Pope Francis and Gov. Gen. Mary Simon watch a traditional dance in Iqaluit on July 29, 2022.Nathan Denette/The Canadian Press
Gerri Sharpe is the former president of Pauktuutit Inuit Women of Canada and is based in Yellowknife.
It was 17 years ago this month that my grandfather, Gideon Qitsualik, opened his eyes for the first time in five days. He had no voice and could barely move, struggling for air in his hospital bed. I happened to be right next to him, and leaned in toward his face. I had not seen him in five years. As he took in my traditional Inuit face tattoos, which I had just gotten four months prior, his eyes lit up.
He smiled, and love shone out of his face. He tried to move his hand to my eyes and forehead, where my first tattoos were, and I broke down in tears. I was the first Inuk in roughly 60 years to adorn those tattoos on my face – others had applied them to their hands or arms – but it was important to me that I start with my face.
A strikingly similar moment happened almost three years ago, when I was head of an Inuit women’s organization in Iqaluit. Pope Francis had arrived to apologize for the Catholic Church’s role in the Canadian residential school system. When I found out I would be greeting the pope alongside other Inuit in Inuit Nunangat, our homeland, I knew I had to show Francis my tattoos as well.
Gerri Sharpe, standing at right, meets Pope Francis at an event with Governor General Mary Simon in Iqaluit on July 29, 2022.Master Corporal Anis Assari/Office of the Secretary to the Governor General
As I stood in front of him, I leaned down and said I wanted him to see my tattoos – and I wanted him to remember them. I traced my fingers over the tattoos on the backs of my hands, my forearms, my forehead, my eyebrows, the sides of my eyes, my chin, and finally, my upper chest.
I did this calmly, confidently and with gratitude. I had spent the three days prior to this feeling everything I needed to feel. The anger, the sadness, the despair and the nervousness. I didn’t want this to show as I spoke to him. But I also knew that I needed to overcome these feelings and not bury them.
My family has a complicated history with Christianity. My grandfather Gideon, who passed in 2008, had a birth certificate stating he was born in August of 1925, though he was not given a specific date, and knew he was older than his given age. He was born on the land, as was my mother. I was his first grandchild, born to his first child. I felt comfort from him – protected and free to be me. He told me I was a leader, which gave me purpose and direction.
Prior to my mother’s birth, my grandfather was a midwife and knew the medicines from the land. He used Inuit knowledge to serve his people. When I was 13, I recall him pointing to dandelions, telling me the flower could be used for tea to settle upset stomachs, while the stem’s sticky fluid could be used on cuts. He would tell me to watch the animals, to understand their behaviours and how that could be applied to humans.
After my mother’s birth, my grandfather became an Anglican minister. He was told by the church that he must do this, because he was a leader amongst Inuit. It was his duty to take this path and protect his people.
He now had to tell people not to sing their songs or use Inuit drums, not to speak of the old stories. The old ways, he was told, were evil. He was also told that his children had to go away to school, to be examples for other Inuit to follow.
This is what indoctrination looked like for Inuit. The children were sent away, and their parents and grandparents were to live a Christian life. It grabbed hold and took root. In the space of one generation, a strong culture was suddenly on the brink of being lost.
I told this to Pope Francis: that Inuit were told our songs were evil, our drum was evil, our tattoos were evil. I told him about the many Inuit ways that have been lost as a result, but that many Inuit women were revitalizing what we could around traditional tattooing.
This was such an impactful event in my life, boiled down to three minutes. I could see the understanding in Francis’s eyes; the mask was lifted. There was a realization of the harms Christian beliefs had done to Inuit ways of life.
It felt good to find this small understanding, and it felt like a great leap forward for reconciliation, done in a dignified manner with no blame.
As I woke to the news of the pope’s passing this week, I worried that the great strides made during his tour of Canada would be lost. Francis had taken steps to reconciliation by coming to Canada, by listening to the stories of harms done by the church. My question is, will all of the work done by that visit die with him? Will it need to be done again?
As Inuit, we can’t let that happen. We must move forward with the same understanding that followed his visit to Canada. We must do this, and we will.