Election Day, April 24. The morning commute was slow, like every morning this last week since the tunnel – the only other route – was closed because of falling rocks. Low, grey clouds hung gloomily overhead, threatening more than just the few fluttering wispy, white flakes in the air. Spring seemed darker than usual. As a sharp breeze whisked the tops of the waves in the bay, the bus inched forward.
With my eyes fixed on passing puddles that had frozen in the night, I thought about my son. He was worried about the election. I was surprised, these last few days, to hear how much he knows, and how much Greenlandic politics means to him and the other nine year olds in his class.
“I wouldn’t vote for that guy who only wants Greenlanders in Greenland,” he volunteered. He put on a funny voice, imitating the politician:
“Only Greenlanders in Greenland!”
I don’t know that anyone really said that, but he’d certainly picked up on a vibe. There is always some element of nationalism in Greenlandic politics, and no shortage at election time. Then he was lost in his own thoughts for a moment.
“If he gets in,” he asked, “will they give us money for our house?”
“What do you mean?” I replied.
“If they make us leave Greenland, will we get the money back or will they just take it?”
“We won’t get thrown out of the country,” I replied. But he continued the thought.
“If we did, most of the kids in my class would have to leave,” he said, thinking of his friends, most of whom have at least one Danish parent. “Jesper* would have to go.”
“Isn’t he Greenlandic?” I asked.
“No, he’s Danish. His mother is Greenlandic, but his dad is Danish, and he was born in Denmark. And what about all the teachers and the doctors who aren’t Greenlandic?” he continued, his insight surprising me. “They didn’t really think about that, did they?” he said.
