Returning to the Present: Icelandic Identity and the Festival (Part II)

by Anne Brydon

Department of Anthropology

McGill University, Montreal, Quebec

**Reprinted from Icelandic Canadian v.48 n.2 Winter 1989, p.13–19.

The following article is presented in three parts. Click here to read Part I.

PART II.

Many West Icelanders express a fear that their community is breaking apart and disappearing with each passing year and each new generation. As Matthiasson describes them, the West Icelanders represent the "paradox of an assimilated ethnic group."2 They continue to exist; that is, they continue to have a strong sense of themselves as Icelanders. Yet in the usual terms one would use to describe an ethnic group in North America—language, reli­gion, occupation or certain cultural arti­facts—there is little to distinguish Icelanders from the Anglo-Saxon majority. Religion plays little part in unifying the Icelanders, and spoken Icelandic is disap­pearing despite efforts to keep its knowledge alive. There are no occupations in which Icelanders dominate: not all Lake Winnipeg fishermen are Icelandic. Icelanders share the Interlake region with several other ethnic groups, and in Winnipeg, they are no longer concentrated in the Victor and Sargent area. They are, by standard measure, assimilated into Canadian society.

Then in what ways do some Icelanders think of themselves as different from other Canadians? Often  Icelandicness is not described as something visible or material, but as something experienced 'inside,' as part of the person's private self, as certain attitudes or dispositions. A few people suggested to me that it was this view of Icelandicness as something internal and fixed that allowed the first settlers to assimilate quickly upon arrival in Manitoba. They knew who they were, and did not fear losing this knowledge even as they spoke a new language in a strange landscape.

Yet a relevant feeling of identity cannot exist separate from either a supporting social context or public symbols. Private feeling and public experience are deeply interconnected, and the  loss of public acknowledgement of Icelandic identity makes it difficult to keep such a feeling alive. A public version of identity must be constantly created and used by West Icelanders. It is for this reason that practices which are linked to the past take on a symbolic value, because these are seen to be the authentic identity. For many Icelanders who visit from Iceland, there is a radical difference between what is seen by West Icelanders as being 'Icelandic,' and their own life experience. Particularly for younger Icelanders, West Icelandic identity suggests connections with an Iceland they only know from history books. This is not unique to the experience of Icelanders, but is typical of most ethnic groups where 19th century European traditions have been preserved by immigrant descendants. This lack of recognition happens in the other direction as well, when young West Icelanders find Reykjavik radically different from their expectations. A search for a 'real' Iceland, or a 'real’ New Iceland, forces a rethinking of just what is this thing we call national or ethnic culture.

It is not just the anthropologist who looks for clues during the Festival that might reveal the nature of the present West Icelandic community. West Icelanders also look for clues about themselves, that speak of their memories and their history. Call it what we may—a "mode of understanding" or a "cultural text" to be interpreted—the Festival portrays Icelandic identity in Canada. The Festival is an annual renewal, when people momentarily drop their Canadian identity in favour of an Icelandic one. And this is where the difficulties begin. Today's Festival is filled with uncertainty, ambiguity and a certain fuzziness of definition, which both enriches and threatens it. To interpret Islendinga­dagurinn is to hit against a peculiar mix of history, memory and identity.

History and memory are not the same, but they do include something in common. History is shared by a group of people, and is carried in stories, myths and written records. Memory, on the other hand, is personal, private, and disappears with the death of the individual. However, both history and memory have a powerful impact on how we live our lives. History shapes our social institutions, our religion and language, the tasks we perform, how we live and what we eat. Memory shapes our everyday action: personal experience gives us understanding and learning. To­gether, they are the materials with which we create our sense of who we are, both in our imaginations and in the daily activities which sustain us. The past, and the future, are essential to our imaginations. We experience the present and the past in relation to each other, whether that past is rejected as painful or unimportant, or is believed to be more potent and more authentic than the present.

As much as we admire our ancestors and their way of life, however, they no longer inspire our own everyday lives—unless perhaps for the few still following a family tradition of farming and fishing. Perhaps it is because of this that we want to preserve the past, because it is no longer a creative part of our lives. For Icelanders in Iceland, until this century, the past was never far away. What we term "traditional knowledge" was simply the stories, skills and information that were the fabric of everyday life. Though West Icelanders today know the landmarks of national significance in Iceland—scenes from Thingvellir, Gullfoss and Geyser decorate the Festival stage on which the Fjallkona sits—a rural Icelander had (or has) an infinitely richer knowledge.

For West Icelanders, the conditions of history and memory have shifted away from such an oral tradition, and is highly dependent upon the printed word to preserve the past. The result is a lessening of knowledge and sentiment which link people to the West Icelandic community. History is limited to lists of achievements and records of official acts. It is hard to get a sense that these people were like ourselves, getting drunk or playing jokes as often as they were going to church (well, maybe more often). As families disperse throughout North America, and the bonds of community life weaken, a common Icelandic history becomes more distant, and memories are forgotten. History and memory act to integrate our lives but can also stifle creativity. A rigid and censorious view of history that is concerned with proper appearances can cut us off from the past.

Loss is not inevitable, but effort is necessary to make the past more available to the present. For example, when the first Icelanders established the Republic of New Iceland, they quickly mapped onto the raw landscape of bush and swamp the placenames that were so precious to them. These words no doubt evoked a longing for home, but they also gave a sense of continuity between the old world and the new. Yet these words have all but vanished from the landscape, replaced with the commercially-serving—Distillery Road—or with the bland numbered grid so popular in the West. Do these names have meaning for present residents? Would other ethnic groups in the Interlake like to see old place names—and not just Icelandic ones—returned? This is a question to be asked, with care that it is not an urban view of the past being imposed on a rural one, nor one that serves present political goals. Names that are used in daily life are subtle reminders of who we are.

References Cited

2 Matthiasson, John (1979) "The Icelandic Canadians: The Paradox of an Assimilated Ethnic Group." Two Nations, Many Cultures: Ethnic Groups in Canada. J.L. Elliott, ed. Pp. 195-205. Scarborough: Prentice-Hall.

** Editor's Note: The Icelandic Connection magazine began publishing in 1942 as The Icelandic Canadian. The name was changed in 2010 to reflect the diversity of the readership. Icelandic Roots is a supporter of The Icelandic Connection and is sharing archival articles with the permission of the magazine. To learn more, visit the website at Icelandic Connection Magazine .