In Every Bite, a Story

I’ve come to understand that in the quiet moments—when hands are busy and mouths are full—something deeper is happening. In Arviat, we gathered in a circle, young and old, passing blades and knowledge, not just slicing maktaaq, but weaving together threads of kinship, memory, and care. The sound of ulu knives against skin and blubber, the soft conversation, the shared laughter—it’s not just about sustenance. It’s about being seen. Being part of something.

Traditionally, the sharing of harvested foods is at the heart of Inuit life and values. When a whale, caribou, or seal is harvested, it is not kept by one—it is distributed among families, Elders, and neighbours, ensuring that no one goes without. This practice is more than survival; it is a way of reinforcing relationships, passing down respect, and acknowledging the deep interdependence of the community. To share food is to affirm that we are responsible for one another. It teaches humility, generosity, and gratitude—not only for the land and animals, but for the people who gather around the table, the floor, or the ice to receive and give in turn.

In so many of our projects, whether in a northern community hall, around a fire, or on the kitchen floor, food becomes the first language we speak. It crosses generations, cultures, and barriers. It doesn’t ask you to explain yourself—it simply asks you to come closer, to sit, to share.

We say it often now: “Food is belonging.” Not as a slogan, but as a truth we keep living into. It’s why meals are a core part of our gatherings. It’s why we prioritize feeding people during our workshops, and why we make space for those who bring their own recipes, stories, and tastes to the table. Because food teaches us how to care for one another without fanfare. It gives us permission to arrive fully as we are.

And in that circle—in Arviat and beyond, we aren’t just feeding bodies. We’re feeding the roots of belonging.