal basic income to address poverty, and subsidizing sea lift items to stretch Nutrition North funds further. Some suggested more targeted funding would better help those who need it most, noting that the current Nutrition North subsidy benefits higher income

215 earners. One policy professional working in the territory explained, “[A]s much as I still want to be able to buy affordable food, more support needs to go to families who are hungry, individuals who are hungry” (Interview, Aug. 16, 2017). Changes to the subsidy eligible list are among the policy changes under consideration that was announced in 2019 and subsequently deferred for further consultation (see above); details have not been announced at the time of writing this chapter. Several interviewees suggested that a “radical idea” for federal policy would be to support a school lunch or school feeding program – not just in Nunavut, but nationally. One federal health professional explained, “I’d like to see a school feeding program nationally – but there are lots of reasons that hasn’t happened. […] I don’t think it’s money alone. For example, it’s also jurisdiction, and who would do it, but money is part of it” (Interview, April 18, 2018).

6.4.5 Towards a new policy model for food security Several policymakers at both the territorial and federal level argued for the replacement of market-based approaches with a different policy model on food security entirely, while suggesting that the solutions they would like to see were also too politically unpalatable to raise publicly. A former senior INAC official said it was ‘unrealistic’ to expect for-profit business to deliver public services, and advocated for a public option: The idea, we never put forward because it was too radical, is to have a public grocer, almost like the CBC – like they do in Greenland. But we never looked into it in detail, because the time pressure and the lobby pressure was all emphasizing that it was about the airlines and freight costs. [….] The North West Company is what it is – it’s unrealistic to expect a for-profit company to do anything other than sell you what they can at a profit. Candy, whatever. It’s a problem in Canadian public policy, trying to get any private company to deliver a public service and not just seek profit is a hard sell. (Interview, November 16, 2017).

Another former territorial professional echoed the idea of a public system, saying they “wouldn’t say it publicly” but “maybe we should [nationalize] these stores, maybe they should be government-owned stores. Change the profit out of the equation of the stores and just run them as a non-profit purveyor of food.” (Interview, Aug. 30, 2017). At the same time, proponents of looking to a public model (often referencing Greenland), also drew attention to

216 the political difficulties of such an approach, pointing to potential legal issues under Canada’s trade agreements; the lack of historical precedent; and the difficulties of implementing such a change, including insufficient foundational knowledge of how the Northern food retail sector works, and reliance on the private sector as a source of that knowledge (see above). However, a former senior INAC employee suggested that the Nunavut Land Claim Agreement could potentially provide the legal resources to set up public or Inuit-owned food retail options (Interview, March 23, 2018). Several policy professionals also mentioned the co-operative model as having promise in tackling food insecurity beyond the profit motive, but said this promise was yet unrealized. One former INAC employee said that co-ops, particularly the federated co-op system, remain fundamentally constrained, and risk simply being undersold if they attempt to stock more nutritious foods in place of high profit margin items (Interview, November 16, 2017). An individual with experience in the private sector in the Territory said, “People do support the local co-op on principle, but if the prices are the same, there’s not much difference.” (July 15, 2017). The economies of scale and efficiencies available to a multinational grocer like the North West Company were a challenge for independent stores: “Most communities have more than one store, but […] there may not be real competition there because of small, say a small independent retailer, […] wouldn't be in a position to compete effectively with the Northern store” (Interview, Former senior INAC employee, March 22, 2018). More broadly, others pointed to the North West Company’s profound and unrivaled depth of experience in the North as making it difficult for new entrants in the market. Such statements reflect the limitations of reliance on the private sector to deliver social programs on food – and more broadly, speak to the difficulties of mobilizing a commodity food system and market-based policy to prioritize Inuit food security, health, and wellbeing (see Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2017, p. 31).

6.4.6 Health and healing Just as the underlying causes of food insecurity can be understood as a spectrum, from more proximate to more deeply rooted determinants, the solutions put forward by key informants can also be understood on a spectrum. At one end lie solutions that informants perceive to be

217 the most feasible – solutions that can be operationalized within the existing space of political possibility. These included more publicity of community success stories, funding for cooking classes, or indeed greenhouse projects. At the other end were solutions that would require a reconfiguration of political space and were often pre-empted by interviewees who described their ideas as “too radical.” These including a universal basic income, a national school lunch program, and a public option for groceries or sealift, bypassing the private multi-national ownership of much of the Northern retail sector. Also perceived as “radical” was the suggestion that INAC should not be the primary governing body for Northern food programs – yet the persistent efforts of Inuit representative organizations have indeed led to new co-management bodies between federal and Indigenous governments, with the Inuit-Crown working group involved in revisions to the Nutrition North program and decisions on a new harvester support program (see above). These changes reflect not just new food interventions, but a reshaping of the space of political possibility. No interviewees at any level of government said that present policy measures were sufficient to tackling food insecurity, but many pointed to positive developments through the work since the issue came to political attention a decade ago, including foremost increased dialogue, attention to the issue, and new channels of cooperation and communication. An administrator of Feeding My Family said, “Has the food prices gone down? No. But there's been so many positive side effects to be said. It's all the positive effects to this is way higher than the actual food crisis going down.” (Interview, Aug. 16, 2017). At the same time, several interviewees, primarily those working in grassroots and Inuit organizations, said the change they would like to see in addressing food security is not one single program or policy change, but a more fundamental change in attitude and policy alike, from the level of political leadership to the general public. A key informant working with a grassroots organization said, "you need to break preconceived cultural paradigms that say, ‘We know best,’ which is a vast challenge. The colonial savior.” (Interview, August 15, 2017). Another Nunavummiut interviewee said that a change in approach is needed to enable healing: Right now, the way people view things is with southern glasses – people who’ve never been up here… [A former senior policymaker working on food security] came out and sat in at the Truth and Reconciliation Commission

218 testimony, and he said after that, he finally understood why so many people identified healing as part of food security, and part of anti-poverty strategy. Only through healing can you empower. (July 15, 2017).

These perspectives resonate with the work of Inuit representative organizations that have called for greater involvement in decision making (see above), and identified “increasing levels of self-determination in Inuit regions” as a key action for future success in addressing the social determinants of Inuit health, including food insecurity, to overcome the ways in which colonialism continues to overshadow the relationship between Inuit and government (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2014, p. 4; see also Ch. 2). This echoes statements above, from respondents across all levels of government, suggesting that policy approaches to food security must shift decision making power towards those communities that interventions are intended to benefit if they wish to do more than perpetuate the same underlying conditions that give rise to high rates of food insecurity.

6.5 Discussion and conclusion: Change, continuity, and policy blueprints Analyzing the above sections together, a variety of narratives emerge that underpin contemporary policy approaches to food security, and that have legitimized political decision- making on this issue. The stakes of how food insecurity is framed particularly become clearer if one links understandings of causes with recommended solutions. To the extent that food insecurity is defined and understood foremost as a problem of high costs and low incomes, a market-based retail subsidy on store-bought food responds to these causes. To the extent that food habits and budgeting are defined as the problem, the solutions lie in healthy eating campaigns and education focused on financial skills or nutrition. The popular portrayal of the traditional sector as ‘fading’ and imperiled has further legitimized market-based policy interventions to the exclusion of support for country food (see Ch. 2). A focus on remoteness reflects a taken for granted belief in the commodity food market (one that produces food you are not supposed to eat), reliant on imported foods over long commodity chains, imported at great expense – and precludes the potential of more vibrant local food systems. To the extent that food insecurity is naturalized as a product of geography (remoteness) or environmental

219 change, the problem is insurmountable and inevitable, contributing to a sense of ongoing defeat. Meanwhile, the logic – and solutions – change if food insecurity is understood as a structural health inequity (see Ch. 2) and a consequence of the political economic environment created through colonization (see Ch. 5). In this perspective, food insecurity is a symptom of the wider, historically contingent domination of Inuit economic, social and political life, first by capitalist interests of the Hudson’s Bay Company and its competitors, and subsequently by a the Government of Canada, which, through the bureaucracy of the Northern Administration, imposed sovereign control on Inuit Nunagat and initiated an intensive program of state-led development, with food profoundly entangled in this control (see Ch. 5). In this view, a market- based retail subsidy administered by the institutional descendants of these same colonial institutions, absent Inuit oversight and decision-making power, only perpetuates the conditions that have precipitated the serious health issues, including food insecurity, now disproportionately affecting Inuit communities. Here, the overarching call for respect for self- determination responds to these histories. While few argue exclusively for any of these singular perspectives, and most agree a holistic approach is required, they nonetheless reflect some of the dominant narratives that have shaped and legitimized the political debate concerning high rates of food insecurity in Arctic Canada (see Ch. 2). Taking a longitudinal perspective and reading the results of this chapter with those that precede it clarifies some of the changes and continuities that have shaped political decision making concerning the Northern food system, and the extent to which policy approaches to development issues draw on existing ‘blueprints’ (see Ch. 2; Ferguson, 1990). Through Nutrition North, the private sector has continued to play a central role in delivering the primary federal policy response to improving access to food in the North, just as the HBC and its competitors did in the 1940s and 50s through the Family Allowance program (see Ch. 4 and 5).110 It is

110 When fur markets collapsed in the early parts of the 20th century, particularly during the Second World War, the fur trade sector shifted its business model towards sales, benefiting from the rapid expansion of Inuit purchasing power through new social spending like Family Allowances (see Ch. 5). In return, the Northern Administration relied on The Bay and missionary presence as de-facto social service providers, and in turn, sources of knowledge (see Ch. 5).

220 notable that the private retail sector in Inuit Nunangat is indeed still dominated by a former fur trade company. Ongoing reliance on the private sector as a primary source of knowledge on the functioning of the Northern food market and its logistics in turn shapes the space of political possibility. Writing on the Norther Administration’s handling of 1950’s Family Allowance rations, Tester and Kulchyski (1994, p. 84) argue that, “The task of those formulating government policy was to accommodate ‘The Bay.’ The result was distorted policy that couldn’t begin to deal with the serious problems of Inuit health and welfare developing at the time.” Today, policy that upholds the profitability of the retail food market continues to be taken as a given, and Inuit continue to bear the social costs. While changes have been made over the past decade in response to concerns about NNC’s accountability, its mandate and market-based model have continued to constrain its effectiveness in tackling issues of food insecurity directly, and ITK has argued the program’s market driven model is “unable to prioritize Inuit health” (2017, p. 31). The difficulty – or impossibility – of prioritizing Inuit health within market-based approaches to food security extends to characteristics of the commodified, capitalist food system more generally – a food system that produces “food you are not supposed to eat,” because it is profitable to do so. In the Arctic environment, the difficulties of addressing food insecurity and nutritional issues in the context of an increasingly commodified food system stand in particularly sharp relief. They do so in part because of the continuous imbalance in power relations between the North West Company, the federal and territorial governments, and Inuit families, which has produced a food environment with few choices – an environment in which, in the words of one informant, “you couldn’t make the right choices.” In turn, the

Seventy years later, aspects of this underlying mutualism remain: With the Nutrition North program, the federal government relies on the private sector to deliver social programs, and as a key source of knowledge on the functioning of the Northern food market and its logistics. Regardless of the multiple and contested politics driving policy decisions and the creation of Nutrition North (see above), one effect of the program has been to further insulate the retailers’ business model at a time when the retail sector faces new forms of disruption from online retailing, and to further consolidate the power of the retailers over Northern communities, and the North West Company is described by investment advisors as a safe bet precisely because its profitability is safeguarded by government subsidies (see Ch. 1).

221 features of a capitalist food system stand in contrast to the survival of an Indigenous economy and food system that Inuit have fought for decades to maintain. Of course, issues of squaring healthy eating or food security campaigns with the profit motive are not unique to Inuit Nunangat. In other jurisdictions worldwide, food and nutrition insecurity are inextricable from food systems that treat food not a right but as a commodity to be bought and sold to maximize profit – a conflict that underpins much of the food sovereignty literature, which has drawn attention to the conditions of production of peasant and Indigenous peoples’ food systems (for overview, see Patel, 2009), and is today gaining attention in Nunavut also (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2019). While continuities in Canada’s policy approach to the Inuit food system are apparent in the wider political economy of the North, other continuities are evident in finer-grain details. The persistence of dairy products as a mainstay of Northern food programs reflects more fundamentally the persistence of the Euro-Canadian imagination concerning nutritious food – a characterization that key informants said still needs to be corrected. For example, to date little attention has been paid to the marketing and promotion of milk products as healthy choices to a population that experiences high rates of lactose intolerance (see brief mention in Egeland, Williamson-Bathory, et al., 2011, p. 381). Similarly, while the potential of greenhouses and local agricultural production has given rise to a diversity of perspectives within Nunavut, the magnitude of attention to these projects as food security solutions is reflective of the cultural imagination of an agricultural society seeking to improve the North through cultivation (see Ch. 5). It remains to be seen how the announced changes to Nutrition North, including Harvester Support Grants to be administered by Indigenous organizations, and new Inuit-Crown Working Group, will address calls for greater collaboration and partnership between the federal and Indigenous governments, and for Indigenous organizations to play a larger role in decision- making on food governance. As Natan Obed expressed, the Harvester Support Grants mark a shift towards a policy approach that Northern Indigenous representative organizations have been advocating for decades – indeed, an approach that Inuit hunters suggested in the 1940s, when they appealed to the Eastern Arctic Patrol to allow funding for Peterhead boats under the

222 Family Allowance program (see Ch. 5). The new Inuit-Crown relationship represents opportunity for significant change – and its outcomes remain to be determined. However, they should be interpreted in the context of the entrenched relationships that have framed food interventions not just in the past decade, but the past century as well.

223 Chapter 7 ‘It keeps you close’ Food sharing and food security in Clyde River, Nunavut

7.1 Chapter introduction: Portrait of a food system Food in Arctic Canada is, in the popular imagination, synonymous with cost. In fly-in communities across Nunavut, a visitor would find store shelves lined with familiar convenience foods sold at unfamiliarly high prices. One can buy milk and ice cream, as well as airfreighted produce like broccoli, oranges, avocados, and iceberg lettuce, subsidized under the federal Nutrition North program but often still several times the cost they would be in Southern cities. Non-perishables including soda and snack food, starches, and canned goods are barged in during the open water season, though they may also be flown in and sold at a premium when quantities dwindle. (Seven-dollar cans of Coke are not an uncommon sight in late spring, before the new sea lift shipment arrives.) In communities like Clyde River, Nunavut, the aisles of the grocery store are busy during lunch breaks and after work, the stretch of road out front crowded with parked snowmobiles, All-Terrain Vehicles (ATVs), and trucks. The rhythms of the local food system that play out within the community, on the land, or on social media and community radio may be easier for a visitor (particularly one familiar with only a market sector) to overlook. On closer consideration, one might notice that small outbuildings alongside homes often house skidoos and extra parts, qamutiik (sleds), ATVs, boats, jerry cans, fish nets, drying racks for preparing sealskins, and deep freezes stocked with locally harvested country food. In spring, Arctic Char hang outside to dry in the wind into pitsi (dried fish). In good weather, especially on weekends, skidoos depart town on hunting trips or getaways to cabins on the tundra, sometimes towing a qamutiik heavily laden with extra gas, camping supplies, and food. Others leave for short day trips with children riding on mattresses or blankets in the sled box to go fishing for sculpin and char on the bay, where the sea ice cracks from an inflowing stream. VHF radios on kitchen tables are tuned to an open channel to relay messages between hunting parties, family members, and the wider community; these are also used to announce a successful harvest and food available to share. Today, such announcements also take place over Facebook, which has also become an important means for

224 community efforts to raise awareness about the high costs of store-bought food, offer or request food, and celebrate and share Inuit hunting stories around the Circumpolar North (see Ch. 1). This mixed food system, comprising both a market sector and the harvesting of country food, has been typical of communities in the Eastern Arctic since the 1960s. In newly centralized government settlements, Inuit families were displaced from access to seasonal hunting grounds and relied increasingly on store-bought foods and cash income (see Ch. 4). Mainstream scientific and political approaches of the day suggested an inevitable collapse of subsistence harvesting and sought to usher Inuit into the market economy through acculturative social policies (see Ch. 5; Brody, 1975; Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, p. 12; Usher et al., 2003, p. 117). Meanwhile, fur trade companies like the Hudson’s Bay Company and North West Company reconfigured their business model towards grocery sales (see Ch. 5), as government Family Allowance payments overtook furs as the primary source of income for Inuit, and in turn, for fur trading companies (Damas, 2002, p. 111). The past six decades have seen a shift towards ever greater availability of imported perishable and processed foods. The main grocery retailer remains the North West Company; in Clyde River, it operates the only grocery store in town. However, the collapse of harvesting once foretold has not come to pass, and country food continues to make up an important part of the food system and household income. In a detailed study working with one extended family in Clyde River, Harder and Wenzel (2012, p. 313) found that country food comprised approximately 20% of overall household income.111 The majority of Nunavummiut households hunt and fish,112 with country food making up roughly half of the meat and fish consumed by

111 This compariason was achieved by shadow-pricing, comparing the income derived through harvesting country food with the replacement cost of market foods. This figure was nearly unchanged from ten years prior (19%). 112 Combining harvest data with census data, Lysenko and Schott (2019) conclude that if one harvester were active per household, 79% of all households in Nunavut would be involved in harvesting.

