At a store in Iqaluit, Ainia Nooshoota is trimming the fat from a batch of narwhal meat — a rare treat, freshly caught by hunters 750 kilometres away in northern Nunavut.
“Narwhal is not always available around this area, so I’ve always had beluga,” said Nooshoota, manager of the Qinnirvik Country Food and Bulk Store.
“Some people cook it; I’ve always had it raw,” she told The Current’s Matt Galloway. “[It’s] chewy. There’s no real taste to it, but it’s very good.… I love it.”
Narwhal has been described as having a light, mild flavour with a chewy, tough texture. Though often consumed raw, it can also be cooked in seasoned stews or soups, with maktaaq — chunks of the skin and blubber — being a particular delicacy.
In a nearby freezer, shelves are stacked with caribou, seal and Arctic char, from vacuum-packed steaks to bones, fish heads and hooves. It’s what Inuit call “country food,” harvested from the land, air and water — and what advocates say is a key tool in not just tackling food insecurity in Canada’s North, but keeping Inuit culture alive.
“Hunting is central to Inuit life,” said Joseph Murdoch-Flowers, executive director of the Qajuqturvik Community Food Centre (QCFC), a non-profit and the parent organization of the food store.
“Our customers … tell us that they feel more closely connected to Inuit culture when we eat country food,” he said. “To be able to eat your own food is to truly practise sovereignty.”
Since 2022, QCFC has worked with about 20 hunters and fishers to supply seasonal catches from all over the territory. It’s then sold on a sliding scale at the food store, while the non-profit also runs a kitchen offering country food in free daily meals and food boxes. The food centre’s overall funding comes from a mix of federal, territorial and municipal money, as well as donations.
According to Statistics Canada, 63 per cent of households in Nunavut experienced food insecurity in 2022, compared to 23 per cent of households in southern provinces. That is fuelled in part by high grocery prices in the North, which have risen even more since the COVID-19 pandemic.
Murdoch-Flowers said the hunting initiative helps struggling people and the hunters themselves, paying them directly and funding hunts where excess food can feed their own communities. It’s this connection between people — and to previous generations — that’s important to him.
“When we are eating country food, it’s not just about eating some delicious frozen caribou. It is about all of those relationships.”
At QCFC, Murdoch-Flowers has applied for funding for a new program, where hunters and fishers will teach younger Inuit the skills to sustain their own communities. He hopes the initiative can start within the next year, supported with a mix of government money and private donations.
There is already a significant “country food-sharing economy” in Nunavut, Murdoch-Flowers said, where people use platforms like Facebook to exchange excess food from a hunt. Other organizations also partner with hunters, such as the Ittaq Heritage and Research Centre.
Johnny Flaherty, a hunter unaffiliated with the QCFC program, says the cost of venturing out on the land or water can be high. Fuel and food for extended trips can run into several hundred dollars, with no guarantee of a return on that investment.
“A lot of hunters sometimes come back [with] nothing.”
Johnny took The Current fishing for Arctic char on a bobbing boat in the Bay of Two Rivers, a couple of hours southwest of Iqaluit. He says he feels proud and free while out on the water.
“When I’m here, it’s my church. It soothes your soul,” he said. “You feel like you belong here, even though it belongs to everyone.”
His wife, the Inuk chef Sheila Flaherty, says part of that feeling is knowing that they’re hunting and harvesting on the same grounds as generations before them.
“We’re maintaining the traditional practices of our people. And that feels really good, you know, to be an active part of keeping our cultural life,” she said.
Johnny said a part of that tradition, as it was taught to him, is to catch only what he needs.
“Don’t overkill, don’t waste animal meat, respect them and thank the animal that you caught and share amongst the people.”
One day in late August, visitors to the food centre and store enjoyed a free meal of chicken pasta and a blueberry muffin for dessert.
“I’m full,” a woman called Martha Qaunirq told The Current. “This is the best place in Iqaluit right now.”
“I’ve got a good home and good food, but sometimes I like to see people, what’s going on.… I find the food too expensive now in Iqaluit, no choice.”
There was also tomato soup to take away, and a fridge full of staples like butter and cream — with a large sign urging people to take whatever they needed.
“We don’t want people to be shy about grabbing something that they actually need,” said Curtis Mesher, a QCFC board member. “We want to kind of hammer home to everyone that this is for you.”
Mesher said food insecurity touches everyone in Iqaluit, even people with good jobs and secure housing. He pointed to a different day that month when the kitchen at QCFC handed out over 560 free meals, feeding almost eight per cent of Iqaluit’s roughly 7,500 residents.
“It affects people’s outcomes in education, in long-term health … truly all facets of life downstream from food, which is essentially everything,” he said.
He said country food is part of meeting that need, but overcoming such high food insecurity means coming together as a community.
“It’s not an ideal answer, but it’s something that works with us and is pretty well-entwined with our culture as Inuit for taking care of others,” he said.
“It’s something working in the meantime, but it seems like we kind of need some more tangible solutions long term.”
