An Urban Future for Sápmi?: Indigenous Urbanization in the Nordic States and Russia 9781800732650

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AN URBAN FUTURE FOR SÁPMI?

Studies in the Circumpolar North Series Editors: Olga Ulturgasheva and Alexander D. King The Circumpolar North encapsulates all the major issues confronting the world today: enduring colonial legacies for indigenous people and the landscape, climate change and resource extraction industries, international diplomatic tensions, and lived realities of small communities in the interconnected modern world system. This book series provides a showcase for cutting-edge academic research on the lives of Arctic and Sub-arctic communities past and present. Understanding the contemporary Circumpolar North requires a multiplicity of perspectives and we welcome works from the social sciences, the humanities, and the arts.

Volume 4 An Urban Future for Sápmi? Indigenous Urbanization in the Nordic States and Russia Edited by Mikkel Berg-Nordlie, Astri Dankertsen, and Marte Winsvold Volume 3 Urban Sustainability in the Arctic Measuring Progress in Circumpolar Cities Edited by Robert W. Orttung Volume 2 Sustaining Russia’s Arctic Cities Resource Politics, Migration, and Climate Change Edited by Robert W. Orttung Volume 1 Leaving Footprints in the Taiga Luck, Spirits, and Ambivalence among the Siberian Orochen Reindeer Herders and Hunters Donatas Brandišauskas

An Urban Future for Sápmi? Indigenous Urbanization in the Nordic States and Russia

? Edited by

Mikkel Berg-Nordlie, Astri Dankertsen, and Marte Winsvold

berghahn NEW YORK • OXFORD www.berghahnbooks.com

First published in 2022 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com © 2022 Mikkel Berg-Nordlie, Astri Dankertsen, and Marte Winsvold

All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A C.I.P. cataloging record is available from the Library of Congress Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Control Number: 2021039738

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978-1-80073-264-3 hardback ISBN 978-1-80073-265-0 ebook

Contents

? List of Illustrations

vii

Preface

xii Astri Dankertsen

Introduction. Indigenousness and Urbanization Mikkel Berg-Nordlie, Astri Dankertsen, and Marte Winsvold Chapter 1. The Sámi and Sápmi: The People and the Land Mikkel Berg-Nordlie and Anna Andersen Chapter 2. Cities in Sápmi, Sámi in the Cities: Indigenous Urbanization in the Nordic Countries and Russia Mikkel Berg-Nordlie and Anna Andersen

1

30

54

Chapter 3. Young City Sámi in Norway and Sweden: Making Space for Urban Indigenous Identities Astri Dankertsen

107

Chapter 4. Urban Indigenous Organizing and Institution-Building in Norway and Russia: By and For Whom? Mikkel Berg-Nordlie, Anna Andersen, and Astri Dankertsen

147

Chapter 5. Sámi Urbanization in the Global Currents of Indigenous Urbanization Chris Andersen

219

vi | Contents

Conclusion. An Urban Future for Sápmi? Mikkel Berg-Nordlie, Astri Dankertsen, and Marte Winsvold

245

Appendix A. Toponyms in Sámi Languages and Other Languages

260

Appendix B. Cyrillic-Latin Transliteration System

264

Index

267

Illustrations

? Tables Table 1.1. Size and population of Sápmi. Russian population figures are from the latest all-Russia census (2010). Population data for Norway are from 2017 (SSB—Statistics Norway). Population data for Sweden are from 2016 (SCB— Statistics Sweden). Population data for Finland, as well as all data about the area, are from the Great Norwegian Encyclopedia (SNL.no). Definition of Sápmi used for this table reflects that of Map 0.1 and Map 0.2.

46

Table 2.1. Registered Sámi in the four states of Sápmi. This table shows the number of persons aged eighteen years and older who fulfill various criteria for Sáminess and have chosen to register in the Nordic SERs, and the number of self-registered Sámi in the latest all-Russian census. As explained, these figures do not reflect the total number of Sámi in the four countries but provide a “minimum number” for the states’ Sámi populations. Data from Gks.ru 2010, Sámediggi.fi 2016, Sámetinget.no 2021, and Sametinget.se 2021.

92

Maps Map 0.1. Provinces and key urban areas in Sápmi. Map showing the borders of states in Northern Europe, provinces within them, and some key urban areas mentioned in the

viii | Illustrations

book. For Norway, the map shows the county borders as they were prior to an administrative reform that merged several counties. For Sápmi, the following should be noted: (a) Prior to 2018, Trøndelag was two counties, Northern and Southern Trøndelag, and the former border between them is shown on this map. (b) Troms and Finnmark were merged into one county in 2020, but are treated separately in this book for reasons explained in chapter 2. Further details about the map are discussed in chapter 1. The map is based on Nordregio.org’s blank map of the Nordic states and their municipalities. The base map shows no provincial or municipal borders in the Russian Federation. xvii Map 0.2. Sámi administrative zones in Sápmi. Map showing different types of Sámi administrative areas in Northern Europe. Black: Sámi Language Administrative Area municipalities, Norway and Sweden; Sámi Domicile, Finland. Dark gray: Places of Traditional Inhabitance and Traditional Economic Activities, Russian Federation; STN Area, Norway. Medium gray: Norwegian municipalities where some parts are included in the STN Area but not all. More information about these administrative zones are to be found in chapter 1. The map is based on a map of the Nordic states and their municipalities by Nordregio.org. xviii

Images Image 2.1. Spållavuolle. Svolvær, the largest town in Norway’s Lofoten (Váhki) archipelago. Svolvær is near historical Vágar, the first urban settlement in the north. In Sámi, the town is called Spållavuolle. One of the theories regarding the Norwegian name Svolvær is that it may come from a combination of a Sámi word (suolu, island) and a Norwegian word (vær, fishing settlement). Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 3.0 license.

68

Image 2.2. Skansen. The oldest still-standing buildings in Tromsø (Romsa), Norway, are situated on the remnants of a medieval fortress. The Tromsø Sámi Language Center is currently housed in one of the buildings. Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain.

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Illustrations | ix

Image 2.3. Tráhppie. Tráhppie is a Sámi culture house in Umeå (Ubmeje/Upmeje), the largest city in Swedish Sápmi. Outside the culture house’s café is a signpost with the Ume Sámi name of the city. © Mikkel Berg-Nordlie.

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Image 3.1. Tromsø/Ullsfjord gáktis. A gákti is a type of traditional Sámi clothing. It shows what district of Sápmi the wearer or their kin is connected to. Some local gákti traditions were lost during periods of particularly hard discrimination and assimilation. The Tromsø/Ullsfjord gákti is a modern reconstruction based on local tradition, a gákti for Tromsø city (Romsa) and the nearby rural area Ullsfjord (Moskavuotna/Vuovlevuotna), and other rural areas surrounding Tromsø, Norway. Gáktis and photo by Lone Beate Ebeltoft. 123 Image 3.2. Oslove Noereh (Oslo Youths). Oslove Noereh (Oslo Youths) is a non-partisan organization for Sámi youth in Norway’s capital Oslo (Oslove). The photo is taken at the Oslo Sámi House in front of a mural by the Sámi graffiti artist Anders Sunna. The flag is the Sámi Pride Flag, which merges elements of the Sámi national flag and the LGBTQ+ Rainbow Flag. The Sámi Pride Flag has been used since the first Sápmi Pride parade, which took place in 2014 in the town of Kiruna (Giron), Sweden. Photo by Mads Suhr Pettersen, property of Oslove Noereh.

124

Image 3.3. Rural arts, urban setting. Children at the Sámi kindergarten Cizáš (The Sparrow) in Oslo (Oslove) are shown how to prepare a goahppil (female capercaillie) by a kindergarten employee who brought it home from hunting. Photo courtesy of Mikkel Berg-Nordlie.

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Image 3.4. Urban arts, rural setting. A lávvu tent painted by Sámi graffiti artist @Illuzina (Linda Zina Aslaksen) from southern Norway. Installation at the international Indigenous festival Riddu Riđđu which is held annually in rural Manndalen, Kåfjord (Olmmáivággi, Gáivuotna). The piece shows Canadian-American Indigenous artist and activist Buffy Saint-Marie, who performed at the festival that year (2019). Photo: Astrid Carlsen, Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 4.0 license.

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x | Illustrations

Image 4.1. Elsa Laula Renberg (1877–1931), Sámi organizational pioneer. Laula Renberg took the initiative for the first border-transcending Sámi political conference, which was held in Trondheim (Tråante) in 1917. A statue of her was erected in 2019, in the town of Mosjøen (Mussere), where the first Sámi women’s organization was established under her leadership in 1910. Photo by Camilla Tranås Kristiansen. 159 Image 4.2. Toponymic protest sticker. In 2011, a suggestion to use traditional Sámi toponyms on signposts, together with the Norwegian toponyms, provoked conflict in Tromsø (Romsa). The sticker on this traffic light demonstrates support for using the Sámi name. Since 2019, visitors to Tromsø have been welcomed by signs showing the names of the city in Norwegian, Sámi, and Kven language (Tromssa). © Mikkel Berg-Nordlie. 167 Image 4.3. Tråante, 1917. Participants at history’s first bordertranscending Sámi political congress, held in Trondheim (Tråante) in 1917. Photo taken outside Trondheim’s Methodist Church, where the congress was held. A square close to this church was renamed in honor of organizational pioneer Elsa Laula Renberg in 2020. Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 3.0 license. 169 Image 4.4. Tråante2017. The centennial celebration of 1917’s Tråante congress. Sámi Pathfinders (Ofelaččat) speak outside the site of the 1917 congress. The Pathfinders are young Sámi who travel Norway, informing the general public about the Sámi and Sámi issues. The group is organized by the Ministry of Municipal Affairs and the Sámi University of Applied Sciences. Left to right: Knut Mikkel Hætta, MajaSofie Larsen Fjellström, Oda Kjær Eriksen, and Ole Nicklas Mienna Guttorm. Photo by Siv Eli Vuolab, Sámediggi. Wikimedia Commons, CC BY 2.0 license. 170 Image 4.5. Three weaving women. Course in čuoldin, a Sámi weaving tradition, at the Sámi House in Oslo (Oslove), Norway. Some participants practice on the street in the warm summer weather. © Mikkel Berg-Nordlie. Image 4.6. Sámi children in Oslo. Two Sámi children in Oslo (Oslove) admire their šiellas while waiting for the bus. A

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Illustrations | xi

šiella is a traditional type of Sámi jewelry, often a small silver ball with smaller rings attached to it. Šiellas are traditionally given to small children—to hang over them while they sleep as an amulet for protection. Later it can be worn, for example, in a chain around one’s neck or attached to one’s gákti belt. © Mikkel Berg-Nordlie. 186 Image 4.7. National Cultural Center. The village of Lovozero (Lujavv’r), Russia, has a National Culture Centre built in a style meant to evoke Indigenous culture. The central dome resembles a Sámi lávvu tent. Source: Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 3.0 license.

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Image 6.1. Sámi Festival. Marja Mortensson from Svahken sijte in rural Hedmark holding a concert in downtown Oslo (Oslove). © Mikkel Berg-Nordlie.

257

Preface

? Astri Dankertsen

As a child growing up in Oslo, the capital of Norway, I often wondered what my life would have been like if I had grown up in northern, rural communities like Loppa, Finnmark County, where my father is from, or in Kautokeino, where two of my great grandparents had their roots. Would I have been a different person? Would my trajectory through Sámi research have been different or maybe nonexistent? I remember feeling somewhat lost in Sámi society, while at the same time having a clear understanding that I too was Sámi—whatever that meant. While “the urban” has often been understated or absent in the discourses about what it is to be Sámi, I nevertheless remember, even as a child, the strong bonds between Sámi individuals in the city and how being Sámi felt like belonging to a secret society in the city. As a grown-up, when I started to work with Sámi research, I remembered the conversations I had with my godmother, who grew up in a time where being Sámi was looked upon as something shameful. My godmother hid her Sámi background when she moved to the city as a young woman. To her, it was absurd and even provocative that I insisted on being an urban Sámi, since urban life was so extremely different from life in the Sámi community where she had grown up. I remember us having a long discussion over the phone, where she eventually shouted at me saying that the Sámi culture she knew did not exist anymore and I should stop snooping around and mind my own business. For a few weeks, I did not hear from her, but one day

Preface | xiii

I received a letter saying that even though she did not know what it meant to be an urban Sámi, she would give me her blessing to call myself that. The letter was signed with her full name. During the writing process, the authors of this book have had many conversations about what Sámi urbanity is and how we want to present it. While most of us have in common that we are urban Sámi ourselves, we nevertheless have quite different backgrounds and approaches, both from our personal and academic lives. The people interviewed for the book also represent different Sámi voices from different cities and states, showcasing the complexity of present-day Sápmi. We wanted to respond to some of the myths and stereotypes of what it is to be Sámi today. We wanted to contribute to opening up a space of creativity and courage for all the Sámi youth that live in, or consider moving to, a city—without losing who they are as part of an Indigenous people. The stories that are told about what it means to be Sámi reveal mental and cultural boundaries for how Sámi lives can be lived. We also wanted to contribute to an increased understanding of how urban Sámi communities are organized, what political and cultural forces are active in Sámi urban life, and how the fact of a growing urban Sámi population affects the Sámi nation. Therefore, this book discusses both objective and subjective aspects of what it is to be an urban Sámi today, and how young Sámi people in cities are fighting to be seen and heard both within the majority-dominated society and in their own Sámi society. The book was written as part of the research project NUORGÁV— An Urban Future for Sápmi, the goal of which was to study certain aspects of Sámi urbanization in several countries, including with an eye to the experiences of youth. The project was funded by the Program for Sámi Research II, a research program of the Norwegian Research Council (NFR). The project was a formal cooperation between three institutions: the NIBR Institute for Urban and Regional Research at OsloMet—the Oslo Metropolitan University; Nord University; and the University of Lapland. The Norwegian Institute for Social Research has also been involved in the project. The researchers wish to thank the informants who have given interviews to us, thereby providing their experiences and insights. The researchers also wish to express their gratitude to the participants of the three user group meetings that were held, in various urban areas, with representatives of organizations and institutions that had particular interest in the research project. The deliberations and advice given at these meetings have been of great value to guide the project

xiv | Astri Dankertsen

toward a path that will hopefully result in its products being useful for the user groups. We also want to thank all the participants in our project conference in Tråante/Trondheim in 2017 for their positive feedback and insightful comments. The NUORGÁV project’s goal was to study urban Sámi organizing and networking, with an additional focus on the situation of young urban Sámi. Data was to be collected in urban areas of Norway, Sweden, and Finland. Among the original project participants were Christina Åhrén, Mikkel Berg-Nordlie, Astri Dankertsen, and project leader Marte Winsvold. However, as the project progressed, new people were recruited to the project, others left the project for different reasons, and active personnel changed roles due to changes in researchers’ places of employment and life situations. During the middle part of the project, Jørn Holm-Hansen functioned as project leader; and in late 2017, Mikkel Berg-Nordlie took over this role. Anna Andersen joined the project to contribute with both academic competence and an insider’s view on Russian Sámi history and contemporary politics. Tanja Joona was recruited to replace the project’s researcher on the Finnish side of the borders through Sápmi, after the original project participant from Finland stepped down. The operative researchers in this project have had different paths both into this concrete project and into Sámi research in general, but we all share a passion for Sámi issues. We also invited Chris Andersen to contribute with a chapter about Indigenous presences and absences in Canadian and Scandinavian cities. Andersen’s chapter shows us that this book about Sámi urbanization is not only relevant for discussing the future of Sápmi, but also forms part of a broader discussion on Indigenous issues in all parts of the world. We hope the book can contribute to strengthening old relationships and developing new ones—among and between Indigenous urban communities and researchers. The city has often been understood, especially by outsiders, as a place where Sámi culture has no place (Gjerpe 2013; Pedersen and Nyseth 2015). In a time where urbanization is often understood as a threat to rural communities, the question posed by some is where the Sámi can survive as a people. Our ambitious mission is to write something that, in addition to its academic value, can also give hope for urban Sámi, particularly urban Sámi youth. The stories from all the people we interviewed in this project show us that Sámi culture blossoms even in the cities, challenging both what it means to be Sámi today and how the cities are defined and understood by Sámi. Our findings demonstrate not only the difficulties experienced by

Preface | xv

the urban Sámi but also the vitality of the Sámi community today, and how the vitality of the urban Sámi communities and Sámi youth today counteract those forces that have tried to erase the Sámi past, present, and future. Our findings give us hope for an urban Sámi future. The chapters of this book discuss various topics related to Sámi urbanization and also draw upon different disciplines and theoretical perspectives. However, all chapters reflect in different ways how colonization shapes the way Sámi culture is seen by outsiders (Dankertsen 2014) and also how Sámi people see themselves, a point of view that categorizes urban Sáminess as something that is “out of place” (Gjerpe 2013). We wish to challenge this impression by showing ways the urban Sámi communities are crucial parts of the fight for existence for Sámi society as a whole, and how it is essential for both Sámi society and the dominant majority society to make space for this urban cultural creativity. While the book mainly discusses the past and the present of the urban Sámi communities, we also raise some fundamental questions related to the survival of Sámi society and culture as a whole. People and cultures have always been changing and this is a vital aspect of all human societies, including Indigenous societies (Kuokkanen 2000). However, the ways we write about the Sámi people and the Sámi culture in books like this one is important since this creates a space for imagining our future. We hope this book will inspire both our academic and non-academic readers to recognize the reality of urban Indigenous life and work to secure a viable and sustainable future. Astri Dankertsen holds a PhD in Sociology, and an MA in Social Anthropology. She is Associate Professor in Sociology at Nord University in Norway and is currently the head of The Division for Environmental Studies, International Relations, Northern Studies and Social Security.

References Dankertsen, Astri. 2014. Sámisk artikulasjon: Melankoli, tap og forsoning i en (nord)norsk hverdag. [Sámi articulation: Melancholia, loss, and reconciliation in (North) Norwegian everyday life]. Ph.D. dissertation. Bodø: University of Nordland. Gjerpe, Kajsa Kemi. 2013. “The Best of Both Worlds: Conceptualising an Urban Sámi Identity.” Master thesis. Tromsø: University of Tromsø.

xvi | Astri Dankertsen

Kuokkanen, Rauna. 2000. “Towards an Indigenous Paradigm.” The Canadian Journal of Native Studies 20(2): 411–36. Pedersen, Paul, and Torill Nyseth. 2015. “Innledning,” [Introduction] in City-Saami: Same i byen eller bysame? Skandinaviske byer i et samisk perspektiv [City Saami: Sámi in the city or city Sámi? Scandinavian cities in a Sámi perspective], ed. Paul Pedersen and Torill Nyseth, 11–30. Kárášjohka: ČálliidLágádus.

Map showing the borders of states in Northern Europe, provinces within them, and some key urban areas mentioned in the book. For Norway, the map shows the county borders as they were prior to an administrative reform that merged several counties. For Sápmi, the following should be noted: (a) Prior to 2018, Trøndelag was two counties, Northern and Southern Trøndelag, and the former border between them is shown on this map. (b) Troms and Finnmark were merged into one county in 2020, but are treated separately in this book for reasons explained in chapter 2. Further details about the map are discussed in chapter 1. The map is based on Nordregio.org’s blank map of the Nordic states and their municipalities. The base map shows no provincial or municipal borders in the Russian Federation.

Map 0.1. | Provinces and key urban areas in Sápmi.

Map 0.2. | Sámi administrative zones in Sápmi. Map showing different types of Sámi administrative areas in Northern Europe. Black: Sámi Language Administrative Area municipalities, Norway and Sweden; Sámi Domicile, Finland. Dark gray: Places of Traditional Inhabitance and Traditional Economic Activities, Russian Federation; STN Area, Norway. Medium gray: Norwegian municipalities where some parts are included in the STN Area but not all. More information about these administrative zones are to be found in chapter 1. The map is based on a map of the Nordic states and their municipalities by Nordregio.org.

? introduction

Indigenousness and Urbanization Mikkel Berg-Nordlie, Astri Dankertsen, and Marte Winsvold

From the Arctic to Australia, from the Americas to Asia, Indigenous peoples are experiencing a demographic shift toward increased urbanity. The cities that Indigenous people move to tend to be culturally and politically dominated by non-Indigenous peoples. Sometimes these urban areas are located outside Indigenous peoples’ traditional lands—but towns and cities built on Indigenous lands are also often dominant-group strongholds, as historical processes of colonization and marginalization have pushed Indigenous peoples and their cultures away from the centers and into the geographical margins (Peters and Andersen 2013; UN-Habitat 2010). What happens to Indigenous individuals involved in this demographic shift? Do they suffer loss of ethnic identity, language, and culture, and weakened social ties with their ethnic community? If not, how do they manage to preserve their identity, language, and culture under urban circumstances? Do urbanized Indigenous individuals retain their connections to rural areas, or is contact with the rural cultural strongholds severed? What role do new communication technologies have in facilitating contact between urbanized Indigenous individuals and in maintaining urban–rural ties? What processes occur between urban Indigenous people, on the one hand, and, on the other, urban authorities unaccustomed to dealing with Indigenous issues? What is the role of state-based actors in urban Indigenous

2 | Mikkel Berg-Nordlie, Astri Dankertsen, and Marte Winsvold

governance? How do Indigenous people organize to facilitate the survival of their culture and identity in urban settings? This book was written as part of the research project NUORGÁV— An Urban Future for Sápmi. Researchers examined different aspects of the urbanization of the Indigenous Sámi nation whose lands and populations has been split between several states—Norway, Sweden, Russia, and Finland. The project focused on political processes and identity formation processes that could improve the conditions for the ethnic survival of Indigenous Sámi under urban conditions. The chapters compare various aspects of Sámi urbanization in Norway, the country with the largest Sámi population, with the experiences of Sámi in other states, and with Indigenous peoples elsewhere. This chapter consists of three parts. In the first part, we give an introduction to Indigenous urbanization and Indigeneity. We begin by discussing Indigenous urban life and urbanization and then provide an introduction to colonization and Indigeneity and the link between these two concepts. In the second part, we give an overview of the theoretical and methodological perspectives of the book. In the theoretical section, we focus on postcolonial and Indigenous perspectives, perspectives on space and Indigeneity, racism and racialization of the Sámi, culture and identities, and Indigenous governance. In the methodological part, we present the research project NUORGÁV—An Urban Future for Sápmi? and its design, discuss the methods we have used, some ethical issues, and the positionality and reflexivity of the researchers. In the third part, we give a summary of the chapters and introduce the authors of the books and their academic, as well as relevant personal and political, backgrounds.