225 harvesting households (Statistics Canada, 2008).113 Efforts are underway by Inuit organizations to support ‘food sovereignty’ and harvesting in Inuit communities (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2019). Local food systems reflect not only the type of food produced, but also the social and economic structures in which they are embedded. Contemporary Inuit harvesting has been described as a ‘social economy’ in reference to the significance of customary resource sharing – particularly of country food (Chabot, 2003; Collings, 2011; Collings, Marten, Pearce, & Young, 2016; Collings, Wenzel, & Condon, 1998; Harder & Wenzel, 2012; Kishigami, 2000; Tait, 2001; Wenzel, 1995), and to an extent, also store-bought food, money, and equipment (Chabot, 2003; Harder & Wenzel, 2012; Quintal-Marineau, 2016; Wenzel, 1995). These mixed and social dynamics make Inuit subsistence analytically complex (Harder & Wenzel, 2012, p. 305) and have implications for understanding isses of food insecurity in the Territory. In recent years, a growing body of food security studies have documented high rates of food insecurity in Arctic Canada (Council of Canadian Academies, 2014; Egeland, 2011, pp. 444-445). The 2007-08 Inuit Health Survey drew particular attention to this issue when it found 68.8% of Inuit households in Nunavut to be food insecure, experiencing inadequate food supplies resulting in “reduced quality or desirability of food consumed” (Rosol et al., 2011, p. 491). Various studies have documented the negative health consequences of the growing importance of industrialized foods within the diet in Arctic communities, connecting issues of food insecurity to this nutrition transition (Kuhnlein et al., 2004). However, food insecurity is widely documented and interpreted through the use of metrics developed for use in non-Indigenous, urban contexts where non-market local production does not figure significantly in the food system, taking access to money to buy food is taken as a proxy for access to food itself (see Ch. 2; Bickel et al., 2000; Ready, 2016a; USDA, 2012). This conceptualization of food security is consequential, excluding Indigenous food systems that remain socially and culturally as well as nutritionally significant; and reshaping research conclusions towards what is legible through market-oriented metrics alone, producing

113 Wenzel et al. (2016, p. 151) conclude that an average of 125.5 kg of country food was available per person per year to Inuit in the Qikiqtani region of Nunavut between 1996-2001 (the last years for which comprehensive data exist).

226 only a limited portrait of the food system in Inuit communities and issues of food insecurity (see Ch. 2). As Harder & Wenzel (2012, p. 315) write, "these statistics present a significant shortcoming in understanding the current state of food systems in Inuit communities.” Market- oriented understandings of food insecurity have, in recent years, also corresponded to market- based approaches to social policy, in the form of a retail subsidy (Nutrition North) that channels support through the private sector (see Ch. 6). Over the past decade, Inuit governments and representative organizations have repeatedly advocated for greater involvement in decision making around food interventions, and greater support for harvesters (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2017; Nunavut Tunngavik Inc., 2016; Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2019). Responding to such calls for a more nuanced understanding of food insecurity in Inuit communities – one that takes into account the socioeconomic contexts of the mixed food system (Harder & Wenzel, 2012; Power, 2008) – this chapter explores how contextual and social dynamics articulate with market-based policy interventions, seeking to better understand firsthand experiences and perspectives of Nunavummiut around food security and policy. The central aim of this chapter is to develop a better understanding of how Nunavummiut navigate and address issues of food insecurity in the context of a mixed food system inclusive of both a market sector and social economy – the latter largely absent from formal policy measures to address food insecurity in Nunavut,114 but at the heart of food and economic security within the community. Building on existing work on food sharing and the social economy in Clyde River, Nunavut (Borré, 1990; Harder & Wenzel, 2012; Quintal-Marineau, 2016; Wenzel, 1991; Wenzel, 1995, 2008; Wenzel et al., 2016), and focusing on food security and policy specifically, the chapter is based on primary data collected in Clyde River between 2017 and 2018. This research addressed access to both store-bought and country food through economic diaries and community-based interviews. A total of 10 households (representing 44 individuals)

114 Revisions to Arctic food interventions are now underway, including new Harvester Support Grants, following years of advocacy by Inuit organizations (see Ch. 6).

227 experiencing varied economic circumstances participated in economic diaries,115 which documented grocery expenditures and food access in relation to income and household demographics over a two-week period. While this research was limited by sample size and limited timespan, these results provide a quantitative snapshot of access to food and impacts of policy (see Ch. 3, Methodology; Appendix I: Economic Diary Results). Elaborating on the themes raised in the diaries, 16 individuals (8 men and 8 women, ranging in age from 20s-80s) participated in additional community-based interviews to share in greater detail their perspectives on food security, policy approaches to food security, and changes in the food system over time.116 Interviews were conversational in tone, with most around 1 hour in length. Interviews were transcribed and analyzed thematically, with key themes emerging around local initiatives for food security, cuisine and connection to culture, food sharing, hunting costs, access to food, food protests, relationships to the store, effects of government programs, and connections between food and governance more broadly (see Ch. 3 for details on methodology). To preserve confidentiality, participants are identified by pseudonym (false) initials and, where provided, age range (by decade only).117 These results

115 Specific details of household composition, such as gender and age composition, are not provided to maintain participants’ confidentiality in the context of a small community. However, this included households both with and without employment, including three households relying on income support, two households with part time employment, four households with one or more members with full-time employment); married, common-law, and single individuals; and both female and male headed households. Forty-four represents the total number of individuals supported regularly by household spending captured in the diary. Participants were invited to complete a short interview, which included basic questions about income, food sharing, and access to country food and store food. Participants were then asked to document store food purchases by collecting receipts and taking note of food ordered over a two-week period. This showed how different families access store food, as well as the Nutrition North Canada subsidy. See Ch. 3 for details. 116 Four interviewees were from households who had participated in the economic diary study, seven were involved in local initiatives, and five were longtime residents who spoke to changes in the food system over time. Interviews were conducted in the participant’s language of choice. Most were completed in English, with oral history interviews with some Elders completed in Inuktitut together with a local interpreter (see Ch. 3). 117 These pseudonym initials were generated through a random letter generator, then checked to ensure they did not match any participants’ real initials. Where participants consented,

228 illuminate some of the contextual realities of the mixed food system and the effects of policy interventions, while exploring their implications for food security in Arctic communities.

7.2 Food security in the context of a mixed food system Nunavummiut household expenditures on food as a percentage of income are considerably higher than the Canadian average,118 and economic diaries reconfirmed the very high proportion of income spent on food by Nunavummiut.119 In the diary study, more than half of participating households spent more than 50% of their household income on groceries,120 some in a single grocery shop totaling $600-$900 at the start of the month.121 The Canadian average

additional information (such as involvement in community programs) is included to contextualize quotes. 118 Various studies note that high food prices, coupled with low wages and high rates of unemployment, contribute to limited access to store-bought foods across Arctic Canada (Council of Canadian Academies, 2014; Tarasuk et al., 2016). A (now-outdated) 2003 study commissioned by the Nunavut Employees Union using Statistics Canada data found that cost of groceries was 84% higher on average in Nunavut, while the percentage of household expenditures on food was double the Canadian average (Rogan, 2003, p. 25), owing to both higher costs and lower incomes. The cost of living has continued to rise since at a rate faster than the Canadian average, and the this average masks the additional impact of high income inequality, including disparities between Inuit and non-Inuit Nunavut residents (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2018d). 119 For example, the median waged income in 2015 for individuals in Clyde River was $20,320 (Statistics Canada, 2017a). 120 In the present study, economic diary groceries expenditures averaged 67% of monthly household income (see Appendix 2: Economic diary results). However, a key limitation was the two-week period over which data was collected, and with additional time and resources, a one- month diary would have provided a more accurate perspective (see Ch. 3). These figures nonetheless provide an approximation of household grocery expenditures, and when participants were also asked to estimate how much they spent on groceries each month, the six households who provided this information estimated their monthly grocery costs were, on average, 59% of their monthly household income, affirming the high proportion of income spent on food. This figure is explained in part by the relatively low percentage of income allocated to housing by households who are living in social housing; and the fact that rates of income support remain comparable to those of Southern Canada, while costs are considerably higher (see Ch. 6, Bell, 2018a). 121 Some households reported spending approximately half their monthly income in a single shopping trip totaling $600-$900 after receiving income assistance at the start of the month (see Figure 7.1). The highest total in a single shop recorded in the diaries was $629. In

229 household expenditure on food, meanwhile, was recorded in one recent study as between 13.6% and 15.0% (Fafard St-Germain & Tarasuk, 2018, p. 2073).122

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Figure 7.1 Economic diary results: Household grocery expenditure relative to income123 interviews, several participants said they regularly spent between $600 and $900 in a single shop at the start of the month, and diaries did not capture the start of the month for all participants. Similar figures were reported by Quintal-Marineau (2016) in a study of women’s economic contributions within Clyde River. 122 Canada’s overall national rate of food expenditure is among the lowest worldwide, with other studies recording even lower figures, reflecting a longer-term trend towards lower food expenditures. Globally, rates of food expenditure over 50% are among the highest worldwide, and in national terms, few countries exceed this rate (those that do include Bangladesh and Tanzania) (Kavanaugh, 2019). 123 Note: Data are limited by the two-week period of the diary; household grocery expenditures therefore exceed averaged biweekly income in some instances (e.g. Household 1, 3, and 6). This occurred primarily where households spent entire social assistance payments on food early in the month, then tried to make groceries stretch the entire month (the case for Household 1 and 3; Household 6 remains an outlier, but these results reflect a household in transition to a new job, which may have resulted in incomplete income data). Household 10 did not provide income data.

230 Lower income households, while spending less overall, generally spent a higher percentage of their income on food (see Figure 7.1) reflecting a “prioritization of essentials” and the relative inelasticity of food expenditures124 (Fafard St-Germain & Tarasuk, 2018, p. 2070). In the diary study, only one household spent less than 25% of their household income on groceries (see Figure 7.1, Household 8). This household, which included two adults employed full time, had placed a personal sealift order earlier in the season for dry goods and household products, suggesting that the diary underestimated their actual food expenditures. While limited by the two-week period covered by the diaries, these results resonate with prior work in Arctic Canada on the cost of food; for example, Duhaime, Chabot, and Gaudreault (2002) found that Nunavik households spent on average 55% of income on food purchasing and food production. Those relying on income assistance have been identified as particularly at risk of food insecurity across Northern Canada (Council of Canadian Academies, 2014). In interviews for this study, respondents reported that income assistance is often insufficient to purchase groceries that last through to the end of the month: “When you’re not working, when you’re on welfare, and only that or child tax, you’re barely surviving. You have to shop for $800 groceries, and there’s not enough to pay your bills. [….] Especially when you have little ones. For formula and diapers, they cost so much up here.” (MT, age 30s, June 2nd 2018). An interviewee involved in community programs said, “Income support for a family of four is what? $1200? It is not enough to nutritionally feed a family” (IM, July 17, 2017). While noting the particular burden of food insecurity of those without stable employment, multiple interviewees said that issues of food insecurity affect individuals and households across income levels, owing to the high cost of living and competing demands on money, including housing costs. The latter are dramatically higher for those not eligible for social housing: People who are employed are also getting – housing is getting in the way because of the high rate, monthly rate. […] You’ve got a battle it out to see – which [things you can buy]. Country food, we buy this at a certain month, and then within the next month we are paying off the rent. [….] If [government

124 While one household (Household 5) spent a relatively low proportion of income on food (28%) despite a relatively lower income, this household ate at a relative’s home on a daily basis.

231 officials] could open up to realizing, or if they could open up their eyes and help out Northern communities more, it would reduce poverty for sure. Just with food insecurity, they would eliminate a ton of stressful daily life, eliminating stress of daily lives because it's hard for any parents or grandparents to know that their kids might not eat today. (DT, May 23rd, 2018).

This emotional toll of food insecurity was a common theme across interviews. Food insecurity contributes to stress and distress, and places a profound burden on overall wellbeing (Council of Canadian Academies, 2014). Several interviewees noted that those with mental health difficulties and addictions are particularly affected by food insecurity: “If they don't eat, then they become depressed or hopeless, or then seeing them you feel sorry for them and you end up helping,” one community member explained, adding, “This is the same everywhere, it’s not just [here]” (CM, May 28th, 2018). While community programs such as a local food bank are seeking to address these needs, accessing such supports also has a bearing on mental wellness. A community member involved in local initiatives explained, “It has a lot to do with mental health too. If you’re just being handed out [food], it’s good for physical [health], but it’s not good for the mind either. You have to feel good about yourself,” adding, “If you don’t eat nutritionally, you don’t think straight, right?” (KM, July 17, 2017). High food costs particularly limit access to healthy foods, and interviewees connected this to both mental and physical wellbeing. A mother with young children explained, "Buy[ing] fruits and vegetables every day, that's hard, especially if there are six of you in the house. Even though my kids would love that, but I can't. Even with my husband and I working." (OA, age 30s, May 29th, 2018). Perishable foods shipped at a great distance risk spoilage, and the same participant added that they chose not to buy fresh foods because of the risk they would go bad: “I'm hoping my kids will eat fruits and vegetables because they're so expensive. I see them as – they'll get rotten if they don't get it, so I'll buy something that doesn't rot easily for them that can be on the shelf” (OA, age 30s, May 29th, 2018). The high cost of healthy and nutritious food affects not only individuals, but also community programs. A community member involved in running a local food bank explained: “I try to buy cheap stuff I can get so that I can spread it out as much as I can. [...] Lot of unhealthy stuff because that's what I can afford, like, I can't buy anything expensive cause I won't be able to share it or spread it.” (CM, May 28th, 2018).

232 While perishable foods are subsidized to varying degrees under the Nutrition North program (see Ch. 6), many interviewees said that the subsidy was not sufficient to make these foods affordable. The economic diary data suggests that the Nutrition North program disproportionately benefits households with higher incomes who can afford to spend more on healthy, perishable foods (see Figure 7.2), although food sharing may mitigate this to degree (see below). This is particularly evident for households who have the resources (income, credit) to place a sealift order for non-perishable foods or household goods, and consequently can spend more on purchase subsidized perishables at the Northern Store.

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Figure 7.2 Economic diary results: Nutrition North savings relative to household income

Food purchasing decisions are made in a context of limited options. The Northern, owned by the North West Company, is Clyde River’s only commercial option for perishable groceries, pharmacy and hygiene products, clothing, hunting equipment, post, take-out food,

233 and local access to banking services, including access to legally entitled social benefits such as income support and child benefits. In the economic diary study, eight out of ten households relied exclusively on the Northern Store for their daily groceries. Two households placed personal sealift orders. Others mentioned that they bought groceries in the South during trips for medical travel or work, or asked friends or family members who were travelling to do so. For a brief period prior to the present research, Amazon Prime shipped to the community for free, as it still does to Iqaluit, and several interview participants mentioned this service: “I loved Amazon, when it was free shipping. I could order lots, then share with family. I ordered dry foods - pancake mixes, cereal. Cookie mixes, even toilet paper.” (OA, age 30s, May 29th, 2018). The reliance on one grocery store was a prominent topic in interviews, and many community members expressed feelings of disempowerment with regards to the store: "It's the only store we have, so we can't do anything. They can easily say we want this to be this price and they put it in, we have no choice.” (OA, age 30s, May 29th, 2018). At the time of this research in 2017, social assistance cheques in Clyde River were also issued as a gift card to the store in the name of ensuring that funds be used for food; for recipients, this further restricted options for groceries also.125 At the conclusion of an interview, when asked if there was anything else they wished to share, one Elder described feeling manipulated to buy costly food: “they are trying to get money from us – the store is trying to sell us high priced food. That is how we are manipulated.” (SI, 70s, May 2018). In 2012, as part of a wave of protests organized through Feeding My Family (see Ch. 1), some community members picketed the store. One community member who took part in the protest said that they did not feel it had been a success: “We try not to shop there because of the protest, but we have no other choice but to go there and buy food for our family.” (OA, age 30s, May 29th, 2018). Other interviewees also referenced protests that had felt successful in

125 Interviewees reported this policy had shifted several times in recent years, and several reported frustrations that income support payments could only be used at the Northern store: "I think income support should let people like us to order in frozen food, like fruits and vegetables. I think they'd be cheaper that way, and we'd get more fruits and vegetables" (LN, age 40s, August 2nd, 2017). In 2018, social assistance again returned to a cheque payment.

