Mu Eadni / Mother of Mine

It’s a scary time. 

International law? Unenforceable. Convicted felon for president? Probable. Rollback of women’s rights? Happening.

As fascism bares its teeth, we must not take for granted the freedoms we’ve gained. They can be lost in one election. 

Those are my thoughts as I listen on repeat to this beautiful song by Mari Boine. I feel my heart slow. It is good medicine for those of us with a mother wound, recent or ancient, which is, I suppose, all of us.

In the introduction (below), Mari explains that her mother was a Laestadian Christian. For those yet unfamiliar, the faith is named for its 19th century Swedish Sámi founder, Lars Levi Laestadius, who finally succeeded in Christianizing the Sámi, or so it is said, after hundreds of years of failed missions. But it was not so simple.

Long before “woke” meant “aware of historical oppressions,” Laestadians referred to themselves as “the awakened”: aware of an embodied, transformative experience of the Divine not available through performative religion. Colonial power dynamics remained, however, shifting from male priests to male lay preachers, while principles like simplicity and moderation hardened into performative taboos. My own Laestadian mother, who died in 2021, never wore makeup or jewelry (other than a wedding band), never had her hair cut or styled, never saw a film, concert, or ball game, never played an instrument, never tasted wine, never heard a woman preach, never had her own bank account. Married at 17, she had nine children, and when her daughters chose different paths, she was profoundly hurt. I l often wished that I could free her, like a bird from a cage, and I suspect she felt the same about her mom, whose life was even more restricted.

Would Mari’s mom have attended her concerts had she been able to do so in disguise, without her Laestadian community punishing her for it?

Perhaps, in a way, she is at every performance, as transported as the rest of the audience, free to be carried away by beauty. It’s a lovely thought, and while I’m at it, I’ll place my mom, her distant relative, alongside, smiling and swaying.

Bravi tutti, Mari Boine and band, Knut Bry for the videography, Vojta Drnek for the editing, and Outi Pieski for the amazing art. Great work. (I am chuffed that my translation is captioned.)

Introduction

Mu eadni / Mother of Mine is a song of love and lament for the woman who gave me life, and for all women who suffer under systems that shame and subordinate them. As a Laestadian Christian, my eadni was bound by strict gender roles, and that insidious association of the feminine with sin. She was taught to be self-denying: that her highest purpose as a woman was obedience. (To males, naturally, all the way down.)

When her daughters resisted, she felt it was a personal failure. And yet, she was Sáami, with echoes and stirrings from a much older worldview, one that celebrated the feminine, that found purpose in reciprocity, not hierarchies. Sometimes, I feel her with us, free from shame, sharing our freedom. Smoothing our fringe. Adjusting our belts. Asking us to twirl.

Mari Boine

Mu Eadni 

You were not permitted to preen

Not for you the silken liidni

Nor were you allowed to dream

Of glamour, or vainglorious gákti

Feminine desire you had to condemn 

You could not defend even your own daughters

For pleasures of the flesh

Could open the soul to sin

O mother of mine, mother of mine

If I could draw you close again

I would swathe you in silk and pearls

Ribbon you in silver and gold 

Adorn you and adore you

So we three daughters, free

Could recall you to unshamed joy

You were not permitted to preen

For pleasures of the flesh

Could open the soul to sin

My mother, O my mother

Our mother, O our mother



			

Gaski on Sámi Fire Traditions

My friend Harald Gaski, the widely-known and respected Sámi scholar, author, and professor who has written extensively about Sámi language and traditions (and to whom I am forever grateful for his advice on the anthem and other projects!), was awarded an honorary doctorate this week by Umeå University. The fact that “inspiring others” was part of the rationale for this honor speaks to his generosity; it is one thing to do good work and another to encourage it in others.

Ollu lihkku, Harald.

Chatting with Harald Gaski in Tromsø, 2022

No stranger to Seattle, Harald has lectured here several times, and has had a less visible hand in many events. Recently his translation of poems by Áillohaš were read at Mary Sara’s rematriation, and his script for Juoiggás was enjoyed at the National Nordic Museum. Harald has generously sought contributions to Sámi literature by Americans; in 2021, I was delighted to introduce him to Gary Anderson and Vivian Faith Prescott, whose poetry he published in the journal Sámis.