Urbanization, Indigeneity, and Colonization Urbanization, Urbanity, and Urban Indigenous Life “Urbanization” may refer to a demographic process in which a population becomes increasingly concentrated in areas categorized as urban rather than rural, but it may also refer to the spread of urbanity—cultural traits referred to as “urban”—among populations of both rural and urban areas. This distinction between urbanization and urbanity is what makes it possible to speak of some rural-settled Indigenous individuals who are thoroughly imbued with urban values as “urbanites without a city” (Willerslev 2010: 190). “Urbanization” may also be used to refer to the creation of urban settlements in previously rural areas.

Indigenousness and Urbanization | 3

When discussing “Indigenous urbanization,” this book refers to a demographic phenomenon in which Indigenous populations concentrate in urban areas—either because of Indigenous migration to urban areas or because areas where Indigenous people live become urbanized. That said, the main focus is not on the demographic phenomenon of urbanization as such, but on central aspects of the urban Indigenous life that develops due to Indigenous urbanization. Urbanization is often discussed as resulting from both pull factors and push factors: people are pushed from the countryside by the erosion or destruction of conditions for continuing traditional economic activities, by limited access to work or education, cultural services, welfare services, or modern technology and pulled to urban areas because of better access there. The push–pull effect described here can be seen as a form of compulsion (Davies 2014: 591–92): people are not technically forced to urbanize, but socio-economic conditions make it difficult not to urbanize. That rural areas lack access to the above-mentioned goods and necessities and access to these goods has become concentrated in urban areas is a result of decisions that have been made by others—politicians and capital-owners—who tend to live in urban areas and are generally not part of the Indigenous minority population. The Indigenous peoples of the world live in countries where rural communities have differing degrees of power vis-à-vis state and market forces, and the degrees and types of “push and pull” experienced by Indigenous peoples also vary greatly. This can be observed even in the case of relatively similar countries, such as Chris Andersen and Evelyn Peters’s (2013) comparison of Australia, Canada, New Zealand, and the United States (Andersen and Peters 2013: 378–79; Peters and Andersen 2013a: 169; 2013b: 307; Snipp 2013: 176–77).1 If we place the push-mechanisms that drive Indigenous populations to urbanize on a scale from “hard push” to “soft push,” the very hardest type is forced removal of Indigenous populations from rural areas. Such removals may occur in the more limited form of removing that population’s access to areas with important resources, thereby strengthening their economic compulsion to leave their rural communities or in the form of wholesale removal of Indigenous communities from smaller to larger settlements. As noted in chapters 1 and 4, the latter type of “hard push” has been practiced most harshly against the Sámi of the Soviet Union. Official programs aimed at facilitating urbanization are another type of “driver” for Indigenous urbanization. Sometimes these programs emphasize greater Indigenous access to social services and education (Peters and Andersen 2013c: 24); or

4 | Mikkel Berg-Nordlie, Astri Dankertsen, and Marte Winsvold

they may be more bluntly assimilationist (Peters and Andersen 2013b: 307; 2013d: 232–33; Snipp 2013: 176–77). Urbanization may also be driven by rapid population growth in rural areas where concentrations of Indigenous peoples live—sometimes as a result of earlier pushes of Indigenous people to rural areas (Peters and Andersen 2013c: 24). Another push–pull effect concerning the urbanization of Indigenous people is the push of racism in rural areas, combined with the pull of hopes that discrimination will be less severe in areas characterized by urbanity and multiculturalism (Peters and Andersen 2013d: 234). Many Indigenous individuals (like many members of the general population) experience the cultural “pull” of cities2 as places where self-realization seems more readily achievable than in rural areas that may be more culturally conservative. Similarly, the wider range of cultural experiences in urban areas may also exert a pull on rural Indigenous individuals. Until now, we have been committing something of a sin when it comes to discussing urban Indigenous life: we have made it appear as if urban Indigenous life is a recent phenomenon—which is indeed a common assumption, rooted in what Norris and colleagues (2013: 29) call “a long historical tradition in Western thought that holds urban and Aboriginal cultures to be incompatible.” In fact, many Indigenous peoples have a long urban history. Many readers probably know of the ancient city-centered civilizations of South and Central America, but also in North America some Indigenous nations were organized into permanent towns, even large cities (Snipp 2013: 174–76). Through disease, warfare, and other aspects of colonization, many of these urban areas were depopulated. Concerning Asia, we may mention the Newar people, the Indigenous inhabitants of Nepal’s Kathmandu Valley, who founded the valley’s old cities and still live there in great numbers (Berg-Nordlie and Schou 2011; Onta 2006). Some Indigenous groups that did not build their own urban settlements prior to subjugation nevertheless have a long history of settlement in colonist-founded urban areas. This includes many Indigenous North American groups who had a significant early presence in such cities but were eventually pushed out. From that perspective, many North American Indigenous groups are now re-urbanizing (Dorries et al. 2019; Peters and Andersen 2013c: 24; Snipp 2013: 174–77, 89–91). Nevertheless, it is largely correct to depict urban areas as overwhelmingly characterized by the dominant ethnos and its culture. Cities are centers of economic and political power; therefore, they tend to be places where members of the dominant ethnos congregate. This often holds true also when the cities in question are located deep within

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the homelands of Indigenous peoples. During the urbanization of Indigenous territories, Indigenous people and their cultures have frequently been pushed to the social and geographical margins, with the new urban centers becoming dominant-group strongholds on Indigenous land. It is to such dominant-group controlled areas that Indigenous peoples have been migrating en masse during the last century. During the 1900s, the Indigenous populations of several states shifted from having a rural majority to an urban one.3 As explored for example in the anthologies of Per Axelsson and Peter Sköld (2011) and Peters and Anderson (2013), quantitative data on Indigenous peoples are riddled with methodological problems (see also chapter 1 of this volume), but the available data clearly indicate a demographic shift. In addition to the movement of people from rural to urban areas, re-emergent Indigenous identities among urban people of Indigenous heritage also contribute to the current growth of the urban Indigenous populations (Axelsson et al. 2011: 298; Norris et al. 2013: 30).

Colonialism and Indigeneity To understand the specific context that urban Indigeneity exists within, it is important to understand urbanization in relation to colonialism. There is no universally recognized definition of the term “Indigenous,” but a frequently cited definition is found in ILO Convention 169 “On Indigenous and Tribal Peoples” (International Labor Organization). The Convention essentially defines a people as “Indigenous” if it self-defines as such, if it is descended from a population that inhabited (part of) a state’s area prior to the establishment of the present-day state borders and has retained some of its “social, economic, cultural and political institutions” (“institutions” here defined broadly: e.g., language can be a cultural institution). According to this definition, it is not essential for an Indigenous people to be autochthonous, in the sense that they trace their earliest history back to their current homeland, or even that the people has historical primacy in the area, that is, their presence in the area predates that of other peoples currently living there. What the ILO definition emphasizes is a certain historical experience: an Indigenous people is a group that, after settling in their current homeland, were subjugated by a state dominated by another ethnos, that incorporated their lands and population (See also Axelsson and Sköld 2011: 2–14; Berg-Nordlie et al. 2015: 9–11; deCosta 2015). The resulting category includes ethnic groups that are very different. Some are economically and socially among the most marginalized

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groups in the world, whereas others live in affluent welfare states but nevertheless face challenges to the survival of their language, culture, and identity. The peoples in question also live under a range of different state–minority and majority–minority relations (Berg-Nordlie et al. 2015: 2–11; Selle et al. 2013: 712–13). On the other hand, the world’s Indigenous peoples share fundamental similarities. They have all had a presence in their current homelands since before the arrival of the states that now control them, and yet they all live in societies dominated by another people in terms of language, culture, and ultimately political power. They have all experienced attacks on their languages, cultures, and identities—some also on their physical existence. They live in states that are geared toward expressing the culture and interests of another people and find themselves forced into constant uphill struggles to preserve and rebuild their cultures within those societies. States’ definitions of Indigenousness exhibit substantial variation, as can be observed in, e.g., Ravi deCosta’s (2015) review of practices. This variation is observable both in terms of which peoples are considered Indigenous and which people are considered Indigenous. In the latter case, i.e., when we are talking about which specific individuals the state sees as being part of an Indigenous people, the “subjective criterion” tends to be a core element—people should not be labeled as belonging to an Indigenous nation against their will, self-identification is necessary. Most often, this is not held to be enough, however. Some states have regulations that, in practice, make full recognition as Indigenous dependent on the approval of Indigenous institutions (deCosta 2015: 28, 31–33, 35). This can be seen as a way of ensuring Indigenous communities’ self-governance over who joins their ethnic collective: if a non-Indigenous body had the right to approve or deny members of an Indigenous nation, that would arguably violate the principle of Indigenous self-determination (Aikio and Åhrén 2014; Junka-Aikio 2014). Nevertheless, the principle of community recognition puts considerable power in the hands of those already recognized as part of the community, and that is not without risks. Dominant groups within the community of Indigenous-status individuals may, in practice, reinforce their own dominance by preventing individuals from non-dominant groups from joining the formal ethnic collective. The issue is particularly salient when it comes to the status of the descendants of Indigenous persons who assimilated into the majority culture, but who now wish to reclaim their Indigenous identity (Beach 2007: 2; Berg-Nordlie et al. 2015: 15–18; deCosta 2015: 52–53; Joona 2012; Laakso 2016).

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In this case, questions of dominance and power may become difficult to answer. On the one hand, descendants of assimilated Indigenous individuals may be seen as a non-dominant group within the Indigenous population, particularly if they face obstacles in trying to attain full formal recognition as part of the nation. On the other hand, in the wider, majority-dominated society, such individuals may well be more empowered than their less assimilated kin—for example, due to their greater familiarity with the cultural codes of the dominant group, larger personal networks within that group, and a greater degree of shared values with the state-controlling ethnos. Some may see such “returnees” as a non-dominant group within the Indigenous nation that deserves to be accepted, whereas others may see them as representing the colonization of Indigenous spaces by majority-cultural individuals. If the “returnees” are recognized as having Indigenous rights that give them access to limited resources— such as natural resources, votes, or funding—a situation may also occur in which those who already have Indigenous status may consider that the “returnees” threaten the resource base for Indigenous cultural survival (Åhrén 2008). Official definitions of Indigenousness also tend to include objective criteria. If mere self-identification was deemed adequate for registration as Indigenous, that would risk making the category “Indigenous” meaningless, perhaps enabling the dominant group to take over an Indigenous nation’s political structures from within. Objective criteria tend to emphasize genealogical descent from a population considered autochthons or possessing historical primacy, but they may also include various “arbitrary cultural standards” (deCosta 2015: 52)— for example, a people must be geographically isolated and smallnumbered or be somehow lacking in what is considered by the dominant group to be cultural “sophistication,” such as having livelihoods based on certain traditional agricultural activities (deCosta 2015: 52– 56). Within such “arbitrary” criteria, we may observe traces of the dominant-group authorities’ traditional view of the Indigenous peoples as “alien nations” encountered on the path of expansion through peripheral areas. Sergey Sokolovskiy (2011: 241) describes the modern category of Indigenousness as a direct descendant of the “savage slot,” i.e., the category reserved for peoples who had, in the view of the colonizers, proven incapable of resisting the expansion of the colonial authorities and hence were considered lesser peoples. These issues regarding the definition of Indigenousness are clearly relevant for the phenomenon of Indigenous urbanization. If Indigenousness is associated with rurality in discourse and in political prac-

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tice, it can prove challenging to maintain one’s Indigenous identity in an urban context and to make urban municipalities and provinces understand that they need to develop Indigenous policies. Moreover, cities are arenas where different groups and types of Indigenous people meet—including those who descend from assimilated people and those who were born into the culture. In the interplay between different Indigenous groups, both problems and potentials arise, as this book will show.

Theoretical and Methodological Perspectives in the Book Theoretical Perspectives Given the interdisciplinary approach of the NUORGÁV project and the resultant book, and the project involving researchers from different academic backgrounds in the study of a common field, the chapters of this book are written in ways that reflect our different points of departure and theoretical perspectives. In this section of the introductory chapter, we will describe some of the theoretical approaches that have inspired the various authors of this book. Colonialism and resistance are recurring issues that the book deals with. We are inspired by postcolonial (Mulinari et al. 2009; Said 1978) and Indigenous perspectives (Kuokkanen 2000; Smith 2012) that discuss how colonialism can be understood in relation to Indigenous people in general and the Sámi in particular. Being Indigenous is a result of having experienced colonialism. Some readers may ponder if the concept of colonialism is applicable to the situation of the Sámi since it is more often associated with people outside Europe. The mental image many have of the Nordic states, where most Sámi live, may also be difficult to unite with colonialism: these states have, to varying degrees, successfully cultivated images that associate them with development aid, peace building, and international cooperation. This image hides some uncomfortable truths about the states’ past and present—the internal colonization and assimilation of the Indigenous Sámi people; assimilationist and even eugenic policies toward national minority groups; the participation of the states and certain of their citizens in slave trade and colonialism elsewhere in the world; and colonial complicity through economic, political, cultural, and scientific ties to the rest of Europe (Mulinari et al. 2009). Another aspect of the colonization of Sápmi is that it happened very gradually, with no clear “year zero” where the dominant group entered Indigenous land—in contrast to many other colonies in the

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world. We return to the gradual colonization of Sápmi in chapter 1— how it took place, how it was done in different ways in the four different countries, and how it went through different phases. The concept of colonialism is in itself somewhat ambiguous, since colonialism can be separated into two different distinct forms that often coexist together: Classic colonialism has been defined as an occupation of territories and external domination over a native population, where the main goal is exploitation of resources of people in the established colonies. However, colonialism can also take form in what often is defined as settler colonialism, where the goal is control over land and access to territories and where elimination of the Indigenous is often a part of this process of taking control (Kuokkanen 2020; Veracini 2010). Colonialism in this form must, according to Patrick Wolfe (2006), be understood as a structure, not an event, where the colonial state strives for elimination of the Indigenous people. While this elimination can involve physical genocide, it can also involve elimination of the existence of the colonized through erasure of their culture, language, institutions, policies, knowledge, religion, ontology, and even history. This is a form of colonialism that seeks to destroy the colonized through erasure not predominantly of their physical bodies, but to erase their existence as a people, to replace their society with that of the colonizers. It is these forms of structural elimination attempts at the hands of the dominant peoples’ states, that the history of Sápmi is full of. As we will show in this book, these structures continue to influence how Sámi society and Sámi individuals are seen and see themselves today. Nordic race biology research (ca. 1830s–1940s) involved measuring bodies, skulls, and skeletons of Sámi individuals—using methods that constitute clear violations of present ethical standards regarding consent. Sámi graves were robbed, and Sámi people were subjected to research that was aimed at proving their “racial inferiority” without their being informed and pressured to participate against their will or even forced by use of violence. This is still a painful memory in some Sámi communities even today and an experience that is still relevant for the relationship between academia and the Sámi (Guvsám 2019; Heikki 2010; Kyllingstad 2014; Måsø et al. 2020). This “research” was also complicit in constructing the image of a hierarchy of races in the world, with the disastrous consequences this was to have (Kyllingstad 2014). As the Australian Aboriginal scholar Aileen Moreton-Robinson points out, representations of Indigenous people are still influenced by ideas about the “other,” the “uncivilized,” the “unwhite”—which includes stereotypes about Indigenous

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people as “treacherous, lazy, drunken, childish, cunning, dirty, ignoble, noble, primitive, backward, unscrupulous, untrustworthy and savage” (2004: 76). This list matches typical negative stereotypes about Sámi people. Such pseudoscientific studies legitimized an ideology that “naturalized” European control over non-Western societies. In the Nordic states, there was a focus between the mid-1800s and the mid-1900s on the distinction between “the Nordic master race” and the more “primitive Sámi race” (Kyllingstad 2012, 2014). In this period, chauvinistic attitudes—what one informant referred to as “popular social Darwinism”—became common in the populace. In Russia, while racism was not part of the official Soviet ideology, ideas about different human “races” had reached the Russian population prior to the Revolution and remained part of the popular consciousness. Such ideas are carried on in contemporary Russia, where speaking of “races” as an objectively existing phenomenon is arguably more socially accepted than in the contemporary Nordic states.4 We see here how colonial structures also interact with ideas and ideologies related to race, where dominance over Indigenous people are reinforced by racialization and racism, something that is also still relevant for Sámi societies (Dankertsen 2019; see also chapter 4 in this volume). When looking at the treatment the Sámi have received from the majority populations’ states during the past two centuries, the essence of it is that the Sámi have not been treated like “white people”—up to and including being categorized as a separate and inferior “race” by majority-population politicians, academics, and parts of the general populace. That which is known in international literature as “passing,” censoring oneself to avoid racism, has been a common practice among the Sámi. Compared to other Indigenous groups, the Sámi people are by appearance relatively similarly looking to the majority population and have even been referred to as “The White Indians of Scandinavia” (Gaski 1993). However, whether the Sámi people should be referred to as “white” or “non-white” is a complex issue (Nyyssönen 2007). First, what it is to be physically “white,” if we understand this as having the stereotypical physical features associated with the dominant ethnic group, is not the same in different parts of the world. While most Sámi would pass as “white” in, for example, the United States, there still exists a pervasive idea in Northern Europe about what a typical Sámi physiognomy looks like. This idea is particularly strong in areas where a substantial part of the population has Sámi ancestry (Eidheim 1969). In several such areas, antiSámi policy and racism struck hard, leading many families to adopt “passing” behavior in earlier generations, with residual shame and

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aggression toward visible Sáminess as a consequence—and hence, in areas where many have Sámi ancestry, it may cause negative attention and discrimination to look like a “typical Sámi.” Sámi individuals can be socially “white-coded,” i.e., seen as majority Norwegians, in other parts of Norway (such as the capital), and yet in other parts of the country the same individuals can be immediately recognized as having stereotypical Sámi features and may suffer negative consequences for this. While the racism against the Sámi and the way they are racialized certainly have changed, some elements are still present and continue to shape the relations between the Sámi and their dominant neighbors (Dankertsen 2018). In the context of Indigenous urbanization, the settler colonial logic of elimination (Wolfe 2006) can be identified in how Sámi historic presence has often been written out of the history of the cities, how Sámi culture in the city often is experienced as “out of place” (Dankertsen 2018; Gjerpe 2013), and how urban governance may produce “Indigenous invisibility” because official documents, political discourse, and political decisions simply do not relate to the urban area’s Sámi past and present. While urbanity is often associated with tolerance for other cultures (Bauman 2000), the specific associations that Indigeneity has in relation to rurality and “authenticity” causes urban Indigeneity to be perceived as somewhat “out of place” and even controversial, which as we shall see sometimes leads to conflict. The book’s chapters thus also draw on theories of space and place, inspired by Doreen Massey’s (1994) argument that we actively make places and our ideas of places being influenced by the society we live in, the power structures that influence how we understand the place. In this way, places can be understood as a socio-material co-creation of space, where both physical, material, social, and cultural realities interact. While places are often presented as static, Massey (1994) argues that places are always defined in terms of multiple meaning, as temporally and spatially in flux, always changing. Even so, places are often defined in terms of inclusion and exclusion, where certain bodies are defined as a part of the place and others are not. One can therefore talk about how spatiality also is connected to inequality. The resistance to colonization and the elimination of Sámi language and culture is also a theme in the book. While this resistance can be done in everyday life, it is also linked to organization and governance. Perspectives on governance and organization are central to this book, since the growing focus on Sámi urbanity also has been followed by an urgent need for Sámi governance (see chapter 1 and 4 for details). In chapter 4, the concepts “specialization,” “politicization,”

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and “partisanization” are discussed and used to analyze processes in which Indigenous activists have attempted to establish Sámi spaces in majority-dominated urban areas, and the different types of Indigenous NGOs and arenas that have been established through these processes. The analysis of Indigenous organizing is inspired by network governance theory, which discusses the phenomenon of interaction and networking between state-based actors and non-state actors, among others with a focus on power distribution and representativity (Berg-Nordlie 2017; Josefsen 2015; Torfing and Sørensen 2014; Vabo and Røiseland 2008). In the context of Indigenous urbanization, networking and conflict between different actors in politics and organizations is a core shaper of urban Indigenous life. The interaction of various Indigenous NGOs, Indigenous representative organs that may or may not be state based, urban municipalities, counties, state agencies, and private business shape the foundations for Indigenous existence in the cities (Berg-Nordlie et al. 2018). In this book, we find an examination of how the existence of different types of urban Indigenous NGOs and different governance structures for urban indigenous affairs impact the extent to which different types of urban Indigenous people—and rural Indigenous people—are serviced by urban Indigenous arenas. The book specifically compares urban Indigenous governance in a Nordic state and Russia. When comparing politics in Russia and a “Western” state, one risks the criticism that such a comparison may be of little value because politics in Russia and “the West” are too different. This critical position has itself come under criticism (Berg-Nordlie et al. 2018; Davies et al. 2016; Kropp and Schuhmann 2018). One argument against this criticism is that the concept of “Western states” is much too broad, that states counted as “Western” also have many different political systems and practices, not all of which are as inclusive and democratic as one may want to believe. Informal politics, corruption, and non-democratic decision-making are also found in states generally considered “Western.” Second, day-to-day administration and politics in Russia are not generally so dissimilar from that in other states as to make comparison impossible. Several studies have analyzed interrelations between state-based and nonstate actors in Russia taking as their point of departure network governance theory, a perspective that is considered particularly suitable for Northern and Western Europe (for example, Aasland et al. 2016; Berg-Nordlie and Tkach 2016; Holm-Hansen and Berg-Nordlie 2018; Kropp and Schuhmann 2018; Myhre and Berg-Nordlie 2016). They

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have found that this theoretical “toolbox” yields interesting results also when used on Russia. It is the position taken here that Russian politics, like those of all states, have their special characteristics, but Russia is not such a special case as to defy comparison with democracies in Western Europe. For this reason, we feel quite safe comparing experiences of urban Sámi governance in Russia and Norway. Two other concepts that we deal with in different ways throughout the book, are culture and identities. In the book, we want to describe the heterogeneity and complexity of urban Sámi life. The history of the different cities in the book is different, both because of regional and national differences, which are explored further in chapter 1. The people we have interviewed have different backgrounds both socially, culturally, and linguistically. Because of this complexity, many cities become almost a “microcosmoses” of Sápmi, something that several of our informants describe as inspiring and fun. However, the city also involves being in a minority situation, far away from the communities where the Indigenous culture is in a more dominant position. This means that they have to deal with stereotypes and a lack of knowledge about their culture and language, and this can sometimes be quite exhausting. While some of the stereotypes might be connected to racism and discrimination, they might also be connected to false notions of authenticity and what Sámi culture “really” is. This is in line with other research on urban Indigenous communities, where ideas about where Indigenous people really belong, i.e., not in urban areas, creates a situation where urban Indigenous individuals are experienced as alien (Andersen and Peters 2013). The focus on “authenticity” when discussing Indigenous people can, as Rauna Kuokkanen (2000) argues, suggest racist notions that the cultures of Indigenous peoples, as opposed to the cultures of the dominant peoples, are static cultures rather than living cultures in constant motion. The tendency to deny Indigenous cultures development and change creates a situation where Indigenous people become frozen in time and space, where especially urban Indigeneity is presented as something “inauthentic.” The dualistic notion of cultures, where some are denied change, while others are not, creates a hierarchy where Indigenous people are defined by outsiders and their stereotypes, rather than being allowed to develop their own culture and society in line with their own lives and needs. This perspective on culture and tradition also has implications for our perspective on identities (see chapter 3 in this volume). Inspired by Stuart Hall (1990), we argue that identities are just as much a matter of becoming as they are a matter of being. Being a Sámi in the

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city involves just as much a negotiation and imagination of the future of both one’s one future and Sápmi’s future, as a continuation of the past. As the title of our book suggests, this process of trying to imagine a future for Sápmi in the city and the challenges and opportunities that this involves is an issue we discuss in many different ways in this book.

