Commentary: Exploitation of Inuit children must stop

ALISON BLACKDUCK

IQALUIT — Children peddling artwork is a ubiquitous practice in Iqaluit.

On any given day, children who seem to range in age from 8-12 years wander the streets, businesses and restaurants asking strangers if they’re interested in buying prints, a soapstone carvings or pairs of ivory earrings.

Sometimes, the children don’t say anything. Instead, they communicate mutely with their small hands and large eyes. Using their outstretched hands as display cases, they offer various wares of varying quality as their eyes scan the faces of their potential customers for a hint of interest.

Maybe they’ll make a sale or maybe they’ll have to hit up the next person they encounter on their purposeful meanderings throughout Iqaluit.

Art-peddling children, especially cute Inuit ones, may appear harmless, even amusing to some people. To the tourists, whom the residents of Nunavut are eager to attract for return visits, the idea of purchasing art from cute kids may seem like a way to connect with the Inuit while subtly reinforcing their archaic notions of cultural superiority.

But remove the warm fu y feeling evoked by the image of doe-eyed children imploring adults to help them out and what remains?

Child exploitation.

We can’t even dumb down the pathetic situation with soft-sell terms like “unregulated child labour” because such terms are redundant. It’s illegal for an adult to employ a child and it should strike any reasonable person as an outrageous disgrace.

However, something more profound and pervasive lies beyond the personal outrage a person should feel about the situation. The exploitation of child labour in Iqaluit is symptomatic of a larger issue plaguing the entire fledgling territory — the lack of money, time and willingness the political leadership invests in supporting and promoting Nunavut artists and artisans.

According to a 1998 survey done by the federal government, 3,000 Nunavummiut are working either part-time or full-time as artists and artisans. That’s approximately 20 per cent of the adult population.

Beth Beattie, the co-ordinator of the Nunavut Arts and Crafts Association, estimates that the work of these 3,000 Nunavummiut contributes more than $40 million annually to the economy of the territory.

With such figures, most people would expect that all Nunavummiut would be committed to ensuring that their arts and crafts industry thrives. Sadly, this isn’t the case.

Most of the artists and artisans in Nunavut don’t reap the full rewards of their work because an oppressive bureaucracy is stifling their entrepreneurial efforts.

For example, most artists and artisans can’t work at home because most live in public housing. Residents, decree the policies of the Nunavut Housing Authority, can’t use their subsidized dwellings for commercial purposes — and that includes galleries and showrooms.

Of course, some, if not most, flout the policies, much to the authorities’ chagrin.

“How many artists in Iqaluit live and work in public housing?” Susan Spring asks rhetorically. “Do you know the answer? Because we don’t; it’s a big underground industry.”

Spring is the manager of the Iqaluit Housing Authority, which is governed by the Nunavut Housing Authority.

“They’re paying $32 a month for rent because most of them receive income support or they live on some other type of fixed income,” she complains. “Our costs are astronomical and tons of money are going through our residences.”

(A single person living in Iqaluit receives $259 per month in income support from the territorial government. A family of three receives $665 a month. People living in isolated communities where the cost of living is higher receive a few dollars more than those people living in centres like Iqaluit.)

People can work in their homes but only if they can prove that their work won’t damage the property, increase the overall utility consumption and compete with local businesses. Failing to meet these requirements, artists and artisans living in public housing are forced underground.

When they produce marketable work, they recruit anybody, including their children, as sales-people because, as Beattie says: “You can’t sell your art if you’re too busy making it.”

So, what happens to the 10-year-old boy trying to sell a pair of ivory earrings for $20 to a disinterested tourist? If he doesn’t sell them, does that mean he’ll return home to bare kitchen cupboards?

Or, will he encounter a more frightening scenario in which he’ll bear the hard brunt of a struggling adult’s despair and frustration?

Nobody knows, but everybody should know it’s a situation that would change if we stopped paying mere lip service to the value of art and the potential of our children.