In this Norwegian-language article by Ellen Kathrine Bludd, you can read some of Harald’s reflections on Sámi fire traditions. Ikke Norsk? Check out the images at the link, and then enjoy an English translation below.


A campfire doesn’t have to be big

Even small fires can give us light and warmth, and keep mosquitoes away. But did you know that in Sámi tradition there lived a goddess under the fire to whom you could offer a drop of coffee?

The fire is an important part of Sámi everyday life. You light a fire to make coffee, cook, and warm yourself. And when you set up a lávvo (tent) or build a gamme (hut), the árran (fireplace) is at its center. But why is the fire so important to the Sámi? And can outdoor enthusiasts and others learn something from the Sámi fire culture?

– The Sámi culture is an Arctic culture. In the Sámi areas it is cold all year round, so the fire is very important. It brings light and warmth, says Harald Gaski.

Gaski is Professor II of Sámi cultural history and literature at UiT and professor of Sámi literature at Sámi allaskuvla.

– The sun is an old mythical figure for the Sámi, he says.

The professor explains that the fire and the sun are related to each other, and both provide light and heat.

There are many different types of fire in Sámi culture.

Smokeless fire

Some types of wood burn better than others, and some produce more smoke.

– I remember reading cowboy books when I was a child. I read how North American Indigenous people made fires without smoke, so they couldn’t be seen. I wanted to learn how to make a fire like that, says Gaski.

He explains that if you want to make a smokeless fire, you can use dry willow scrub. It is particularly beneficial to use willows where the bark is removed; then there is almost no smoke.

Dried willow is also fantastic for kindling, and for making just a small fire.

Small fires

Gaski explains that those who are not Sámi often have large bonfires.

– With big fires, you have to stand so far away, he says.

It is not always so favorable.

– You don’t need to make a big fire. You just need to warm up your feet. The heat then flows up through the body. You can also get coffee made and roast the meat on a small fire.

He emphasizes that it is also easier to put out a small fire.

Old Sámi myths say to offer a drop of coffee to the female deity who lives under the fire.

Mosquito fire

In many of the Sámi areas there are also a lot of mosquitoes. This can be a little troublesome when you are on a trip.

– If you are going to make a fire that keeps mosquitoes away, you need a lot of smoke. Then you can feel calmer while you eat. For this you should use green wood—birch, for example, says Gaski.

He says that when you are going to smoke fish and meat it is important to choose the right kind of wood, for it gives flavor, as spices do.

Harald Gaski received all this knowledge about fires from his family when he was younger. It was really learning by doing.

– I didn’t think that I was learning Indigenous knowledge. I was just learning by doing, says the professor.

But has the fire also had a different meaning for the Sámi than its uses for cooking, warmth and practical purposes?

Sacred fire

In the lávvo or gamme, the hearth was very important. In Sami it is called árran. When you build a lávvo or a gamme, you always start with the árran.

– Sáráhkká, a female deity, lived under the árran. She was the guardian spirit of girls and women and took care of the family’s well-being, says Gaski.

She helped both women and reindeer to give birth.

Gaski explains that in Sámi religion there are several different gods responsible for different aspects of life.

Even after the Sámi were Christianized and started baptizing their children, the child was bathed and baptized again in honor of Sáráhkká when the family returned home from church.

– When you make coffee, it is customary to give the first drop to Sáráhkká or to empty the coffee from the bottom of the kettle as a small offering. You can pour it out on the fire or next to it, says Gaski.

– It provides warmth and coziness, which makes you feel good.

The professor explains that according to Sámi belief, all children are originally created as girls, but (sometimes) another goddess called Juoksáhkká intervenes in the mother’s life and changes the sex of the fetus. She is therefore considered the goddess of boys.