234 advocating for the community’s interests, most notably Clyde River’s opposition to seismic testing (see below). Relying on locally harvested country food is not a substitution for wage labor in Clyde River or elsewhere in Arctic Canada (Ready and Power, 2018, p. 76). While the cost of living is prominent in the market sector, high costs also mediate access to country food. In an interview, a hunter explained: I love country food because I grew up with it. In order to get country food, you need a very good job which pays quite a bit. You have to work long hours to be able to afford the $20,000 snow mobile, $5,000 sled, $2,000 rifle, $10,000 worth of gas per year. Then crazy amounts for food to be able to go out and feed yourself while you're hunting. If you don't have a job, how can you buy any of that stuff to go hunting? Most of the generations that we have now can't go hunting because they have nothing to afford a snow mobile with or a $40,000 boat. Back in my day, we could go hunting anytime we wanted because everything was cheap -- $600 for a snow mobile. (CM, May 28th, 2018).

Since centralization, a transition to mechanized hunting has become an essential adaptation in allowing Inuit hunters to reach harvesting sites, with money and equipment a key input into harvesting, and, as above, costs have risen significantly over time (see Ch. 4 and 5; Kemp, 1971; Wenzel, 1991). In contrast to the security of store-purchased food, the risk of returning empty- handed exacerbates the risk of such a cash outlay for hunting. One hunter explained, “A one- day trip could add up to at least $2,000 or more and they might return with nothing, coming back with nothing from the hunt if there has been bad weather or anything like that, so you've got to schedule out everything to time it perfectly.” (DT, May 23rd, 2018). Several hunters described a catch-22, with those who are full time employed having income but not time to hunt regularly, and those who are unemployed having time but no income: “Those who are working only tend to go out during the weekend, and the weather doesn’t cooperate” (JL, age 50s, June 1st, 2018; see also Wenzel, 2019). Caribou are heavily restricted under quota in the Qikiqtani region, and others explained the effect of quotas compounded costs: It’s not worth really getting a [caribou] tag for one household. One caribou, two even, when you consider the distance you have to go with the equipment you need to go over there, the price of the fuel, the price of the equipment

235 that you need to continue doing what you have been doing. The distance where the caribou is, the price of the fuel, and the time it takes for each animal to be butchered, to be cut up. And for one family, to do that, to go way over there for two, it’s not really worth it. If you’re going over there, if I see eight, I’d want to get them. Cause there’s more than eight of us here. It’s for more than eight houses, more than eight families, if I can get them at the same time. If I go way over there and see, I am allowed to take what, five, six, I don’t know. It’s – everybody’s going to look at me. But by the time I get to them there’s probably nothing left. Not enough. There’s too many people, and not enough to go around. It’s a conundrum. [….] We all miss it. I even jokingly say, ‘long time ago they say there used to be animals with things sticking out of their heads, that were used for food, and their hide they say was used for clothing, and they called these animals caribou!’ (HN, May 30th, 2018).

Many interview participants called for better support for hunters to be able to provide for their families and the wider community. At the time this research was completed, a harvester support program had recently been re-introduced, run by land claims organization Nunavut Tunngavik Inc., but it was not yet widely accessed within Clyde River, with only one participant describing having used the program to purchase a rifle, and subsequently claim a 50% refund under the Harvester Support program (OA, age 30s, May 29th, 2018). This parallels wider literature that has identified barriers to harvesting including high financial costs; time limitations associated with school, training, and employment; physical limitations and lack of knowledge; and limited availability of game (Natcher et al., 2016). For those who are employed and have the income to do so, purchasing country food is an option, particularly for caribou, which Qikiqtani residents buy and ship from the Kivalliq region. At the time of this research, paying $450 for a caribou was described by one interviewee as a “fair price,” not including shipping costs, which can be considerable and variable, as they are set at the discretion of airlines (TR, age 30s, July 12th, 2017). Those who did order country food reported long shipping delays and issues with delivery (DT, May 23rd 2018). These costs and uncertainties are prohibitive for many households. One interviewee, who was employed full time, explained: People with jobs tend to, if we're lucky, we still buy them [country foods] [….]. It's good to buy country food in some ways, and it's harder for us to buy – to watch other people buying the country food. They know it's a tradition to get

236 what is our food, what is caught. People living on welfare are very unfortunate to have a retail sale of country food because they won't be able to buy them up (DT, May 23rd, 2018).

Buying and selling country food that has traditionally been shared is controversial (Searles, 2016), inviting a wide range of opinions depending in part on how and why food is sold (see below; see also Gombay, 2010; Ready & Power, 2018). Issues of food insecurity transect both sectors of the Northern food system, and the high costs of harvesting means that active harvesting households are often also successful wage-earning (extended) households (Ready, 2016b, p. 143; Usher et al., 2003, p. 178), with wage earners often supporting the activities of harvesters (Harder & Wenzel, 2012; Quintal- Marineau, 2016). Quintal-Marineau (2016) highlights in particular the importance of women’s waged labour contributions to male hunters in Clyde River, a gendered dynamic that is often overlooked (see also Kuokkanen, 2011). Understanding food access in this mixed food system necessitates an understanding of the social relationships that animate family and economic life. The following section turns to how the social dynamics of the mixed food system complicate understandings of food security rooted in market-based and individualized metrics.

7.3 Socio-economic dynamics and access to food Food, particularly country food, is widely shared in Clyde River (Quintal-Marineau, 2016; Wenzel, 1995), and other Inuit communities (e.g. Collings et al., 2016; Kishigami, 2000; Ready, 2016b). Literature on the social economy suggests that sharing is at once an economic and a social transaction – a means by which individuals orient themselves within the larger social structure (Damas, 1971; Ready & Power, 2018, p. 75; Wenzel, 1995). Sharing food, particularly country food, is not only a source of sustenance, but of meaning, connection, and cultural identity (Searles, 2002, p. 55). The English term ‘sharing’ is thus an oversimplification of the wide-ranging activities that serve to redistribute and secure access to food – as well as the diverse social imperatives that underlie these activities. ‘Sharing’ itself has varied meanings and connotations, and for some, may connote specifically the distribution of country food and transfers of food outside the family (see Collings et al., 2016).

237 What is clear, however, is that food sharing has profound implications for food security at the family and community scale in Clyde River and elsewhere in Inuit Nunangat (Collings et al., 2016; Harder & Wenzel, 2012; Ready, 2016b). In the present study, economic diary data showed that nine out of ten households reported regularly giving store food to others in need (primarily extended family, as well as others who ask for help). Three out of ten households reported receiving groceries from others, usually towards the end of the month (although some reported buying for multiple households on a daily basis). Nine out of ten households reported sharing country food regularly. This included individuals who did not hunt, but shared food that they received onward. Nine out of ten reported receiving country food from others. Food sharing is a part of everyday activities, integrated into patterns of daily life. MT, age 30s, described the integration of food sharing across multiple relationships: I recently had to ask one of my older sisters for a couple of foods because my little ones had nothing to eat – we ran out. So, she gave me a couple of bags of food. That’s how we share sometimes. That’s what you have to do. Yesterday I had to ask my sister for some lunch. That’s how we ask each other. Same with country food. For example, one of my brothers goes out fishing. Even my older boys, if they catch, they share me one. Not just fish, also seal, ptarmigan. Rarely caribou now. […] I share food with [my younger brother]. And sometimes my older sister too – the one who shared with me lunch yesterday. We share a lot, sometimes friends too. For example, through radio, we hear people asking for leftovers – we try to share some if we have enough, not just family and friends. Pretty much every day now, they’re asking […]. We try to share if we have enough. […] My father especially taught me to share food. We didn’t have a lot too when we were growing up. Goodies, we didn’t have a lot. But tea, bannock, my father taught me to share. (June 2nd, 2018).

This quote reflects some of the varied forms of sharing, including direct transfers of store- bought and country food, often within the family, and sharing upon request – as well as the dynamics of these relationships. As Ready and Powers (2018, p. 86) suggest, sharing food “does not have a single function; rather, it emerges as a complex social, political, and economic phenomenon that accomplishes different goals for actors based on their social position.” Food sharing includes direct transfers of food, shared meals, radio and social media offers and requests for food, and public events, each with distinct implications for food security.

238 7.3.1 Direct transfers of country food In Clyde River and other Nunavut communities, direct transfers of country food take varied forms, including redistributing a catch, or pooling resources, often to the home of a senior family member (Harder & Wenzel, 2012; Quintal-Marineau, 2016; Wenzel, 1995). TC, a woman in her 20s, explained her husband generally returned from a hunting trip without stopping at home: “When he comes in, he goes straight to his mom's and not here!” (May 19, 2018). OA, age 30s, explained, “we give it [country food] to my parents, and they invite us when they're cooking, whenever they're eating country food.” (July 13th 2017). One young mother explained that she did not particularly like eating country food, but still regularly received it to share with her parents and children: “if someone announces seal on the radio, I will get some to give to my parents” (DV, age 20s, July 10th 2017). Sharing country food was described as a means of connecting with others, including staying connected to relatives and friends in different communities. For example, JL (age 50s), described sending country food packages with fly-in-fly-out mine workers to reach family members coming to work at the Baffinland mine from different Qikiqtani communities: [W]hen I catch ptarmigan, if there’s more than about 10, I call my aunt, or my cousin – she always likes ptarmigan. Or I send some to my daughter, when she’s at Baffinland [mine], at . Someone always goes up there on Mondays. Or if there’s anyone going to [her home community] that can bring it down. When we’re on the phone I always tell her where I’ve been when I go out, if I catch anything, or if I got Arctic Char from anyone. (June 1st, 2018).

In interviews, participants also described sharing country food as an important means of keeping up traditions, such as sharing a first catch with the attendant present for a child’s birth (OA, age 30s, May 29th 2018), or a Godparent: If my child was baptized at a church and the person who helped my child is the Godmother, first catch would be given to the Godmother. First [Arctic] Char, first time you get it, it will be given to the Godmother or anybody who is not related to the parents (DT, May 23rd, 2018).

These practices both affirm the relationship and mark the importance of the event in a child’s life (see Harder & Wenzel, 2012, p. 309).

239 7.3.2 Direct transfers of store-bought food The day-to-day transfer of store-bought food to support family members and others also factored significantly into household expenditures (see above) through purchasing groceries for others, shared meals, or bringing food when visiting other homes. In the economic diary study, nine out of ten households reported regularly giving store-bought food to others, and three reported regularly receiving groceries from others, usually towards the end of the month. Food may also be often given in response to requests for money. Transfers of store-bought food were primarily to family members, including children living outside the household, siblings, and parents, but also friends and neighbours, practices consistent with intergenerational family living arrangements (see also Quintal-Marineau, 2016, p. 148). One household, for example, was buying groceries for two other houses also, supporting a total of 10 family members daily and spending a total of more than $2378 on groceries over the two-week period covered by the economic diary. One effect of the sharing of store-bought food was a narrowing of the range of expenditure on food per capita; while the percentage of income households spend on groceries varied dramatically (see Figure 7.1), per capita food expenditure varied considerably less, with most households spending between $200 and $300 per person on food during the two-week diary period126 (see Figure 7.3). In part, this reflects the higher costs and higher incomes of larger households, and the prioritization of necessary food purchases by low-income households; however, as in the case described above, it also reflects the purchasing of food for those living outside the household.127

126 Per capita figures reflect the number of individuals supported by the diary spending, including individuals who did not live in the home, and does not differentiate between children and adults. Most households spent between $200-300 per capita on food during the two-week diary period. One single female-headed household, in which everyone ate at a grandparent’s home daily, spent considerably less, and two higher income households spent more, at $306 and $338 per capita respectively (see Appendix I). 127 With food purchased for other individuals, the highest grocery expenditure per capita was 2.6 times that of the lowest; counting only food purchased for those in the household, it was 3.7 times higher. The range was $130 - $338 spending per capita among those supported by diary spending, and $130 - $476 when counting only those who lived in the house (see Appendix I. These figures underestimate the true economic impact of sharing, including shared

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Figure 7.3 Economic diary results: Grocery expenditure per capita

Unsurprisingly, regular transfers of store-bought food were more common amongst those who were employed full time, who could afford to share, a finding also reflected Quintal- Marineau (2016, p. 148), and in work in Nunavik by Ready and Powers (2018). However, exceptions exist: In the present study, one single mother reliant on income assistance reported transferring a gift card to the Northern to her sister at the start of each month, who she in turn relied on to share food at other times of the month (MT, age 30s, June 2nd, 2018), reflecting a security of access to food maintained through social and familial relationships.

meals and transfers of money, both of which were discussed in interviews. Longer-term social structures and dynamics of course also mediate intergenerational family living arrangements and access to money to purchase food (themes beyond the present scope; for discussion, see Quintal-Marineau, 2016).

241 7.3.3 Shared meals Many families in Clyde River eat in multi-generational settings on a daily basis (see Harder & Wenzel, 2012; Quintal-Marineau, 2016), including lunches when children come home from school. In the present study, seven out of ten households hosted meals regularly for others who lived outside the home, and seven out of ten regularly ate lunch or supper at relatives’ homes (usually parents or in-laws), four on a daily basis. Country food in particular invites social gatherings and occasions to eat together. One interviewee explained, “Whenever my brothers or my dad has caught something fresh, we all end up at their house for country food” (LN, age 40s, July 11th 2017). However, shared daily meals most often include a combination of store- bought and country food, if it is available; most households said they ate country food two to three times per week, though many clarified that this depended on the weather, on hunters’ success, and on whether family members who hunt are in town (particularly for fly-in-fly-out mine workers). Those who hosted meals regularly spent more at the grocery store, but also received influxes of country food, and occasionally store food, from those who came to share meals (see also Quintal-Marineau, 2016). Other gatherings are held to enjoy country food prepared in specific ways, such as cooking seal outdoors over a heather fire in summertime.

7.3.4 Radio and Facebook announcements Larger catches are often announced over radio or Facebook, often after food has been shared with family members: “A lot of hunters tend to distribute their own catch to the community for free unless it's really necessary for them to sell their catch just to get more gasoline money or ammunition.[...] Our tradition is what we catch is to distribute it for free. That's our teaching, so that's how we still try to bring it up.” (DT, May 23rd, 2018). The same community member noted that it is “hard to say no” to requests to share food: If I were to go fishing and I told my partner, we are going fishing just so we could sell our catch. Then he agrees and we go fishing, and once we come back, we hear somebody on the radio or a person walking by asking if we could give out a fish. […] If we are asked, there’s no, really, way of saying no to the person since they asked nicely not just by taking. (DT, May 23rd, 2018).

242 Those who were in a position to share country food described a sense of satisfaction from being able to share, and noted there is routinely more demand than supply:128 For seal, we just take what we need and then give the rest to families. […] Sometimes we don't even need to announce it. Someone notices they're picking [up] meat and people start coming in right away. [My husband] loves that. He loves to give out food, so we don't get much. [...] He knows if we share, he'll catch more. If he keeps sharing, he'll catch more, so we'll have more later on. [….] Everybody wants [country food], not everybody takes it because sometimes they don't like to ask other people for food. They'd rather hear, ‘Come, pick food up,’ and they'll come. [...] Whenever somebody says, ‘Come, pick some up,’ they will come. They have to be there really quick before they're gone because everybody wants it. (OA, age 30s, May 29th, 2018).

Community-wide sharing of country food was described, as above, in terms of reaching anyone who wants some, though foods may be shared specifically with those who will most enjoy them. For example, several interview participants described sharing specific country foods with Elders so they may enjoy a food of their childhood. Some interviewees, particularly Elders, described receiving such transfers of country food: They always say 'maybe he hasn't had fresh food, people like [RS] he always brings me [some] when he has fresh seal. He's one of the main hunters in town, who goes out not just at the weekends, he goes day-in-day-out. So, he often asks if I want seal meat. I get seal and fish from [HB]. Used to be caribou, but that's history books now. [RS] is a distant cousin – my aunt's son. And from my sisters and brothers, if they get maqtaq, if they get fish. Not every week. If I get a craving, I'll ask for it, but it's usually available before I get to that point. (HN, May 17, 2018).

Public radio announcements also include requests for food. As described above, these include requests for country food, as well as requests for leftover food, and requests for specific items, such as baby formula when the store has run out (MT, age 30s, June 2nd, 2018).

128 These results resonate with the findings of the 2007-08 Inuit Health Survey of communities in Inuit Nunangat, in which more than 80% of households said they would prefer to eat more country food (Egeland, 2010, pp. 12-13).