Methods and Methodology The book is a result of the NUORGÁV research project, which was conducted between 2014 and 2019. Data gathering and analysis for this book has mainly taken place within that time period, although the authors also draw on experience and results from their earlier, contemporaneous, and to a small extent from later projects. The empirical data is based on the study of both national-level events and processes in four different states, and studies of different cities within these states. The great differences between the cases we study have enabled us to perform structured comparisons between the different urban areas and countries (George and Bennet 2005). Our methodological perspective is inspired by extended case method, where we have applied a reflexive approach “in order to extract the general from the unique, to move from the ‘micro’ to the ‘macro’ and to connect the present to the past in anticipation of the future, all by building on preexisting theory” (Burawoy 1998, 2000). We have used this because we wanted to study the cases from a comparative perspective, where we wanted to explore how the macro level—the political, the colonial, and the Indigenous—can be integrated in analysis of experiences of individuals on the micro level. This perspective represents a break with empirical traditions where theory is reconstructed on the basis of empirical data that represent “anomalies” in relation to existing theory in the field (Burawoy 1998; Vassenden 2008). The reflexive process between theory and empirical data, the macro, and the micro, enables analysis that can combine the focus on colonial power structures with the experiences of Sámi in their everyday life. We are also inspired by postcolonial (Said 1978), decolonial, and Indigenous (Smith 2012) perspectives on research and methodology in line with the theoretical perspectives that we use where a central objective is to “talk back” to science and its historically taken-forgranted assumptions about “objectivity” and “neutrality,” showing its position in a global system influenced by imperialism, colonialism, power relations, and “regimes of truth.” As the Māori scholar Linda Tuhiwai Smith (2012) reminds us, Indigenous people have historically

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been excluded from science, apart from being those who are “being studied.” For the colonized, “research” has often been a “dirty” word, associated with painful memories and distrust, excluding Indigenous ways of knowing and being. We have earlier noted that the authors hail from different academic backgrounds (history, political science, sociology). In addition to differences regarding the academic backgrounds of the researchers, the authors are also differently positioned in relation to the Indigenous group examined here. The book refers to the Sámi in the third person, but most of the editors and contributors are themselves Sámi. Such an insider-position in relation to the group under study may provide some methodological benefits that are not as easily accessible for non-insiders—such as increased trust and accessibility from informants, knowledge of how and where to get in touch with possible informants, shared knowledges between informant and researcher that decrease the chances of culture-based misunderstandings. The insider-position also provides an Indigenous academic perspective on the affairs of Indigenous people. There is not, of course, any single and Indigenous perspective on Indigenous issues, or any single Sámi perspective on Sámi issues: all communities contain within them a broad spectrum of perspectives. We nevertheless hold that when researchers have a connection to the group under study—such as personal identity, culture, and social inclusion—this makes it more likely that the focus and analysis of the researchers will be recognized as familiar to the group under study. That the group under study should recognize itself in the research on them is something we hold to be ethically of value. This is particularly true in cases where the group under study have a history of being suppressed and marginalized by others—including by non-insider academics. Such is the case when it comes to Indigenous people in general, and also specifically the Sámi. The questions, interpretations, and conclusions of non-Indigenous researchers may be quite different from the ones provided by Indigenous researchers (Berg 2000; Olsen 2016: 29–30). We consider that the involvement of Indigenous researchers in a project reduces the risk of ending up with focuses and interpretations that are experienced as alien to the Indigenous group under study or even detrimental to their well-being. The book’s author list also includes people who are not part of the Sámi ethnic group, and their perspective is an important part of the whole. An outsider’s perspective is valuable both when the society under study is that of a dominant people or that of an Indigenous people. For example, non-embeddedness in the social world and cul-

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ture of the group under study may make a researcher ask questions about things that members of the group take for granted, which can produce novel research that is of value for the group itself. And while some informants may trust one of their own more than an outsider, other informants may find it difficult to open up to someone they see as well integrated into their community, so that the presence of an outsider may in some cases be a welcome opportunity for members of the group to talk about issues that are experienced as difficult to talk openly about within the group. In the study of Indigenous peoples, the outsiders’ perspective has, however, not been a healthy supplement as much as it has been the dominant perspective. When it comes to the Sámi people, particularly the North Sámi of Norway, this situation has changed in the latter decades, since many individuals from the group have stepped into academia and produced research that has significantly colored the academic discourses on their own people. For other subunits of the Sámi nation, particularly the Sámi of Russia, their own voice remains the supplement and not the dominant voice in the academic narratives about their group (Berg-Nordlie 2017). Neither insiders nor outsiders have a neutral position when writing about a group. In both cases, there are preconceived ideas and attitudes that are likely to sway focus and analysis—this is unavoidable (Berg-Nordlie 2017: 54–58; Olsen 2016: 29–30, 32–35, 42). Likewise, both insider and outsider researchers may have relevant social and identity-based connections that one should be transparent about. As for researchers positioned on the inside, their research interests, and the basic way they understand the world, which again informs their analysis of society, may be colored by their positioning within the group—their gender, subgroup identity, class, language, political ideology, connections to social, cultural, and political groups etc. Selfreflection and transparency regarding one’s own position is healthy both when authors from dominant ethnic groups study their own society and when people from marginalized groups study their own society. For that reason, we will at the end of this introductory chapter provide a brief (alphabetic) presentation of the book’s authors with a focus on this. In regard to those of the authors who are Sámi, some subgroup affiliations are mentioned. Sámi subgroups will be discussed in chapter 1, which constitutes an introduction to the Sámi nation. The authors’ connections to concrete organizations mentioned in various chapters will be noted both here and within those chapters, for transparency’s sake. The NUORGÁV project was financed by Norwegian Research Council and the Programme for Sámi Research SAMISK II, a program that

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had as its main objective to “enhance the quantity and scientific merit of Sámi research” (Norwegian Research Council 2018: 5). The Sámi programs in the Norwegian Research council have since the beginning focused on recruiting “more native Sámi researchers and establish networks and national research schools for Sámi research” (Norwegian Research Council 2018: 5). These formulations reflect the Indigenization of Sámi research. There has been a shift from earlier times when most researchers who did research in Sámi societies were non-Sámi to a situation where it is often held that researchers ideally should be Sámi in order to do “good” research. This shift reflects the international development as well, like Linda Tuhiwai Smith (2012) describes: there has been a development in Indigenous research from a situation where research has traditionally been done by outsiders, with little or no involvement from the Indigenous communities themselves, to a situation where more and more Indigenous people themselves are researchers, and where this community of researchers to a greater extent than before is organized through institutions built on Indigenous perspectives and with Indigenous scholars themselves. An example of this in Sápmi is the Sámi University of Applied Sciences (Sámi Allaskuvla) in Kautokeino (Guovdageaidnu). According to the Sámi scholar Vigdis Stordahl (2008), researchers without Sámi background have often been advised not to do research in the Sámi society, while Sámi researchers have been criticized for not doing the “right” research. Stordahl (2008) argues that this “double bind” situation is caused by difficulties separating the different levels of research, that is, on one hand, knowledge, research paradigms, and methodology, and on the other, Sámi politics (Stordahl 2008). However, as Kuokkanen (2007) points out, it is important to remember that Indigenous perspectives in research have to reflect the fact that research is usually done within academic institutions, and a global research community, where the academic structures reproduce certain systems of thought and knowledge, rarely reflect Indigenous worldviews. According to Kuokkanen (2007), even Indigenous scholars are part of this system reproducing colonial power structures, because they often are trained and work within a system based on certain values, norms, and economic structures embedded in global colonial structures that marginalize Indigenous knowledge and societies. In the NUORGÁV project, the connection to the Indigenous community was further strengthened by holding three meetings where representatives of Indigenous organizations were presented with project ideas and findings, to discuss, comment critically, and give advice. The

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last of these meetings was an open, two-day conference (“An Urban Future for Sápmi?” in Trondheim 2017) where representatives of the Sámi community were specially invited to participate and to open the proceedings each day—on the first day, the conference was opened by representatives of the local urban Indigenous student organization Saemien Studeenth Tråantesne, on the second day by the President of the Sámediggi of Norway. We believe the advice and discussions with representatives of the Indigenous community have strengthened our research both ethically and methodologically and provided us with a more scientifically valuable outcome. We underscore that the advisory groups and external individuals have had no veto rights over the organization or outcome of research, and the content of this book is the responsibility of the researchers and the researchers only. We have interviewed both Sámi who have grown up in the city and Sámi who have moved to the city for education, work, or other reasons. Several of the interviewees have many roles and positions. Informants were approached through a combination of general calls for interview participation, and utilization of the researchers’ network in Sámi society. Interviews have been conducted with Sámi living in urban areas—both those who take part in organizing urban Indigenous spaces and those who only use their services—and with nonSámi who are involved in the politics and administration regarding such spaces. Informants were approached through a combination of general calls for interview participation, and utilization of the researchers’ network in Sámi society. Members of the advisory group also facilitated contact with some informants. Other informants came into the project through snowballing—e.g., they were mentioned by early interviewees as people who would be beneficial for the project to talk to later, they were contacted by researchers and agreed to participate. Interviews were generally performed by the researchers on location in various urban areas, but some interviews were also textbased, done over email or messenger services. Interviewees were informed about the origins and goals of the project, promised their quotes would be anonymized, and told they could at any point withdraw their participation and retract their interviews up until the moment of publication. These are ethical practices in any case, but one should perhaps be particularly aware of the need to clearly communicate to informants that they control their own information and have complete power to withdraw their participation when the informants are members of marginalized and discriminated groups—even if the authors themselves belong to said group. A few of our informants were minors, and interviews with this category of

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people demands particular measures to ensure informed consent. Consent in such cases was obtained from both the guardians and the informants themselves prior to the interviews. Researchers made sure to explain the research project in such a way that both guardians and minors would be well-informed about the intentions and consequences. We, as researchers, have a responsibility to conduct research in such a way that it does not have harmful consequences for the young participants, while at the same time ensuring that young people are given a voice in issues that are important to them. Young people also have a right to be heard, on their own terms (Alderson and Morrow 2004). Several interviews used in this project contain testimonies about racism and discrimination and accounts about other difficult experiences that the interviewees have undergone during their lifetime. To ensure privacy, interviews were anonymized before they were shared with other researchers in the team, and in addition, certain particularly personal passages, unique enough for the informant to be identifiable particularly by researchers who are themselves part of Sámi society, were omitted entirely before the interviews were passed on to other researches on the team. When talking to informants, the researchers used semi-structured interview guides. In the interviews with the administrative employees (non-Sámi and Sámi), we focused on how they facilitated development in the city regarding Sámi language and culture, and how they cooperated with Sámi organizations and other relevant Sámi circles and individuals. In the interviews with Sámi who were not administrative employees, which naturally constitutes the large majority of our interviews, we have focused on their experiences related to being Sámi in the city, how they experience the encounters with other people in the city, if they are active in any organizations or activities, how they relate to the local government and stakeholders in the city they live in, and if they feel that they are a part of decision-making and local democracy. In addition, we have participated in meetings, concerts, informal encounters with Sámi, and other relevant activities. We have also followed relevant pages, groups, and people in social media. Regarding some of these activities, those of us who are Sámi would likely have been doing them in any case or were in fact already doing them as part of our Sámi lives. When we have been present in these arenas specifically as researchers to collect information, we have made sure that those responsible for the arenas (event organizers, group administrators, etc.) are aware of that, and we have done our best to make sure that those present know about our role in the situation. For our

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research purposes, we have also included news articles, letters to the editors in relevant newspapers and media in general. We have also analyzed web pages, founding documents, articles of association, minutes of meetings, documents from municipal council meetings, and other relevant documents.

Introduction to the Chapters and the Authors The Chapters The task of this introduction has been to present and discuss some basic concepts with regard to our study of Indigenous urbanization, provide the reader with necessary information about the authors, and introduce the other chapters of the book. The remainder of this chapter will be dedicated to a brief introduction of the book’s other chapters. In chapter 1, historians Mikkel Berg-Nordlie and Anna Andersen give a brief introduction to the Sámi nation and its homeland Sápmi with a focus on the historical interrelationship between Indigenous people and the state and the various ways the Sámi are subdivided— both the nation’s subethnic groups and the administrative structures through which the states have divided the Sámi and Sápmi. The chapter is mainly an exploration of existing literature and relevant documents, and it is also to some extent informed by field work to examine the workings and significance of various administrative systems. In chapter 2, Berg-Nordlie and Andersen present various historical processes of urbanization in Nordic Sápmi and Russian Sápmi. This chapter also discusses the extent to which we may say anything about the Sámi in quantitative terms. While this book is focused on qualitative research on Sámi urbanization, the fundamental fact of urbanization as defined here is nevertheless demographic change, and hence a phenomenon that is studied quantitatively. The chapter provides some indicators of the extent to which the Sámi are urbanized, and which localities in the North European states should be considered the focal points for Sámi urbanization. The chapter is based on studies of existing research literature on Sámi history and urbanization in the four states that have divided Sápmi between them and studies of available quantitative data regarding the Sámi of the four states. In chapter 3, sociologist Astri Dankertsen explores the construction and negotiation of urban Sámi identities, mainly with use of the data from interviews with urban Sámi youth in Norway and Sweden. She focuses on differences and similarities between the two states and the

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different cities. Chapter 3’s findings are from fieldwork conducted by the author and Christina Åhrén among young Sámi in Norway and Sweden, both within and outside of Sápmi, mainly during the period 2015–2018. In chapter 4, Berg-Nordlie, Andersen, and Dankertsen account for how and why Sámi in Norway and Russia have organized to create urban Indigenous spaces for the expression and preservation of Indigenous language and culture in urban areas and address the urban aspect of modern Sámi organization history. Chapter 4’s findings are based on interviews conducted in both states during the period 2009–2019, mostly as part of the NUORGÁV project, in addition to document studies, media studies, and the study of existing literature. In chapter 5, sociologist Chris Andersen discusses Sámi urbanization in light of the global Indigenous experience. What are the similarities and differences between Sámi urbanization and urban life and that of Indigenous peoples elsewhere? What can we learn from these differences and similarities? In the conclusion, the editors of this volume—Mikkel Berg-Nordlie, Astri Dankertsen, and Marte Winsvold—provide a conclusive discussion to the book, by returning to some key questions regarding Sámi and other Indigenous demographics, identity, and politics that have been addressed throughout the book. Does the Indigenous nation of Sápmi have an urban future? And if it does, what does that future entail for Sámi language, culture, identity, and traditional industries? The Appendices present (A) a list detailing the Sámi names of cities and other localities mentioned in the book and (B) a guide to the book’s Cyrillic–Latin transcription system. Cyrillic is the writing system used for Russian and the Sámi languages in Russia.

The Authors Anna Andersen (née Afanasyeva) holds a PhD in humanities with specialization in history, an M.A. degree in Indigenous studies from UiT—The Arctic University of Norway, and an M.A. equivalent in pedagogy from the Murmansk State Arctic University (MAGU). She defended her PhD dissertation entitled “Boarding School Education of the Sámi People in Soviet Union (1935–1989): Experiences of Three Generations” at UiT in 2019. She currently works at UiT, and teaches at the Sámi University of Applied Sciences in Kautokeino (Guovdageaidnu). Andersen is a Kildin Sami from the Kola Peninsula. She is the founder and was the first chairman of the Kola Sami youth association Sam’ Nuraš (2006–2010) and has previously worked as

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Indigenous Peoples Advisor at the International Barents Secretariat. She has worked on indigenous cooperation projects such as “The Kola Sámi Documentation Project,” “Skolt Sámi culture across borders,” and “Indigee 2–Indigenous Entrepreneurship project.” Chris Andersen is the dean of the Faculty of Native Studies at the University of Alberta. He became a faculty member in 2000 and received his PhD in 2005 from the UoA Department of Sociology. In 2014, he was awarded Full Professorship. He is the former Director of the Rupertsland Centre for Métis Research and additionally served as the Interim Institutional Co-Lead of Indigenous Initiatives for the University of Alberta from February 2018 to August, 2019. Dr. Andersen is the author of two books including, with Maggie Walter, Indigenous Statistics: A Quantitative Indigenous Methodology (Left Coast Press, 2013) and “Métis”: Race, Recognition and the Struggle for Indigenous Peoplehood (UBC Press, 2014). In 2015, the Native American and Indigenous Studies Association awarded “Métis” the “2014 Prize for Best Subsequent Book in Native American and Indigenous Studies” and in 2016, it was shortlisted for the 2015 Canada Prize. With Jean O’Brien, he also co-edited the recently published Sources and Methods in Indigenous Studies (Taylor & Francis, 2017). Andersen was a founding member of the Native American and Indigenous Studies Association Executive Council, is a member of Statistics Canada’s Advisory Committee on Social Conditions and is editor of the journal Aboriginal Policy Studies. In 2014, he was named as an inaugural Member of the Royal Society of Canada’s College of New Scholars, Artists and Scientists. Mikkel Berg-Nordlie is a historian who works as a researcher at the NIBR Institute for Urban and Regional Research at the Oslo Metropolitan University (NIBR—OsloMet), and is responsible for Sámi history articles in the Great Norwegian Encyclopedia (SNL). He wrote his PhD at UiT—Arctic University of Norway on the history of Russian Sámi representation in Russian politics and pan-Sámi networking, and holds an MA in peace and conflict studies from the University of Oslo. Berg-Nordlie co-wrote the book Bridging Divides: EthnoPolitical Leadership among the Russian Sámi together with Indra Overland (Berghahn, 2013), was editor of Indigenous Politics: Institutions, Representation, Mobilization (ECPR, 2015) together with Jo Saglie and Ann Sullivan, and edited Governance in Russian Regions: A Policy Comparison (Pallgrave MacMillan, 2018) together with Sabine Kropp, Jørn Holm-Hansen, Johannes Schumann, and Aadne Aas-

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land. Berg-Nordlie is a North Sámi whose family background is from, among others, the Kvalsund (Fálesnuorri) district of Finnmark County. He grew up partly in the South Sámi area (Helgeland), and partly in the North Sámi area (Tromsø/Romsa), and currently lives in Norway’s capital Oslo (Oslove). Berg-Nordlie is a former leader of the Oslo and Surrounding Area Sámi Parents’ Network, and current leader of the Socialist Left Party’s Sámi Policy Council. Astri Dankertsen holds a PhD in sociology, and an M.A. in social anthropology. Dankertsen is Associate Professor in Sociology at Nord University in Norway and is currently the head of The Division for Environmental Studies, International Relations, Northern Studies and Social Security. Dankertsen’s Sámi background is from the North Sámi area in Norway, with a father from Loppa (Láhppi) in Finnmark County. She grew up in Oslo, something that might explain her enthusiasm for Sámi urbanity throughout her career. She is currently the leader of Sálto Sámesiebrre (Sámi organization for the Salten district), a local organization under the Norwegian Sámi Association (NSR), and also holds a position as a deputy representative of the national board of the NSR. She also represents the Red Party in Bodø City Council. Marte Winsvold has a PhD in political science from the University of Oslo. She works at the Institute for Social Research in Oslo, and her research interests center on political participation and the interface between civil society and formal government structures. In particular, Winsvold has been interested in the participation of underrepresented groups in formal political processes and the conditions for adequate representation. Winsvold grew up in Oslo and has no Sámi background. She was recruited to the study of Sámi urbanity because of her research interest in civil society and network governance.

Notes 1. Despite major differences, all four are states that developed from overseas Anglophone colonies during roughly the same period and have colonistdescendant majorities. 2. In this book, urban settlements with more than 50,000 residents are referred to as “cities.” On the global scale of things, 50,000 may seem a very low bar for the word “city” to be used, but Northern Europe is a rather thinly populated part of the world, so it fits well in that context. In the northern part of this region, it is not uncommon to refer to any settlement with a population more than about 5,000 as a “city,” but we have chosen the label “town” for

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settlements with between 10,000 and 50,000 inhabitants, “small town” for settlements with between 5,000 and 10,000 residents, and “village” for settlements between 5,000 and 1,000 residents, while smaller settlements than these will be referred to as “hamlets.” 3. To take the countries analyzed in Evelyn Peters and Chris Andersen (2013) as examples: in Canada, the percentage of indigenous populations living in urban areas went from 6.7 percent (1951) to 53.2 percent (2006), in the United States from ca. 10 percent (1930) to ca. 66–68 percent (2000), in Australia from 44 percent (1971) to 76 percent (2006), and in New Zealand from 7 percent (1936) to 84 percent (2006) (Peters and Andersen 2013: 23–24; Norris et al. 2013: 30; Snipp 2013: 176–80; Taylor 2013: 238–39; Kukutai 2013: 311–15). The Australian “leap” seems smaller, but here the start year was set at a rather late point. According to Taylor (2013: 238), Australian Indigenous demographic data before 1971 are so unreliable that this year was utilized as the “year zero” for his comparison. 4. Although it should be noted that this is not only a Nordic-Russian difference. There are also parts of the Anglo-American world where usage of the term “race” to describe ethnicity remains common and accepted, in stark contrast to the contemporary norms in the Nordic states.

