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Authors: Vendela Vida
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church one day. I am filling in for the last pastor, who is sick. He dies that year, and I take his place. After she comes to church service, she asks me why I don’t do all of the service in Sami. I explain that not everyone here speaks Sami, that I want to speak Finnish so more people understand. She is very upset about this. To her it isn’t right. It isn’t . . .”
“It wasn’t authentic?”
“Yes, authentic. It isn’t the authentic experience she is looking for. This is why she is so interested in the Alta Dam.”
“The dam?”
“In Finnmark?” I shook my head.
“You don’t know about the dam?” Eero looked at me quiz-zically. It was a face I myself often made.
“No,” I said. I wanted him to hug me. It seemed ridiculous that after so long, I would have to sit across the table from him, my father. I wanted to leap into him.
I leaned closer to the table; he leaned back in his chair.
4.
In the seventies, he said, the Norwegian government announced plans to build a dam in the north of Norway, in Finnmark, the area where Norwegian and Finnish Lapland came together. The dam would be near the city of Alta, and would, the government claimed, generate not only electricity for southern Norway but hundreds of jobs for the local Sami. There was one hitch: the dam would redirect the flow of the river, and a historic Sami town called Masi would be flooded. Masi had a population of two hundred Sami.
My mother was one of the early protesters in the mid-1970s, and one of the only non-Sami involved. In 1980, when the building of the dam commenced, a large number of Sami chained themselves to each other to create a human roadblock to prevent workers from getting to the construction site. One man, who was trying to use explosives to bring down a bridge that led to the dam, blew off his arm.
In a sense, Eero explained, the Alta Dam protests were extremely important for the Sami. Before the protests, Sami villages hadn’t felt connected to one another, but they banded together to oppose the construction of the dam.
“So what happened?” I asked. “Was the dam built?” Ultimately, Eero said, the dam was built, on a smaller scale,
and the town of Masi was saved.
“So my mother must have been happy,” I said.
“Happy?” Eero said. “No, not this word for her. She leaves
me before the construction of the dam begins. She is very . . . disturbed after what happens in Masi.”
“With the protests?”
“Yes, the protests,” he said, “but also . . .” He paused. Then he moved his coffee cup to the side, as though it was its placement between us that was hindering conversation. “Do you not know, my child? Masi is where you are conceived.”
This seemed like inappropriate information for a priest to be delivering. Or for a father. But he stated it in a factual manner. It was possible that in Sami culture, greater importance was given to the place of conception.
There was a long silence, during which Eero observed me sharply. Perhaps he knew he had surprised me with his disclosure. And why was I so stunned by what he was trying to say? He was corroborating what I’d suspected and at some level, knew to be true: that my birth was not a joyous event for my mother.
The sound of the phone startled me. On the third ring, as though just hearing it for the first time, Eero stepped into the hallway—a strange place for a phone—to answer it.
5.
Eero sat on a bench as he talked. I could see his feet. He adjusted his socks so they were snug around his toes. I heard him say “Olivia” and “Clarissa” and “America.”
He came back to the table. “My wife, Kirsi,” he said. “She is home in an hour.”
“Did your wife know my mother?” I asked. “Yes,” he said.
Below my knees, my pants were carpeted with white dog hair. I picked off a few strands.
“Kirsi and your mother are not friends. They don’t like the other.”
Many people didn’t like my mother. But Kirsi had no right to
“It wasn’t authentic?”
“Yes, authentic. It isn’t the authentic experience she is looking for. This is why she is so interested in the Alta Dam.”
“The dam?”
“In Finnmark?” I shook my head.
“You don’t know about the dam?” Eero looked at me quiz-zically. It was a face I myself often made.
“No,” I said. I wanted him to hug me. It seemed ridiculous that after so long, I would have to sit across the table from him, my father. I wanted to leap into him.
I leaned closer to the table; he leaned back in his chair.
4.
In the seventies, he said, the Norwegian government announced plans to build a dam in the north of Norway, in Finnmark, the area where Norwegian and Finnish Lapland came together. The dam would be near the city of Alta, and would, the government claimed, generate not only electricity for southern Norway but hundreds of jobs for the local Sami. There was one hitch: the dam would redirect the flow of the river, and a historic Sami town called Masi would be flooded. Masi had a population of two hundred Sami.
My mother was one of the early protesters in the mid-1970s, and one of the only non-Sami involved. In 1980, when the building of the dam commenced, a large number of Sami chained themselves to each other to create a human roadblock to prevent workers from getting to the construction site. One man, who was trying to use explosives to bring down a bridge that led to the dam, blew off his arm.
In a sense, Eero explained, the Alta Dam protests were extremely important for the Sami. Before the protests, Sami villages hadn’t felt connected to one another, but they banded together to oppose the construction of the dam.
“So what happened?” I asked. “Was the dam built?” Ultimately, Eero said, the dam was built, on a smaller scale,
and the town of Masi was saved.
“So my mother must have been happy,” I said.
“Happy?” Eero said. “No, not this word for her. She leaves
me before the construction of the dam begins. She is very . . . disturbed after what happens in Masi.”
“With the protests?”
“Yes, the protests,” he said, “but also . . .” He paused. Then he moved his coffee cup to the side, as though it was its placement between us that was hindering conversation. “Do you not know, my child? Masi is where you are conceived.”
This seemed like inappropriate information for a priest to be delivering. Or for a father. But he stated it in a factual manner. It was possible that in Sami culture, greater importance was given to the place of conception.
There was a long silence, during which Eero observed me sharply. Perhaps he knew he had surprised me with his disclosure. And why was I so stunned by what he was trying to say? He was corroborating what I’d suspected and at some level, knew to be true: that my birth was not a joyous event for my mother.
The sound of the phone startled me. On the third ring, as though just hearing it for the first time, Eero stepped into the hallway—a strange place for a phone—to answer it.
5.
Eero sat on a bench as he talked. I could see his feet. He adjusted his socks so they were snug around his toes. I heard him say “Olivia” and “Clarissa” and “America.”
He came back to the table. “My wife, Kirsi,” he said. “She is home in an hour.”
“Did your wife know my mother?” I asked. “Yes,” he said.
Below my knees, my pants were carpeted with white dog hair. I picked off a few strands.
“Kirsi and your mother are not friends. They don’t like the other.”
Many people didn’t like my mother. But Kirsi had no right to
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