243 7.3.5 Public events and community food distributions Public events involving food distribution, from community feasts to prizes and giveaways, are a feature of life across many Inuit communities. Examples mentioned in the course of this research included a locally-organized a ‘hot dog and pizza day’ for children at the end of the month during the summer, when children were not able to access school breakfasts; draws for giveaways (for example, for a piece of caribou purchased from the Kivalliq region); and an annual Christmas distribution. Ready and Power (2018) describe public acts of generosity with regards to food as a means through which individuals signal commitment to the entire community, not just their own relatives: “food sharing is a strategy by which privilege is expressed and maintained by those who give” (p. 86). The authors further note that contemporary events like ‘candy drops’ in Nunavik are reminiscent of historical harvest celebration events documented in Alaska (Fienup-Riordan, 1983). In addition to individual events, many ongoing local initiatives are underway to improve food security, with varying degrees of formalization. In Clyde River, these include a school- based harvesting education and equipment programs; food distributed through the Hunters and Trapper’s Organization; a community-run food bank; and widely accessed school breakfast, after-school, and hunting/camp programs run through the Illisaqsivik Society community wellness centre. The latter was mentioned by several interviewees, who described its impacts on nutrition: The fact that we have our wellness center has helped a lot very much. I started working when it wasn’t available. I would see more mothers or pregnant people with anemia, or kids with anemia and stuff, and since [the wellness centre] has – they encouraged eating healthy, it has helped a whole lot. They get it at the school. They get it [at Illisaqsivik] and all the programs provided, and the school partnership program that has benefited the health of the people a lot. […]. There are more people over there using the programs, so that they can get the nutrition and that helps. It’s a shame [that it’s necessary], but it does help. (KM, June 17, 2017).

In interviews, several participants drew connections between food and harvesting programs and language, explaining for example, "we hire people to teach the students about hunting every year in spring class. Hunting and sewing. They learn new words about hunting, two at the same time." (CG, 40s, June 3rd 2018).

244 Local programs are deeply affected by policies at larger scales, for example grant parameters that affect programs’ capacity to buy food, and in interviews, individuals involved in such programs said inconsistent funding is a challenge (CM, May 28th 2018). At the time of the research, the food bank was run out of a private residence and was supported primarily through local fundraising within the community (e.g. weekly C-Hall sales of spices donated through North-South Mini Projects, cake sales, and bake sales). A community member involved in running the food bank was attempting to secure grant funding to continue the work but reported finding it difficult to access either government funding designed for institutions to deliver programs or grassroots funding programs (like ‘Helping Our Northern Neighbors’) oriented towards helping individual families (CM, May 28th 2018). In a small community, this type of work can also be socially and personally challenging, as it is difficult to say no to demands for food, which at times outstrip supply. The Hunters and Trappers Organization (HTO) was also distributing country food, usually Arctic Char, by buying food from hunters and fishers, and redistributing it. A community member explained, “Sometimes we go on a radio to see if anybody is going off hunting and if they're willing to sell their catch to the HTO. The HTO could buy the half from the hunter and the HTO would distribute it to the community for free.” (DT, May 23rd, 2018). Some of this food was distributed through public announcements, as well as efforts to reach Elders specifically: It's for the whole community, but our idea is to get the Elders first. We sometimes hand deliver a piece, so before distributing any food, we deliver or tell them to call them to pick some up or get someone to pick some up for them and then we finally get to distribute it out to the community. What we try to do as well is people with so many children, give them food first. People who are living alone, we said, ‘Try to take at least one piece of cut up meat or one piece of char.’ While other people with bigger family, we tell them to grab one or two or three. (DT, May 23rd, 2018).

This distribution by the HTO mediated wider interactions of buying and selling food; sales to the HTO, who subsequently redistribute food, were described as a means of reconciling conflicting imperatives to secure support for harvesters, and ensure food was shared with the community.

245 7.3.6 Buying and selling country food and store-bought food Perspectives on selling country food within the community are diverse, as described elsewhere in Nunavut (Searles, 2016) and Inuit Nunangat (Gombay, 2010). In interviews, many community members said pressure to share country food can place hunters in a difficult position in light of the high costs of hunting, and for some, selling part of their catch was described as a way to address these costs. One hunter explained, “Back then, we were told not to sell our catch, but today since we’re using snowmobiles and have to buy gas and supplies, naphtha [stove fuel], we have to sell our catch sometimes. Not all the time” (JL, age 50s, June 1st, 2018). Another community member said more awareness is needed of the burdens and costs hunters face: “hunters can't face the burden by themselves by spending gas on their own, buying bullets, buying food and then have to give it away to everybody for free. That's not fair to the hunter” (CM, May 28th 2018). Other interviewees expressed reservations about direct sales of country foods, while supporting those mediated through organizations like the HTO that would be distributed to the community: We've never sold country food, but some young people do – clams, caribou. I don't know. It's not our way. It makes me feel ashamed. Because my parents shared, my grandparents shared, my great grandparents shared. Maybe it's because it's so expensive, for gas, kerosene, food. Nowadays I hear the HTO sometimes wants [to buy] seal meat, fish, maqtaq, and I think it's good because not all families hunt nowadays. If they get enough funds, they should do that, and the kerosene and gas should be subsidized. (TR, age 30s, July 12, 2017).

Perspectives on the buying and selling of country food were in part contingent on how and why food is sold: sales for personal gain, particularly sales of food that has been shared with the seller, are perceived differently from sales to secure essential materials, including household necessities and harvesting equipment that enables a hunter to continue to provide. Other studies have suggested that opposition to country food sales rests in part on fears that it will undermine sharing, as well as an understanding that sharing is important for ensuring that animals will return (Ready & Power, 2018; Searles, 2016). One community member explained: A hunter doesn't want to be greedy of what they're catching, but they want to try and get something like an ATV, so they sometimes start selling what they're catching just to get a more, latest, up-to-date snow machine or newer

246 model. As soon as they pay up a new snow machine, then they stop selling what they're catching and after a while, they stop completely selling and are just distributing their catch. If they require a new harpoon, new rifle, they start selling again. [.…] We don’t usually sell our catches but it’s becoming normal as well. We know why they are selling because they need an upgrade hunting equipment. If they are not a regular hunter and they are trying to sell the catch, people don’t want to buy because it’s just going to be for the person’s need not the entire community’s needs. (DT, May 23rd 2018).

The social dynamics concerning country food sales within the community differ from the dynamics of commercial sales under an established quota (which in Clyde River centre on sales of Arctic Char), and the Nunavut Land Claims Agreement includes the right to sell country food. There is interest in developing a commercial turbot fishery, following the model of the neighbouring community of Pangnirtung, NU. Social dynamics also differ for sales of food that is not locally available, including caribou, which as noted above, may be bought from other regions. Meanwhile, selling prepared store-bought foods – bannock, doughnuts, bread, pavlova, desserts, and plates of prepared meals – is widespread, and important source of income for some community members, particularly women. These businesses and activities were described in highly positive terms by those who took part: "I've fed so many people using that cookbook. So many good and bad memories. Happy memories, mostly,” one community member recalled (CG, age 40s, June 3rd 2018). In Clyde River, prepared food sales take place at weekly community hall sales, as well as online and by community radio on a daily basis.

7.4 Food sharing as food security These varied means of redistributing food, from direct transfers of food, to shared meals, to public distributions via radio and social media, to buying and selling locally, all attest to the importance of the food system beyond its nutritional composition. At the community level, access to food – both store-bought food and country food – is inseparable from social and family relationships and structures. In interviews, many interviewees said that without food sharing, issues of food insecurity would be worse; food sharing is in effect food security. A single mother who relied on relatives to share food explained, “Inuit share traditional food. We would be more hungry if there wasn’t sharing.” (MT, age 30s, June 2nd, 2018). The social safety

247 net produced through the social economy supports not only material wellbeing, but also creates meaning and a sense of wealth (Abele, 2009, p. 56). Multiple belief systems are at play within sharing, including values concerning generosity and social relationships (Qitsualik, 2013; Stairs & Wenzel, 1992), obligations to animals that are hunted to ensure their return (Fienup-Riordan, 1995, p. 51; Stairs & Wenzel, 1992, p. 4), and Christian beliefs (Kishigami, 2013). In interviews, several community members referenced the parable of the breaking of bread: “You can have half of it for you and half of it for anybody who wants it." (OA, age 30s, May 29th, 2018). While noting challenges, including the pressure to share and perceptions that sharing patterns are changing in response to economic pressures, many interviewees also spoke of sharing as a source of closeness and wealth: People share the food they get. That's one thing that would be missed by my generation if we changed - that's a big part of our custom, sharing. […] And they say - I don't know, I partly believe it - if you give wholeheartedly, it will be back before you know it. If you withhold, it will be withheld from you. It keeps you close, sharing. (HN, May 17th 2018).

Wider qualitative research also affirms that social security is essential to food security; for example, analysis of data from the 2012 Aboriginal Peoples Survey shows that “among Inuit adults aged 25 and over living in Inuit Nunangat, those with strong or very strong extended family ties have a significantly lower probability of living in a food insecure household compared to those with weaker family ties (46% versus 66%)” (Arriagada, 2017, p. 5). Reliance on active social redistribution practices means that access to food cannot be understood as a simple proxy of access to individual income, or reduced to metrics that have emphasized only the market sector (see Ready, 2016a). Although sharing can provide an essential safeguard in access to food, it can also place a heavy burden on those expected to share and provide. Individuals employed full time and with access to a steady income may find themselves responsible for providing for multiple relatives and households (see Quintal-Marineau, 2016). As noted above, it is very difficult to say no to requests to share food (DT, May 23rd, 2018). Circumstances in which there is simply not enough to share add to stress: “A lot of people are like, they don't want to give away their food

248 because if they give away their food then their family won't have anything to eat” (CM, May 28th, 2018). The high cost of both groceries and hunting mean that money is a vital – and often scarce – resource for ensuring access to food at the level of the extended family. Sharing and redistribution mechanisms do not necessarily ensure sufficient access to food, nor do they overwrite underlying inequalities.129 Interviews suggested that families without an active harvester and sufficient waged income face particular difficulties, and the community resources available, including public distributions of country food and the food bank, are often insufficient, as are wider policy measures. Food sharing introduces a complex interplay between formal policy measures concerned with access to food and local sociocultural dynamics. Most notably, sharing mitigates, to a degree, the otherwise-regressive structure of Nutrition North, as higher income earners often support multiple individuals living both inside and outside the house. The economic diary data show that, just as food sharing narrows the range of per capita expenditures on food (see Figure 7.3), it also narrows the range of NNC subsidy received per capita (see Figure 7.4). At the same time, these results still suggest the Nutrition North program benefits the highest income earners the most, particularly if they do not have provisioning obligations to extended family (as in the case of many temporary non-Inuit residents in the Territory), and/or can access sealift for non-perishable goods to bring costs down, while concentrating local spending on subsidized perishable foods.130

129 Working in Nunavik, Ready and Power (2018) found that high levels of inequality can persist even in the context of widespread food sharing, if those with regular access to country food share primarily with one another. The data collected in the present study are not sufficient to say whether similar dynamics may exist in this context, and little research has, to date, addressed income inequalities within Nunavut communities. 130 In the economic diary study, the two highest income households still received two of the three highest subsidy amounts on a per capita basis (saving more than $70 per capita in Nutrition North benefits over the two-week period covered by the diary). These two households had both placed sealift orders for non-perishables, and were able to use the local store for (often-subsidized) perishable foods (see Figure 7.4, Households 8 & 9). The third household that received more than $70 per capita in NNC benefits (see Figure 7.4, Household 3) was headed by a single mother who had regular access to country food from her extended family, allowing her to concentrate purchases on subsidized perishables also.

249

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0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

NNC savings (two week period covered by diary expenditure) NNC per capita (individual supported regularly)

Figure 7.4 Economic diary results: NNC savings by household and per capita

While this small data set can provide only a snapshot, these results suggest that the present federal policy approaches to northern food systems are not oriented towards those who are most at risk of food insecurity, a finding also raised by key informants (see Ch. 6) who noted the absence of a specific food security mandate when the Nutrition North program was first introduced by government. While it is not possible to conclusively characterize the extent to which food sharing redistributes public benefits from this study, this dynamic merits further consideration, as does the overall impact of national food programs on food security in Inuit communities – work that Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami has called for in recent years (see Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2017).

7.5 Addressing food insecurity While individual and household circumstances and internal social dynamics all affect food security, the food system in Clyde River and other Nunavut communities is profoundly affected by wider political economic conditions. In interviews, respondents spoke of the overall

250 complexity of and the multiple factors that affect food insecurity, integrating these in their characterizations of the underlying causes and potential solutions to the issue. High costs and limited employment opportunities were mentioned frequently, as in quotes above. Many also pointed to the rising cost of harvesting that has, in recent decades, increased reliance on store- bought foods (see above) and constrained access to country food. Others pointed to the lack of competition and options in the market sector. A typical comment was, "If we get another store, I am pretty sure they'll have more competition. They'll be more affordable. Maybe, I don't know. [...] That's what I see. Even if the government is helping, even if they are helping, nothing really changed." (OA, age 30s, May 29th, 2018). Participants overwhelmingly said that current policy measures are not sufficient to alleviate high rates of food insecurity. Many were familiar with the Nutrition North subsidy but said it did not go nearly far enough to make food affordable, and many had concerns about the program’s transparency that were expressed in community consultations elsewhere also (see Ch. 6; NNC consultation, 2017). A typical comment was, “I don't think it's working out. I think all the benefit is being pocketed by the Northern Company and, or perhaps manager or the CEOs, that are eating all the benefits, while we're still paying for the high price of the food” (DT, May 23rd, 2018). As raised in consultations for revisions to the program, there were concerns that government food programs addressed primarily store-bought food in a context of such limited options (Nutrition North Canada, 2016). The fact that NNC is channeled to only one store in town added to the sense of dissatisfaction: “the government is just trying to keep those companies running. Every time there's action or talk of changing a program or a transportation method, they start complaining or they say, ‘You're going to take down our business’” (CM, May 28th, 2018). Some tied issues of food insecurity back to governance more broadly, including feelings that Nunavummiut interests were not sufficiently represented in decision-making. One interviewee asked, “these government workers that are sitting [in office], they have nice big pockets, but is it dispersing?” (HN, May 30th, 2018). Others tied both current political circumstances and food insecurity back to deeper roots, pointing to a long history of acculturative policy and tying food insecurity to experiences of colonization:

251 It goes back a long way, like when our great-grandparents started going to residential schools, they were taught a certain lifestyle, what to eat, how to live. Basically, […] this new lifestyle that they now had to live in, live in the house, eat these types of foods, live this lifestyle, go to church. They didn’t really adjust to that, having a non-healthy lifestyle (CM, May 28th, 2018).

Environmental change was raised in interviews as a factor in food security. In addition to direct impacts to safe travel over sea ice and harvested species raised elsewhere in the literature (see for e.g. Ford, 2008), indirect effects of climate change were also mentioned. For example, two interviewees said that as a result of both a changing climate and new conservation policies, there were now more polar bears catching seal pups, and in turn thwarting hunters: “They [bears] can even take off a seal net that have been set in winter in one of the cracks when the ice forms. They pull the nets out, and if the nets have caught a seal, they eat the seal. They’re getting smarter.” (JL, age 50s, June 1st, 2018). Another individual spoke of the profound political challenges of addressing climate change at the global scale, using the metaphor of a sled: Some are dragging their feet. Others are pulling the sled. Those dragging their feet are making it heavier for those who are pulling the sled - the smaller nations. The big nations, which should be pulling the sled, are sitting on the sled with both feet on the ground, making it hard. (HN, May 30th, 2018).

