The Aleut Mouse That Roared Part I: Seceding from the Union
All the village leaders gathered at the City Hall on St. Paul on the evening before the
government’s official withdrawal from the Pribilof Islands, ending U.S. government control over
Aleuts since the jurisdiction of Alaska was transferred to the U.S. in 1867. We wanted to plan
how we might avoid a community-wide panic at the loss of 80 percent of the jobs and all
government support for the community infrastructure that was shortly to take place.
During our deliberations, a delegation of young Aleut men walked into the room,
demanding an audience with us. Their grim demeanor made it clear that they had something
very serious in mind. Since we were gathered to deal with a community-wide crisis of immense
proportions, I told them they had just as much stake in these decisions as anyone and that they
could speak their minds. Some of these young men were teenagers, and the oldest, 27, was the
spokesperson.
“We propose that we declare war on the United States government and secede from the
union!”
We sat in stunned silence, realizing that these young men were dead serious.
“Our plan is to bulldoze across the runway so no planes can land, station armed guards
around the island, and take over the U.S. Coast Guard station by armed force! We want your
support.”
All of us in this eleventh hour gathering of Elders, organizational heads, and spiritual
leaders continued our silence. I knew they were thinking the same thing I was -- if this situation
wasn’t handled properly, we could have a greater disaster on our hands than we had already been
anticipating.
As chair of the meeting, I felt it was my place to guide the discussion, but for the first
time in my life I was at a complete loss as to what to do or to say. The wrong thing done or said,
no matter how little, could provoke serious trouble in our village of 700 Aleut people. I, like
most of our community leaders, was completely exhausted and stressed by the issues before us,
almost beyond human endurance. We had already gone through a year of unfathomable grief,
pain, violence, and death on a community-wide basis. In the past eight months, over a hundred
documented suicide attempts, four suicides, and three murders had occurred in our community.
By contrast, in the past one hundred years, St. Paul had suffered only a single murder and no
suicides in our small village in the middle of the Bering Sea. Alcohol abuse had skyrocketed in
the past year, as had domestic violence. The people had been in a state of deep depression and
widespread panic for almost a year. The four police officers and five Emergency Medical
Technician squad members, as well as the physicians assistant at the health clinic, were severely
fatigued from responding to emergency calls around the clock for months. Each tragic
occurrence in a community this size was felt at a deeply personal level. Everyone is like family.
As I sat there, my mind traveled back to two of the numerous tragedies I had been
involved with during the past eight months.
One day that year, I sat in my pickup next to the community store, my window open.
When we park our vehicles, we always open the window on our side of the vehicle to talk with
folks. A 22 year-old young man approached my vehicle, obviously quite drunk. I could see that
his eyes were unable to focus, and he staggered, barely able to keep from falling down. I thought
nothing of this as people approached me constantly during these very trying times, seeking help
of some sort or consolation because of my station as a community leader. There was nowhere I
could go, day or night, without being approached by someone seeking hope or solace. As the
young man leaned up against the truck door, he pulled out a 22 caliber pistol, cocked it, and put
it to my head.
“I want a job! If you don’t give me a job, I will blow your %#$%& head off!”
My heart froze. I knew this young man well. I watched him grow up as a little boy. He
was always troubled, but never did anything more violent than getting into fist fights. This was
different. I could feel his desperation and sense of powerlessness at the confusing events we had
all faced in the past year. He couldn’t take anymore. I knew he was so drunk and so filled with
rage and hopelessness that he could do what he was saying, or he could kill himself. I knew that
someone in such crisis could just as soon kill himself as others.
My mind raced through my options for responding. The people nearby watched in
disbelief at what they were witnessing, afraid to intervene lest the gun go off accidentally and
kill me. I was on my own. Should I open the door quickly, forcing him to the ground?, I thought
to myself. Maybe if I swing my left arm upwards quickly enough, I could push his gun hand
away from my head!
Then a clear voice “dropped” into my head---it was the voice of my beloved grandfather
Paul Merculieff, long dead. “Always speak the truth!” the voice said loudly. I swallowed hard,
looked the young man directly in the eyes and said, “You’re drunk. You know that this isn’t the
way to try to get a job! Shooting me won’t get you the job…it will destroy me and you…go
home, sober up, and then I will talk with you anywhere at any time about this,” I said in a gentle
and clear voice.
Internally I braced, not knowing if what I said would precipitate his firing the gun or not.
I realized in that moment that I would accept whatever happened. In the next few seconds, I lived
through the proverbial eternity people speak of. Finally, he lowered the gun and staggered off.
My heart went out to this man. I knew his demons and what he must be going through.
He never did sober up, and I returned to my frenetically paced work dealing with the government
pull-out. I didn’t give the incident any more thought. Two weeks later, when I heard that he had
fallen off a cliff and died, I felt enormous grief. I will never know if I could have done anything
to prevent his death, but I will always be haunted by that thought. This was a year of horror that
profoundly changed the character of our people and community forever.
On another day, as I was driving through the village, I heard frantic screams and headed
towards them. It was my cousin Julia. When she spotted my truck, she ran along the side
screaming wildly, “My brother is trying to kill himself down by the dock! Help me! Help me!”