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? chapter one

The Sámi and Sápmi The People and the Land Mikkel Berg-Nordlie and Anna Andersen

In the introductory chapter of this book, the editors discussed Indigenousness and urban Indigenous life in general terms. To understand the situation of any Indigenous people we must, however, look at specific traits of the people and their relationship to the state and to the dominant people. What is the nature of their historical and present relationship to the state and the dominant people? Under which regimes of administration and representation do they live? This chapter is divided into three parts. The first part gives the reader a condensed account of the history of the Sámi, particularly the history of colonization and discrimination against the people. The second part introduces some important administrative divisions of the Sámi, discusses definitions of the Sámi, and also introduces some important intra-Sámi subgroups and divisions of which the reader should be aware. The third part concludes by summing up and discussing the main insights of the chapter. The text of this chapter refers to two maps of Sápmi, Map 0.1 (Provinces and Key Urban Areas in Sápmi) and Map 0.2 (Sámi Administrative Zones in Sápmi). These are located at the front of the book, not within the pages of the chapter. The reader is also referred to Table 1.1 at the end of this chapter, which gives the approximate size and total population of Sápmi.

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A Brief History of the Sámi and the States The Sámi are a nation of Northern Europe, and Sápmi is the name of their homeland. Over the course of several centuries, both the people and their land have been subsumed within the states of other ethnic groups and have suffered under discriminatory and assimilatory policies. Here we give a very brief and condensed account of how the states in question—Norway, Sweden, Finland, and Russia—have divided the lands of the Sámi; policies targeting the existence of the Sámi as a separate ethnic group; and the current political and administrative division of the Sami and Sápmi.

The Colonization of Sápmi and the Sámi Sápmi is an invisible country: a national homeland that is absent from most maps. The land, which is divided up between the states of several other nations, stretches from central Scandinavia to the eastern tip of the Kola Peninsula.1 Outsiders have earlier referred to the Sámi people by exonyms such as “Lapps” or “Finns” and Sámi lands as “Lappmark,” “Lappland,” and “Finnmo˛rk.” The terms “Lapp” and “Finn” are now considered derogatory and have long since been replaced by the term “Sámi,” alternately spelled Sami or Saami, which is based on the people’s endonym—their own name for themselves.2 The toponyms Lappland and Finnmo˛rk have later evolved into toponyms that indicate smaller geographic areas—Norway’s Finnmark County, Sweden’s Lapland Province, and Finland’s Lapland Region. Sápmi is the only word currently used to refer to the entire Sámi homeland (Andreassen 2017; Berg-Nordlie 2020). If we could go back in time to before the Middle Ages, we would find the Sámi living not just in what is today called Sápmi, but also in areas much further south. In the southwest, the Sámi are mentioned not far from Norway’s current capital Oslo, and in the southeast, the Sámi lived in an area stretching all the way to the great lakes Onega and Ladoga (Bergstøl 2008; Hansen and Olsen 2004; Hedman 2003; Zachrisson 2005; Zachrisson et al. 1997). Today’s idea of what constitutes Sápmi does not include these far-southern lands—not in the minds of the majority population and, more importantly, not in the minds of most Sámi. One may argue that it is ahistorical to exclude these old, southern Sámi-populated areas when we talk about “Sápmi,” but we will nevertheless respect the current usage of the toponym: when this book uses the word “Sápmi,” areas in the “old South” are not implied.

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Sápmi has never been a unified, sovereign political entity. Some Indigenous populations of the world had larger polities of their own prior to colonization; others did not—and the Sámi belong to the latter category. The Sámi homelands, prior to their incorporation into the southern states, were constituted by a vast tract of lands and coasts with no central government. The details of the local political organization of the Sámi in the distant past are not known to us, but a political unit in Sámi society held to be very old is the siida. Siidas were groups of households that together utilized and controlled their own delimited part of the Sámi homeland. Individual households and Sámi individuals would operate more independently during some seasons of the year and congregate during other seasons (Hansen and Olsen 2004; Imsen and Winge 2004: 374–75). The Sámi people were not united by any common polity, but through Sámi culture and language, which set them apart from their neighbors. For example, the Sámi language group is not related at all to Germanic languages of the Norwegians and Swedes or to the Slavic language of the Russians. There is a relation to the Finnish language, but not enough to make Finnish and Sámi languages mutually intelligible. The Sámi languages, like Finnish, belong to the Uralic language family. The Sámi languages, however, also contain a large number of words from now-extinct Paleo-European languages, the presences of which in North Europe predate the presence of Germanic, Slavic and Uralic. According to linguist Ante Aikio (2004, 2006, 2012), Sámi language seems to have established itself in different parts of currentday Sápmi during a period stretching over many centuries, likely beginning during the last centuries BCE and having established itself in southernmost Sápmi (central Scandinavia) no later than 500–600 CE. During the early centuries CE (200–600 CE), Germanic-oriented chiefdoms and petty kingdoms appeared along the coasts of Sápmi (Hansen and Olsen 2004: 56–57). It is difficult to know for certain what the nature of the Sámi communities’ relationship was with such neighbors, and there are likely to have been local variations. It is often considered that local relationships would have been generally characterized by trade, alliances, intermarriage, and mutual benefit. During the Middle Ages (ca. 1050–1550), centralized non-Sámi states appeared in the south of Northern Europe. These states eventually monopolized certain rights in relation to the Sámi that the local chieftains up north had until now claimed for themselves—namely to trade with the local Sámi and collect “tribute” from them. Prior to the Middle Ages, this “tribute” is likely to have been part of local transactions where the Sámi also gained something. During the late Iron and

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Middle Ages, there was a gradual expansion of non-Sámi settlements into Sámi-inhabited lands, and during the Middle Ages the southcentered states established far-flung forts and churches in the north. The Middle Ages also saw Sápmi divided up into “taxation zones” by the states. Some Sámi communities even had to pay tribute to several rulers at once, since the states’ “taxation zones” were partially overlapping. From the latter half of the 1500s, the states conducted a series of wars and interstate agreements that resulted in the Sámi and their lands being gradually divided up by sharp state borders. As of the establishment of a land border between Norway and Russia in 1826, all of Sápmi had been divided up by state borders (Andresen 2005; Hansen and Olsen 2004; Pedersen 2008).

Colonial Consolidation: State Policies against Sámi Culture, Language, and Identity While dividing up Sápmi, the states did not make attempts to destroy the existence of the Sámi as a separate people within their realms. The continued existence of Sámi culture and language was not seen as a problem, with one notable exception: the persecution of the traditional Sámi religion. While the Sámi were able to retain their pre-Christian religion much longer than the larger nations, this part of Sámi culture was nevertheless outlawed from an early stage, and after Protestantism took hold in the Nordic states during the 1500s, active attempts were made to eradicate it. During the witch trials of the 1600s, the persecutions assumed a particularly violent form, with Sámi being executed for practicing their religion (Hagen 2005; Willumsen 2010). Nevertheless, during the “division phase” of colonialism in Sápmi (late 1500s–1826), the states did admit the right of the Sámi to exist as a separate people with a separate culture and its own communities. For example, when the long land border between Denmark (which included Norway at the time) and Sweden (which included present-day Finland) was drawn through Sámi lands in 1751, an addendum was made to the border agreement—the so-called Lapp Codicille—that detailed rights of the “Lappish Nation” (Pedersen 2008; 2021). However, after the division of Sápmi between the states had been completed, the colonization process effectively entered a consolidation phase. From the 1800s, the states began, to varying degrees and in different ways, to identify Sámi presence on “their” territory as a challenge to their interests. They began to enact a range of policies that threatened the continued existence of Sámi ethnicity—in some cases by explicit design, in other cases de facto. This process in the Nordic

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countries is somewhat similar to colonial processes in America as described by Julie Tomiak et al. (2019: 10). Specific policies against the Sámi differed. Norway had a deliberate assimilation policy that began in the second half of the 1800s and intensified from the beginning of the 1900s, the “Norwegianization Policy” (Norwegian: Fornorsking, North Sámi: Dáruiduhttin) (Minde 2005: 5–12; Pedersen 2008: 487–508; Zachariassen 2012: 26–42; et al 2021). Sweden’s Sámi policy came to combine segregation and paternalism in relation to the nomadic reindeer-herding—the “Lapp shall be Lapp” policy—while other types of Sámi were considered non-Sámi and were exposed to assimilation pressures (Lantto 2012; Lantto and Mörkenstam 2015: 137–43; Zachariassen 2012: 133–34). By “paternalism,” we mean policies that normatively aim to improve conditions for the people targeted by policy, but in a manner that assumes that the state knows what is best for the people and frames the state’s activities as “aiding” or even “civilizing” the peoples in question (Berg-Nordlie 2015b, 2017; Krjažkov 2010). In Finland, ideas and practices of cultural assimilation accelerated during the second half of the 1800s, and pressure from Finnish nationalism increased during the period between the two World Wars (Nyyssönen 2007: 49–67). Russia never had an openly assimilationist policy regarding the Sámi. Immediately after the Russian Revolution, the regime even briefly favored an Indigenous policy that included limited self-governance, language revitalization and attempts to include ethnic minorities in the party apparatus and bureaucracy. This Soviet Indigenous “spring” ended during Stalinism, which saw increased state interest in colonizing Indigenous areas and the imprisonment and execution of many people who had worked with Indigenous affairs. In addition to the political suppression that peaked under Stalin, it has been argued that the state-orchestrated social, cultural, and economic reconstruction of the Indigenous peoples’ societies during the Soviet era can be seen as a de facto assimilation policy despite official policies promoting Indigenous culture and art (Berg-Nordlie 2015a, 2017: 66–67; Kal’te 2003; Krjažkov 2010). A crucial aspect of the Indigenous–dominant people relationship that developed between the Sámi and the more numerous peoples of the Nordic states during the 1800s and the first half of the 1900s, was the emergence of “scientific racism.” While inter-ethnic distrust and discrimination of the Sámi had existed prior to this, the establishment of an ideology that used modern scientific argumentation to portray the Sámi as inferior was something new. The idea of a Nordic “master race” and the Sámi as a lesser population with no real culture, no

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real history, and less rights to own the land they used, began to grow. Some of the early “scientific” research aimed to prove the existence of human races, was carried out against the Sámi. Sámi graves were plundered by researchers and body parts transported to the south, and physical measuring of living Sámi carried out using methods that do not align with current standards for obtaining consent (Kyllingstad 2012; Skorgen et al. 2020). The notion that the Sámi constitute a lesser people—genetically, culturally, socially—eventually became widespread in the populace of Northern Europe, resulting in day-today discriminatory treatment and racist utterances that continue to be a systemic problem encountered by the Sámi today (Hansen 2011). Issues of discrimination and racism against the Sámi, as well as the complex problem of self-hate in the wake of this treatment over generations, are discussed in chapter 4 of this volume.

Sámi Cultural Revitalization and Representation In the West, the Sámi began to mobilize and organize politically against destructive Sámi policies at the turn of the 20th century (Zachariassen et al 2021, see also chapter 4 of this volume), but it was not until after World War II that a policy shift finally began to occur. During the second half of the 1900s, the Sámi of all four states experienced periods of cultural renaissance, and achieved recognition of certain rights as an Indigenous people. In Norway, the Sámi revitalization movement picked up momentum, and by the early 1960s, the Norwegian state had discarded assimilation as an explicit policy goal (Minde 2003; 2005: 7–13; Andresen et al 2021). Similar movements, also involving cross-border Sámi cooperation, sprang up in Finland and Sweden (Berg-Nordlie 2013, 2017; Lantto 2012: 330–381; Lantto and Mörkenstam 2015: 145–150; Lehtola 2005: 160–66; 2015: 136–42; Nyyssönen 2007: 71–82, 86–98). In the Soviet Union, language revitalization efforts began in the 1970s and continued during the perestroika of the late 1980s, which also saw the birth of a Russian Sámi civil society (Berg-Nordlie 2017: 69–76; Overland and Berg-Nordlie 2012: 58–102). While there remain significant aspects of suppression and conflict in relations between the Sámi and the states in all four countries, certain policy measures have been made that give the Sámi more tools to work for the survival of their identity, language, and culture. While there have been many positive developments since the latter half of the 1900s, Sámi languages are still under critical threat—from the pressure of the majority societies in which many Sámi live their

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daily lives, from the majority-language mass media, and from the failure of state institutions to offer adequate Sámi-language services. Traditional Sámi economic activities are under severe pressure—from state regulations that threaten their continued presence in Sápmi; from the mining, logging, and fishing industries of large, non-Indigenous actors; and from the land-grabs of large energy-production facilities such as hydro-electric plants and wind-turbine plants.

Definitions and Divisions Different States: Differences in Governance This book will on several occasions make comparisons and point to contrasts between the Nordic states and Russia. The reader should be informed that when it comes to politics and governance, the basic conditions for interaction between ethnic majorities and minorities in Russia and the Nordic states are quite different. In the Nordic states also, there are some differences that should be noted. Russia is, both now and traditionally, an explicitly multiethnic state, although a multiethnic state with one clearly dominant ethnic group— the russkie or “ethnic Russians.” The state is accustomed to having policies that aim at integrating but not assimilating its ethnic minorities, as well as a tradition of paternalistic policies toward its “small peoples.” The three Nordic states are nation states that express the identity and interests of one dominant ethnic group—although to varying extents, the outliers here being Norway and Sweden, where the latter is effectively the remaining part of a one-time multi-ethnic empire, while the former is a state that seceded from Sweden following a century-long nationalist movement for Norwegian sovereignty. This partly explains the internal Nordic variation between Norway and Sweden, where the latter had a policy aimed at paternalistically preserving part of the Sámi nation within its borders, whereas the former went for full assimilation of the Sámi. The states also have marked differences regarding the authorities’ and the dominant group’s level of consciousness regarding their historical mistreatment of the Sámi, public consciousness regarding the present challenges in the dominant group-Indigenous relationship, and the extent to which political steps have been taken to rectify the situation. In this regard, Norway is arguably a positive outlier, because in the second half of the 1900s, and particularly following the Alta Dam Conflict (see below), this state switched over to a Sámi policy based on the state’s acknowledgment of having led a destructive

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policy toward the Sámi and recognition of the Sámi as an Indigenous people with Indigenous rights, although the extent to which the new normative and legal basis for Sámi policy is actually well enough implemented remains a matter of dispute (Minde 2003). As for the other Nordic states, their policy shifts have been less dramatic than Norway’s, but nevertheless the Sámi are recognized as Indigenous in all the three Nordic states (see below), and during the latter half of the 1900s all of them have taken some legal measures to protect the vulnerable Sámi language and culture. The states have relationships with the Sámi NGOs that allow for both cooperation and open criticism, and they have established certain Sámi representative organs that this book will refer to with the North Sámi term Sámediggis (often called “Sámi parliaments” in English). The Sámediggis are official organs of Sámi representation and limited self-governance, headed by politicians elected by and from electoral registries where persons who fulfill certain criteria may voluntarily register as Sámi voters (Bergh and Saglie 2011; Berg-Nordlie 2015b; Pettersen 2017). This model was first applied in Finland with the Sámi parlameanta (1973, also called the Sámi Delegation) (Lehtola 2005: 165–66). The Norwegian Sámediggi was established in 1989 after the Alta Dam Conflict’s (1968–82) massive Sámi and environmentalist protests against the construction of a large hydroelectric power plant on Sámi lands had made it clear that Norway needed to substantially reform its structures for Indigenous representation (more about the Alta Dam conflict in chapter 4). Sweden followed up with the establishment of its own Sámediggi in 1993, and Finland’s Sámi parlameanta was replaced by the Finnish Sámediggi in 1996. We may say that since the late 1900s, Norwegian, Swedish, and Finnish Sámi policy have been variations over the broader phenomenon “Nordic Sámi policy”: while there are certainly differences between Sámi policy in Finland, Norway, and Sweden, there are also many similarities, and the three states have on several occasions taken inspiration from each other’s practices. Russian Sámi policy, on the other hand, springs out of an entirely different political tradition. Rather than being a policy field of its own, Russian Sámi policy is just one province’s implementation of a broader federal policy field dealing with “small-numbered, native peoples of the North,” often abbreviated as KMNS (Korennye maločislennye narody Severa, see below). There is no official elected organ to represent KMNS at the federal level. Instead, solutions for Indigenous representation are sought at the province level, and how such representation is organized tends to vary widely between provinces (Berezhkov 2012; Kal’te

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2003: 70–72; Kryazhkov 2005; Krjažkov 2012; Todishev 2005; Turaev 2005; Zakharov 2005). In the province Murmansk Region, which is coterminous with Russian Sápmi, there is no single organ universally recognized as the democratic representative of all Russian Sámi (Berg-Nordlie 2017). In Russia, a Sámediggi has been proposed by Russian Sámi activists since the 1990s, but the authorities have not as yet agreed to establish such an organ. Since 2004, various models for Russian Sámi representation have been proposed and tried out. In 2010, an organ called the Sam’ sobbar (Sámi assembly) was established, originally a representation structure existing independently of the authorities, but since 2014 operating under the provincial authorities of Murmansk Province. In addition, there is a separate council of representatives from certain rural Sámi NGOs that is chosen by the provincial authorities (established 2009) (Berg-Nordlie 2017, 2018; chapter 4, this volume). Another important distinction between the Nordic states and Russia are their different traditions when it comes to how the states are ruled. Russia is nominally a democracy, but the country has a strong and prevalent tradition of authoritarian rule, and it is currently described in international research literature as a “hybrid” or “semiauthoritarian” state. The Nordic states, on the other hand, rate well in terms of press freedom and have regular popular elections that are considered to be fair (OSCE 2017). There are also longstanding traditions of involving various civil society actors in governance, even those that are openly critical of the state. While Russia has its own traditions of involving organized groups of citizens in governance, this has not traditionally extended to groups that are openly critical of the regime (Aasland et al. 2016; Berg-Nordlie 2017: 40–42; Davies, Aasland et al. 2016; Davies, Holm-Hansen et al. 2016; Kropp 2018). Involvement in critical Indigenous politics is associated with different levels of risk in the Nordic states and Russia. There are networks of business elites and political elites everywhere that work to realize projects that threaten traditional Indigenous livelihoods, but in Russia, opponents of such projects may find themselves threatened with violence or selective use of the legal apparatus (Bækken 2013) to silence them. The new securitization of the Western-Russian relationship has also negatively affected relations between the Russian state and Indigenous civil society. Representatives of the latter have since before the collapse of the Soviet Union cooperated with activists from other countries and used the global arena to press for political change at home (a common strategy for Indigenous activists in most

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states), but such activities are in the current political climate seen as suspect (Berezhkov 2012; Berg-Nordlie 2017: 72–74; IWGIA 2018). The situation of the Sámi is particularly challenging in such periods of intensified East-West rivalry because the Sámi nation is divided between states that belong to two different geopolitical blocs (BergNordlie 2017: 107–13). Hence, NGO-based activists for Indigenous and specifically Sámi causes work under very different conditions in the Nordic states and Russia.

Defining the Sámi: As Indigenous and as Sámi The historical experiences and contemporary situation of the Sámi fulfill the criteria of ILO 169 (Convention of the Rights of Indigenous Peoples), and the Sámi people are formally recognized as Indigenous in international politics. The Sámi have been part of the World Council of Indigenous Peoples (1975–96), the UN Working Group on Indigenous Populations (1982–2007), and currently the UN Expert Mechanism on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007–). They are also represented in their capacity as an Indigenous people in the Arctic Council and the Barents Euro-Arctic Cooperation (Minde 2003). At the state level, recognition as Indigenous varies: Norway has recognized the Sámi as its sole Indigenous population and ratified ILO 169. Finland has affirmed the status of the Sámi as an Indigenous people in its constitution. The group’s recognition as Indigenous in Sweden is less clear, but the Sámi were referred to as an Indigenous people by Parliament in 1977, and in the 2011 revised Constitution of Sweden they are referred to as a “people” (Henriksen 2006; Sametinget.se 2019a, 2019b; Skogvang 2005). In Russia, the Sámi are on the list of “native, small-numbered peoples of the North, Siberia and the Far East” (korennye maločislennye narody Severa, Sibiri i Dal’nego Vostoka or KMNS), which is the Russian category analogous to “Indigenous peoples,” although this category leaves out quite a number of nations that would fulfill the criteria of ILO 169 but are too populous to fit the numerical criterion (less than 50,000 individuals). Indigenous nations with a population larger than 50,000 people are in principle entitled to territorial self-government in the forms of national republics (province-level entities situated directly beneath the federal level in the Russian hierarchy, for example, the Komi Republic of North-West Russia), while Indigenous peoples with a smaller population are classified as KMNS. Other “arbitrary” criteria include the requirement that the ethnic group be connected to certain areas traditionally identified by Russians as peripheral, and

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the people as such must have a connection to certain types of traditional economic activities (deCosta 2015; Sokolovsky 2011). The issue of what defines an individual as a Sámi is a recurrent source of discussion and controversy (see Aikio and Åhrén 2014; Junka-Aikio 2014; Laakso 2016; Pettersen 2011, 2017). The authors have not made any operational definition of being Sámi or having “Sáminess” for the purposes of this book. First, this is not necessary with respect to the intentions of this book; second, there could be ethical as well as methodological problems involved in pre-defining some of our informants as non-Sámi or Sámi. We are aware that by not problematizing informants’ and actors’ self-description, we are in practice operating with a definition of Sáminess that relies entirely on individual self-definition. The authors should not be misinterpreted as supporting the use of such a definition for other purposes.

