Naja Lund Aparico is a Greenlandic Inuk author with a background in international relations. Having grown up in Greenland, she now lives in the Pacific Northwest with her family. Her new picture book, Seasons by the Lake (Dial), illustrated by German and Choctaw artist Alex Nees, follows two Inuit brothers living in Greenland over the course of the year as the landscape changes with the seasons. Here, the author breaks down the enduring myths and misconceptions surrounding Greenland—which has been much in the news—and discusses how she aims to offer more authentic representation through her own storytelling.

When I was a child, there were hardly any picture books in Greenlandic that mirrored our modern lives. To fill this void, in the late 2000s, I wrote my first children’s books in my native language, Greenlandic. I wanted my boys, and all Greenlandic children, to see themselves as the main characters—neither as props in history nor as caricatures—in stories honoring their cultural identity and their contemporary lives, set in their home environment. Joyful stories that take place today.

Compared with the attention it garners today, Greenland was more on the periphery and rarely made international headlines when I was growing up. Back then, life was much simpler and much more secluded. In more recent times, the warming climate, the melting Greenland ice sheet, narwhals, polar bears, as well as the Northwest Passage have populated the mainstream media in regard to the Arctic, and more specifically, Kalaallit Nunaat. Humans are placed as secondary characters and the territory as a mere mountain slab among icebergs.

For Inuit, Greenland is far more than rocks, ice, and unicorns; it is not simply a piece of real estate to be bought. Our homeland has a soul shaped by the cyclical relationship between people and the land. It moves to its own rhythm of time and its own seasons, interpreted, understood, and revered by Inuit who have been making meaning of the land for nearly 4,500 years. Yet Inuit have had little control over the narratives presented to the outside world. Instead, we are often relegated to props in a hero’s journey. Even when Knud Rasmussen, the Danish Greenlandic explorer went on several literary expeditions in the early 20th century to collect tales from around the Arctic, amassing an impressive wealth of stories, his incredible feat was celebrated while his Inuit assistants who made his journey possible were mostly ignored.

Storytelling is how our Inuit ancestors survived the extreme polar conditions. And from early childhood, kids learn to explore and navigate nature on their own, fostering an innate understanding of the slightest shifts in the environment. Inuit’s close relationship to nature is the reason why the word sila means both the weather/external environment and the human mind. Our environment has sentience, which is why our ancestors have always sought strength and power from nature.

My hope is that Seasons by the Lake will help change the outdated literary landscape and ideas about Greenland.

My picture book Seasons by the Lake is inspired by my own childhood, when the freedom to roam and engage with sila was promoted. What I want to highlight with the story is that the construct of time does not apply in a region where nature rules over humans. Here, the cycles of nature govern hunting, harvesting, and social activities.

Lately, the news has been blitzed with dramatic headlines about the largest island in the world. A wild media carousel of attention grabbers yelling, “WE NEED GREENLAND! WE’LL TAKE IT ONE WAY OR THE OTHER"; "SO YOU WANT TO OWN GREENLAND?,” giving the impression that the island is desolate and unclaimed. Politicians, journalists, and experts from around the world are rushing to the island much like a modern day Arctic gold rush, frenetically crowding Nuuk’s streets. Reporters garbed in extreme outdoor gear as if going on an expedition to the North Pole are stopping regular people on their way to the grocery store or picking up their kids at pre-school. But I must admit, nothing gives me more pride than seeing our people on TV and online standing firmly and confidently amid the unfathomable threats coming from a supposed ally.

Whalers, explorers, and missionaries have come and gone to the Arctic island for centuries. And from the beginning, polar explorers have told stories about their valiant fight in overcoming the brutal environment–yet also meeting Indigenous peoples calling this icy and desolate island their home. Today’s claims to Greenland seem to echo the past explorers’ quests: Greenland is a barren land because of its massive size compared with its relatively small population; the population is Indigenous, hence their voice carries no authority, whereas the reporter/conqueror has authority to tell the native’s story; and the reporter/conqueror is a hero.

What separates the modern-day Arctic gold rush from the polar explorers of the olden days is the advent of mass media, where anyone can be a storyteller and where bits of information travel at hyper speed. Still, the voice of the mainstream storyteller is not native to the island. I wonder if they think the Inuit have been stuck on a pack of summer ice hoping someone will come to their rescue, or if they have they fallen into the icy waters capelin fishing in early summer without adult supervision away from town. Now is a great opportunity to have Inuit narrating stories of what Greenland is actually like.

My hope is that Seasons by the Lake will help change the outdated literary landscape and ideas about Greenland as an unexplored and uninhabited territory to be discovered, plundered, or taken. Still, today there is a discrepancy between Indigenous Peoples’ representation, stories in the media, and children’s literature. Less than 3% of children’s books are written by and about Indigenous Peoples. Therefore, as an Inuk, telling my stories—whether fiction or nonfiction—is more than just adding to the existing literature about the Arctic. It is an opportunity for me to reflect and share who we are as Indigenous Peoples and our relationship to our land, while maintaining the autonomy to tell our stories in whatever genre or form we choose.