She had an utterly wild look in her eyes that startled me as her face contorted in screams. She
looked like a demon possessed.
I left her behind as I raced to the west landing dock. Sure enough, there was Delbert, hip
deep in the water, half naked, as two men fought to bring him to shore. I jumped out to help.
The water was bitterly cold and the night felt ominous as this tragic scene was unfolding.
Delbert sobbed uncontrollably, “I want to die! Let me die!” The men escorted him to a truck
and drove off. I found out later that he was okay, thanks to friends who stayed with him until the
crisis passed. Some years later, he single-handedly stopped three teenagers from committing
suicide exactly the same way.
My attention refocused as the silence in the room became pregnant and tense. These
young men stood with determination, like warriors waiting for the blessings from the Elders to
go to war. I couldn’t blame them for how they were feeling; the U.S. government had
completely abandoned us after we had been in its service for generations, first as a captive labor
force and then as civil servants for over 100 years.
Up to this point in October, 1983, St. Paul was a government-run company town. The
U.S. government owned all the homes in the community, and provided for 80 percent of the
wage base harvesting seal pelts. The government purchased the annual home heating fuel,
groceries, and gasoline for the entire community and sold it to us on a subsidized basis to offset
the seasonality of the work we did for it. The government paid for the operation and
maintenance of the power plant that provided all the electricity to the homes, and the
maintenance of all the equipment and machinery important to the functioning of the community.
And now, all at once, the government was leaving, lock, stock, and barrel, with no
provision for our survival. Government officials from Washington, D.C., announced their
intention to abandon the Pribilof Islands a mere one year before it was to officially occur, and no
one had any plan as to how the people of our villages on St. George and St. Paul Islands would
survive after that.
Deep within me, I felt the decisions at this crossroads were being guided by unseen
forces, and whatever would transpire was necessary for the spiritual journeys required to move
we villagers to the next phase of our lives. We had tried everything to stop this event from
occurring, but even all our time-tested skills, abilities, commitment to our people, and
persistence could not stem the tide of this unwelcome change.
I studied the faces of these young men and watched the body movements and expressions
on the faces of the community leaders. I felt like a witness to a historic human drama that I
knew I would always remember for the rest of my life. These times, I knew, would provide an
ultimate test to the character of my people once again.
I wondered if we had what our ancestors had that allowed them to survive so that we
would be sitting in this room tonight. Like the Jews, our ancestors survived a holocaust where
ninety percent of all the Aleuts in the world were wiped out in fifty years of Russian exploitation
that began in 1741. Like the African-Americans, our people were enslaved for over 200 years,
first at the hands of the Russians, then at the hands of the U.S. government. Like the Japanese
Americans, Aleuts were forcibly relocated during WWII by the U.S. government and placed in
internment camps. But unlike the Japanese Americans, we lost 10 percent of people -- mostly
infants and elders -- from heat prostration, disease, and malnutrition in these camps. And yet,
despite things that would challenge the greatest of human souls, our ancestors persisted. My
people, the Aleuts, are a remarkable people.
And at this moment in the room with the leaders and waiting young men, we were
experiencing a trial that required using our hearts and not our minds if we were to avert more
tragedies. Finally, an “Elder in Training” decided to speak. I knew him as a brother who helped
me learn the Aleut ways of hunting. His name was Mike, and to those of his age group, he had
been called “Dead Eye” not only because he had one “lazy” eye that cocked to one side, but also
because he was a skilled marksman. Anything that he took aim at in a hunt ended up dead.
“Okay, we will agree to declare war against the United States government and take over
the Coast Guard station, but on one condition -- you have to do it our way,” Mike said in a calm
and steady voice.
The leaders and Elders remained silent. They weren’t sure what Mike was doing, but no
one interfered as they watched this surreal play unfold. The young men were clearly not
prepared for this proclamation. They knew they were making such an outrageously bold plan
that the leaders would not accept it. This was too much to hope for. They caucused to decide
whether or not to accept Mike’s terms. The decision was quick, because they wanted to seize the
moment. They accepted.
Mike said, “Alright, here is the plan. We take one rifle with one bullet out to the Coast
Guard station, fire one shot into the air and declare war against the United States government,
and then we immediately surrender!” The young men were so stunned by this proposal that they
didn’t know how to respond.
Mike continued, “Look, everybody knows that anyone who is at war with the United
States and surrenders gets all the foreign aid in the world they could possibly want! This way,
we lose and we win -- how can you beat that?!”
Everyone, including the young men, laughed hard at this twisted but strangely wise logic.
We laughed until there were tears in our eyes, partly out of relief that the tension had been
broken, partly out of sheer physical and emotional exhaustion, and partly out of the realization
that we were actors in a stranger-than-fiction scene that could only have happened in movies like
the Mouse that Roared. Aleut humor had prevailed as it had so many times in past personal and
community trials and tribulations.
Seeing that there was wisdom in the room, the young men decided to leave us to our
deliberations, with less than 24 hours to go before the government physically and symbolically
left us to sink or swim.
c Ilarion (Larry) Merculieff 2003