Divisions of the Sámi: Subgroups and Languages The Sámi constitute one ethnos, but there is notable cultural and linguistic variation within the people. The Sámi subdivide themselves into several cultural-linguistic subgroups, consisting of populations with their own traditional territories within Sápmi and related but distinct languages. North European state borders were generally drawn in such a way that they cut straight through the Sámi cultural-linguistic regions, leaving most Sámi language communities internally “bisected.” The southern part of Sápmi—the South and Ume Sámi lands—were divided between Norway and Sweden. In middle Sápmi, the homelands of the Pite and Lule Sámi were likewise divided between Norway and Sweden, while the large homeland of the North Sámi was divided up by Norway, Sweden, and Finland. Eastern Sápmi is home to the Inari, Kemi, Skolt, Akkala, Kildin, and Ter Sámi. Among these, the Inari Sámi area is entirely inside Finland by Lake Inari in Finland’s extreme northeast. Kemi Sámi was traditional to the southern part of Finnish Sápmi. The small homeland of the Skolt Sámi has been divided by Norway, Finland, and Russia. As you move further eastward in Russia, you go through the traditional homelands of the Akkala Sámi, the Kildin Sámi, and finally the far-northeastern Ter Sámi. The Sámi languages are primarily subdivided into Eastern Sámi (Ter, Kildin, Skolt, Akkala, Inari, Kemi) and Western Sámi, the latter of which are often further grouped into Southern (South Sámi, Ume Sámi) and Central (North Sámi, Lule Sámi, Pite Sámi) languages. One may also note a fundamental East-West orthographic division

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within the Sámi language group, as the Sámi on the Russian side of the borders use the Cyrillic alphabet whereas the Sámi in the West use the Latin alphabet. The Skolt Sámi, who are divided between the Russian state and two Western states (Finland and Norway), write their Sámi language with Cyrillic letters in Russia and Latin letters in the West. The vitality of the Sámi languages varies significantly. The Kemi Sámi language has been extinct for more than a century, while the Ter and Akkala languages have died out recently. Revitalization efforts are underway for Ume and Pite Sámi. Kildin, Skolt, Lule, Inari, and South Sámi are small but living languages. The North Sámi hold a special position as the largest cultural-linguistic group, with the least-threatened language, although it is still classified as vulnerable. North Sámi is particularly widespread in rural inland areas of central Sápmi. A further distinction is often made between Coast Sámi and other Sámi, mainly within the North Sámi subgroup. Due to state policies since the mid-1800s that have weakened the position of the Sámi languages, many members of the Sámi population do not speak or understand any Sámi language today (Kotus 2008; Moseley 2010; Regjeringen.no 2019; Sammallahti 1998a: 45–52, 1998b: 5; Scheller 2013: 394). This difference between “Sámi speakers” and other Sámi is quite important for intra-Sámi social and political dynamics. Interrelations between different groups of Sámi in urban areas is discussed in several chapters of the book. On Map 0.1 and Map 0.2 (see the front of the book), the southern border zone of Sápmi is demarcated by a black line. The precise course of this southern border zone tends to vary between maps. On our book’s maps, the southern border of Sápmi follows approximately the southern borders of Norway’s South Sápmi electoral constituency (more on this below); Sweden’s Jämtland and Västernorrland Counties; Lapland Region in Finland; and Russia’s Murmansk Region.3 On the maps, the homelands of various Sámi cultural-linguistic subgroups are not indicated. The reason for this is that the borders between the Sámi language-regions are not sharp, but fluid and even overlapping, so that utilizing sharp borders to demarcate the different regions can be misleading. We will instead comment on the geographical situation of the urban areas that are marked on Map 0.1—i.e., we will explain in which Sámi cultural-linguistic regions these cities and towns are situated. When a toponym is mentioned for the first time in this book, the Sámi name of that place will, in the cases where such a name exists, be mentioned in parentheses after the majority-language names. In

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the cases when a location has several local names in Sámi, all names will be listed in parentheses. Since this is a book about Indigenous issues, it would be just as logical for the Indigenous toponyms to have precedence over majority-language toponyms, but we have for pragmatic reasons chosen to operate primarily with majority-language names: we assume that many readers will want to, while reading, use the internet to quickly search out the geographical locations of places mentioned. The more frequent usage of majority-language toponyms means that it will be easier for readers to find these locations by using majority-language place names. The authors of this book are committed to preserving the Indigenous toponymic heritage of Northern Europe, and it is for that reason that we nevertheless make sure to introduce all Sámi toponyms in the text, and that we also list them in a separate appendix (A) featured at the back of the book. In the Norwegian part of the North Sámi area, the Map 0.1 shows (1) Hammerfest (Hámmárfeasta), (2) Alta (Áltá), and (3) Tromsø (Romsa). On the Swedish side of the border, we find (4) Kiruna (Giron) in the North Sámi region, while on the Finnish side, (6) Rovaniemi (Roavvenjárga) is situated on this region’s southeastern periphery, as is the Finnish-Swedish border-transcending “twin town,” (7) TornioHaparanda (Duortnus-Háhpárándi). In Russian Sápmi, (8) Murmansk (Murman Lánn’) is in the old Kildin Sámi area, while inland (9) Mončegorsk (Mončetuntur) and (10) Apatity-Kirovsk (-) are in the area of the now-extinct Akkala Sámi language. In Sweden, (11) Luleå (Luleju) is part of the Lule Sami area, while (5) Gällivare (Váhtjer/Váhčir) is home to Lule and North Sámi. (12) Bodø (Bådåddjo, Buvvda) in Norway is in a district with both a traditional Lule and Pite Sámi presence. Sweden’s (13) Skellefteå (Syöoldete) and (14) Umeå (Upmeje, Ubmeje) are in the Ume Sámi corner of Sápmi, although the reader should note the fluidity of the borders between the Ume Sámi and South Sámi regions. Swedish (15) Östersund (Staare) is situated in the center of the South Sámi region, while Norwegian (16) Trondheim (Tråante) sits on this region’s southwestern edge. Five of the cities featured on the map are considered to be outside Sápmi: (17) Oulu is the major city in Finland’s north; (18) Oslo (Oslove), (19) Stockholm (Stockholbma), and (20) Helsinki (Helsset) are capitals of Norway, Sweden, and Finland respectively; while (21) St. Petersburg is a former capital of Russia and the major city of Russia’s northwestern region. We have chosen to list these cities and towns because, as we shall see in chapter 2, they can be considered to be among the more important places for Sámi urban life.

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Divisions of Sápmi: States and Provinces Over the course of the centuries, the original endonyms for the Sámi homeland (Finnmo˛rk, Lappland), have shifted to refer to smaller parts of Sápmi. Today, none of the colonizing states have a politically delimited area called “Sápmi,” but there are certain administrative borders especially relevant in connection with Sámi geography. Murmansk Region, the Russian province that covers Russian Sápmi, has a charter (“constitution”) that recognizes the Sámi as the korennoj maločislennyj narod (“native small people,” i.e., Indigenous people) of the province (Murmansk Government 2019). Most of this province is covered by districts (rajony) that are on the Federal List of Places of [Indigenous Peoples’] Traditional Inhabitance and Traditional Economic Activities (from 2009)—specifically, the districts of Kola, Kovdor, Lovozero, and Ter (Berg-Nordlie 2015a; Krjažkov 2012). It should be noted that this list excludes all urban municipalities, in addition to the closed military areas of the northeast, and Pečenga District in the northwest, which borders Norway and is a high-security area. Residents of the listed districts have certain opportunities not available to city-dwelling Sámi (Berg-Nordlie 2015b, see also chapter 4, this volume). Indeed, Russian Indigenous legislation even more than Nordic legislation tends to emphasize the notion that Indigenous people have a distinct “rural” character (Berg-Nordlie 2015a; IWGIA 2019; Krjažkov 2010; Sokolovski 2000; Sokolovsky 2011). In Finland, the Sámi Domicile (Sámiid ruovttuguovlu, est. 1995) constitutes a geographically delimited cultural autonomy that covers the northernmost rural municipalities of Lapland Region. This area covers only a small part of the lands controlled by the Finnish state that were originally inhabited by Sámi, and includes no urban areas (Seurujärvi-Kari 2005). In Sweden and Norway, most of the territory within Sápmi has had administrative status as formalized Sámi reindeer-herding areas since the second half of the 1800s, although some of the traditional Sámi reindeer-herding lands have not been included in these (Bohlin 2005; Einarsbøl 2005; Sametinget.se 2019c) In Norway, the southernmost electoral constituency of the Sámediggi representative organ is called South Sápmi (Åarjel-Saepmie). Since the constituency’s name South Sápmi has been enacted through law (the Sámi Act, as revised in 2009), it could be argued that Norway has, in consequence, formalized something akin to a southern border for Sápmi.

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Furthermore, in Norway and Sweden, there are Sámi Language Administrative Areas where a Sámi language is co-official with the national dominant language. There are relatively few of these areas in Norway, whereas in Sweden the language administrative areas cover most municipalities in the northern and central inland, along with certain coastal municipalities. The Norwegian “Language Area” includes only rural municipalities, although this situation is somewhat ameliorated by the fact that the four northernmost counties as such are also part of the “Language Area” arrangement, and these four northern counties cover almost the entirety of Norway north of the South Sápmi Constituency border. The Swedish “Language Area” includes nine municipalities with settlements that exceed 5,000 inhabitants, including the Swedish capital Stockholm as of 2019 (Sametinget 2019d). The four northernmost counties of Sweden are also members of that state’s Language Area arrangement (Minoritet.se 2020). Another administrative geographical delimitation relevant for Sámi affairs is Norway’s Area of Sámediggi Subsidies for Economic Development (STN Area) which covers several rural municipalities, and the rural parts of certain municipalities that have urban centers. Persons living within the STN Area, regardless of ethnicity, have certain opportunities as part of efforts to implement Sámi rights and due to programs to preserve and revitalize Sámi culture (Johansen et al. 2018). The STN Area also has significance when it comes to the gathering of Sámi statistics (see chapter 2). Map 0.2 (see front of the book) shows Sápmi and some administrative zones of importance for the Sámi. The black area is constituted by the Language Area municipalities of Norway and Sweden, and the Domicile in Finland. The dark gray area represents the “Traditional Districts” in Russia, and the STN Area in Norway. The medium gray areas are Norwegian municipalities where some parts are included in the STN Area but not all, excluding among others the more urban parts of those municipalities. (Regarding the borders of Sápmi on this map, see discussion above.)

Conclusion This chapter presents a brief introduction to the Sámi Indigenous nation discussed in this book. We have shown through a very condensed account of the history of the Sámi with the North European states how the dominant peoples’ treatment of the Sámi gradually degenerated to forced tribute-collection and Christianization by violent means, to

The Sámi and Sápmi | 45

colonialist division of the Sámi land with state borders, and eventually policies of cultural annihilation. We have also related how the Sámi have reorganized and demanded their right to survive as a nation. This is, in short, a brief history of how the Sámi became an Indigenous nation. As discussed in the introduction, to be Indigenous is to occupy a certain social and political position in history and the present, and the Sámi are one of few peoples in Europe—a continent more known for spawning colonizing nations than Indigenous nations—who have been recognized as having the position of an Indigenous people. In this very brief account, we have, of course, not been able to touch on much of the rich and detailed history of the Sámi or even just the history of the relationship of the Sámi with other peoples and states, but our goal has been more moderate than to give any full account: we simply wish to tell the reader what they need to know before embarking on the rest of the book. Some further details of the historical experiences and present situation of the Sámi will be dealt with in other chapters. Those with a penchant for history would be particularly advised to inspect chapters 2 and 4. In this chapter we have also commented on some notable distinctions between the states up through history. Some have been more paternalistic in their orientation while others have been more assimilationist, and on relevant differences today where some are more accommodating toward Sámi rights and interests, while others are less so. The states that were worse in their treatment of the Sámi yesterday are not the same as the ones today. A lesson to draw from this may be that no state’s positive treatment of its Indigenous people is a given, and political and ideological fluctuations among the dominant peoples may hit an Indigenous people hard, even in states that were more hospitable earlier. If we want to draw a more optimistic conclusion, we may focus on how the general attitudes to the Indigenous people in Northern Europe is overall more positive now, and the legal situation better, than what it was some forty or fifty years ago. Yet, the Sámi are still in a position where survival as an ethnic group is something that must be worked for, in defiance of powerful social, economic, and political structures and processes. The chapter has also introduced us to some basic administrative areas and institutions that will be of relevance for many parts of the rest of the book. The extreme dominance of rural areas in the groups of administrative areas of special significance for Sámi culture and language preservation may be noted as particularly relevant in a period where urbanization is a key feature of Sámi demographic development. Some institutions and areas introduced here are also used

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for statistical purposes, among others when attempting to measure the extent of Sámi urbanization. The following chapter will give the reader an overview of what we may and may not know about Sámi urbanization in pure numbers, as well as go through history with a focus on urbanization processes of relevance for the Sámi people. Table 1.1. | Size and population of Sápmi. Russian population figures are from the latest all-Russia census (2010). Population data for Norway are from 2017 (SSB—Statistics Norway). Population data for Sweden are from 2016 (SCB—Statistics Sweden). Population data for Finland, as well as all data about the area, are from the Great Norwegian Encyclopedia (SNL.no). Definition of Sápmi used for this table reflects that of Map 0.1 and Map 0.2.

Area

Total population

Square kilometers

Percent of Sápmi’s total area

Total number of inhabitants

Percent of Sápmi’s total population

Norwegian Sápmi

168,623

26

969,515

31

Swedish Sápmi

242,735

38

1,175,039

38

Finnish Sápmi

92,667

14

180,207

6

Russian Sápmi

144,900

22

795,409

25

Entire Sápmi

648,926

100

3,120,170

100

Mikkel Berg-Nordlie is a historian who works as a researcher at the NIBR Institute for Urban and Regional Research at the Oslo Metropolitan University (NIBR—OsloMet), and is responsible for Sámi history articles in the Great Norwegian Encyclopedia (SNL). He wrote his PhD at UiT—Arctic University of Norway on the history of Russian Sámi representation in Russian politics and pan-Sámi networking, and holds an MA in peace and conflict studies from the University of Oslo). Anna Andersen (née Afanasyeva) holds a PhD in humanities with specialization in history, an MA degree in Indigenous Studies from UiT—The Arctic University of Norway, and an MA equivalent in pedagogy from the Murmansk State Arctic University (MAGU). She defended her PhD dissertation titled “Boarding School Education of the Sámi People in Soviet Union (1935–1989): Experiences of Three Generations” at UiT in 2019. She currently works at UiT and teaches as an invited scholar at various BA and MA courses at the Sámi University of Applied Sciences in Kautokeino.

The Sámi and Sápmi | 47

Notes 1. Sápmi may also be used to indicate the nation of Sápmi, i.e., the Sámi ethnic group, but in this book we use the term exclusively as a toponym. 2. Another reason that the term “Finn” was abandoned when referring to the Sámi was because Suomalaiset, a larger ethnic group in Northern Europe, are also known internationally as “Finns,” and the country where they are the dominant ethnos, Suomi, is internationally called “Finland.” The language of the Suomalaiset is related to the Sámi languages, but not mutually intelligible, and the two peoples (Sámi and Suomalaiset) are culturally distinct. The Kven Immigration to Denmark-Norway that began in the 1700s caused an increased presence of Finnish language and culture along the northernmost coast of Norway. This eventually made it more pressing to implement a terminology in the Norwegian language that removed ambiguity as regards whether one is talking about the Sámi people or another ethnic group. For more about the Kven Immigration and the Kvens, see endnote 5 in chapter 4. 3. Some definitions of Sápmi leave out certain southern and coastal areas included in this book’s definition. Other definitions of Sápmi may include parts of the southern inland that are not included here. For example, on the maps’ depiction of Sápmi, the municipality of Älvdalen in Sweden has fallen just south of the border. Idre in Älvdalen municipality is, however, often included in the definition of Sápmi, and the municipality is within Sweden’s Sámi Language Administrative Area (see main text for more on this). Also sometimes included is Kuusamo municipality in Finland, just southeast of the Lapland Region, by the Russian border. These municipalities are not included since the book bases its visualization of the southern border on provincial borders—with the exception of Norway, where an official demarcation of the southern border of Sápmi has been indicated by the state naming one Sámediggi electoral constituency Åarjel-Saepmie (South Sápmi) and hence the southern border of that constituency is used in Norway’s case.

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Lehtola, Veli-Pekka. 2005. “Research and Activism in Sámi Politics: The Ideas and Achievements of Karl Nickul towards Securing Governance for the Sámi.” Acta Borealia 22(2): 153–69. ———. 2015. “Second World War as a Trigger for Transcultural Changes among Sámi People in Finland.” Acta Borealia 32(2): 125–47. Minde, Henry. 2003. “The Challenge of Indigenism: The Struggle for Sami Land Rights and Self-Government in Norway 1960–1990.” In Indigenous People: Resource Management and Global Rights, ed. Svein Jentoft, Henry Minde, and Ragnar Nilsen, 75–106. Delft: Eburon. ———. 2005. “Fornorskinga av samene—hvorfor, hvordan og hvilke følger” [The Norwegianization of the Sámi – why, how, and what conseequences?]. Gáldu Čala 3. Retrieved 8 January 2020 from http://skuvla.info/skolehist/minde-n .htm. Minoritet.se. 2020. “Förvaltningsområdena växer stadigt” [The administrative area keeps growing] . Retrieved 8 January 2020 from http://www.minoritet .se/forvaltningsomraden-for-minoritetssprak. Moseley, Christopher, ed. 2010. Atlas of the World’s Languages in Danger, 3rd ed. Paris: UNESCO Publishing. Retrieved 8 May 2021 from http://www.unesco .org/culture/en/endangeredlanguages/atlas. Murmansk Government. 2019. “Ustav Murmanskoj oblasti” [Charter of Murmansk Region]. Retrieved 8 January 2020 from https://gov-murman.ru/ regulatory/charter_mo/. Nyyssönen, Jukka. 2007. “ ‘Everybody recognized that we were not white’. Sami identity politics in Finland, 1945–1990.” PhD thesis, UiT-Arctic University of Norway. OSCE. 2017. “Norway, Parliamentary Election, 11 September 2017: Final Report.” Retrieved 21 March 2020 from https://www.osce.org/odihr/elections/ norway/360336. Overland, Indra and Mikkel Berg-Nordlie. 2012. Bridging Divides: Ethno-Political Leadership among the Russian Sámi. New York: Berghahn Pedersen, Steinar. 2008. Lappekodicillen i nord 1751–1859. Fra grenseavtale og sikring av samenes rettigheter til grensesperring og samisk ulykke. Dieđut 3/2008 [The Lapp Kodicill in the North 1751–1859. From border agreement and securing of the rights of the Sámi to border closing and Sámi misfortune]. Guovdageaidnu: Sámi Allaskuvla. ———. 2021. “Folk med gamle rettigheter på kolonisert jord 1751–1814.” [People with old rights on colonized land, 1751-1714]. In Samenes historie fra 1751 til 2010. [History of the Sámi from 1751 to 2010]. eds. Andresen, Astrid, Bjørg Evjen and Teemu Ryymin, 156–218. Oslo: Cappelen Damm Akademisk. Pettersen, Torunn. 2011. “Out of the Backwater? Prospects for Contemporary Sámi Demography.” In Indigenous Peoples and Demography: The Complex Relation between Identity and Statistics, ed. Per Axelsson and Peter Sköld, 295–308. Oxford: Berghahn. ———. 2017. “Hvem skal med? Holdninger til kriteriene for registrering i sametingenes valgmanntall i Norge og Sverige” [Who gets to join? Attitudes to the criteria for registration in the Sámediggi Electoral Registries of Norway and Sweden]. In Ett folk, ulike valg : Sametingsvalg i Norge og Sverige [One people, different elections: Sámediggi elections in Norway and Sweden], ed.

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Eva Josefsen, Ulf Mörkenstam, Ragnhild Nilsson, Jo Saglie, 147–76. Oslo: Gyldendal Akademisk. Regjeringen.no. 2019. “Fakta om samiske språk” [Facts about Sámi languages]. Retrieved 10 January 2020 from https://www.regjeringen.no/no/tema/ur folk-og-minoriteter/samepolitikk/samiske-sprak/fakta-om-samiske-sprak/ id633131/. Sammallahti, Pekka. 1998a. “Saamic.” In The Uralic Languages, ed. Daniel Abondolo, 43–95. London: Routledge. ———. 1998b. The Saami Languages: An Introduction. Kárášjohka: Davvi Girji. Sametinget.se. 2019a. “Samerna i Sverige” [The Sámi of Sweden]. Swedish Sámediggi website. Retrieved 15 January 2020 from https://www.sametinget .se/samer. Sametinget.se 2019b. “Historiskt beslut om grundlagen i Sveriges riksdag” [Historic decision about the Constitution in Sweden’s parliament]. Swedish Sámediggi website. Retrieved 15 January 2020 from https://www.sametinget .se/17488. Sametinget.se 2019c. “Rennäringens markanvändning” [The land usage of the reindeer herding industry]. Swedish Sámediggi website. Retrieved 15 January 2020 from https://www.sametinget.se/8382. Sametinget.se. 2019d. “Förvaltningskommuner i det samiska området” [Administrative area municipalities in the Sámi area] Swedish Sámediggi website. Retrieved 15 January 2020 from https://www.sametinget.se/24399. Scheller, Elisabeth. 2013. “Kola Sami Language Revitalisation—Opportunities and Challenges.” Humanistica Oerebroensia: Artes et lingua 16: L’image du Sápmi II: 392–421. Seurujärvi-Kari, Irja. 2005. “Saami Homeland.” In The Saami: A Cultural Encyclopedia, ed. Ulla-Maija Kulonen, Irja Seurujärvi-Kari, and Risto Pulkkinen, 347. Helsinki: SKS. Skogvang, Susann Funderud. 2005. Samerett. 2. utgave [Sámi Law, 2. Edition]. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget. Skorgen, Torgeir, Ingunn Ikdahl, and Mikkel Berg-Nordlie. 2020. “Rasisme” [Racism]. Store norske leksikon. Retrieved 26 January 2021 from https://snl.no/ rasisme. Sokolovski, S. V. 2000. “The Construction of ‘Indigenousness’ in Russian Science, Politics and Law.” The Journal of Legal Pluralism and Unofficial Law 32 (45): 91–113. Sokolovsky, S.V. (2011) “Russian legal concepts and the demography of indigenous peoples.” Axelsson, P. and P. Sköld (2011) Indigenous peoples and demography. The complex relation between identity and statistics. New York: Berghahn Todishev, Mikhail. 2005. “Indigenous Peoples and the Electoral System in the Russian Federation.” In An Indigenous Parliament? Realities and Perspectives in Russia and the Circumpolar North, ed. Kathrin Wessendorf, 52–65. Copenhagen: IWGIA. Tomiak, Julie, Tyler McCreary, David Hugill, Robert Henry, and Heather Dorries. 2019. “Introduction: Settler City Limits.” In Settler City Limits: Indigenous Resurgence and Colonial Violence in the Urban Prairie West, ed. Heather Dorries,

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Robert Henry, David Hugill, Tyler McCreary, and Julie Tomiak, 1–24. East Lansing: Michigan State University Press. Turaev, Vadim. 2005. “The Examples of Amur and Khabarovsk.” In An Indigenous Parliament? Realities and Perspectives in Russia and the Circumpolar North, ed. Kathrin Wessendorf, 74–87. Copenhagen: IWGIA. Willumsen, Liv Helene. 2010. The Witchcraft Trials in Finnmark, Northern Norway. Leikanger: Skald. Zachrisson, Inger. 2005. “Encounters in Border Country Saami and Scandinavian Peoples in Central Scandinavia.” In Finno-Ugric People in the Nordic Countries: ROOTS V: The Roots of Peoples and Languages of Northern Eurasia, ed. Birger Winsa, 40–45. Övertorneå: Academia Tornedaliensis-Meän akateemi (Norrbottens kultur- och forskningscentrum). Zachrisson, Inger. 1997. “Möten i gränsland: Samer och germaner i Mellanskandinavien” [Meetings in the borderlands: Sámi and Germanics in Middle Scandinavia]. Monographs 4. Stockholm: Statens historiska museum. Zachariassen, Ketil. 2012. Samiske nasjonale strategar: Samepolitikk og nasjonsbygging 1900–1 940. Isak Saba, Anders Larsen og Per Fokstad [Sámi national strategists: Sámi politics and nation building 1900–1940. Isak Saba, Anders Larsen, and Per Fokstad]. Kárášjohka: ČálliidLágadus. Zachariassen, Ketil and Teemu Ryymin with Bjørg Evjen. 2021. “Fornorskingspolitikk og samepolitisk mobilisering 1852–1917.” [Norwegianization policy and Sámi political countermobilization]. In Samenes historie fra 1751 til 2010. [History of the Sámi from 1751 to 2010]. eds. Andresen, Astrid, Bjørg Evjen and Teemu Ryymin, 156–218. Oslo: Cappelen Damm Akademisk. Zakharov, Dmitry. 2005. “The Example of Sakha (Yakutia).” In An Indigenous Parliament? Realities and Perspectives in Russia and the Circumpolar North, Kathrin Wessendorf, 88–97. Copenhagen: IWGIA.