This resonates with prior research in Clyde River and elsewhere, that has noted that impacts of Arctic climate change may be felt not only through changes in ice formation, but also through shifts in the political environment (Cameron, 2012; Wenzel, 2009). Connected to climate change and the prospect of ice-free Arctic waterways are concerns about the impacts to wildlife of accelerating resource development, such as the Baffinland iron ore mine, with hopes that new resource extraction projects will bring economic prosperity tempered by concerns about the potential impacts of new forms of resource extraction on animals, hunters, and the traditional food system. While posing profound challenges, these global geopolitical issues were also the focus of local action and resistance. As this research was underway, Clyde River advanced – and won – a Supreme Court challenge against offshore blasting relating to unconventional fossil fuel

252 development in , a primary hunting area for marine mammals (2018).131 In an interview with CBC, then Mayor of Clyde River, Jerry Natanine, explained, “we're fighting for our way of life, our hunting and gathering culture — whaling and sealing — that's our lifestyle, that's what we want to protect” (Tasker, 2017). Elders from Clyde River had spoken out about the impacts previous rounds of seismic testing, catalyzing resistance to the latest proposal: “In the previous blasting, early 70’s, they did that here and people said they’d seen seals bleeding through their ears and their eyes. […] It was from the seismic blast in the 70’s so they didn’t want to see that again. We tried stopping it and we have successfully stopped it through Supreme Court” (DT, May 23rd 2018). On July 26th 2017, Clyde River won their case; the Supreme Court of Canada concluded, “any decision affecting Aboriginal or treaty rights made on the basis of inadequate consultation will not be in compliance with the duty to consult” and (for the time being) reversed the National Energy Board’s approval to conduct seismic testing (Tasker, 2017). This case was a described in interviews as a victory for the community, situated within a longer and ongoing fight to protect Inuit harvesting rights, with expectations that the company would return to try again and that the community would continue to fight for their rights (DT, May 23rd 2018). Interviewees described a wide range of community initiatives for food security and potential solutions to issues of food insecurity. The most overwhelming suggestion for addressing issues of food insecurity, which came up in almost every interview, was to secure greater support for hunters to be able to continue providing country food for their families and the wider community. A typical comment was, “If government could somehow create a program to hire local hunters, I would think it would eliminate some parts of the food insecurity [….] The hunter would be employed, getting income and if they catch anything, they would distribute it to the community, and the community people would win as well” (DT, May 23rd, 2018). TR, age 30s said, "I think gasoline should be subsidized also, because a lot of hunters cannot afford hunting equipment, especially gasoline. They can buy a 5-gallon but it's for a

131 The case was brought forward by then-mayor Jerry Natanine, against a Norwegian oil company that had received the National Energy Board’s approval to conduct seismic testing for offshore oil in Baffin Bay.

253 short distance. The food they hunt is way better than store bought." (July 12, 2017). The idea of support for harvesting here reflected not only a means of improving access to country food but also creating economic opportunities for harvesters, and expanding their role as providers for the community. Specific suggestions included increasing support for HTOs to allow them to expand food distribution programs (as described above), restoring freight subsidies for equipment under the Nutrition North program, holding community hunts, subsidizing gasoline, and expanding youth harvesting and food preparation programs and education opportunities. Noting that store-bought food has become a necessity, others called for further changes in the market sector to ensure more affordable options. Many said it was necessary to find a means of lowering store prices and advocated for increased options beyond the single Northern Store. Concrete suggestions included reallocating funds from NNC towards a subsidized sealift; channeling support to families directly instead of through the private sector (CM, May 28th, 2018); and seeking support for a second store, such as a co-op, in the hopes that increased competition would bring down prices and return profits to the community (OA, age 30s, May 29th, 2018; SK, July 15, 2017). Those involved in running community programs like the food bank called for funding streams that can be accessed by community-initiated projects (CM, May 28th, 2018). Others spoke of the need for economic opportunities for waged employment more broadly: “the people who are employed are providing food for their families not just for their household families, it's for the parents who are living outside the house. They're also providing for that family as well, which is beneficial for everybody” (DT, May 23rd 2018). Other suggestions included calls for education on how to prepare unfamiliar store foods; and for better access to mental health supports to address connections between food insecurity and mental health. One interview participant involved in community programs, KM, said it was essential “to learn what the traditions were like mental health wise – they have to get back on everything, everything like mental health, emotional health, physical health, in order to be healthier. [...]. All these programs are needed." (KM, July 17, 2017). Several described the path forward on addressing food insecurity as part of a wider path towards healing and empowerment (SK, July 15, 2017). Many mentioned the importance of youth connecting with culture, and described community initiatives and examples of this that are

254 already underway, whether through community camp programs, school programs, or taking young people out when going hunting. One community member described the popular Facebook page, “Nunavut Hunting Stories of the Day,” which was created by a Clyde River resident, and the change that it had created for younger generations: This site provided an insight for everybody to look at. It's changed pretty much everything. People share what they catch, how they catch it, they tell stories. Then it shows different regions that we're all the same. [...] We speak the same language. We're still a person from Alaska or Greenland or Nunavik has the same pronunciation for certain words. They eat the same food, they have the same lifestyle. (CM, May 28th, 2018).

An Elder explained, "I feel that the youth that started to attend school started to help out a lot more, and that was very important for me. The youth are very motivated and determined." (GA, May 30th 2018). Others spoke of the need to raise awareness and educate non-Inuit about the North, so that they can better understand: "Our stories talk themselves, that’s the main part,” another community member explained (DT, May 23rd 2018).

7.6 Discussion and conclusion: Towards a recalibration of ‘food security’ in Nunavut This chapter has contextualized the mixed and social economy of Clyde River, relating these concepts to food access and food security. Growing research interest in Inuit food security has typically used definitions and metrics of food insecurity developed in non-Indigenous contexts where access to money is a sound proxy for access to food (Ready, 2016; Harder & Wenzel, 2012), and where local production and food sharing figure less significantly in food security (see Ch. 2). What this chapter affirms, however, is that Inuit communities such as Clyde River navigate issues of food insecurity today in the context of a mixed food system inclusive of both a market sector and social economy, and the social economy is at the heart of food and economic security within the community. These results do not dispute the ongoing challenges facing harvesters or the social economy more broadly, many of which are documented here and elsewhere (Kuokkanen, 2011; Natcher et al., 2016; Wenzel, 2019); however, they speak to the continued importance of harvesting and social economies of food production as they relate to food security, and more broadly, to the contemporary mixed food systems of Inuit communities. In particular, this

255 chapter shows how social relationships and support available to individuals and within social groups factor significantly in access to food, and notes that these dynamics are more legible at the level of the extended family than the individual or even household (see Harder & Wenzel, 2012; Usher et al, 2003). In this regard, the data presented in this chapter reflect results from longstanding work on Inuit food sharing, which characterize the social economy as a source of security and more broadly, of meaning, identity, and relationality (Burch, 1988; Chabot, 2003; Collings, 2011; Damas, 1971; Fienup-Riordan, 1983; Gombay, 2010; Lonner, 1980; Usher et al., 2003; Wenzel, 1995). These findings challenge narrow conceptualizations and metrics of food security that have foregrounded the market sector (see Ch. 2) to the exclusion of Indigenous economies and food systems that remain largely unseen and often misunderstood (Lonner, 1980, p. 7). They further challenge the market-oriented conceptualizations of food security that have corresponded to market-based policy approaches to northern food issues in recent years. It is clear that current policy interventions are insufficient to address the issue of food insecurity in Inuit communities, and benefits are not effectively reaching those who need them most. As I suggested in the previous chapter, recent shifts in policy direction towards greater support for harvesters, and greater collaboration and partnership between federal and Inuit governments, call for further consideration – including interpretation against the backdrop of entrenched power relations between Inuit communities, the private sector, and government. While no panacea, the strong support for investing in Inuit food systems at the local level suggests this has been an area of underrealized potential in food security interventions to date. This analysis echoes other work in calling for a “recalibration” of concepts and metrics of Inuit food security to take into account the distinct social, cultural, and economic contexts of Northern mixed food systems (Harder & Wenzel, 2012, p. 316; see also Papatsie et al, 2013; Powers, 2008; Lambden et al., 2007). At a minimum, a more culturally and contextually relevant understanding of food security calls for renewed recognition of the role of traditional food and food sharing in social relations, health, wellbeing, and identity. As Papatsie et al. (2013, p. 1) explain: For Inuit, achieving food and nutrition security is about more than ensuring people are free from hunger, it is about the right to harvest and pursue a

256 traditional subsistence way of life. In other words, Inuit view food security as a right that encompasses the cultural and environmental aspects of their lives.

The meaning attached to country food noted in this chapter and elsewhere further challenges and contests the perception, still prevalent, that subsistence is an impoverished life of mere survival (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2019); and modernist narratives of acculturation that have, for decades, repeatedly cast the Inuit food system as a natural casualty of modernization (see Ch. 2, Ch. 5). As Kuokkanen (2011, p. 216) argues: It is clear that indigenous economies have been decimated in the course of history. Yet it is incorrect to argue that indigenous or subsistence economies are no longer able to sustain indigenous communities. Moreover, not giving a fuller account of the decimation of indigenous economies both past and present conceals the various historical and contemporary processes and conflicts—economic but also social and political—at play in indigenous communities.

While understanding food insecurity necessitates better understanding the social dynamics internal to Northern communities like Clyde River, it also necessitates understanding the wider political economic circumstances, both historical and contemporary, that animate food insecurity. It is striking, for example, that the most powerful local institution in communities like Clyde River is still a former fur trade company, controlling not only grocery retail, but, for many, access to hunting equipment, banking services, pharmacy products, and social benefits to which families are legally entitled. It is further striking that Canada’s primary national policy response to Northern food issues has for the past decade focused almost exclusively on this market sector, and channeled support through these institutions (see Ch. 6). Future work on food insecurity in Nunavut must address these contextual circumstances, both cultural and political, if we are to understand the overarching issue of food insecurity and its consequences for Inuit communities – as well as how it might be addressed in line with self- determination. The findings presented in this chapter reaffirm that food remains a source of connection and relationality – and in turn, a central medium of community strength, resilience, and agency. This chapter has drawn attention to some of the ongoing community initiatives underway to support food security in Clyde River, from HTO distributions of country food to school programs

257 to efforts to secure local food systems through legal channels, as in the successful court challenge of Clyde River v. Petroleum Geo-Services Inc. These varied actions reflect a larger struggle for self-determination with regards to food and food security across scales. This struggle, when seen through the lens of food, is both political and highly personal. Food is what sustains us, feeds relationships, and nourishes identity and meaning. Against the backdrop of colonization, including the instrumental use of food (see Ch. 5), this struggle for self- determination with regards to food systems, whether through legal channels or daily practices of food production and sharing, reflects a struggle of persistence against forces of oppression, and the ideologies that support them. This chapter offers a snapshot only, and heterogeneity in geography, biodiversity, social relations, culture, economic activity, and other factors all mitigate against projecting these results to other regions of Nunavut and Inuit Nunangat. However, many of these broader political and economic issues do translate, including the continuity of power relations between Inuit communities, government, and the private sector; concerns about the effectiveness and appropriateness of market-based policy approaches (see Nutrition North Engagement, 2017); and calls for greater support for harvesting and Inuit foodways (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2017; Nunavut Tunngavik Inc., 2016). Additionally, the limitations of market-oriented concepts of food security revealed within this study are not unique to Nunavut, and this context speaks to some of the consequential exclusions and limitations of the concept of food security itself (see Ch. 2). With this in mind, the following concluding chapter steps back from this and other objectives of this dissertation to examine the politics of food and food security in Nunavut; and to explore the broader conceptual and policy implications of this study.

258 Chapter 8 ‘Why would anyone make food you are not supposed to eat?’ Towards a longitudinal perspective on food (in)security in Arctic Canada

8.1 Chapter introduction This dissertation began with the unprecedented food protests that unfolded in communities across Nunavut in 2012, as Nunavummiut raised their concerns over access to food and exceedingly high grocery prices. I suggested that this moment exemplified not only the depth of concern about access to food in Nunavut, but also a shift in political space in the form of public protest. By this, I related the political to both the exercise of power and its contestation, inclusive of critical challenge (Li, 2007, p. 12). The momentum of Feeding My Family and food protests expressed that current conditions with regards to food were something Nunavummiut were not comfortable with – something that could be changed (see Chapter 1). However, rates of food insecurity have continued to worsen in Nunavut communities since the 2012 food protests (Tarasuk et al., 2016; see also Figure 1.1). As I write this concluding chapter in summer 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic is laying bare issues of health and social inequity once again within Canada, with existing health, housing, and economic inequities contributing to distinct vulnerabilities to infectious disease in Northern and Indigenous communities. With additional pandemic-related funding, regional Inuit governments in Nunavut have chosen to invest in food programs, from food hampers for Elders to new land-based harvesting programs to support community access to country food (see Chapter 6; George, 2020b, 2020c; Nunatsiaq News, 2020). In short, food remains central to both the persistent health inequities experienced by Indigenous peoples in Northern Canada, and to community- led initiatives supporting the foundations of health and wellbeing. Stepping back from these immediate contexts, this study has sought to develop a longitudinal perspective on food (in)security in Nunavut. It explains how and why food became the focus of protest in Inuit communities in 2012, and more broadly, why Nunavummiut continue to bear a disproportionate burden of food insecurity today, situating the phenomenon of food insecurity in its broader political, historical and social circumstances, including histories and legacies of colonization. This concluding chapter revisits these overarching research aims

259 and my central research objectives, detailing the original contributions this study makes to better understanding the uneven geographies of food insecurity in (Arctic) Canada, and exploring its broader conceptual and policy implications.

8.2 Contextualizing and framing the study In Chapter 1, I introduced the rationale and scope for the present research. My focus on the intersections of food and social policy in Nunavut, and food insecurity as a distinctly political issue, developed in consultation with Nunavut Inuit governments, organizations, and community members through two trips to Nunavut in 2016. This consultation process, alongside my review of the academic literature, suggested that despite growing attention to food insecurity in the North, comparatively little attention had been paid to food insecurity as a political issue, or to the role of social policy in tackling it. In particular, links between colonial institutions, food, and power in Arctic Canada have marked an overlooked history within food security discourse (Burnett et al., 2016, p. 2). To address these topics, I introduced four interwoven research objectives: 1) To describe the historical and political context for transformations of the Nunavut food system and to address the role these changes have played in issues of food insecurity; 2) To show how food is entangled in histories and legacies of colonization in Arctic Canada; 3) To characterize contemporary policy approaches to food insecurity in Nunavut and investigate the narratives and beliefs that underpin them; and 4) To describe how Nunavut Inuit communities are navigating, experiencing, and addressing food (in)security by way of a community-based case study in Clyde River, Nunavut. Chapter 2 developed a conceptual framework for the study, situating the present research in relationship to other research on the conceptualization of food security, social and structural determinants of Indigenous Peoples’ health, and Inuit foodways and the social economy. I first traced the conceptual origins of ‘food security’ through a close reading of seminal texts that have defined and shaped the concept, examining both its explanatory potential and key exclusions. I reviewed definitions of food security rooted in environmental determinism and agricultural protectionist approaches of the 1970s (Maxwell, 1996); revisions

260 towards entitlements theory and property rights in the 1980s (Sen, 1981); and most recently, definitions situated within the broadened scope of human and social development, beginning in the early 2000s (FAO, 2006). I argued that this ever-expanding conceptualization of food security has both drawn attention to and rendered apolitical problems of food access – problems that I argued are best understood as political ones. However, I also suggested that while the concept of food security is often depoliticized, it continues to perform political work. In Nunavut, the political dimensions of food systems have been obscured within food security discourse that has emphasized the prevalence of food insecurity without necessarily tying these conditions to their deeper causes, leaving communities vulnerable to victim blaming (Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated, 2013, p. 3). Through this analysis, I adopted a critical conceptualization of food security, suggesting that the concept of food security shapes what can be seen in consequential ways; it both makes key exclusions (Alcock, 2009) and has been central to articulating social inequities in Arctic Canada and elsewhere (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2014, 2018d). Following this critical perspective, I directed attention not just to food security as a phenomenon, but also to how the concept has come to have meaning in Nunavut, clarifying the institutions and policies that have played an influential role (themes I address most significantly in Chapter 6). I also extended the scope of my analysis to look not only at food security but also prior discourses of hunger, malnutrition, and food shortage that animated social policy early in the Government Era (themes explored most centrally in Chapter 5). In this way, this study asserts a case for taking a longer-term and critical perspective to food security, attending not just to food security as a phenomenon, but to how the concept is taken up as a policy agenda; to the conceptual ground it replaces (hunger, malnutrition, food shortage); and to how it reconfigures political space. Building on critical analysis of food security and hunger elsewhere (Alcock, 2009; Wisner et al., 1982), this study models a middle ground between studies that critique and reject the concept food security for its consequential limitations, and those that deploy the terminology of food security absent attention to these limitations. This critical perspective seeks to retain a sense of curiosity about what food security offers, while attending also to its limitations. This approach, I argue, offers a means of critically

