Theo and The Quiet Room

There’s something powerful about a room full of Inuit in silence.

At the airport check-in area, the line was long—full of people waiting quietly, patiently. Not because we weren’t frustrated, but because we know this kind of waiting. It’s the kind we’ve done our whole lives, and the kind our elders have done before us.

One unilingual elder in front of me was visibly frustrated. Understandably so. We were all there for the same reason: to send country food, to care for our families. More and more Inuit came in behind us. The line stretched out, but still, no one complained loudly. We just held it in our bodies, in our eyes.

The staff were clearly doing their best. You could see how hard they were going, but they held themselves with that same quiet grace we all were holding too.

My friend Simata was there with her little boy, Theo. He’s young, and pretends he doesn’t like when I tease him—but he knows it’s all love. He kept me company, kept me present.

And in a way, I’m glad my phone was dead.

Because of that, I noticed him more.

I noticed everything more.

We stood by the display case of Inuit carvings—just sitting there between two vending machines that don’t even work. I told him what each carving was: the qulliq, the muskox, the caribou, the owls. I saw him listening, learning, connecting. That moment of teaching and passing down our knowledge, our art, our pride—that stayed with me more than anything else.

We don’t need fancy new buildings or working machines to be Inuit. We need each other. We need that presence. That spark. That moment between generations.

And even in a place built by southern standards, even while we wait too long in systems not made for us… we’re still here, sharing our way.

That’s what I’ll remember.