? chapter two

Cities in Sápmi, Sámi in the Cities Indigenous Urbanization in the Nordic Countries and Russia Mikkel Berg-Nordlie and Anna Andersen

This chapter accounts for urban areas of particular importance to the Sámi and gives a rough sketch of Sámi urbanization processes. How and why did urban areas form in Sápmi? When did large-scale urbanization of the Sámi people begin to occur? In which urban areas are the Sámi most concentrated? Some of these questions are difficult to answer in full due to methodological issues that make it impossible to obtain a complete overview of urbanization history and current settlement patterns. The scarcity of available demographic data on the Sámi is particularly pronounced in regard to the Nordic states after World War II—which was a period of rapid urbanization in these countries. Prior to World War II there was more data collection, but the data gathered then describe a period with more pronounced rurality among the Sámi, and are also troubled by methodological problems. The first part of this chapter discusses the data scarcity issues. The second and third parts discuss urbanization processes in the Nordic states and Russia separately. The chapter is divided geographically in this way because urbanization processes, and indeed Sámi history in general, have been very different in the eastern and western parts of Sápmi. The second and third parts are both subdivided: one part deals with the growth of urban areas within the geographic area of Sápmi, another part deals specifically with Sámi urbanization.

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This chapter features a large number of toponyms, since it needs to make mention of many urban areas. For a discussion of Sámi and majority-language toponyms, and how these are treated in the book, please see the discussion in chapter 1. In Appendix A at the end of the book, the reader may find an alphabetical list of places, with corresponding toponyms in Sámi. Readers may find the maps at the front of the book useful when reading this chapter. Map 0.1 shows Provinces and Key Urban Areas in Sápmi while Map 0.2 shows Sámi Administrative Areas in Sápmi.

Counting the Sámi: The Data Situation for Quantitative Studies of Sámi Urbanization Nordic Sámi Statistics in the Past Before World War II, the Nordic states gathered statistical data on the ethnicity of their citizenry. However, the quality of these data is subject to contemporary criticism for underreporting and non-reporting of Sámi ethnicity (Sköld and Nordin 2015: 36–37). Some people who considered themselves Sámi or who had a Sámi background that was relevant for their identity and life story had their connection to the Sámi people “muted” in these documents. Lars Ivar Hansen (2015: 70–74) has noted that some people of Sámi and other minority ethnicities who moved to the urban area of Tromsø (Norway) during the 1800s were later found to be registered with a blank ethnicity column in the statistics and that all “ethnically blank” individuals were summed up as part of the town’s “Norwegian” population. He also noted that in the 1900 census, there were persons initially reported to be of mixed ethnicity that were later actively “corrected” to “Norwegians” in the census. Norwegian statistics have also been unclear about whether individuals were Indigenous Sámi or of Finnish immigrant heritage (Evjen 2008: 241–45, 2011).1 Sámi in rural areas could also be made statistically invisible by the methods applied for registering ethnicity. For example, the 1920 census in Sweden assigned to all children the ethnicity of their father, regardless of the mother’s ethnicity (Axelsson and Sköld 2011: 121–22). Moreover, the criteria for who were counted as Sámi and non-Sámi have fluctuated between censuses, making it difficult to compare the population across time (Andresen 2021; Aubert 1978: 15; Olsen 2006). After World War II, there were fears over possible misuse of data on citizens’ ethnicity or “race.” This led the Nordic states to discontinue the gathering of such data (Axelsson and Sköld 2011: 122, 130; Pettersen 2011: 187–88). As an unintended consequence, the quan-

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titative data on the Nordic Sámi population in the postwar period is very limited. In the 1960s and 1970s, there were in all the three Nordic countries research projects aimed at providing quantitative data on the Sámi population, in the absence of census data. All of these were limited to mapping the population of only selected geographical areas, and/ or they utilized Sámi definitions that have later been problematized. The initiative for these research projects came in 1959, from the border-transcending umbrella organization Nordic Sámi Council (est. 1956), but only the Finnish section of the organization was able to secure governmental funds for the project, so no similar studies were conducted in Norway or Sweden at the time (Aubert 1978: 16). As for the USSR, the Sámi of Russia did not have the opportunity to participate in the Sámi Council at all until 1992 (Berg-Nordlie 2013). The Finnish Sámi census was conducted in 1962 by twelve Sámi teachers and students under the leadership of researcher and Sámipolitical activist Karl Nickul (1977: 93–94). The project had both a geographical delimitation and a Sámi definition that can be problematized. As for the first, it counted only people living in the northernmost part of Lapland Region: the rural municipalities of Enontekiö (Eanodat), Inari (Aanaar), and Utsjoki (Ohcejohka), as well as the northernmost parts of two bordering rural municipalities, Sodankylä (Soađegilli) and Kittilä (Gihttel). This delimitation had also been used earlier, by a 1948–49 commission on Sámi affairs in Finland (Nickul 1977: 94) and is more or less identical to the Sámi Domicile established in 1995—except that no parts of Kittilä were included in the Domicile (see Aubert 1978; Seurujärvi-Kari 2005a: 234–37, for more on the Sámi Domicile see chapter 1).2 Nickul defined Sámi ethnicity on the basis of the language of the individuals who were enumerated or their immediate ancestors, the cut-off being a minimum of one grandparent who spoke Sámi (Lehtola 2005; Nickul 1977; Seurujärvi-Kari 2005a: 234–37). This definition is more restrictive than some recent Sámi definitions—see, for example, below on the Sámediggi Electoral Registries in Norway and Finland (for more on the Sámediggi representative institution, see chapter 1). The definition and the geographical scope obviously omitted a number of Sámi from the data set, for example, those settled in urban areas. The Swedish study was conducted in 1972–73. This study also underreported the numbers of the Sámi, and probably the urban Sámi in particular, since the pastoral reindeer-herding Sámi population was used as the basis for the studies, although the numbers also included the kin and family of that basis population. The Swedish study found

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a Sámi population of 15,342 individuals, but also made an estimation that placed the total Sámi population as likely to be constituted by approximately 17,000 individuals, whereas the Finnish census included approximately 3,400 individuals (Aubert 1978: 16–17; Axelsson and Sköld 2011; Hassler 2005, 11; Sköld and Nordin 2015; SOU 1975: 99, 77–90). Vilhelm Aubert (1978: 16) warned that the definitions utilized for Sáminess differed so greatly in the Swedish and Finnish cases that direct comparison was simply not possible. During the 1960s, the Norwegian Sámi Council3 requested twice from Statistics Norway that they conduct a survey of Norway’s Sámi population. Eventually, such a study was organized, led by the sociologist Vilhelm Aubert (1978). Geographically, the study was limited to selected municipalities in the three northernmost counties, thereby excluding the southernmost part of Sápmi, and the Sámi living outside Sápmi. It also included few municipalities in Nordland County: questions about Sámi affinity were put to 89.7 percent of the population in Finnmark County, 22.9 percent of the population in Troms County, 6.1 percent of the population in Nordland County, and to nobody south of these three counties (Aubert 1978: 113). Aubert (1978: 18–19) underscored that this selection omitted many Sámi from the data set, pointing out in particular the absence of the urban Sámi population. Referring to non-quantitative research,4 Aubert noted that Oslo (Oslove) and Tromsø (Romsa) were particularly important urban settlement areas for the Sámi—and that neither of these municipalities had been included in the study. He further noted that questions of Sámi identity and language were still “controversial and painful” in some parts of Norway due to the long period of discrimination and assimilation pressure, and the study was consequently likely to be affected by underreporting of Sámi ethnicity. Finally, Aubert pointed out that some persons might simply not be aware of their own Sámi heritage (Aubert 1978: 17; Evjen 2008, 2011: 169; Pettersen 2011: 187). All in all, there were 113,874 individuals in Norway who received Aubert’s questionnaire. Of these, 19,635 respondents indicated that Sámi was the first language of at least one of their grandparents; 10,535 respondents indicated that Sámi was their first language; and 9,175 considered themselves to be Sámi. Aubert concluded that within his delimited districts of research, in the immediate aftermath of a long period of assimilation policy, there were 27,646 people whom he could categorize as having a broadly defined Sámi “affinity.” The latter figure also included persons who were unable or unwilling to answer regarding their ethnic identity and/or the language of their

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grandparents. In presenting these data, Aubert again noted that the last category in particular would have been much larger if urban areas had also been included. Aubert estimated that there were “probably some 40,000 persons in Norway whose life is in one way or another affected by their Lappish ancestry,” but did not explain how he arrived at this figure, which has resurfaced sporadically as “the number of Sámi in Norway” ever since his study was published (Pettersen 2015). Having indicated this figure, Aubert noted, “how many Lapps there are in Norway, poses a problem which no census can decide” (Aubert 1978: 113, 118).

Contemporary Nordic Sámi Statistics Possibilities for quantitative data collection on the Sámi population were further weakened when the Nordic states abolished traditional questionnaires in favor of compiling data from other registries—Finland in 1990, Norway and Sweden in 2011 (see Axelsson and Sköld 2011: 118; Jansson 2012; Pettersen 2011: 189–93; Statistisk Sentralbyrå 2011). In Norway and Sweden, this removed the opportunity for individuals to register as Sámi-speakers.5 In Finland, people may still register their children as having Sámi as their mother tongue. In 2017, the Norwegian Sámediggi received promises from the authorities that people in Norway would be given the possibility to register themselves as speakers of North, Lule, and South Sámi—but not any of the smaller Sámi languages (for more on the Sámi languages, see chapter 1). This possibility to self-register as a Sámi speaker was launched during the fall of 2019 (Sametinget.no 2019a), but there is as yet no broad knowledge in the population about the possibility to register, or why one should register, and hence few have done so (Nrk.no 2020). Despite these challenges, statistical research on the Sámi population does take place. In Norway, publications on Norwegian Sámi statistics are published annually, under the editorship of an expert group jointly established by the Norwegian Sámediggi and the Norwegian Government (see Holth and Lillegård 2017; Regjeringen.no 2019a). However, all Nordic Sámi statistics are by necessity based on categories of people that may be considered only approximations of the total Sámi population. These categories may include some but not all Sámi individuals, or they may include some Sámi individuals and in addition some non-Sámi individuals. Categories of the latter type include the populations of officially defined Sámi “Language Administrative Areas,” Norway’s STN Area, and the Sámi Domicile of Finland

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(see chapter 1). These are geographic areas where many, but far from all, Sámi live, and where also many non-Sámi live. In both Norway and Finland, urban areas are excluded from these areas so that urban Sámi fall out of view when research is based on them. Demographic researchers also utilize the Sámediggi Electoral Registries (SERs). These are the Nordic states’ registries of people who may vote and run for election for the Sámediggis—the states’ Indigenous representative and participatory organs (see Table 2.1 at the end of this chapter for current SER numbers). In addition to their intended use, the SERs can be used for research if the Sámediggi gives consent. One factor that limits the usefulness of the SER for Sámi statistics is that the registries are not open to all who consider themselves to be Sámi. In Norway, people must, in addition to considering themselves Sámi, have grown up in a home where a Sámi language was spoken or have a parent/grandparent/great-grandparent who grew up in such a home or have a SER-registered parent. In addition, there is an unknown number of people who are able to register but have not (see Pettersen 2015). Interviews6 indicate that politically based individual reasons range from a low interest in politics, via political dissatisfaction with the Sámediggi, to outright disagreement with the idea that there should be a Sámediggi (see Berg-Nordlie and Pettersen 2021). Still, research has also shown that many people register with SER more as a statement of identity than out of a desire to influence politics (Bergh and Saglie 2011; Selle et al. 2015: 152–54). Less political reasons to abstain from registering include a sense of uncertainty regarding whether one is strong enough in terms of Sámi culture or identity to truly “belong” in SER. Others again see no reason not to be in the registry, but have simply not registered yet—after all, registration is something that must be done actively. Finally, some respondents display a lack of detailed knowledge concerning what precisely SER is and how to register (see Berg-Nordlie and Pettersen 2021). A study of a selection of the population in most of the municipalities that, at the time, constituted the Norwegian Sámi Language Administrative Area (see chapter 1) found that 17 percent of the respondents had not registered in SER despite having the possibility, 53 percent had registered, and 30 percent did not meet the criteria (Selle et al. 2015: 29).7 In sum, the Norwegian SER cannot be considered to be an exhaustive registry of the Norwegian Sámi population—this too is just an indicator of the total population. In Norway, the SER is not legally defined as or popularly considered to be an exhaustive registry of Norway’s Sámi population. Finland’s

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and Sweden’s Sámi Parliament Acts (1995, 1992), on the other hand, do contain criteria for who can be considered a Sámi, and they conflate these with the criteria for SER registration. Particularly in Finland, SER is often considered an exhaustive Sámi registry. In Finland, SER also includes children of registered people. Upon the age of eighteen, they are given the option to declare that they are Sámi and stay in SER (Samediggi.fi 2019). Unlike in Norway, legislation in Finland and Sweden does not consider it a close enough linkage to the Sámi people to have a great-grandparent who grew up in a home where Sámi was spoken: the cut-off is set one generation closer to the individual wishing to register. The Finnish criteria technically also allow persons to register who had a parent registered in the voting lists to the former Finnish Sámi representation organ Sámi Parlameanta, also known as “the Sámi Delegation,” which existed from 1972 to 1995 (SeurujärviKari 2005b), or was eligible to be on those voting lists, or had an ancestor registered as a “Lapp” in certain older documents. From the latter two criteria, it appears as if the Finnish SER has quite liberal entry rules, but in practice there are persons who claim to fulfill these criteria and yet have been denied registration. The rules and practices of SER have been discussed critically in Norway and Sweden, but in Finland they are a truly contentious issue. Some consider it unjust that certain persons of Sámi heritage who identify themselves as Sámi are not entitled to register because their families come from parts of Sápmi where the language died out a long time ago; others fear that the SERs will be “flooded” by applicants with little or no connection to Sámi culture or Sámi communities if every individual with an ancestor registered as a “Lapp” should be eligible to join the registry (Beach 2007; Berg-Nordlie 2015b; Bjørklund 2016; Junka-Aikio 2014; Laakso 2016; Lehtola 2005: 164–65; Nyyssönen 2015; Pettersen 2015).

Russian Sámi Statistics In the case of Russia, researchers have the disadvantage that there is no Sámediggi Electoral Registry, since there is no Russian Sámediggi. Several attempts have been made to establish a Sámediggi in Russia, but so far those who desire such an institution have not succeeded (Berg-Nordlie 2017, 2018). In contrast to the Nordic countries, however, Soviet and Russian censuses—also those conducted after World War II—do include data on ethnicity. These censuses have been widely used in research on Indigenous peoples (Gucol et al. 2007; Kiseljov and Kiseljova 1987; Konstantinov 2015; Kuropjatnik 2005; Ljarskaja 2003; Tishkov et al. 2015; Wheel-

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ersburg and Gutsol 2008; 2009). In the USSR censuses from 1926 to 1989, ethnic identification was based on neither genealogy nor any cultural indicator but relied wholly on a person’s self-identification (Gozulov 1936: 319; Tiškov 2009; Tishkov et al. 2015). This approach has been retained in the Russian Federation’s statistics, wherein people themselves indicate their ethnicity (“nationality”) and native language. However, Russian, and Soviet censuses allow each individual to report only one “nationality.” As a result, census data give information about only those members of ethnic minorities who are comfortable with officially registering their minority ethnic identity instead of russkij (ethnic Russian)—the majority ethnos, that many of them are likely to identify with, at least partly. Considering how many Sámi have mixed heritages and complex identities, as well as the possible reluctance to be identified in public records as belonging to an ethnic minority, under-reporting of ethnic minority affinity in Russian censuses must be assumed. It is on this background we must interpret the finding that, since the late 1800s, the Sámi population of Russia has remained stable, ranging from 1,500 to 2,000 persons (Overland and Berg-Nordlie 2012: 113–15, 121–22; Utvik 1985: 67). According to Sergey Zavalko (2011: 201), the Russian Sámi have over time demonstrated a higher birth rate than mortality rate (both of which are above that of the non-Sámi population) so the Russian Sámi population should theoretically have grown. The stagnant number of Sámi in the Russian statistics was noted already in 1925 by Vasilij Alymov (2006) and was explained in terms of the ongoing processes of assimilation. Indeed, the lack of growth in the statistical Sámi population can only be explained by either assimilation, or by people retaining their Sámi identity but becoming statistically invisible because they self-register in the census as other than Sámi.

Urbanization and the Sámi in the Nordic Countries The Urbanization of Nordic Sápmi The oldest towns and cities in Nordic Sápmi date back to Medieval and Viking Age trading centers, but most of them are much younger. Some of the current urban areas in the Sámi homeland were established to facilitate and control the flow of goods from north to the south, and some were also military outposts against rival states. Many of the urban settlements hail from the period between the mid-1500s and early 1800s, a period when the Nordic states divided Sápmi between them through a series of wars and agreements (see chapter 1,

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this volume) and increased their presence in the north. These northern centers grew into towns, and a few of them grew into cities. During the 1800s and 1900s, the establishment of extractive industries in Sápmi intensified, leading to further urbanization, also in parts of the land that were still Sámi-dominated. The second half of the 1900s saw a general wave of urbanization—many rural northerners resettled to regional urban centers or migrated to cities further south, in the latter case particularly to the national capitals. In the following, we examine in more detail some urban centers in the Nordic countries that are of particular importance for the Sámi, with an eye to when and why they were established. We proceed through Sápmi province by province, beginning with the four northernmost Norwegian provinces, then the four northernmost Swedish provinces, and finally the northernmost province of Finland. During this “walkthrough” we will not pay particular attention to the Sámi political and cultural history of the urban areas but provide a more general description. Sámi have been part of the history of these urban areas since their establishment, as they were created in areas where the Sámi were present. Naturally enough, the Sámi oriented themselves toward the markets, employment opportunities, and educational facilities that these urban areas represented. The names by which these urban areas are generally known do not necessarily reflect the Sámi part of their history, as they were founded and named by members of the dominant peoples, but urban areas in Sápmi generally also have Sámi names in parallel to the majority-language names. These names, which are often not known to the general populace, are either old Indigenous names for the places where the towns were established (as with Narvik/Áhkánjárga) or names generally assumed to be Sámified versions of majority-language names (e.g., Harstad/ Hárstták). In some cases, the majority-language names may themselves be based on pre-existing Sámi names (e.g., Alta/Áltá) or direct translations of Sámi names (e.g., Vadsø/Čáhcesuolu). The picture is different when it comes to the provinces: neither their borders nor their names reflect the Indigenous culture. In Norway, there are traditional “Sámified” names for the provinces within Sápmi, but this is not necessarily the case for the provinces of the other states. (For more on dominant-language and Sámi toponymy, see chapter 1 and Appendix A in this volume). Norway When going through the brief history of the development of urban areas in today’s Norwegian Sápmi, it should be borne in mind that

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Norway was from the 1300s to the 1500s part of an unequal union led by Denmark, and thereafter effectively part of the Danish state until 1814. Then, as a result of the Napoleonic Wars, Norway found itself in a forced and asymmetrical union with Sweden that lasted until 1905. In the Denmark/Norway-claimed part of the north, urban development took place relatively late, partially due to the favored position of two cities further south: Bergen and Trondheim. To simplify a complex legal and economic situation, the population of northern Norway (current-day Nordland, Troms, and Finnmark) was obliged to do its trade with the merchants of Trondheim and Bergen cities (Imsen and Winge 2004). However, the northern population in addition cultivated trade with merchants from Russia during the 1700s—the Pomor Trade. During the 1700s and 1800s, the southern cities’ “monopoly” over the north was gradually done away with, and the state increasingly turned to establishing trade centers within the north. The Pomor Trade was also formally permitted, beginning with legalization of the trade in towns and marketplaces and eventually expanding to include other areas as well (Hansen and Olsen 2004: 237; Imsen and Winge 1999: 112–13, 296–97, 317–18). The liberalization of the north from Trondheim and Bergen was followed by the establishment of new towns on the north coast during the 1700s and 1800s. After this, several smaller urban areas also grew forth due to industrialization, including in some areas that had until then had a rather limited presence of non-Sámi. Generally speaking, Norwegian Sápmi has a smaller population and smaller urban areas further north and east— while simultaneously the Sámi share of the population grows toward the north and east. One major deviation from this general tendency is the city of Tromsø, which is located quite far north, yet is the most populous urban area in the northern half of Norway. Today, several of the urban centers in Norwegian Sápmi have important institutions of higher education that attract both Sámi and non-Sámi and serve important functions for both society in general and Sámi society. Since larger educational institutions attract Sámi students and hence are important drivers of Sámi urbanization, we will mention such institutions during this “walkthrough” of cities and towns in Sápmi. Trøndelag County, Norway (Trööndelage, total pop. 454,596) Trøndelag County8 covers most of Norwegian South Sápmi. Much of Trøndelag has a very long history of non-Sámi settlement, in fact it is within this region that we find Norway’s oldest still-existing city, Trondheim (Sámi: Tråante). The city, previously known as Nidaros, was founded in 997 CE under the Norwegian King Olav Tryggvasson—

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near Lade, an even older Norse power center (Olsen 2006). With a population of 180,577,9 Trondheim is today Sápmi’s second largest city, surpassed only by the far younger Murmansk City in Russia. Trondheim is Trøndelag County’s administrative center and home to the Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU). Norway’s very first research and education institution focused on the Sámi was established in this city: Thomas von Westen’s Seminarium Scholasticum (1717–21) trained teachers and missionaries to work among the Sámi. The heir to this institution was the Seminarium Lapponicum (Sámi Seminar, 1752–74), which was led by Norway’s first professor, Knud Leem, a researcher on Sámi languages, and employed Norway’s first university-educated Sámi, the priest and linguist Anders Porsanger (Torsøe 2018; Tjeldvoll 2012). Other urban areas of some note for Trøndelag’s Sámi include Levanger (Lievenge, pop. 10,008) and Steinkjer (Stientjie, pop. 12,744). These two towns sprang up from old Norwegian settlements and marketplaces along the coast of the Trondheim Fjord, but only gained formal town status during the 1800s. Both towns have campuses of Nord University (Noerhte Universiteete),10 an educational institution the main campus of which lies further north, in Nordland County. Nord University’s South Sámi-language teacher training is based in Levanger. In the eastern inland of Trøndelag county, we find the village of Røros (Plaassje or Röörose, pop. 3,808). Røros began as a mining locality in 1646 and is today an increasingly important cultural hub for the district’s Sámi population. Nordland County, Norway (South Sámi: Nordlaante; Lule Sámi: Nordlándda; North Sámi: Nordlánda, pop. 242,866) Nordland County includes the western coastline of Sápmi and the inland up to the Kjølen mountain range, that since 1751 has constituted the border between the Norwegian (then Danish) and Swedish states. Just like in coastal Trøndelag, there have been non-Sámi living on Nordland’s coastline from a very early point in history. The inland and some inner parts of the coast were, however, settled by non-Sámi at a later stage. For example, the area today covered by the municipality Hattfjelldal (Aarborte), in the far south of Nordland county, had an exclusively Sámi population until the 1700s, and major non-Sámi colonization only began during the 1800s (Thorsnæs 2017a). The Sámi population of Nordland County is multicultural. Trøndelag is South Sámi; and Troms and Finnmark are North Sámi with the notable exception of its far eastern Skolt Sámi area—but Nordland includes parts of the South, Ume, Pite, Lule, and North Sámi areas.

