By Brett Mazliach
Iqaluit in Reflection:
By April of this past year, I had spent five months feeling haunted by one fact: I had no clue where I would live in Iqaluit during my three-month internship. Upon accepting my offer, I was made aware of Nunavut’s housing crisis, but the implications truly hit when I learned I wouldn’t know my living arrangements until just a few weeks before.
In Iqaluit, there are far more people than available homes or rooms to live in, and most vacancies are reserved for government employees. In fact, it is not uncommon for 10-15 people to inhabit a single home. Conditions of housing insecurity run rampant in the territory, intersecting with mental and physical health concerns, financial troubles, and food insecurity. In my case, house-sitting was the most viable option since it’s quite common in the summers when more affluent residents leave on vacation.
I recognize that my privilege as a white law student seeking temporary accommodations gave me an unfair advantage over those in Iqaluit in far greater need of housing. Even so, sitting in the uncertainty was a personal challenge. Upon arrival, a roof over my head was confirmed for three weeks only. I posted in Iqaluit’s Housing Group on Facebook, seeking home-owners who would trust me to house sit and care for their pets while they go on vacation. A central experience during my internship was, therefore, hopping from place to place all summer, lining up house-sitting dates, as students often do. The most intimidating part of it all was the prospect of putting myself to sleep each night in the unfamiliar empty homes of strangers, in an arctic town far from anyone I knew.
I took what felt like a leap of faith, trusting that, with the support of my mentor Joseph Murdoch-Flowers, we would find me homes to live for the duration of my time in the North. Looking back, relinquishing control and calmly figuring out my next steps felt like a rite of passage waiting for me. Through trusting the process, while carving out my role at the Qajuqturvik Community Food Centre (QCFC), and building friendships, routines, and new interests, I fortified essential skills such as perseverance and initiative.
Accepting a human rights internship through McGill Law requires that students are willing to uproot their life for three-months and make sacrifices. They have to give up everyday comforts, luxuries, and a summer with friends and family, effectively choosing an unfamiliar path.
Throughout my time in Iqaluit, I had countless moments where I thought to myself: “Never would I have thought I would be here doing this. How lucky am I?”. From catching my first fish at sunset on Frobisher Bay, to late-night bonfires under the lit-up sky, beautiful hikes in Sylvia Grinnell National Park, and meeting remarkable lawyers, judges, and community members—I was amazed by my opportunities.
I am also humbled by the emotionally demanding parts of my work because they will inform how I honour Northern communities as I grow through law school and my career. None of these experiences would have happened had I not sacrificed the comfort of remaining in my apartment in Montreal, experiencing the same climate, network, and city I take for granted. I am proud to say I moved back to Montreal feeling more adaptable and resilient.
I caught my first fish! After being shown how to fillet it, I prepared it at home and made arctic char tartar.
Meet Delta and Max! I took care of them during my last few weeks in Iqaluit.
Pursuing Human Rights Work:
During my internship, going for long walks quickly became my favourite activity, whether for transportation, taking out the dogs, or exploring on a hike. On these walks, I would listen to podcasts, some of which include On Purpose with Jay Shetty and The Mel Robbins Podcast.
One particular episode of the The Mel Robbins Podcast significantly impacted the way I think about human rights work. Her guest was Bryan Stevenson, a law professor at NYU, social justice activist, and accomplished lawyer working in America’s criminal justice system. In this episode, Stevenson talks about the underestimated power of being proximate to conflicts in the world. People enjoying the splendour of power and privilege tend to be either distant or shielded from pressing issues, effectively limiting their capacity to lead with compassion. While we, as individuals, cannot solve systemic hunger, poverty, or hardship, being close up to these struggles fosters the sense of compassion, which in turn encourages us to forge small pockets of generosity amidst chaos and tragedy.
Stevenson’s words particularly struck me, as I realized that getting to know community members at the QCFC had unlocked a deeper emotional awareness within me. While I could previously discuss food security concerns in practical terms, standing alongside families, children, and elders immersed me into a more emotional state of recognizing the deprivations occurring around me. Listening to this episode helped me reconcile these experiences with my position of privilege, reminding me that compassion is a strength to be used for good things.
As I continue to marinate in this idea of proximity, I wonder how anyone can truly perform human rights work if they remain at a distance from the very thing they advocate for. First-hand exposures are what help counter the inherent ‘othering’ typically in our discourse which is informed by privileged, external observations. Engaging in proximity with people in this way is, therefore, a mutually beneficial gift, fostering a more collectivist, humanitarian approach.
I return to my emphasis on sacrifice in human rights work, particularly its emotional demands. While promoting food security and celebrating Inuit culture brought joy to each day, there came a sacrifice in the sense of lightness I usually enjoy during my summers in Montreal. Nunavut has some of the highest suicide rates in the world and faces harsh conditions rooted in the disruptions of colonialism. It was harrowing to witness and learn about some of the tremendous suffering in the community. However, the beauty of human rights work lies in its difficulty. It is a reward to be reminded of our humanity and capacity to feel deeply when things are wrong. I am now convinced that stepping into harsh, unfamiliar realities is where meaningful impacts begin.