The goddess Uksáhkká, “the one who guards the door,” looks after the whole household and has her abode at the entrance to the lávvo or gamme. She also cares for the mother and child after the birth.

But what about the fire today, in modern Sámi life? Is it still important?

The fire makes you feel happy

– Many people probably have memories of pleasant fishing trips and tiring cloudberry trips. The fire is a medium for evoking such memories. No matter how brief the cloudberry trip, there had to be a campfire.

– Going on a trip quickly, with a packed lunch and a Thermos . . . that is part of becoming Norwegian, because we’ve learned to be so so efficient that we no longer have time for káfestallat, for cooking coffee on a fire.

Gaski says it is very cozy to sit around a fire.

– Johan Turi, who is known as the first Sámi writer, writes several times about how happy you feel around a fire, he says.

Turi tells about the social side of a fire. Inside the lávvo, inside the gamme, and outside when it’s warm enough.

The fire is practical, for cooking coffee and food, for warmth and light, but the social aspect is also important. The famous Sámi artist Nils-Aslak Valkeapää writes in his poetry about the fire as a life-giving force that binds people together.

The fire is also a celebration that you have succeeded in what you have done, then you can sit down and relax and enjoy, says Gaski.


Giitu, Harald!

On this cool May evening here in the city, tonight we will make a small fire in the garden, get warm, and give thanks.

Sámi film in Seattle

Is it a blue moon? There are two Sámi films screening in Seattle tomorrow and both directors are in town. Plus, actors. Hui gelddolaš diehtu / exciting news.

Saturday, May 18, 2024 (tickets at links)

  1. At noon, Sunna Nousaniemi’s short film Áhkuin at the Uptown. Áhkuin is a visual and poetic musical call-and-response between a grandmother and her descendants.
  2. At 4 pm, Sara Margrethe Oskal’s feature film The Tundra Within Me at Shoreline Community College.

I love Sunná’s work and was delighted to meet her at the Venice Biennale in 2019. She is a young filmmaker with a bright future.

Sara Margrethe came to Seattle in 2017 with her one-woman stageplay, The Whole Caboodle, and in 2018, we screened her film Beaivvi nieida / Daughter of the Sun at the first Sámi film festival, which took place in the newly-opened Nordic Museum.

The last time SIFF included a Sámi feature film was Sámi Blood in 2017, and of some 82,000 ballots cast, it won the “Golden Needle” audience award.

Seattle, your support matters. Buy a virtual pass if you can’t make the screenings.

Hope your Syttende Mai is a festive one!

Somas vahkkoloahpa / have a great weekend.

Juoiggas, Stolen, Interbeing

If you’re in Seattle this weekend, don’t miss the Beaivváš Sámi National Theatre performing Juoiggas at the National Nordic Museum on Friday, April 11 and again on Saturday, April 12. The performances are free, but you will want to reserve your seats. (Their Minneapolis gig sold out!).

This Friday is also the much-anticipated release of Stolen, the first Netflix adaptation of a Sámi production. Based on Ann-Helén Laestadius’s novel, the film is directed by Elle Márjá Eira, features Sámi actors and crew, and was filmed near Vittangi not far from my ancestral area. Can hardly wait.

It’s a light in the dark.

With the continuing horror of state-sponsored genocide, the potential for Trump’s return to power, and the roll back of reproductive rights (today Arizona revived a 160-year old law against abortion with no exceptions for rape or incest), I find myself drawn to outdoor walks for solace. In our local cemetery, every tombstone is a memento mori (all is temporary) and an invitation to take the long view. On Wednesday, instead of entering the grounds, I made a loop around them, listening to a fascinating podcast (The Rest is History) about Martin Luther, and making a mental note to explore the parallels between peasant and Indigenous revolts. Did Laestadius like Luther, dial back his support for reform when his salary was at stake?

Near Fulton Street, I was stopped in my tracks by a bald eagle, high in a tree. I removed my earbuds to see more clearly, as one does, and zoomed in with my cell. Wow.