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Nordland’s northwestern Lofoten Archipelago was home to the first urban settlement of any size north of Trøndelag: Medieval Vágar, which profited from the Lofoten fisheries and the export of dried cod to the European continent (Thorsnæs 2017b). The Sámi population also participated in the Lofoten fisheries, and while some coast Sámi came from far away to fish there, others did not have to travel far: Lofoten (Váhki) and the nearby district of Vesterålen (Viestterálas) are ancient settlement areas for both the Norse population and the Sámi (Borgos 1999; 2020; Nielssen 2008: 209–13). Today, these northwestern parts of Nordland County are home to several settlements of some size. In Vesterålen, the major urban area is Sortland (Suortá, pop. 5,345), while in Lofoten, the largest is Svolvær (Spållavuolle, pop. 4,630) near ancient Vágar. Nordland County was under the southern trade privilege system until 1813, somewhat longer than Troms and Finnmark. Three years after the “monopoly” ended, Bodø (Lule Sámi: Bådåddjo; Pite Sámi: Buvvda) was established. This is today the administrative center of Nordland, with a population of 40,705, and home to the main campus of Nord University (Nuortta Universitiehtta).11 The mining industry of the 1800s and early 1900s spurred the growth of urban areas like Mosjøen (Mussere) and Mo (Måahvie) in the inner parts of the fjords of the county’s southern Helgeland district. Mosjøen and Mo were accorded town status in 1876 and 1923, respectively (Thorsnæs and Nicolaisen 2019a, b) and currently have populations of 9,841 and 18,685. Narvik (Áhkánjárga), far north in the county, was founded in 1902 as the industrial port town for the mining industry of the recently established Swedish town of Kiruna (see below). Three years after Narvik was established, Norway gained full independence from Sweden. With 14,261 inhabitants, Narvik is today Nordland County’s third largest town. It is host to a campus of UiT—the Arctic University of Norway (UiT—Norgga árkttalaš universitehta), which has its main campus in Troms County. Troms County, Norway (Tromsa, pop. 165,632) The area that was later to become Troms County was part of Nordland County from 1671 to 1787, at which point it was merged with Vardøhus County to form the new county Finmarken, a name that reflected the area’s deep connection to the Sámi people (see chapter 1). In 1866, Troms was administratively separated from the rest of Finmarken (Thorsnæs 2020) and became a county of its own. The name “Finmarken” was in 1919 changed to “Finnmark” as part of an effort to Norwegianize county names that were perceived by Norwegian au-

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thorities as being too Danish-sounding. More recently, as part of a sweeping administrative reform in Norway in 2020, Troms and Finnmark were re-merged, now under the name “Troms and Finnmark.” There is a strong and ongoing political mobilization to divide the merged county. Since there is a chance that the counties will be reestablished as separate entities again in the near feature, this book will discuss the two separately. Troms County is centered on, and takes its name from, the urban area Tromsø (Romsa), which today is Norway’s largest city north of Trondheim (pop. 65,461). Tromsø city traces its roots back to the 1200s when the state established the outpost church “St. Mary in Trums” stated to be “near the pagans” (likely meaning “near the Sámi”) and a military fortress against the influence of the eastern Novgorod state (Hansen and Olsen 2004: 167–68). It was accorded formal status as a town in 1794, some years after the southern trade privileges over Finnmark was abolished (Thorsnæs and Svendsen 2020). Tromsø’s nodality in the north was cemented in 1972, when the Norwegian north’s first university was opened in the city. In 2009, the University of Tromsø merged with Tromsø Teachers’ College (T. I. Hansen 2018), an institution originally founded in 1826 with special responsibilities for training people who could teach pupils using Sámi as the language of instruction (Uit.no 2018). The college was originally located in Trondenes (Runášši) near Harstad (Hárstták, pop. 20,953), a town situated further southwest in Troms County. The roots of this college can be traced back to Trondheim’s Seminarium Lapponicum (Torsøe 2018; Tjeldvoll 2012). Today, the multi-campus university structure centered in Tromsø carries the name UiT—Arctic University of Norway (UiT—Norgga árkttalaš universitehta) and is an institution of high importance for contemporary Sámi research and education. Parts of its Sámi-oriented activity are organized through a special Center for Sámi Studies (Sesam—Sámi dutkamiid guovddáš). Although Troms County is home to the largest city of northern Norway, it has fewer cities and towns than Nordland, its more populous southern neighbor. Tromsø and Harstad are the only localities in Tromsø with populations exceeding 10,000. Finnmark County, Norway (Finmárku, pop. 76,149) The name of this county was originally used by Norwegians to signify a large part of the Nordic north and inland (finnmark means literally “Sámi land”) but gradually came to refer only to this northernmost part of Sápmi (Berg-Nordlie 2019; see also chapter 1). The Sámi did not become a minority population in Finnmark County until the second half of the 1800s, following processes of immigration and as-

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similation, and parts of Finnmark remain Sámi-majority areas today (Søbye 2014). In 1789, the southern trade privileges over Troms and Finnmark were ended, and the state established two towns on the territory that currently constitutes Finnmark: Hammerfest (Hámmarfeasta) on the west coast, and Vardø (Várggát) on the east coast (Thorsnæs and Askheim 2018a). Despite being far away from the center of the realm, Vardø has an old history as a Norwegian fortification: already during the early 1300s, the state had established a fortress and church on this strategic northeasterly island. Norway’s main rival in this area at the time was the Russian-dominated Novgorod Republic (Thorsnæs and Askheim 2018b). Today, Vardø is a village of 1,875 people and Hammerfest is a small town of 9,890 (when including the nearby village Rypefjord/Lávželuokta with its 1,838 inhabitants). The other towns in Finnmark are younger than Hammerfest and Vardø. Vadsø (Čáhcesuolu) was a fishing village and church site already in the 1500s but was not granted a formal trading town charter until 1833 (Thorsnæs and Askheim 2019). It subsequently assumed a significant position in the trade with Russian merchants (Thorsnæs and Askheim 2019). Vadsø is today a small town with a population of 5,064. Prior to the merger between Troms and Finnmark, it was Finnmark’s county capital. Farthest to the east, in an area that did not come into Norwegian hands until the 1800s, lies Kirkenes (Girkonjárga, pop. 3,566) which grew out of a mining boom in the early 1900s. The villages Kautokeino (Guovdageaidnu, pop. 1,445) and Karasjok (Kárášjohka, pop. 1,844) in Inner Finnmark constitute central places for Sápmi. Kautokeino was established as a church site and marketplace by the Swedish authorities during the 1700s, but the district was later taken over by Denmark-Norway. The church site at Karasjok was established in 1807 (Rasmussen 2012). Despite their small size, both are very important centers for Sámi culture, language, and politics. The Norwegian Sámediggi (Sámi parliament, see chapter 1), is located in Karasjok, and in Kautokeino we find the important Sámi University of Applied Sciences (Sámi allaskuvla). The largest urban area in Finnmark is Alta (Áltá), with a population of 15,094. Its town status is historically recent (2000), but it has ancient roots as a Sámi settlement. Alta’s population grew from, among other things, the Kven Immigration (see footnote 5, chapter 4), the mining industry of the 1800s, and regional urbanization processes in post-World War II Norway. Alta is also home to an institution of higher education: the Finnmark University College, which in 2013 merged with the University of Tromsø to form the UiT—Arctic University of Norway.

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Image 2.1. | Spållavuolle. Svolvær, the largest town in Norway’s Lofoten (Váhki) archipelago. Svolvær is near historical Vágar, the first urban settlement in the north. In Sámi, the town is called Spållavuolle. One of the theories regarding the Norwegian name Svolvær is that it may come from a combination of a Sámi word (suolu, island) and a Norwegian word (vær, fishing settlement). Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 3.0 license.

Image 2.2. | Skansen. The oldest still-standing buildings in Tromsø (Romsa), Norway, are situated on the remnants of a medieval fortress. The Tromsø Sámi Language Center is currently housed in one of the buildings. Source: Wikimedia Commons, public domain.

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Image 2.3. | Tráhppie. Tráhppie is a Sámi culture house in Umeå (Ubmeje/Upmeje), the largest city in Swedish Sápmi. Outside the culture house’s café is a signpost with the Ume Sámi name of the city. © Mikkel Berg-Nordlie.

Sweden The Swedish state was comparatively slower than Denmark/Norway when it came to entrenching its presence in the north. During the latter part of the 1500s, the Swedish state took direct control over Sámi trade and “taxation” from the region’s own class of trading “big men.” This process had been accomplished in Norway many centuries earlier. However, unlike the authorities in Denmark, Sweden subsequently began relatively quickly to establish urban centers in the north: during the 1600s, the state “planted” a network of towns around the Bay of Bothnia. This cemented the Bothnian area as part of the Swedish dominion and connected Swedish-claimed Sápmi more firmly to trading hubs further south along the coast, particularly to the capital Stockholm (Bergman and Edlund 2016; Hansen and Olsen 2004: 235, 245, 327). Industrial development such as mining also played a big role in urban growth in the north. As in Norway, some of the northern urban settlements are today home to important educational institutions. Also like in Norway, the population as such is

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larger in the southern and more coastal parts of Swedish Sápmi, while the Sámi share of the population is more notable the further north and inland you go. Västernorrland County, Sweden (pop. 245,572) This coastal county in Sweden’s north is often, but not always, excluded from contemporary definitions of Sápmi. According to Statistics Sweden (SCB, 2016), the major urban areas of Västernorrland are Sundsvall (Sjädtavallie, pop. 58,065), Örnsköldsvik (Orrestaare, pop. 32,700), and Härnosand (Hïernesaande, pop. 18.600). Härnösand was established in the late 1500s and grew into a larger settlement during the centuries that followed. Sundsvall was one of several trading centers established by the state on the Bothnian coast during the early 1600s. Örnsköldsvik was established as a trading center as late as 1842 and received formal status as a town only in 1894 (Hansen and Olsen 2004: 238; Jönsson 2017; Ortshistoria 2019a, 2019b). Jämtland County, Sweden (Jïemhte, pop. 128,673) Jämtland stretches between Västernorrland in the east and Norway’s Trøndelag County in the west. It covers most of the interior of Swedish South Sápmi. The first realm to establish its dominion here was Norway but following a series of wars during the 1500s and 1600s (Mæhlum et al. 2019), Sweden gained control over it. Östersund (Staare) was established in 1786 by Sweden for trading purposes and to reduce commerce across the border (Östersund 2019). The town grew rapidly during the industrialization of the 1800s–1900s and is today the capital of Jämtland County, the seat of Mid-Sweden University’s main campus, and as of 2016 had a population of 50,397. It is the only locality in Jämtland with a population exceeding 5,000. In 2019, a majority of representatives in the Swedish Sámediggi voted that the parliament should be moved from the northern locality of Kiruna to Östersund. This will make Sweden’s Sámediggi the only one of the three to be situated in South Sápmi (Sametinget.se 2019a). Västerbotten County, Sweden (pop. 265,881) In 1622, Umeå (South: Upmeje, Ume: Ubmeje) was established on the coast of the Ume Sámi area. With 84,761 inhabitants (2016), it is now the largest city of Swedish Sápmi—although still only the thirteenth largest in Sweden, as opposed to Trondheim, which is both the largest city in Norwegian Sápmi and the third largest in Norway. Umeå is the administrative center of Västerbotten County, and home to the University of Umeå, which has its own center for Sámi research, Várdduo.

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Skellefteå (Syöoldete, pop. 35,660), received town privileges in 1845, and grew into a hub for industry and trade. Lycksele (South: Liksjoe, Ume: Likssjuo, pop. 8,546) in the inland began as a trading post and refers to itself as “the first town in Lapland.” The history of this small town dates from the 1600s although it did not receive its formal urban area status before 1946. Regarding the current-day usage of the term “Lapland” in Sweden: while the word itself means Sámiland, it refers to a smaller area than Sápmi. Lapland is a “landscape” (landskap), a different type of Swedish province than the counties (län) discussed elsewhere in this chapter. The landskap province type lost its administrative function in 1634 but did not formally cease to exist. The landskap of Lapland was divided up between the läns Jämtland, Västerbotten, and Norrbotten. Also, some parts of the old landscape of Lapland are in what is today Finland, forming part of the basis for the Finnish province that carries the name of Lapland Region. Norrbotten County, Sweden (pop. 250,570) In this northernmost and largest county of Sweden, three towns were established along the coast in 1621—Piteå (Bihtám), Luleå (Luleju), and Torneå (Duortnus). As of 2016, Piteå and Luleå had populations of 23,061 and 43,854 respectively. Luleå is the county’s largest city and administrative center and is home to the Luleå University of Technology (Regionfakta 2015b). Torneå is today part of northern Finland and bears the Finnish name Tornio. During the 1600s, the state also established a marketplace in the interior, Jokkmokk (Jåhkåmåhkke or Dálvvadis). While Jokkmokk never became bigger than a village (current pop. 2,826), the town and its market are of high Sámi cultural importance. Mining was started in the northern Bothnian town of Kalix in the 1600s and in the northern inland locations of Malmberget (Málmmavárre) and Gällivare (Váhtjer) during the 1700s. These localities had 2016 populations of 7,506, 1,771, and 10,317 respectively. Industrialization led to the growth of coastal Boden (Suttes, pop.1,836), which also took on military significance, in the late 1800s and early 1900s. In 1821, the settlement of Haparanda was established vis-à-vis the now formerly Swedish Torneå. Today Tornio-Haparanda is often considered to be one border-transcending Finnish-Swedish urban agglomeration (Ortshistoria 2019c). Haparanda is in itself a very small town, with only 6,715 residents, but the Tornio-Haparanda urban area has a total population of around 30,000 inhabitants.

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Sweden’s important mining industry led to the establishment in 1900 of Kiruna (Giron, pop. 17,002), far in the interior of North Sápmi. Kiruna is the only urban area where a Sámediggi has its main offices and plenary hall—elsewhere in Sápmi these functions are located in more rural areas. Due to the mining industry’s massive damage to the land, which has made it unsafe for people to keep living in Kiruna, it has been decided to move the town’s population and key institutions to a nearby location (Khazaleh 2015). As part of this process, a debate was started concerning the future location of the Sámediggi, and—as noted above—it was eventually decided (2019) that it should be relocated to the even larger urban area of Östersund, in Jämtland, South Sápmi (Sametinget.se 2019a). Finland This youngest of the Nordic mainland states was part of Sweden from the 1100s to 1808. In 1809, Sweden lost its lands east of the Tornio River and the Bay of Bothnia to the Russian Empire. These areas subsequently became the Grand Duchy of Finland within the Russian Empire until it emerged as a sovereign state after the Russian Revolution of 1917. Initial urban development in what is today northern Finland hence took place before the current state of Finland existed. The oldest urban centers in the region derive from the urbanization of the Bothnian Bay by Swedish state fiat, while later industrialization based on the natural resources of Sápmi caused further urban growth. Finnish Sápmi has fewer urban centers than its Norwegian and Swedish counterparts. The largest population centers are found in the southwest, and it is also here that we find the region’s educational hub, the University of Lapland. Lapland Region, Finland (pop. 180,207) Lapland, which like Finnmark in Norway simply means “Sámi land,” was originally the name of the largest Swedish “landscape” (landskap, see above). When the eastern lands of the Swedish realm were taken over by Russia, the lost lands included the easternmost parts of the old “landscape” of Lapland. After centuries of shifting state borders and reforms in administrative divisions, the only functioning administrative area that still uses the toponym “Lapland” is the eponymous region in Finland, which includes a part of the old Swedish landscape. We say functioning administrative area because the landskaps of Sweden were never technically abolished, they were simply deprived of administrative functions when the new län provinces were estab-

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lished. Technically, Lapland in Sweden still exists, and retains a separate regional identity despite being divided between separate läns. However, when referring to “Lapland” in this book we mean Finnish Lapland unless otherwise explicitly stated. The Lapland Region is sometimes referred to as having the Sámi name “Sápmi.” While this reflects the etymology of Lapland, it becomes confusing when used in an international context because “Sápmi” generally refers to a much larger area that stretches across four states. Adding to the confusion, the term “Sápmi” is in the Finnish context sometimes also used to signify a much smaller area: the Sámi Domicile in the far north of Lapland Region (see chapter 1, this volume). Tornio (Duortnus), presented above, is the oldest town in Finnish Lapland, and had a 2015 population of 22,197 according to SNL (Great Norwegian Encyclopedia). The other cities and towns of Lapland are relatively young: Kemi (Giepma) near Tornio was established as a port town by Russian imperial decree in 1869 (Pihl 2018) and is, with its 21,602 inhabitants (2017, SNL) very close in size to Tornio. Kemi is located near Tornio and the two, together with Haparanda on the Swedish side of the border, can be seen as a single metropolitan area with about 50,000 inhabitants. Rovaniemi (Roavvenjárga), further inland, grew forth on the basis of logging and other natural resource extraction, and received market town status in 1929 (Rovaniemi 2019). With 62,861 inhabitants (2015), Rovaniemi is Lapland’s largest urban area. It is also the regional center, and home to the University of Lapland. Finally, Kemijärvi (Giemajávri) in the eastern inland was given town status as late as 1957. As of 2019, the urban area had 4,045 inhabitants. The Sámi Domicile in the far north of Lapland has no cities or towns. Its largest settlement is the village Ivalo (Inari Sámi: Avveel, North: Avvil; Skolt: Â’vvel) which had a 2015 population of 3,062. The Finnish Sámediggi is based in the nearby hamlet Inari (Inari Sámi: Aanaar, North: Anár, Skolt: Aanar, 2015 pop. 582).

The Urbanization of the Nordic Sámi Prewar Sámi Urbanity The presence of Sámi in areas with larger population concentrations is not a new phenomenon: markets in the north were, to differing extents, dependent on Sámi-produced goods; ecclesiastical and educational institutions in urban centers had targeted efforts toward the Indigenous population; and Sámi also worked in urban industries (Evjen 2008; Hansen and Olsen 2004). However, while many inhabitants

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of the northern urban areas were of Indigenous origin, these areas eventually became arenas for assimilation into the majority ethnos (Evjen 2008; Hansen 2015: 68–70, 75–80). Ethnic discrimination of the Sámi worsened during the 1800s and 1900s and moving away from a rural community where people knew about your origin and into an urban area where you could “pass” as Norwegian and assimilate could be a strategy for escaping discrimination in addition to an economic necessity (see chapter 1 for more on the policies and processes of assimilation of the Sámi). To increase our understanding of this part of Sámi urbanization history, we take a brief detour into fiction—more precisely, to the first novel ever published in Sámi, Beaive-Álgu (Dawn, 1912). The author, Anders Larsen (1870–1949), was a Sámi organizational pioneer and newspaper editor. His novel’s main character, Abo Eira, bears some notable similarities to Larsen—not only as regards his commitment to maintaining Sámi identity, language, and culture, but also when it comes to their life stories as coastal Sámi men of rural origin who spent part of their lives in urban areas. We must assume that when Larsen portrayed an urbanized Sámi of his own generation, he was drawing on real-life experiences. After the main character settles in a town and gains higher education, people in his home village simply assume that Abo Eira has now assimilated into the majority ethnos—“become a big man and a Norwegian,” as one character mockingly puts it. They are surprised to find that, despite his upward social mobility and urbanization, Eira has retained his Sámi identity and speaks with them in Sámi (Larsen 1912). This assumption among the rural Sámi of Larsen’s book is likely to be based on observations of Sámi urbanization at the time—Abo Eira is held up by Larsen as an ideal of how one should behave, but likely an exception to the rule in real life. Also, notably, Eira is, despite his commitment to maintain his culture and identity, not portrayed as having any milieu of likeminded people in town. His urban life is a life lived in a Norwegian cultural context, with no room for practicing Sámi language and culture. The book also exposes urban racism against the Sámi: Eira’s Sámi heritage is eventually used instrumentally against him, to prevent him from moving socially upward and to destroy a budding romance between Eira and a Norwegian woman. Among the “scandalous” rumors spread by his rival is that Eira has been seen wearing traditional Sámi clothes and socializing with other Sámi in town. We can, of course not uncritically treat a work of fiction as an account of current affairs at the time of its writing. Nevertheless, Larsen’s

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book can also not be ignored in this regard. It is a fictional account, but it clearly attempts to convey actual experiences of urbanization, assimilation, and the experience of double out-grouping. If we are to believe Larsen, first-generation urbanized Sámi around the turn of the past century risked being seen as too Sámi in the town and too Norwegian in the village. The first half of the 1900s ended in cataclysm for large parts of the North Sámi population. During World War II, Norway was invaded and occupied by Nazi Germany. During this period, Sápmi, unlike southern Scandinavia, saw heavy battles, particularly the eastern Sámi area—in the USSR and the Soviet–Finland border region—but also around Narvik, where a multi-ethnic northern force, the Alta Battalion, resisted the invasion. At the end of the war, Northern Norway was liberated by Soviet forces, but on retreating, the Nazi forces implemented scorched-earth tactics that destroyed almost all buildings and infrastructure in Finnmark and Northern Troms, an event often referred to as “the Burning of Finnmark.” Finnish Lapland was likewise destroyed by the Nazi forces when they retreated after Finland shifted its allegiance during the end of the war. The large majority of the population of Finnmark, Northern Troms, and Finnish Lapland was forcibly evacuated to areas further south. Hence, in a core area for the Sámi culture, nearly all material Sámi culture was destroyed in a single sweep by the German occupants (Lehtola 2015; Palmer 2010; Thorsnæs and Askheim 2018b). The trauma of destruction, refugee life, and subsequent reconstruction of the north after centrally planned models—coming in the wake of several generations of assimilation policy—further accelerated the erosion of Sámi culture and identity in the far north. After the Burning, some of the refugees did not return, but stayed in urban areas. They were later accompanied by many of their kin, as the postwar era brought increased urbanization and centralization in the Nordic states—inside their northern areas, and also from the north to the southern cities. People moved in large numbers to find employment and pursue education at universities and university colleges (Broderstad and Sørlie 2012; Lehtola 2015; Spein 2018). This period of urbanization coincided with a wave of Sámi culture and identity revitalization, which picked up speed during the 1970s. The Sámi revitalization encouraged many migrant Sámi to reject assimilation and also led some Sámi already living in the cities to reconnect with their Sámi heritage. Some urban organizational aspects of this revival are discussed in chapter 4.