261 engaging within the existing space of political possibility and contemporary policy debates, while also renewing a space of possibility for change. To address some of the limitations posed by the concept of food security, I then turned to literature on the social and structural determinants of Indigenous peoples’ health. The literature on social determinants of health has furnished a growing body of evidence showing that disparities in individuals’ health status are shaped by social realities (Marmot & Wilkinson, 2005), a view shared within many Indigenous traditions of health and wellness (De Leeuw, 2015). This framework enlarges the scope of public health beyond biomedical models rooted in individual behaviour, and contests the naturalization of unequal burdens of ill health, suggesting instead that unequal burdens of health-damaging experiences are a result of “a toxic combination of poor social policies and programmes, unfair economic arrangements, and bad politics” (Commission on Social Determinants of Health, 2008, p. 1). In the context of Indigenous peoples’ health, these include most significantly the lasting effects of colonization on health and wellbeing (Gracey & King, 2009, p. 65; Jardine & Lines, 2018; Richmond & Ross, 2009). To account for the distinct histories and contemporary realities of Indigenous peoples, I review recent critical scholarship that has expanded focus “beyond the social” determinants of health towards a lens of “structural determinants” of Indigenous peoples’ health (Greenwood et al., 2015). The literature on both the social and structural determinants of health suggests renewed attention to underlying structures can better focus on root causes of disparities, while a myopic focus on symptoms risks perpetuating structural inequities. At the same time, critical literature calls for nuance in applying a structural lens, recognizing the confluence of individual and systemic factors, individuals’ and communities’ agency, and positive determinants of health. Through this analysis, I adopted an understanding of food security as a key social and structural determinant of Inuit health (see Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2014), affecting myriad health outcomes at the same time that it is itself a significant social inequity (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2018d). Following the work of the Commission on Social Determinants of Health (2008, p. 1), I sought to contest the naturalization of high rates of food insecurity in Nunavut and directed attention to the effect of social policies and programs. In line with work on the

262 structural determinants of Indigenous peoples’ health, I drew particular attention to the significance of colonialism and self-determination as foundational determinants of health in Inuit Nunangat (Greenwood et al., 2015). I suggested the potential for critical social science to make more legible the distal roots of health and social disparities that underlie proximate determinants of health, including proximate determinants of food insecurity (like food costs and individual food choices) and turned to an ethnographic approach to afford greater nuance. Finally, to counter some of the exclusions of universalizing theories of food security, entitlements, or indeed social determinants, I turned to literature on Inuit foodways and the social economy specific to Inuit Nunangat. I drew attention to the continued significance of an Indigenous food system overlooked by mainstream metrics of food security in Inuit Nunangat (Ready, 2016a), documenting the continued importance of locally harvested country food as a culturally significant source of wellbeing for both physical and mental health and wellness (Kirmayer, Fletcher, et al., 2009). I situated the mixed food system of Nunavut within the mixed economy (Abele, 2009), reviewing literature on Indigenous economies (Kuokkanen, 2011), social economies (Harder & Wenzel, 2012; Natcher, 2009), and subsistence (Lonner, 1980) in the Circumpolar North. Through this literature, I drew attention to and contested popular mischaracterizations of subsistence practices as “mere survival,” describing instead distinct economic systems that are both materially vital and embedded in social and ecological relations that are themselves a source of wealth and security (Inuit Circumpolar Council, 1992, pp. 36-37; Lonner, 1980). Drawing on studies of persistent mixed economies, I described how Northern Indigenous peoples have incorporated waged labour into diverse livelihoods in a manner that enables the continuation of harvesting (BurnSilver et al., 2016; Chabot, 2003; Natcher, 2009; Wenzel, 1991), and drew attention to contemporary challenges within the mixed economy. These include tensions between the rules of the socially embedded subsistence sector and disembedded market sector that are today exacerbated by high costs – and high opportunity costs – of harvesting (Natcher et al., 2016; Wenzel, 2019, p. 577). This analysis of Inuit foodways and the social economy informed an understanding that what is at stake in food-related policy interventions far exceeds calories and nutritional needs.

263 In the present research, this focus on the Inuit food system and economy directed attention to what is left out of mainstream metrics of food security, and in turn, left out of food security solutions that have prioritized the market sector absent similar support for Indigenous food systems. This particularly shaped my attention towards local initiatives for food security, themes I explore most centrally in Chapter 7. It also inspired a critical examination of how pervasive narratives of acculturation and theories of social evolution have inspired acculturative approaches to social policy in general, and fatalism regarding Indigenous food systems in particular (themes explored most centrally in Chapters 5 and 6). Bringing these varied conceptual pieces together in my Chapter 2 discussion, I suggested that the widespread attribution of food insecurity to remoteness, an extreme environment, or the vagaries of nature serves to naturalize high rates of food insecurity in Arctic Canada. I argued that this naturalization masks the consequences of poor social policies and persistent economic inequities rooted in colonization, relocating responsibility for food insecurity in ‘deficiencies’ in Inuit communities while overlooking the systemic issues that make it difficult to achieve health, wellbeing, and food security. In turn, food security discourse focusing on these more proximate determinants alone delimits the sphere of policy action and has inspired an overarching emphasis on education and market-based solutions to Northern food problems. Across this dissertation, I have paid particular attention to these narratives of responsibility and blame, drawing attention to the tensions between individual and systemic explanations, and political and apolitical understandings present in both health and food security discourse. This overarching perspective has informed my analysis across the empirical chapters (4-7) of this study. It also underpins the theoretical contributions of this work that may translate to other contexts – themes I explore in greater detail below. In Chapter 3, I presented the methodology for the study, detailing the gathering of empirical data. Following other critical scholars, I suggested the value of an ethnographic and ethnohistorical approach to these topics, which allowed me to direct attention towards underlying determinants of food insecurity while retaining attention to the empirical context and allowing interpretation to emerge from detailed empirical work. I focused particularly on questions of positionality and research relationships, highlighting the relations of power that

264 are at play within research undertaken with Indigenous communities, and the changes currently underway in the governance of research in Nunavut and elsewhere in Inuit Nunangat. I reviewed my research methods, including semi-structured interviews, key informant interviews, oral history interviews, economic diaries, and archival research. I also addressed the significance of spending time in the community of Clyde River over the course of multiple visits to develop relationships that made the collection of empirical data possible and helped contextualize these data.

8.3 Research results, interpretations, and analysis 8.3.1 Historical context: Transformations of the Nunavut food system Chapter 4 was the first of four empirical chapters. It addressed my first research objective, to describe the historical and political context for transformations of the Nunavut food system and to address the role these changes have played in issues of food insecurity. In this chapter, I relied on community-based oral history interviews with Elders living in Clyde River who grew up in the 1930s, 40s, and 50s. I also drew on existing ethnohistorical work, including foremost the work of the Qikiqtani Truth Commission, to broaden the perspective and situate these interviews within the social and political history of the Qikiqtani region. Focusing on the period immediately before and after centralization, from approximately 1945 to 1975, I described the shift from a highly localized food system and Indigenous economy towards the mixed food system and mixed economy that persist today, and explored how these transformations introduced both new social adaptations and new forms of precarity with regards to food. Until the late 1950s and 60s, when people increasingly moved into the centralized settlement of Clyde River, Inuit families lived to both the north and south of the present-day townsite in ilagiit nunagivaktangit, “places used regularly for hunting, harvesting and gathering” (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013a, p. 7). The prevailing seasonal cycle of activities (hunting, travel and preparations) shifted from winter sealing in the region’s many fiords, to spring fishing areas near their headlands, and inland towards interior caribou areas for the summer. While the Hudson’s Bay store provided useful and increasingly essential items like hunting and trapping equipment, ammunition, tea and tobacco, and some canned and dry

265 foods, it was foremost the lands and waters of the Kangitugaapik area that provided food, clothing, and shelter for a good life. Inherent to living from the land, and navigating periods of both abundance and scarcity, was the socioeconomic system of sharing resources, known in Clyde River as ningiqtuq (Wenzel, 1995). The transition from living in ilagiit nunagivaktangit to centralized government settlements like Clyde River in the 1950s and 60s as a matter of federal public policy resulted in many changes to this food system. In interviews, several Elders spoke of experiences of food scarcity immediately following centralization, associated with dislocation from previous harvesting places, imposed harvesting regulations, and reliance on meagre supplies of imported food. The federal Family Allowance program, which delivered food rations for Inuit children beginning in the late 1940s, did not make up for the loss of access to locally harvested foods following centralization, though the program played a significant role as a vehicle for wider policy agendas concerning health, education, and centralization (see Ch. 5). Work by the Qikiqtani Truth Commission also addresses the significance of the killing of qimmiit (dogs) at the hands of the RCMP, and resultant loss of mobility, which had a profound and devastating effect on Inuit livelihoods across the Qikiqtani region. The decades following centralization saw the growing importance of money to purchase imported foods and harvesting equipment, including in later years, snowmobiles that enabled a reclamation of mobility – but also introduced greater capital costs and new sources of debt to the Hudson’s Bay Company. Canned food and ready-to-cook store-bought foods started to become available around 1960, and more store-bought foods like pastas were introduced in the 1960s and 70s. The Hudson’s Bay store started to have fresh fruits and vegetables brought in by plane around 1970, although some produce was occasionally brought in before this. By the 1970s, many features of the contemporary mixed food system and of the mixed economy were established, including greater reliance on imported foods and greater involvement in the monetized economy that enabled harvesting, as well as the transition of the Hudson’s Bay Company from fur trader to grocery retailer. Analyzing these histories of rapid social, political, and economic transformation, I argued that understanding contemporary issues of food insecurity necessitates understanding

266 the vast and rapid changes that took place in the post-war period, the role of food as a medium of colonial authority, and the central role of social policy in producing the contemporary mixed food system.

8.3.2 The entanglement of food in colonization Building on the foundations established through first-hand perspectives presented in Chapter 4, Chapter 5 addressed my second research objective: to show how food is entangled in histories and legacies of colonization in Arctic Canada. In this chapter, I drew on archival analysis of materials from the Library and Archives Canada (LAC) collection, including fonds of the Department of Indian Affairs and Northern Development and its predecessors, and of the Department of National Health and Welfare, as well as other archival sources. Materials analyzed included government reports, internal and external correspondence, RCMP and Eastern Arctic Patrol records, publicity materials, media clippings, and historical photographs. I focused my analysis on national policy interventions in the Inuit food system, particularly the handling of the Family Allowance program, which marked the first widespread food-related policy intervention in Arctic Canada. Archival analysis revealed that food was a critical medium of expanding colonial authority over the Eastern Arctic specifically in the decades immediately following World War II, described in the literature as the start of the ‘Government Era.’ I documented how food rations administered through the Family Allowance program were treated as a medium to inculcate Euro-Canadian norms concerning diet, nutrition, child weaning, and gender and family roles. The issuance of Family Allowances marked the first time the Government of Canada applied ‘wardship’ provisions of the Indian Act to Inuit, with the Department of Mines and Resources assuming the role of parent, and treating all Inuit, including adults, as children. The Government of Canada assumed responsibility for deciding what foods and goods Inuit children should consume – a decision that at once raised questions of how Inuit families should secure a livelihood and how Inuit women, in particular, should feed their children. I documented how, after supporting harvesting in the early years of the Family Allowance program, federal officials increasingly promoted the superiority of ‘white man’s

267 food’ for infants and young children, as policies shifted from enforced protection from ‘modern’ life under a Doctrine of Dispersal, towards accelerating Inuit exposure to modern trends through a program of “auxiliary feeding and education” during the period of centralization (see Ch. 5). Powdered milk and Pablum, in particular, became emblematic of the myth of the superiority of the modern diet in the 1950s. Inuit children’s nutrition also provided a useful mask for operational concerns of the Hudson’s Bay Company and its competitors, who benefited from increased Inuit purchasing power amidst collapsing fur prices. Inuit recipients of the new program, meanwhile, attempted to secure hunting equipment by pooling accumulated Family Allowance credits, integrating the program into the existing Indigenous economy. However, Inuit were not represented in decision making, and had little opportunity to define or shape solutions to the profound health crises that were unfolding in this period as a direct result of colonization, including the collapsing fur trade and exposure to infectious disease. Paternalistic attitudes of the Northern Administration throughout the post-war period were exemplified in propaganda publications like the 1947 ‘Book of Wisdom for Eskimo,’ which promised that by following its advice, “Eskimo families will be prosperous, their children will be healthy and everyone will be happy” (Department of Mines and Resources, 1947, pp. 19-20). These activities were in turn documented and shared with the Canadian public as part of a larger discourse of Northern development, promoting Canada’s claim to the North and its resources and the purported benefits Northern development would bring to Indigenous peoples, while obscuring the harms of colonization. Also in this chapter, I drew attention to the persistence of (often ill-fated) attempts to make the Arctic agriculturally productive, suggesting such activities were situated within a desire on the part of missionaries and colonial authorities to ‘improve’ both land and people. In detailing these histories, my intention was to illustrate how current socio-economic dynamics surrounding Northern development are rooted in relationships between Inuit and the federal government that developed in the early part of the 20th century and expanded following the Second World War. Many of the trends visible in food and food interventions today echo interventions set in motion in the early years of the Government Era. I argued, in turn, that the social policy practices of the Northern Administration in the post-war period reflected an

268 extension of prior missionary activities, as federal authorities sought to ‘spread the gospel of health’ in the North, placing faith in science and ideologies of improvement. I described this as ‘secular missionization’ to characterize both the manner in which the colonial state exercised authority (sending of patrols, preaching benefits, producing propaganda), and the benevolent ideals around which its activities cohered (health, improvement, salvation). Like the missionaries that preceded, these secular claims to benevolence and improvement were never separable from claims to power (Li, 2007). I argued that this orientation of secular missionization has animated much of Northern social policy in the Government Era – an era that continues to characterize Northern governance today. This conceptual lens may be clarifying in studies of related policy agendas (housing, health, education) in Inuit Nunangat, as well as other jurisdictions, such as Greenland, that similarly saw the expansion of colonial control through the bureaucratic apparatus of a welfare state following the missionary period. In light of this analysis, I argued that the relations of power at play concerning food interventions continue to merit careful attention, as do the values and narratives that underpin contemporary food policy interventions (themes I turn to in Chapter 6). Social policy has played a significant role in constituting the contemporary food system of Nunavut and should be understood as an important mediating determinant of food (in)security.

8.3.3 Understanding contemporary policy approaches to food insecurity in Nunavut Chapter 6 shifts to contemporary times, to characterize contemporary policy approaches to food insecurity in Nunavut and investigate the narratives and beliefs that underpin them (Objective 3). I drew on key informant interviews (n=23) with individuals working with federal, territorial, and Inuit governments, grassroots organizations, and in the private sector. In a timeline animated by the perspectives of those involved, I described how, in the past decade, food security has emerged as the primary discourse through which Northern food issues are understood. I drew attention to key inflection points in this evolving political conversation, from the 2007-08 Inuit Health Survey, to the 2012 formation of Feeding My Family and the Nunavut Food Security Coalition, to the review of Nutrition North in 2016. I also amended this analysis with recently announced policy changes that took place after primary interviews were

269 completed, most significantly a new Inuit-Crown relationship and new Harvester Support funding channeled from the federal level to Indigenous governments, the details of which are still emerging at the time of writing this chapter. Drawing on key informant interviews, I described both collaboration and growing momentum towards tackling food insecurity, and ongoing challenges. In analyzing these changes, I note that the shared language of food security – and its tendency to characterize an end result, not the underlying conditions that give rise to it – does not readily translate into shared decisions or policy direction. In the absence of a strategy on food security that would integrate work across levels of government, issues of jurisdiction and mandate have precluded more comprehensive policy action on food security. I detail how policy approaches to food insecurity have, in recent years, been shaped by political and corporate interests, including most significantly political ideologies that privileged a market-based approach to food security, fueling political controversy and protest over the Nutrition North program specifically. Other policy options advanced in interviews by senior bureaucrats with close knowledge of the issues, including a public grocery option, school feeding programs, renewed support for harvesters, or a transfer of decision-making power away from the federal government, have been perceived as ‘too radical’ politically, falling outside the space of political possibility. Taking a longitudinal perspective, I explored how recent policy decisions and approaches reflect existing blueprints (Ferguson, 1990; see Chapter 2). For example, I suggested that Nutrition North has faced controversy not only because of concerns about transparency that received widespread attention in the wake of the Auditor General’s report, but because the program reflects the entrenched and entwined power of the federal government and the Northern retail sector (still dominated by a former fur trade company) over the Nunavut food system. This echoes power relations that were at play in the administration of Family Allowances in the 1940s and 50s. Meanwhile, Inuit communities continue to bear the costs of private accumulation in terms of food insecurity, nutrition, and health issues (see Tester & Kulchyski, 1997). I suggested that recent shifts, including the creation of Harvester Support Grants and work on food security by an Inuit-Crown Working Group, represent an opportunity for meaningful change and should be interpreted in the

270 context of power relations that have framed Arctic food interventions not just in the past decade, but the past century.