What a day to be alive. The sun was gilding the magnificent elms that meet over Fulton Street. Their kinetic branches, still bare of leaves, evoked a giant lung, and also, Indra’s net. It amused to think of the eagle’s nest, a jumble of sticks and moss, as a “perfect jewel” reflecting an infinite number of other nests.

Perched above its nest, the eagle (a male, I would learn) was nearly motionless, occasionally looking left or right, then returning his beak to the shade. Avoiding sunburn, or detection by crows? Crows love to mob raptors. The wind ruffled his white tailfeathers.

I willed him to take flight but he didn’t seem to be going anywhere, so I put Goaskinviellja on speakerphone, and we listened together. As Mari evoked an eagle asking Čatne du soajáid nie čavgadit? Who bound your wings so tight? he bent his head and seemed to look directly at me.

Yeah, okay. Working on that.

After taking a ridiculous number of photos, I bid him goodbye and made a circuit of the hill, pausing at viewpoints to admire the clouds. At Kerry Park, the Space Needle looked like it had taken up smoking. So white, so bright, those clouds. Did you know clouds in the Northern hemisphere are more reflective than those in the Southern hemisphere? Not for a good reason, either.

A red car puttered past under its own white cloud: a Samoyed in the sunroof, ears like Batman.

Back home, I realized that one of my earbuds was missing. How stupid of me. Instead of putting them back in their case, I’d slipped them in my pocket and one had slipped out. As I cursed my absent-mindedness, a small voice inside asked, what if it’s a feature, not a bug? What if your tendency to lose things is related to your capacity for awe?

Oh, right. Here’s to challenging those old paradigms of mental health.

I often describe my childhood as a bell jar, isolated in the woods, deprived by Laestadian dogma of “worldly” playmates and amusements, of television, radio, concerts, sports, movies, museums, theater, Disneyland, Christmas trees, etc. What I got in spades, however, was nature. Years of intimate conversations with the weather, trees, rocks, dogs, cats, cows, and ducks in the pond, which may have inoculated me against species loneliness.

Species loneliness is a symptom of the disease of human exceptionalism. Thinking that we are alone, we cannot turn to other species for comfort, nor benefit from their counsel and compassion. In some deep-seated place, we also carry a shadow of shame for how we treat our relatives. Imagine what it would be like to live in a world where we stood tall in receiving the respect and gratitude of other species.

Robin Wall Kimmerer

When I visited the aerie several days later, there were no eagles to be seen, but tucked in a Ziplock on a telephone pole nearby was my lost earpod.

Had it been stepped on, or pecked at? I decided it had been plucked from the grass and placed their by my feathered friend. Right at eye level, next to a QR code directing me to better photos.

Thanks, brother!

Inka, August, Joonas

Recently, while researching a relative’s name online, this lovely 1926 film popped up: Med ackja och ren i Inka Läntas vinterland (With Reindeer and Sled in Inka Länta’s Winterland).

The course of events revolves around the young Sámi girl Inka Länta in her environment. The the arrival of Laestadian pastor August Lundberg stirs up emotions when his moral preaching goes too far.

A/V Club

(This version is only half as long as the original; let me know if you find a longer cut.)

Curiously, the relative I was researching, Joonas Purnu (1829-1902), was not in the film. But AI knows things, so I cast a wider net.

Bingo.

August Lundberg (1863-1930) who plays himself in the film, was rival of Purnu’s. Both men were lay preachers and became the godfathers of the two main Laestadian factions, Eastern (Lundberg) and Western (Purnu)—in a schism that launched many schisms, most recently in Wolf Lake, Minnesota. (The split that keeps on splitting.)

August Lundberg (1863-1930) by Borg Mesch

Tremors of the impending schism compelled Joonas Purnu to visit the USA in 1893, to calm the waters among Laestadian immigrants. This was also the year my morfars far Erik left Tärendö for America. At some point he visited the harness shop of his daughter Lina and her husband Oskar Walsten in Henry, South Dakota.

On left, Lina Walsten and her dad, Erik Wilhelm Lindberg, Henry, SD 1890s

Did Erik and Joonas travel together? They were relatives after all (not via Purnu from Sjokksjokk sameby, though—as Purnu was a farm name for Joonas—but via mutual Heiva ancestors from Siggevaara sameby).

