minutes that follow, they demand to know who I am and what I’m doing here—although it’s hard to believe they don’t already know. Maybe they also think I’m an oil company or government informant. I tell them I’m visiting the coast to work on a travel memoir, but this brief explanation changes nothing. The older woman chimes in.
“A project like yours needs our official approval,” she says, eyeing me suspiciously. “There are still a lot of stereotypes and discrimination, and we can’t have people like you coming here and giving whatever impressions suit you.”
I ask what she means.
“A man once came here on an assignment for a magazine. He wrote about the eagles in the trees and described our territory as ‘the land that time forgot’—or some nonsense. It was silly and insulting. From our perspective, this place is the center of the universe—and not someplace forgotten by time.”
“You just show up from out of nowhere,” the man adds. “You come to my potlatch without introducing yourself to me, or asking permission for the things you’re doing.”
I remember introducing myself to the master of ceremonies at the potlatch on the first day but hadn’t thought to approach the host himself. When I put myself in his shoes, I see how that would be upsetting.
I apologize, saying that I didn’t mean to cause any anxiety or show any disrespect by my actions. I add that I abided by the photo ban and took pictures only during permitted moments, as others were doing.
“Those people were photographing their friends and family members,” he replies. “You don’t know them and have no business filming them.”
The younger woman, who hasn’t spoken yet, chimes in: “And what about that notebook of yours? Why are you always scribbling in it?”
“I’m a writer. I use it to record thoughts and research.”
There’s a tense silence. I let myself breathe before again acknowledging my misstep. I say that the outcome surely couldn’t be as grave as they’re making out. Are they not being a bit heavy-handed, I ask?
My words set the older woman off. “Listen, you: You think you know what you’re doing. But you have absolutely no idea. Zero clue. Even the approaches of trained anthropologists are problematic. Just because you have the best intentions, and you think you know what you’re doing, doesn’t mean you’re going about things in the right way.”
They watch me closely. The older woman, who is now leading the charge, continues more calmly:
“At the end of the day, we don’t know you, and gaining our trust takes time,” she says. “Just look at our involvement as a kind of process of reeducating you.”
“Reeducating?” I say.
“Yes, you—and others like you—need to be reeducated,” she says leaning forward.
Though I understand the suspicion of my hosts, and the general public’s unconcern and lack of knowledge about indigenous issues in Canada, all of this strikes me as harsh for a misstep.
I decide to relate some of my own experiences, so they can understand where I’m coming from. I tell them that, as a person of Middle Eastern descent, I’m well aware of racism, cross-cultural conflict, and misunderstanding—because I see it almost every day. Like them, I say, my ancestors were on the receiving end of violent waves of colonial imperialism going very far back. Ottoman Turk occupiers executed my great-grandfather with a sword, lopping his head off during a genocide perpetrated in World War I. Then came the Brits and the French, the Israelis, the Russians, and the Americans, I go on, with their bombs, the redrawing of borders, oil theft, cluster munitions, and depleted uranium. I may have inherited blue eyes from twelfth-century European crusaders, but I’m no white-man supporter of the status quo or of governmental exploitation.
At the end of my brief monologue, the mood in the room lightens. A glint of interest and recognition overlaps with expiring frowns.
“Well,” the older woman says, cutting through the remaining tension. “Sometimes we just need to get everything out into the open and have these somewhat awkward and unpleasant discussions. It’s all a learning process, you know.”
The gentleman gives me a commiserating look. “If you could come by tomorrow and show me the photos you took just to make sure they’re OK, my family and I would really appreciate it.”
“Absolutely. Done.”
Suddenly, it’s as if nothing had happened.
“So, tell us. What’s going on in Cairo?” the older woman asks, referring to yet another postrevolutionary upheaval in the news. “Our deepest sympathies for the difficult situation there.”
Although the meeting ended well