8.3.4 Navigating and addressing food (in)security at a community level Chapter 7 describes how Nunavut Inuit communities navigate, experience, and address food (in)security at the local level (Objective 4) through a case study in Clyde River. In particular, this chapter explored how contextual and social dynamics articulate with market-based policy interventions, seeking to better understand firsthand experiences and perspectives of Nunavummiut concerning food security and policy. Community-based interviews and economic diaries affirm the ongoing burden of food insecurity on Nunavut communities, while making clear that there is much more to the food system in Nunavut than high costs and rates of food insecurity. Economic diaries reconfirmed the very high proportion of income spent on food in Nunavut. While the Canadian average household expenditure on food has been estimated at between 13.6% and 15.0% in a recent study (Fafard St-Germain & Tarasuk, 2018, p. 2073), more than half of households in the economic diary study spent 50% or more of their household income on groceries, some in a single shop at the start of the month (see Ch. 7). Interview participants described food costs and food insecurity as having a profound emotional toll, as well as health consequences. While the cost of living is prominent in the market sector, high costs also mediate access to country food, with costly equipment and supplies now a necessity. Consequently, as noted elsewhere in the literature (Ready, 2016b, p. 143; Usher et al., 2003, p. 178), active harvesting households are often active wage-earning (extended) households, and understanding food access necessitates an understanding of the socioeconomic contexts of this mixed food system. Interviewees had a wide range of perspectives on food security and food programs. Many participants were familiar with the Nutrition North subsidy but said it did not go nearly far enough to make food affordable. The economic diary data suggested that while food sharing redistributes benefits to a degree, the program still most benefits those with higher incomes (particularly those who have the resources to place a sealift order for non-perishables, and those who do not have provisioning responsibilities to an extended family, as is the case for

271 many temporary non-Inuit residents of Nunavut). As raised in consultations for revisions to the program (Nutrition North Canada, 2016), there were also concerns that government food programs primarily address store food in a context of limited options: Clyde River only has one store, the Northern, owned by the North West Company, and the majority of participants relied exclusively on this store. Reliance on only one store was a prominent topic in the interviews, and many spoke about a sense of disempowerment towards the store, for example describing feeling “manipulated” to purchase expensive food. At the same time, food – especially country food – remains at the heart of community initiatives for health, culture, language, and overall wellbeing, and is a source of connection and relationality. Interviewees brought up many examples of maintaining these connections, from sending country food packages with fly-in-fly-out mine workers to reach family members, to a child sharing their first catch with their birth attendant, to taking youth out on the land and immersing them in Inuktitut as they learn harvesting skills. Despite financial burdens facing harvesters, food sharing is a continued source of social security at the family and community scale, with the majority of households reporting both sharing and receiving food regularly. While noting challenges, including the high costs of hunting and pressure on hunters to share country food, many interviewees spoke of sharing as a source of closeness, and several said that without food sharing, issues of food insecurity would be more severe. Community socioeconomic patterns intersect with formal policy measures, and food sharing mitigates, to a degree, the regressive structure of benefits like the Nutrition North subsidy. Local solutions and recommendations for addressing food insecurity were wide ranging. Existing efforts to address food insecurity on local terms include school programs, youth hunting programs, a local food bank, and distribution of country food through the Hunters and Trappers Organization, as well as actions undertaken at wider scales, such as legal actions to protect harvesting grounds (most notably the Clyde River v. Petroleum Geo-Services Supreme Court case and victory). The most overwhelming suggestion for addressing food insecurity going forward, which came up in almost every interview, was to better support hunters to be able to continue providing country food for their families and the wider community. Specific suggestions included increasing support for the HTO for food distribution, restoring freight

272 subsidies for hunting equipment, sponsoring community hunts, and expanding youth programs and education opportunities of all kinds. Several interview participants expressed preferences for sales mediated by the HTO to reconciling conflicting imperatives to support harvesters and ensure food is shared. Many also called for measures that would better ensure that store food is affordable, whether by finding a means of lowering store prices, increasing purchasing options beyond the single store, or increasing economic opportunities for wage earning and tackling poverty more broadly. Additionally, several interview participants said addressing food security requires healing, advocating for the extension of programs that support mental, physical and emotional wellbeing; and more broadly, for shifts in governance that enable empowerment with regards to food. Communities like Clyde River are profoundly affected by political economic circumstances that are produced at a larger scale. It is striking that the most powerful local institution in communities like Clyde River is still a former fur trade company, controlling not only grocery retail, but, for many, access to hunting equipment, banking services, pharmacy products, and indeed legally entitled social benefits. This speaks to a continuation of lopsided power relations with regards to food that favour private interests over community health, wellbeing and self-determination. In interviews, several participants spoke of a need for shifts in top-down governance at wider scales, to ensure that community interests are represented. These findings challenge narrow conceptualizations and metrics of food security in Arctic Canada that have foregrounded exclusively the market sector, and that have corresponded to market-based approaches to social policy in recent years (see Ch. 2). What this chapter shows is that Inuit communities such as Clyde River navigate issues of food insecurity today in the context of a mixed food system inclusive of both a market sector and social economy. Without disputing the profound challenges facing harvesters, this analysis suggests that Inuit food systems and the social economy continue to play a meaningful role in sustaining and nourishing Inuit communities. The findings presented in this chapter reaffirm some of the ways in which food remains a source of connection and relationality – and in turn, a central medium of community strength, resilience, and agency. This contests the perception, still prevalent in popular and political discourse, that subsistence is an impoverished life of mere

273 survival (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2019); and modernist narratives of acculturation that have cast the Inuit food system as a natural casualty of modernization, while overlooking the continued importance and resilience of the Inuit food system and economy. This analysis echoes other work in calling for a “recalibration” of concepts and metrics of Inuit food security to take into account these distinct social, cultural, and economic contexts (Harder & Wenzel, 2012, p. 316; see also Papatsie et al, 2013; Powers, 2008).

8.4 Towards a longitudinal perspective on food insecurity in Nunavut Analyzing these chapters together in a longitudinal perspective, this work shows both the rapid transformation of the Northern food system, and a series of profound continuities, from the political economy of a grocery sector still dominated by a former fur trade company, to the persistent faith in agricultural solutions to Northern food problems. What these continuities suggest is a persistent ethnocentrism in thinking about Northern food systems, and limited understanding of their distinct characteristics; just as elected officials have advocated for market-based approaches because they work (or they think they work) in the South, agricultural approaches appeal because they work in Southern environments, and milk remains deeply engrained in Euro-Canadian cultural notions of children’s’ health and nutrition (see Ch. 5). As one Inuk key informant said, “Right now, the way people view things is with Southern glasses” (Interview, July 15, 2017). This continuity invites a broader set of questions, about why such thinking about Northern food systems – and blueprints for Northern development in general – is so stubbornly impervious to change. While this question merits further consideration, one answer, I have argued, lies in the continuity of attitudes of missionization that have continued to see solutions for Northern issues driven from the South. At the same time, the resilience of Inuit communities seeking self-determination with regards to food attests to the survival of a distinct food system that, despite profound impacts of colonialism and decades of acculturative approaches to social policy, continues to play a significant role in sustaining Nunavut communities. This is exemplified in myriad community initiatives, from community hunts, to youth and school programs, skills and knowledge sharing, and celebrations of Inuit foodways. At the same time, it is exemplified in the contestation of threats to these food systems and ways of life, as Inuit communities – including Clyde River –

274 have fought to protect a way of life (see Ch. 7). Recent policy shifts, including new harvester support, mark the continuation and culmination of decades of work to secure recognition of the value of traditional food systems (see Ch. 5 and 6). The struggle for Inuit foodways involves a larger struggle for self-determination and maintaining connections to culture and homelands – a struggle, equally enduring, that has refuted decades of acculturative social policy (see Ch. 5). Shifting from the material to the discursive, this study draws out narratives that underlie and legitimize policy. In Chapter 2, I argued that food insecurity lies at the intersection of multiple powerful narratives that translate blame and responsibility for food insecurity onto the communities and individuals who experience it. I suggested that food insecurity reflects a perfect storm, bridging the discursive environments of both environmental management – in which communities are blamed for overharvesting or mismanaging local resources, including food (Hardin, 1969) – and population health, in which individual patients are held accountable for societal ills (Rose et al., 2008). Thus, popular tropes of environmental mismanagement (laziness, overharvesting), and individualized understanding of health disparities (individual choices, deviance) combine. They are further animated by over-pathologizing biases, racism, and prejudices towards Indigenous peoples with regards to health, locating ‘deficiencies’ within Indigenous communities (Gracey & King, 2009, p. 70). Returning to these claims in light of the empirical research supports this interpretation; underlying some of the continuities identified above is an insidious set of stories about food insecurity that have recast responsibility for hunger on the hungry. In historical terms, Inuit Elders who grew up relying centrally on food harvested from the land and sea, and local economic and social structures to ensure its widespread distribution, were subsequently taught that imported commercial foods were superior for children, and Inuit mothers were blamed for malnutrition of their children (see Ch. 4 and 5). As I argue in chapter 5, attributing child malnutrition to Inuit mothers’ care and traditional diets not only undermined Inuit parenting and foodways, but obscured the wider realities of colonialism, including the devastation and high mortality rates wrought by infectious diseases introduced through colonization, conservation policies that restricted access to country food, and structural economic conditions

275 that privileged the interests of fur trade companies over Indigenous economic wellbeing. Social policy oriented towards addressing food and health issues at the level of individual behaviour and education in turn left the underlying economic relationships and power relations between Inuit, the private sector, and the state largely unchanged. Though narratives of blame and responsibility read more overtly in historical material (as presented in Chapter 5), they persist in new forms, in popular interpretations of food insecurity that focus on individual factors to the exclusion of systemic ones – on the choices individuals make, instead of the context in which they are made. Today, popular and political narratives that cast food insecurity as a matter of individual responsibility, food choices, and budgeting, absent attention to the wider contexts of colonialism continue to relocate responsibility with those who experience food insecurity, not the systems that give rise to it. Public health messages that emphasize healthy eating, however necessary, can place responsibility on the individual to make ‘better choices’ in a context where, in the words of one key informant, “you couldn’t make the right choices if you tried” (Interview, Former senior INAC employee, March 22, 2018). These narratives are consequential; as Nunavut Tunngavik Inc. explains, failure to place health outcomes in their wider historical, political and economic contexts “can leave communities vulnerable to victim blaming without the necessary actions being taken to eliminate the structural inequities in place that often make it difficult for people to achieve health and wellness” (Nunavut Tunngavik Incorporated, 2013, p. 6). Discontinuities between past and present health and nutrition campaigns compound the injustice of these narratives. In chapter 6, I describe a story relayed by a key informant about a public meeting in Nunavut: There was an older gentleman who stood up and said, ‘When you came here’ – because he was referring to Southerners – ‘When Southerners came here and we were told our diet’s not healthy, and we need to eat store food. Food from the Hudson's Bay at the time.’ They were taught or told that their food was healthier and better. Then he said, ‘But now you’re telling us that our grocery store food is not healthier or better. So, what am I supposed to eat?’ (Interview, Aug. 16, 2017)

This question – ‘so, what am I supposed to eat?’ – cuts to the heart of food politics in Nunavut. It reflects the role food has played as a medium of power, colonial authority, and tutelage

276 across decades. Posed back to health and policy professionals in a public setting, it reflects a contestation of this status quo, drawing attention to these histories and ongoing dissonances between past and present. One effect of dominant narratives casting food insecurity as a product of high prices, remoteness, and individuals’ food choices is to naturalize high rates of food insecurity in Nunavut, while bracketing out structural questions of power and inequality. This contributes to fatalism, removing the possibility for improvement and contributing to the idea that the high rate of food insecurity in Arctic communities is a tragic, unchangeable reality. By situating food insecurity in a longitudinal perspective, this dissertation argues that high rates of food insecurity are not a natural and inevitable condition. They are produced by a set of circumstances, systems, and institutions that can be changed. Yet doing so requires a shift away from the blueprints of past interventions, and a willingness to leave behind the type of colonial missionization that has systematically removed decision making power and agency from Inuit communities. Recent changes in policy, including the creation of new federally funded Harvester Support Grants, administered jointly with Indigenous governments, represent opportunities to change longstanding ethnocentrism in policy approaches to the Northern food system, and merit further consideration as they unfold.

8.5 Ethnographic perspectives: ‘Why would anyone make food you are not supposed to eat?’ Many of the features of the Nunavut (market) food system are shared worldwide within a global industrial food complex that treats food as a commodity like any other, not a basic necessity of life itself. The problems engendered by such a food system stand in particularly sharp relief in the Arctic, and this study clarifies and helps defamiliarize issues that are more widespread – a central aim within ethnographic work (see Ch. 3). In particular, this study provokes a broader set of questions about how ‘food’ is positioned as a singular good, what institutions mediate its allocation, and how it is embedded in social and ecological relations. In Chapter 6, I relay another story shared by a health professional who described to me a conversation with a patient in Nunavut about nutrition:

277 This Elder's jaw drops, and she's going like, ‘What?’ […] The conversation went off between the interpreter and the patient. Everything got quiet, and I said, ‘What did she say?’ The interpreter said, ‘She said to me, “Why would anyone make food you are not supposed to eat?”’ (Interview, Aug. 30, 2017)

One answer to this question, of course, is because it is profitable to do so. This is hardly unique to Nunavut; within an industrialized food system and globalized capitalist economy, grocery store shelves worldwide are lined with products engineered for enjoyment and taste, shelf stability and ease of shipping – qualities that underlie maximum profitability for investors, and that are not, from a perspective of health professionals, conducive to producing “food you are supposed to eat.” As I note in Chapter 2, the very category of food conflates the products of diverse food systems and economies. In Nunavut, the highly processed products of a global capitalist food system – from Tru-Milk and Lactomeal originating in the 1940s and 50s to the convenience foods of today – stand in contrast to the survival of an Indigenous economy and food system and the country food it produces. One of the features of many highly profitable commercial food products, from pop to candy to chips, is that they have addictive qualities, playing on our evolutionary attraction towards high caloric qualities like fat, salt, and sweetness that were once scarce, and can now be reproduced in a quantity that makes us unhealthy (Trevathan, Smith, & McKenna, 2008). This is not to suggest that traditional food systems, in Inuit Nunagat or elsewhere, were historically absent of hunger or deprivation; oral histories and ethnographic studies agree that even within hunting societies that enjoyed relative stability between food needs and resources, these conditions at times occurred.132 Food historians note that idealized food histories are rarely accurate either – historical diets were not necessarily better balanced, and food supply

132 Academics debates continue over whether hunting and gathering societies generally face chronic shortages (the more traditional view) or represent the “original affluent society” (Sahlins, 1974), enjoying a higher standard of living than early agriculturalists (Bone, 2012). While oral histories and archaeological evidence agree that periods of deprivation occurred prior to colonial contact, they also suggest that Inuit and other Indigenous peoples in the contemporary territory of Canada attained a balance between food needs and resources (Bone, 2012) through varied harvesting strategies and migration patterns (Damas, 2002) and economic structures that reinforced cooperation and sharing (Ray, 1984).

278 was often precarious, with large differences between the diets of the rich and poor (Laudan, 2001; Trevathan et al., 2008). But if the contemporary industrial food system has addressed one set of dietary problems, it has created others – including many of the ‘lifestyle’ diseases associated with the nutrition transition towards increasing consumption of processed and convenience food (Egeland, Johnson-Down, et al., 2011; Kuhnlein et al., 2004). Though these circumstances disproportionately affect Indigenous peoples around the world faced with the dispossession and loss or restriction of access to traditional lands and foods and now reliant on exceedingly poor replacements (Gracey & King, 2009; Kuhnlein et al., 2013), the nutrition transition associated with processed, commodified foods is global in scope, and affects us all. If one set of issues with the global industrial food complex pertains to the types of food it produces, another set lies in its distribution. In Nunavut, a globalized industrial food market that can achieve (with government subsidy) the feat of delivering fresh dragon fruit or avocados to a remote, fly-in community in mid-winter still has no moral imperative to ensure that basic food needs are met. Indeed, research from across the past decade shows that these needs are not being met within Inuit communities across Arctic Canada (Tarasuk et al., 2016). While an industrialized, multi-national grocery sector is ubiquitous across Canada, it takes on particular significance in Arctic communities where the store – at times, the only store – retains a singular power over individuals’ daily lives and ability to eat, and when profits and benefits leave the community and region. Buffering these conditions in Nunavut is the continuation of an Indigenous economy that produces and redistributes food, particularly country food – without which, Nunavummiut say issues of food insecurity would be worse (see Ch. 7). For decades, the welfare state has promised that it too will offer a means of social security and protection in Inuit Nunangat – yet these promises have consistently fallen short, with decades of broken promises on health, housing, and rights (Qikiqtani Inuit Association, 2013b). In Canada, the past decades show that social policy measures have not been sufficient to protect against widespread food insecurity, particularly in the North (Tarasuk et al., 2016). Instead, these conditions mark one manifestation of widespread social and health inequities in Inuit Nunangat (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2018d)– “the huge and remediable differences in health” – that, as the Commission on Social Determinants of Health writes, “are, quite simply,

279 unfair” (Commission on Social Determinants of Health, 2008, executive summary). As I argue above, one factor in reproducing these conditions lies in the prioritization of the interests of the private sector – from the fur trade era to the contemporary grocery retail environment to unfulfilled promises of mineral exploitation – over Inuit communities’ food security and health. The indifference of the commodity food market to fundamental needs in Nunavut is shared around the world within a globalized, capitalist food system increasingly mediated by market and not social relations and driven by private gain (Polanyi, 1944). While promoted in the name of progress and modernization, this food system engenders tremendous inequalities. At the global scale, distribution issues find resonance in the production of commodity crops – corn, soybeans, wheat – grown not to feed hungry people, but rather feedlot livestock, at tremendous environment and health costs, that now far exceed the caloric requirements of the world’s population (OECD–FAO, 2019). Meanwhile, 2020 saw the highest global number of acutely food-insecure people on record, with 135 million people in need of urgent assistance – levels of acute food insecurity since worsened by the COVID-19 pandemic (FSIN and GNAFC, 2020). At a local scale, distribution issues find resonance in urban supermarkets where a food system that produces fifteen varieties of mayonnaise still has no moral imperative to meet the needs of the surrounding community, but rather a fiduciary imperative to secure profits for shareholders. Conversely, myriad ‘diverse economies’ of food production, from community gardens to co-operatives to social enterprises, attempt to support physical, social, and environmental wellbeing (Gibson-Graham, 2008). Against this backdrop, food insecurity is always political – dependent on the strength of social and public institutions to regulate, mediate, and address inequities. Globally, political crises and conflict remain the largest driver of food crises (FSIN and GNAFC, 2020). 133

133 Amartya Sen’s early work on entitlements showed that famine and starvation could occur even when supplies are sufficient (Sen, 1982), in part because free markets have no moral imperative to meet basic food needs (Devereux, 2001, p. 246; Sen, 1982, p. 456). Sen argued that strong social safety measures could address such circumstances (Sen, 1981) – yet where social and political institutions that might buffer such conditions are weak or ineffective, conditions of food insecurity prevail.