Yet to be discovered.

Both men returned to Sweden.

August Lundberg was a generation younger than they, and Swedish, not Tornedalen with Sámi roots. Born in Dalarna and educated in Uppsala, August came north in 1885 to lead a Sámi mission school in Lanavaara. He married into the Laestadius family, no doubt an important factor in his success as a preacher.

A friend in Finland has copies of letters between Lundberg and my Purnu relative, Syster Mia Carlsson of Kiruna. Translated, they may help me understand the schism that continues to reverberate among descendants.

Economics played a role, e.g., Joonas Purnu forbade his followers to join unions.

To be continued . . .

Shawls & Shadows

Linnea Axelsson (Ædnan) and Sasha LePointe (Red Dirt)

TL:DR — The 6th Sámi Film Festival is this Friday and Saturday. Select Sámi shorts are online worldwide (free with trial).

Last night at Elliott Bay Books, Bob and I heard two fascinating writers, Linnea Axelsson (Ædnan) and Sasha LePointe (Red Dirt) in a thought-provoking conversation about craft, colonization, and resistance. I had many questions for both but chose to ask Linnea about passages in Ædnan that perplexed me: one in particular was about Laestadian girls in scarves, whose parents had been photographed naked by race biologists.

Linnea’s answers were clarifying, and a punch to the solar plexus. I could dimly hear Bob recommending a film as my mind saw clouds of dark scarves drifting south from Pajala, across the Atlantic, over the Black Hills, draping this girl and that one, me, my mother, sisters, grandmother, all heads bowed.

Why?

Still today, Firstborn Laestadian women cover their heads in church and for home services. Since when, I wonder. Since Laestadius? I still have my first scarf, no bigger than a dinner napkin.

I directed my unruly mind back to the room, and scribbled notes.

We saw several familiar faces there. Amy we have known for a decade since meeting her and her mom at a Swedish Club breakfast (before either suspected Sámi ancestry). Stina, Amanda, Dwayne, and Steve, all longtime supporters of Sámi programming.

But there were so few, too few! This post is especially for Steve, who had not heard about the film fest this week (I thought I posted about it here but alas, only on Facebook. Too many platforms, too little time.)

Now to digress my (updated) Facebook post: in 2018, the first Sámi “minifest” was a shoestring effort, with a part-time museum staffer (Stina), donated films (generous friends) and pro bono graphics and stuff (moi). I was all in, and had a blast.

The films were:

Under Two Skies and Sparrooabbán (2016), Suvi West

Morit Elena Morit (2017), Anders Sunna, Inga Wiktoria Påve

Kaisa’s Enchanted Forest (2018), Katja Gauriloff

Solas Datter (2018), Sara Margarethe Oskal

Familiebildet (2013), Yvonne Thomassen

2018 Promo
The vibe that was vibing

That minifest grew out of an even minier (minnier?) fest, an afternoon of Sámi shorts on the last Sunday of the Nordic Lights Festival. Also, Superbowl Sunday! Yet in six years, the audience outgrew the tiny venue (SIFF theater at Seattle Center).

(I have many fond memories of that place. It’s where I saw Suddenly Sámi, Tundra Cowboy, and Arctic Superstar, and met the artist Royal Nebeker.)

The move to the beautiful new Nordic Museum in 2018 was a mixed blessing, as the ambient noise and light in Oberg Hall were, shall we say, suboptimal. So this year’s venue, Majestic Bay, will give the films their due, with professional light and sound, and a greeting from Tom Skerrit.

Some lucky little Laestadian girls in scarves grow up to wear wool liidni and silba (bracelet by Doris Risfjell). Note that I will be gray, not blonde, but equally proud and happy this Friday for the opening film, Je’vida, by Katya Gauriloff.

Katya’s films are true works of art: quiet beauty in the service of truth. She wrote Je’vida with Sámi poet Niilas Holmberg, cast an actress I loved in the Finnish film Compartment No. 6, and shot it in b&w. Swoon.