280 Underlying these inequities is an insidious set of stories that serve to relocate blame for hunger on the hungry (see Ch. 2). Above, I describe how narratives that locate ‘deficiencies’ in Indigenous communities remain pervasive today and obscure the underlying roots of systemic health inequities. This is true not only of food insecurity, but of all manner of environmental health inequities; if some of the material conditions of Nunavut’s food system translate to other contexts, so does this discursive environment. ‘Convenient’ views on environmental health problems, from mold exposure to food insecurity, ascribe blame and responsibility to local cultures, values, and practices, while obscuring systemic drivers of health inequalities (Rose et al., 2008, p. 130; Stephenson & Stephenson, 2016, p. 303). This discursive environment in turn serves an exculpatory role should outside interventions to tackle health inequities fail, as individuals and communities seen as reticent to education and development interventions can instead be sanctioned (Stephenson & Stephenson, 2016). Identifying these stories – documenting how they work, who benefits from them, and who plays the costs – as well as contesting them, is a central role that critical social sciences can play. This type of discursive analysis extends Social Determinants of Health frameworks that contest the naturalization of unequal burdens of ill health, and critical work on the Structural Determinants of Indigenous Health that contests over-pathologizing biases and discrimination in the attribution of ill health to Indigenous cultures and communities (see Ch. 2). However, such work can take place under wide ranging theoretical frameworks, from political ecology to postcolonial studies, with varied degrees of emphasis on the empirical and the discursive. In this case, while drawing from the theoretical frameworks above, I argued for a plain language approach, suggesting that theoretical language in text might only detract from the clarity and specificity of the investigation; as I suggest in Chapter 2, this interpretation of discourse resonates with and affirms the wider understanding, present in many Indigenous traditions, that the stories we tell are powerful and have material consequences.

8.6 Future policy and research considerations While concrete policy recommendations and prescriptions remain the purview of policy professionals working within constraints of budget, mandate, and political leadership that do

281 not apply to academic analysis, and the positions of critical analyst and programmer remain properly distinct (Li, 2007, p. 2), this work does give rise to a number of overarching policy and research considerations, many aligning with more concrete recommendations voiced elsewhere and cited below. Recognizing and prioritizing food security within policy: This study joins a large and well-established body of research showing that food insecurity continues to be a serious health and social inequity that disproportionately affects Indigenous communities in Northern Canada. It has also described the outright denial of food insecurity as an issue by governments keen to displace attention on this issue, opening the door to scapegoating of Northern Indigenous communities (Hicks, 2012). While food insecurity is increasingly recognized as an important social inequity in Northern Canada, work to recognize and address this issue is ongoing. Given the persistently high rates of food insecurity in Northern communities, there is a foundational need to evaluate food-related programs, such as Nutrition North, for their impact on rates of food insecurity, and for food-related policy interventions to prioritize communities’ food security, health, and wellbeing. Some of this work is now underway through an Inuit-Crown working group (see Ch. 6), and the results of these evaluations will be important for informing future policy directions. It will also be crucial to follow the longer-term outcomes of the renewed focus on food security as a policy issue during the COVID-19 pandemic. Governance and self-determination in food interventions: In light of profound entanglements of food and power in colonial institutions in Inuit Nunangat described in this study (see Chapter 5), self-determination is of particular significance to policy solutions for food insecurity. Policy approaches to food insecurity that reinscribe – or indeed deepen – the same political economic and power relations that have, over decades, given rise to the problem, are ill suited to resolve it (see Chapter 6). Across the past decade, Inuit governments and representative organizations have called for a shift in decision-making power towards those communities that food programs are intended to benefit, explicitly calling for greater respect for self-determination in food policy (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2017, p. 16). Changes now underway in the governance and oversight of food programs deserve further consideration as they progress and reflect an opportunity to change longstanding blueprints about how food

282 programs are conceived and governed, including a shift towards greater respect for self- determination. Cooperation, coordination, and a strategy on Inuit food security: Above, I argue that the shared language of food security – and the tendency of this concept to characterize an end result, not the underlying conditions that give rise to it – does not readily translate into a common policy agenda. Key informant interviews in this study revealed concerns at both the federal and territorial level that a lack of clear mandate and sense of ownership to address food insecurity allowed the issue to be passed between departments and levels of government, with blame for a lack of progress ascribed elsewhere. These issues were identified at the national scale by the UN Special Rapporteur on the Right to Food, Olivier du Schutter, in 2012, who called for a national strategy on the right to food and a structural approach to the socio- economic barriers that affect Indigenous communities’ access to food specifically, saying, “[n]either the federal government nor the provinces consider that they have a responsibility to support off-reserve aboriginal peoples in overcoming the structural discrimination they face” (Murphy, 2012). While steps have been made towards such coordination, for example through the Nunavut Food Security Coalition, multiple key informants from different levels of government suggested that an expanded Northern or Inuit food security strategy would better clarify where individual programs – including Nutrition North, social assistance, and harvester support – fit into a comprehensive approach to food insecurity. Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami has also called for the development of an Inuit food security strategy at the national level (Inuit Tapiriit Kanatami, 2017, p. 16). Strategic coordination can ensure policies do not undermine one another, and that interventions that focus on individual efforts, including education campaigns for healthy eating, are backed by efforts to alleviate poverty and address underlying inequities. Place-based policy and support for local and Indigenous food systems: This study has shown the long history of transposing Southern norms and expectations about the food system and diet into the Northern context, and has addressed the costly legacy of doing so, from follies (sheep rearing experiments that “fell prey to hungry sled dogs”) to directly health-damaging interventions (discouraging breastfeeding in the name of modernizing infant feeding) to overarching legacies of disempowerment (see Chapter 5). Ensuring that these histories do not

283 repeat themselves requires approaches that address the specific cultural, economic, historical, and geographical features of Arctic Canada. For example, across this research, community members, Elders, and key informants all called for expanded support for country food and harvesting. Calls from Northern Indigenous communities for harvester support are not new: They date back to the earliest of social policy interventions in the Eastern Arctic, when communities petitioned Ottawa for Family Allowance funds to be issued to support harvesting equipment (see Ch. 5). Recent efforts have led to recently announced policy changes and expanded Harvester Support Grants, the results of which are still unfolding, a shift that has been welcomed by Inuit representative organizations (see Ch. 6). This speaks to an ongoing interest in and need for support for Indigenous food systems and economies, and in turn, support for communities’ efforts to improve food security through local strengths, including not only material resources, but forms of social security that make up an important part of life in Northern communities. Limitations and questions for further research: This work has engaged with several larger stories, from the role of food in colonization, to contemporary sites of contestation and protest, to the issues engendered by a food system that produces “food you are not supposed to eat.” The intersections of food, power, and colonial institutions continue to merit careful consideration not only in the Qikiqtani region but across Nunavut and elsewhere in Arctic Canada. Future research can more fully develop this longitudinal perspective on food and social policy, and address temporal and thematic limitations of this study, for example by expanding attention to food politics in the land claims era from the 1970s onwards, and within movements for self-government and self-determination today. Additional work might also consider the rise of the Arctic Co-operative movement, which did not emerge in depth in this study (in large part because there is no co-op in Clyde River), and critically examine the history and potential for co- ops as an alternative to private retail. Further research might also more fully address present day political struggles, for example considering in greater depth Feeding My Family and other Inuit-led protest movements that have emerged in recent years, exploring what these mean for Inuit food security, democracy, and civil society more broadly.

284 This analysis suggests a persistent ethnocentrism in thinking about Northern food systems and invites a broader set of questions about why such thinking persists, and colonialism in the present. Thematically, this study provokes questions about the alienation of the Inuit food system from the environment through colonial and capitalist extraction, and future research could consider in greater depth the constellation of non-human relations with animals, the land, and the sea that underpin traditional foodways within Inuit Nunangat, and that continue to be under tremendous pressure from extractivism. This study also provokes questions about gendered dimensions of colonial policy interventions, which have had particularly profound implications for Inuit women. Future research could examine in greater depths the ideologies that have underpinned interventions in eating habits, diet, and ‘Northern development’ over time. There is also a need to continue to better understand relationships between food security and other social and health inequities, including mental wellbeing and housing insecurity – inequities that reflect continued effects of colonization. In terms of research to inform policy and practice, future work could critically examine nutrition interventions in Arctic Canada, such as the history – and continuity – of emphasis on dairy products as symbolic of health and nutrition, to inform more culturally appropriate health and nutrition interventions. Longitudinal research on attempts to make the arctic agriculturally productive could add additional critical context for exploring greenhouses as a possible food security solution in Northern communities. Comparative policy research could expand on the analysis presented here, to consider Canada’s policy approaches to food security relative to other jurisdictions in the Circumpolar North, such as Alaska and Greenland, particularly looking to learn from jurisdictions that have successfully lowered rates of food insecurity. Looking across scales, future applied and community-based research could also seek to continue to document, share, and learn from community-based and led programs. Indeed, while drawing attention to many policy failures and shortcomings, this study also indicates strong interest amongst both policy professionals and community members in better documenting positive determinants of health, and successes in tackling food insecurity, for example through pilot projects that might be shared between communities and across jurisdictions. This study reaffirms once again the importance of food systems beyond food

285 security or calories alone, as sources of community strength, resilience, meaning, and identity. Future work on food insecurity in Nunavut must address these contextual circumstances, both cultural and political, if we are to continue to better understand the overarching issue of food insecurity and its consequences for Inuit communities – as well as how it might be addressed.

8.7 Final words: Moving forward To conclude, I would like to return to the idea that food insecurity is inherently political (Sen, 1981) – not only within the familiar scope of electoral politics, but in the broader conceptualization of political space, inclusive of both the practices of government and the contestation of power (Li, 2007). As I argued in Chapter 2, the ever-expanding conceptualizations of food security – in Nunavut and elsewhere – have tended to both draw attention to and render apolitical the problems of food access. Drawing renewed attention to the scope of the political in food problems, as I have done in this study, offers a means of denaturalizing these problems, and contesting their inevitability. The phenomenon of food insecurity in Northern communities cannot be explained by high costs and remoteness alone. While only recently defined as such, food insecurity in Nunavut is not new. Its conceptual antecedents – hunger, food shortage, malnourishment – have in varying degrees been part of the experience of Inuit living in Nunavut in times before colonial contact, and certainly since. This dissertation shows how contemporary food security issues are inextricable from the rapid transformation of the Northern food system and economy as a matter of public policy throughout the Government Era. In Nunavut, as elsewhere in Inuit Nunangat, food was profoundly entangled in histories and legacies of colonization, social policies of paternalism, and institutions of wardship (see Ch. 5). In this way, this study contributes to a better understanding of the “overlooked history” of intersections between food, colonial institutions, and power in Arctic Canada (Burnett et al., 2016, p. 2). Part of the task of denaturalizing health inequities is to question their inevitability – to renew a space of possibility for change (see Commission on Social Determinants of Health, 2008, p. 1). In my 2017 interview with Feeding My Family co-founder Leesee Papatsie, we discussed the reasons the first major protests in Nunavut centered on food, and Papatsie

286 described the protests as “a stand, to something not right. You know, something that could be worked on. To something that could be changed” (Interview, August 23rd 2017; see Ch. 1). As we further discussed what food security means for Inuit in Nunavut today, Papatsie emphasized the need to keep moving forward in pursuit of this change: We have no other choice. Literally, we have no other choice. It's not depressing, like food [in]security is not depressing. That's, I think, the Southern concept. It's not. It's reality. Why be depressed about it? That’s one thing I've noticed a lot. The Southern concept is what's depressing. They’re hungry, well, for their definition, but not for our definition. It's reality. We've historically come through starvation, and that's reality. Okay, move forward. Go forward. That's it. […] It is sad that it's happening but no, there's too much [more] to life than that, concentrating on one aspect. Just move one. Go on. I think that should be one of key messages brought to South. No, it's not – we don't see it [as] depressing. It's not a good feeling to hear someone from the South going ‘this sad situation.’ Well, it is, but it's not. I think the mentality should be ‘Okay, how are we going forward?’ [...] Our ancestors survived here. They worked hard that our generation survive and now it's our turn to make sure that [the] future generation survives, same way as our ancestors did. It's our job now. Our job to do the same now for our next future generation. So, what it's about is, keep going with the ancestry, keep moving forward. I think that a lot of Inuit understand that ‘move forward’ kind of mentality. (Interview, August 23rd 2017).

While this dissertation focuses on policy approaches to food security, what is at stake in food programs and policies is larger. Food is an immediately tangible link to broader social, political and economic inequities, and policy decisions concerning food security pose larger questions about reconciliation and the shape of Northern development. Community-led struggles for food security in Inuit Nunangat involve wider efforts to maintain connections to land and culture, assert political rights, and address the legacies and enduring structures of colonialism. These are not just policy questions or food security questions, but rather questions about justice, survival, and future generations; about hope amidst profound environmental and social change; and about relationships to animals, the land, and, ultimately, one another.

287

Figure 8.1 Fishing near Clyde River, May 2018

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317 Appendix I: Economic diary results

House- HH size Family Monthly Grocery NNC NNC Spending Grocery Groceries hold (# of members HH costs134 subsidy savings per family spending as % (HH) people supported income (2-week received per family member per family monthly living in by diary period) (2-week member living in member income the spending period) supported the home supported house) (including regularly (2-week regularly those living period) (2-week outside period) HH)

1 1 1 $465 $246 $56 $56 $246 $246 106%135

2 6 1136 $1200 $218 $57 $57 $218 $218 36%

3 3 3 $1303 $762 $226 $75 $254 $254 117%

4 3 3 $1781 $607 $97 $32 $202 $202 68%

5 3 3 $2800 $389 $42 $14 $130 $130 28%

6 7 7 $4000 $2142 $377 $54 $306 $306 107%

7 5 5 $4500 $1690 $226 $45 $226 $338 75%

8 4 4 $8633 $1058 $287 $72 $287 $265 24%

9 6 7 $8700 $1816 $518 $74 $303 $259 41%

10137 5 10 - $2378 $320 $32 $476 $237 -

Mean: $3709 $1130 $221 $50 $262 $245 67%

134 Grocery costs are rounded to nearest dollar and include all food items (perishable, non- perishable, beverages). Excluded are all non-consumable items (e.g. cigarettes, pharmacy and hygiene products, diapers, laundry detergent, clothes, equipment, propane). 135 Groceries as a percentage of monthly income may total more than 100% due to large shop that is stretched across more than half of month, and reliance on groceries purchased by others who live outside the home (see Ch. 6). 136 The number of family members supported regularly is lower than the household size because this reflected a collection of food expenditures and income data for only one individual, even though there were 6 individuals living in the home. 137 Household ten did not provide income data and did provide expenditure data.

318