Still from Je’vida

I am also stoked to meet this year’s curator, Liselotte Wajstedt, who hails from Kiruna with a family history of Laestadianism that makes me wonder, could we be kin. Last year I saw her short film, Sire and the Last Summer, and powerful documentary Tystnaden i Sápmi (The Silence in Sápmi). And in 2022, on what I swear was the hottest day of a very hot Venice biennale, I found myself transported—in a lávvu with a 360-degree screen—by her magical Eadni (Mother).

HOT Árran 360, San Servolo, 2022

Yes, you can stream most of the films again this year, but if you can make it in person, please do.

And tell a friend?

Happy Sámi Day!

Found in Translation

Crystalline prose that reads like poetry and myth at once. There are intricate layers of beauty and meaning here in sparse clusters across a vast new landscape as I’ve never read before. The music of this book is old, and it is new, and it is old.

Tommy Orange, There, There and Wandering Stars

Since it was published in Sweden five years ago, I have been eager to read Linnea Axelsson’s much-celebrated Ædnan, so I was thrilled to receive it as a birthday gift this week.

It was nicely timed; the author will be signing books in Seattle next Monday.

Check out her golden Washington Post review.

The title Ædnan is an old North Sámi word for earth, land, mother, and woman. It shares the same root as eatnat, meaning much, a lot, great (from Proto-Samic eanëkën). I love how this one word holds the key to the Indigenous worldview, grounded in the experience of nature: as source, mother, abundance.

It occurs to me that Land Back, which has several meanings, is a call for universal rematriation. In Isaac Murdoch’s words, “people returning back and finding their place in those systems of life.” (Sadly the term still seems to activate more fear than understanding. Perhaps it could be reframed as Operation Prosperity Guardian?!)

I also love how eadnán appears so frequently in Sámi songs and poems, a few of which I have had the privilege of translating, most recently Mari Boine’s ballad Eadnán bákti (a Sámi poem by Kerttu Vuolab). “To Woman” is the English title.

Translating is always transcreating; in the process a new creature emerges, and one hopes it will fly. Sometimes the English words look like wings, sometimes like a clumsy giella (the Sámi word for both language and snare).

A bit like stuffing a fluttering, iridescent-feathered bird in a beat up old box that was designed for commerce, sports, or conquest. As some kid somewhere is intent on associating that box with farts in the Urban Dictionary.

I am consoled by the idea that my Sámi ancestors perceived language itself as the giella. The trap. After all, communication precedes and transcends words; it flows continuously through and between and inside and around us. Even in silence.

Ædnan contains a lot of silence. The physical heft of the book is not from ink, but from its snowy fields and margins. Evocative of Sápmi at this time of year.

I am eager to see how the book’s translator chose her snares. (I have bookmarked here her post about the process.)

If you read Ædnan, please let me know what you think.

Other local-ish events of interest:

Sámi Film Festival, with guest curator Lisolette Wajstedt, Seattle and online, Feb. 8-11

Vástádus eana – The answer is land Elle Sofe Sara in Vancouver, BC , Feb. 23-24

Wishing you a happy Sámi álbmotbeaivi next week.

Stay warm!

Mari Boine, Intimiste

This interview with the Belgian magazine JazzMania is delightful for capturing Mari’s warmth and vivacity (so evident in her music), and for its title (intimist as in introspective; concerned with inner life and psychological experiences), and for its mention of two lesser-known attributes that I happen to share: un peu français and a Laestadian childhood.

If you know more than un peu français, see the original article. For the rest of us, below is a Googlified English version.

Cue up Amame and enjoy!

Mari Boine, Indre Billefjord ©️2022 Whitehorn

24 January 2024

Mari Boine, Intimist

by Yves «JB» Tassin

Always with much emotion in her voice, Mari Boine returned in 2023 with an intimate album to which keyboardist Bugge Wesseltoft brought his delicate touch. She tells us about it and also looks back on a career that is far from over.

After we are introduced, Mari says with a smile:

Continue reading