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The Sámi in the General Postwar Urbanization Data from Statistics Norway show us that in the period 1951–2017, the counties of Norwegian Sápmi exhibited unequal population growth. Among these, only Sør-Trøndelag county, where Trondheim is, matched Norway’s general growth of about 60 percent. Troms, the home county of Norwegian Sápmi’s second largest city, came in second with ca. 40 percent growth. The other counties had a more modest development, with Nordland growing the least (approximately 10 percent), followed by Finnmark (ca. 18 percent) and north Trøndelag (ca. 25 percent). If we look at developments over time, we even see that Nordland and Finnmark were slightly more populous before the 1980s than in 2017, and if we go to more recent years, we see clear downward movements in the northern population’s numbers: Nordland lost 2.521 inhabitants between 2017 and 2021, while Troms and Finmark has lost 1.143 people since the two counties merged in 2020. Behind these numbers we find a drop in rural populations, combined with strong growth in urban centres (Broderstad et al. 2012; iFinnmark 2017; Indeks Nordland 2019; regjeringen.no 2019b). If we look at Statistics Norway’s data, we find that the municipalities of Alta, Tromsø, and Trondheim respectively grew by approximately 107, 128, and 71 percent in the period 1964–2017, while Bodø grew by 85 percent in the period 1968–2017.12 Norway, Sweden, and Finland have all displayed a marked urbanization after World War II (Lindgren 2015: 238; Tandefelt 1994). In Norway, the process has been less pronounced than in other Nordic countries, and it is today the Nordic state where the lowest share of the population lives in compact settlements (regjeringen.no 2019b). In Sweden, as opposed to Norway, urbanization was widely considered politically desirable and was openly facilitated by the state (Berg 2005). In northern Sweden, the urban population of Umeå tätort (urban agglomeration) soared from 22,437 to 83,249 between 1950 and 2015, while Luleå grew from 11,483 to 43,574 (Ortshistoria 2016a, b; Regionfakta 2020; Västerbotten 2020). However, according to Jan Einar Reiersen and Nils Aarsæther (2019), Sweden’s northern cities have more pronounced differences than Norway’s when it comes to demographic development. They point out that in the period 1975– 2018, Umeå grew 68.8 percent whereas Luleå grew 17.4 percent. We may also note that Kiruna, in the interior of northern Swedish Sápmi, rose from 12,537 in 1950 to a peak in the 1970s–1980s (in 1980 the urban agglomeration had 24,446 inhabitants), but afterward fell to 17,037 in 2015 (Ortshistoria 2016c; Regionfakta 2020, 2015c).

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In addition to the urbanization processes taking place within Sápmi, we should note another important aspect of Sámi urbanization: Nordic urbanization is characterized by a north–south demographic shift whereby the weight of the population is “collapsing” into the south of the states, out of Sápmi. Major targets of this north–south urbanization are the capital cities Oslo (Oslove¸ current population in agglomeration ca. 1 million) in southeast Norway, Stockholm (Stockholbma, agglomeration population ca. 2.2 million) in Sweden, and Helsinki (Helsset, agglomeration population ca. 1.5 million) in Finland, as well as the localities immediately surrounding these major cities (Severeide 2012; Takala and Björksten 2014). The general tendency of resettling to larger urban areas and to the South is arguably self-enforcing: as the rural populations shrink, and the low number of inhabitants is used as a reason to centralize services and businesses, many find that the rural localities become increasingly unattractive to live in, causing further out-migration. Comparing rural settlements in Sápmi now and in the first postwar decades, we find that some of the hamlets and villages were more characterized by “urbanity” earlier: where once there were shops, cafés, post offices and schools, there may now only be living spaces and possibly a bus stop that enables remaining residents to go somewhere else. The Urbanization of Sámi in Sápmi Thus far, the data mentioned here have concerned demographic changes in the general population, not the Sámi population as such. While we can assume that processes in the general population also affect the Sámi population, data specifically dealing with the Sámi would of course be preferable for the purposes of this book. However, as discussed above, conducting demographic research on the Sámi is methodologically difficult—data are lacking and definitions of Sáminess differ. It is in Norway that the most focused study on Sámi urbanization has been conducted. When researching the Sámi health situation, Ann Ragnhild Broderstad and Kjetil Sørlie (2012) studied selected rural Norwegian municipalities that were assumed to have larger than average Sámi populations, and discovered an exodus of about a third (36 percent) of all young people during the period 1964– 2007 (Broderstad and Sørlie 2012: 54–55; Rustad 2010; Severeide 2012; Sørlie and Broderstad 2011: 15–16). Other studies have shown that Norway’s Sámi Language Administrative Area, as well as the STN Area (see chapter 1, this volume) have been experiencing overall out-migration: recent statistics (2020) show an STN population that is ageing and decreasing (Johansen, Rasmussen et al. 2017; Johansen,

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Møllersen et al. 2020; Sønstebø 2018, 2020). Broderstad and Sørlie found that about 40 percent of the persons who moved out of their study municipalities settled in the nearest urban area: there is a large degree of urbanization within the district where people originate. This is similar to findings from the Great Plains region of North America: both in Canada and the United States, data shows that “Indigenous people who relocated to urban centers have most often done so within the same province” (Tomiak et al. 2019: 6). This aspect of indigenous urbanization has been summed up by Evelyn Peters (quoted in Tomiak et al. 2019) as “travelling within their traditional territories” rather than “migrating” to an entirely new place. The study of Broderstrad and Sørlie found that youth and women were more likely to urbanize, and that Oslo and Tromsø were the main targets of Sámi urbanization (Broderstad and Sørlie 2012: 54–55; Sørlie and Broderstad 2011: 15–16). This special position of Oslo and Tromsø had been noted by Aubert (1978) more than three decades earlier. Nor is this surprising, as Oslo and Tromsø are, respectively, the largest city in the country and the largest city in northern Norway, and both offer good opportunities for higher education and employment. Another indicator that may be used to measure Sámi urbanization is data from SER (the Sámediggi Electoral Registry). As has been discussed above, this should be done with great caution. SER includes only people who fulfill certain criteria, are 18 and older, and actively chose to register to vote to Sámediggi elections. Particularly the latter is troublesome when wanting to use SER as an indicator of an entire population: it likely has an overrepresentation of Sámi who are more interested in politics than the average, or at least Sámi who are more likely than the average to seek out information on how to register to vote and go through with it. With this important caveat in mind, let us nevertheless look at what this data set has to offer us. In 2009, ten Norwegian urban areas were home to 20 percent of the SER population. All these cities had demonstrated SER membership growth from 300 percent to 560 percent since 1989, as opposed to the average SER growth of ca. 154 percent during the same period (Pedersen and Høgmo 2012; Pettersen 2015). For the period 1989– 2013, Paul Pedersen (2015: 103) found that the fifteen urban areas with the largest number of SER members had collectively exhibited a growth of 19.4 percent each year. He points out that this urban growth can hardly be solely a question of rural Sámi migrating to the city: it also reflects that people born and raised in these urban areas are registering their Sámi identity in SER. Developments in the four major Sámi urban areas of Norwegian Sápmi 2013–2017 show

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that the following growth has occurred during this much shorter period: Alta 22.77 percent, Tromsø 21.14 percent, Bodø 25.14 percent, and Trondheim 44.69 percent. Overall SER growth in the period was 13.01 percent (Sametinget.no 2021). As regards urbanization toward areas out of Sápmi, the share of SER Sámi living in the South Norway Sámediggi Electoral Constituency—which covers all of Norway south of South Sápmi—grew from 5.8 percent in 1989 to 17 percent in 2017 (Broderstad et al. 2010: 51; Sametinget.no 2019b). A large portion of this “domestic diaspora” has settled in urban areas, although the number of Sámi living in rural parts of South Norway has also increased (Pedersen 2015: 94–96). In 2017, the Norwegian urban areas with the largest SER populations were Tromsø (1,404), Alta (1,321), and Oslo (848). The “second tier” of Sámi cities were Hammerfest (335), Trondheim (259), and Bodø (224). This reflects a stable development from 2013: according to a study by Pedersen (2015: 101), the same six cities and towns had, at that time, been the largest urban areas in terms of SER members (although in that study Bodø and Trondheim tied for fifth place). Nevertheless, up until recently the largest SER municipalities were rural. In 2017, the major SER municipalities were still Kautokeino (1,572) and Karasjok (1,393). Already then, it was notable that the electoral constituency where these two rural municipalities are located (Ávjovárri) had displayed relative stagnation in SER numbers since 2009, as opposed to the growth in constituencies that have larger urban areas. In 2019, new data on the Norwegian SER was released, which showed that for the first time in history, an urban municipality had become the largest SER municipality: Tromsø (1,551), although followed closely by the now somewhat smaller SER municipality Kautokeino (1,520). Displaying the same tendency, the mixed urban-rural municipality Alta had sailed up to third place (1,441), with rural Karasjok falling to fourth place (1,351). Behind Karasjok followed southern Oslo, closing in on the one thousand mark with its 949 SER-registered inhabitants. The second-tier towns had also exhibited some growth during the two-year interval, with Hammerfest municipality now at 363 SER-registered people, Trondheim at 311, and Bodø at 268. The tendency hence appears to be stable: urban areas are growing and taking the lead within SER, while the opposite tendency may be observed in rural core areas where the Sámi languages are particularly strong. Of course, it is also relevant how large the share of the Sámi population is in each specific urban area, and not just the total local number of Sámi. Pettersen (2015: 181) has compared the numbers

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of SER-registered Sámi in several municipalities to the number of inhabitants eligible to vote in the same municipalities and given these municipalities “Sámi political density” scores. She found the list of top urban areas to be rather different when using those criteria: Alta (7.3 percent), Vadsø (6.7 percent), Sør-Varanger (the municipality where Kirkenes is located, 5.3 percent), Hammerfest (4.3 percent), and Tromsø (2.1 percent). In Sweden, the Sápmi Population Database project constituted a major venture into Sámi statistics. However, this contains data only for the period 1750–1900 (Axelsson and Sköld 2011: 118; Karlsson 2013; Sköld and Nordin 2015: 41) and is thus of less relevance for the study of later urbanization processes. For the more recent period, SER has been used to study the Sámi population in Sweden. One notable research project combined data on SER-registered individuals with data on the Swedish registry on reindeer herders13 and used the National Kinship Register to identify relatives of people in these two registries. Through this method, the researchers arrived at a “Sámi cohort” of 41,721 individuals (Hassler 2005; Hassler et al. 2005). By comparison, there were only 5,991 members of the Swedish SER in the previous year, which may give us a clue about the extent to which SER is only an indicator of the Sámi population, although one should be wary that a large number of people in the “Sámi cohort” are likely to not identify as Sámi. Even so, SER-based research does provide much interesting data. Paul Pedersen (2015: 102–3) found that when the registry was started in Sweden (1993) the number of urban SER-registered Sámi was approximately three times larger than in Norway, even though the Norwegian SER was at the time ca. 34 percent larger than the Swedish SER. Furthermore, Pedersen finds that the numbers of urban SER members had become relatively similar. This also reflects more “sluggish” growth in the Swedish SER: from 1993–2020, the Swedish SER increased from 5,390 to 9,220 (Sametinget.se 2021), whereas the Norwegian SER soared, from 7,231 to 18,103 (Sametinget.no 2021). According to recent SER data (Sveriges radio 2017), Kiruna municipality has the largest SER membership (1,398), followed by non-urban Jokkmokk (660) and Gällivare (582), which like Kiruna is centered on an eponymous town. Then comes north Sweden’s major city municipality, Umeå (436). Of the urban-centered municipalities, only Kiruna and Gällivare have voting populations with notable SER percentages (respectively 7.4 percent and 3.9 percent). Here it should be noted that these percentages are not comparable to Torunn Pettersen’s “Sámi political density”: Pettersen compares SER numbers to the number of eligible voters in municipalities, whereas this percentage compares

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SER numbers to the total population of the municipalities. The second tier of urban municipalities in Sweden’s SER is made up by Stockholm (328), Luleå (294), and Skellefteå (178) (Sametinget.se 2019b).14 The same cities were found by Pedersen (2015: 104) to be the top SER urban areas in 2013, although in different order: Kiruna, Stockholm, Gällivare, Umeå, Luleå, and Skellefteå. Just as in Norway, all the top urban areas are in Sápmi, except for one, which is the state’s capital. Regarding the above numbers for Stockholm, it should be noted that these represent only the municipality proper, not the entire urban agglomeration. According to the Swedish Sámediggi, the percentage of the electorate registered in Stockholm County was 8 percent in 2017. This is even somewhat larger than Norway’s 5 percent for Oslo County from the same year, although again the figures are not really comparable: Oslo County does not include the entire urban agglomeration of Oslo, whereas Stockholm County extends beyond the agglomeration, and even includes other urban areas in addition to the capital. Considering the “domestic diaspora” in Sweden as a whole, AnnaMaria Fjellström (2016: 125) studied the number of SER Sámi living in the counties Norrbotten, Västerbotten, and Jämtland (note the absence of Västernorrland, which we here include in our definition of Sápmi) and concluded that 25 percent of SER were living outside these counties at the time. This figure is notably higher than for the “diaspora” section of registered Norwegian Sámediggi voters. In Finland there has been less research on Sámi urbanization, and data on the Sámi population are less available to researchers and the public than in Norway and Sweden. A research project on Sámi living outside the Domicile has recently been completed (the Sárá Project of Lapland University), which provides some data on SER membership that will be presented below (Heikkilä, Laiti-Hedemäki et al. 2019; Sarahankeblog 2018). According to Anna-Riitta Lindgren (2015: 238), the situation in 1970 was that only 11 percent of the population registered as Sámi (i.e., in accordance with the criteria of Nickul’s abovementioned census) were living outside what is now called the Sámi Domicile. By 2011, the proportion of SER-registered Sámi outside the Domicile was 65 percent (Saamebarometri 2016). In 2015, when the total number of SER-registered Sámi in Finland was 10,463, a majority of 66.56 percent were living outside the Domicile (Sámediggi.fi. 2016). These data are of scant value to us, however, as there have always been Sámi living outside what is now called the Sámi Domicile, and the areas outside the Domicile include both urban and rural areas. One should also note that in contrast to Norway and Sweden, the

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Finnish SER also contains individuals who have been registered by their parents, so the numbers of SER members are not entirely comparable: the comparable figure for Norway and Sweden, i.e., those above 18, was 5,878 individuals in 2015. Anne Länsman (2008) was given access to SER data for the Greater Helsinki area for 2007. At that time, there were 926 SER members in the area, which, according to Länsman, constituted 10.8 percent of the Finnish SER. She also noted that the figure had almost doubled since 2003, when it was approximately 500 (Sveriges radio 2015). This gives us at least an indicator of Helsinki’s centrality as an urban area for the Finnish Sámi. We may also use the Sámi organizational landscape in Finland as an indicator: the umbrella organization for the Sámi who may register in SER, Suoma Sámiid Guovddášsearvi (Central organization of Finland’s Sámi), has only one urban member organization, the NGO Mii (We), which is based in Lapland Region’s capital Rovaniemi (Mii Searvi 2019; Sámiid Guovddášsearvi 2019). Other urban areas with notable Sámi organizations are Helsinki (CitySámit) and Oulu (Oulu-Sámit). The latter is a university city, the fifth largest city in Finland, and the largest city in northern Finland (201,898). Oulu is generally considered as being outside Sápmi. Research conducted under the Sárá Project (Heikkilä, Miettunen et al. 2019: 82–83) has confirmed that as of 2015, the three Finnish municipalities with the largest numbers of SER-registered adults outside the Sámi Domicile were Rovaniemi (520), Oulu (352), and Helsinki (300). For the metropolitan areas, the figures are respectively 520, 397, and 547 adult SER members. This means that approximately a quarter of the Finnish SER population lives in one of these three metropolitan areas.

Urbanization and the Sámi in Russia The urbanization process in Russian Sápmi has been very different from that in the West. For one thing, the urban areas of Nordic Sápmi tend to be older: many of them were established during the period between ca. 1600 and 1900 and exhibited strong growth after World War II, whereas in Russian Sápmi, the major urban areas generally date from the Soviet Era (1917–91). Another important difference is that Russian Sápmi has experienced a much more abrupt and massive influx of people from the south than has Nordic Sápmi, and this in the relatively recent past. Russian Sápmi has cities and towns with a shorter history than those in Nordic Sápmi and a much larger share

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of the population have no Indigenous heritage at all. Finally, while the “push” part of Nordic Sámi urbanization has generally had more to do with compulsion than force, the Russian Sámi have to a much larger degree than their Nordic kin experienced forced resettlement to more urban areas.15

The Urbanization of Russian Sápmi The Novgorod Republic existed from the 1100s to the 1470s, at which time control was seized by the Grand Duchy of Muscovy, which went on to become the Russian Tsardom (1547–1721) (Ušakov 2007: 10). During its heyday, Novgorod expanded its zone of tribute collection, missionary activity, and trade toward the northeast and the northwest (Hansen and Olsen 2004: 155–75). In the 1200s, Novgorod came to include the easternmost part of Sápmi in its sphere of interest. This led to a clash with the Nordic states that also had zones of interest in Sápmi. During the 1500s, the first Orthodox monasteries were established in Sápmi, quite deep into the Sámi lands: by the Pečenga River (Peäccam) and the Kola Fiord (Kuellnegkvúnn or Kúll’vúnn’) on the northern coastline, which is also known as the Murman Coast (Hansen and Olsen 2004: 157, 239). In the same century, Umba and Varzuga (Umm’p and Vúr’se) were established on the Ter Coast, the southern shore of Russian Sápmi (Afanasyeva 2013; Kol’skaja ènciklopedija 2019f, 2019g; Roto et al. 2009). Today, Umba is a small town of 5,559, whereas Varzuga is a hamlet of 729 people (Census 2010).16 During the 1500s, the town of Kandalakša (Kánntlúht, current pop. 42,214) was established near Umba, and later the town of Kola was established where the Kola River (Kúll’jógk or Kuellnegkjogk) flows into the Kola Fjord. The toponym “Kola,” which comes from a Sámi word for “fish” (kúll’), came to be extended to the entire peninsula east of the northern Kola Fjord and the southern Kandalakša fjord—now known as the Kola Peninsula (Kuèllnegknjoarrk). “The Kola Peninsula” has also become shorthand for the entirety of Russian Sápmi, including the western areas that are not technically on the great peninsula. In the second half of the 1500s, Kola was fortified as an outpost against Sweden (which at the time included Finland) and Denmark (which at the time included Norway). The Russian Tsardom was still locked in rivalry with these states over who should tax the Sámi and who should settle and exploit the natural resources of the Lopskaja Zemlja (“Sámi Land,” “Lop” here being a Slavic relation of the Nordic term “Lapp”). At times, settlements were attacked and destroyed by both sides (Fedorov 2011: 171; Hansen and Olsen 2004; Kol’skaja

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ènciklopedija 2019e). In 1584, the city of Arkhangelsk was established on the southern shores of the White Sea, the stretch of ocean that borders Sápmi in the east. That Russia chose to focus on this city as its main northern stronghold, rather than Kola, was due partly to the security situation in the Sámi lands. Kola became the administrative center of an eponymous ujezd (county) that covered the Russian claim in Sápmi, but in 1708 was made subject to the Governorate of Arkhangelsk City (Kol’skaja ènciklopedija 2019d). In 1854, during the Crimean War, the town of Kola was destroyed by the British. After a brief respite during which the Sámi lands were administered from Kem’ in Karelia (1858–83), the county authorities moved north again—first to the rebuilt but now sparsely populated Kola, and in 1899 to the newly built Aleksandrovsk further out in the Kola Fjord (Fedorov 2011: 172–73; Kol’skaja ènciklopedija 2019b, 2019c). For a long time, the non-Sámi presence in Russian Sápmi was not all that considerable, compared to that in Nordic Sápmi, but from the 1860s, the authorities of the Russian Empire (1721–1917) began to turn their attention toward Sápmi again and intensified colonization. When the county’s administrative structure was reorganized in 1866, two large districts (volost's) were set aside for the Indigenous population: The Kola-Lappish and Ponoj Districts, which covered most of Russian Sápmi (Ušakov 1997: 369–70). However, in 1868 colonists were permitted to exploit natural resources on the peninsula freely (Myklebost and Niemi 2014: 324; Orekhova et al. 2014: 237; Ušakov 1997), and in 1871 a “Murman-Colonist District” was separated out from the Kola-Lappish District (Kol’skaja ènciklopedija 2019a). The Colonization Act (1876) provided benefits to settlers on the Murman Coast coming not only from Russia, but also from Finland and Norway (Orekhova et al. 2014). Colonist privileges were also extended to include Sámi wishing to settle in the colonies, but very few Sámi took up this offer, and those who did tended to become assimilated (Kuropjatnik 2005; Varanger Museum 2012). Further colonization took place from the 1880s, when the Ižma Komi, a reindeer-herding people from east of the White Sea, were allowed to settle in the interior of Russian Sápmi. By the dawn of the 1900s, the Russian Sámi found themselves under pressure both on the coast and inland, and were economically and socially marginalized (Kharuzin 1890: 125–34, 246–47, 330–37; Konstantinov 2005: 174–81; Myklebost and Niemi 2014: 329–31; Orekhova 2012; Orekhova et al. 2014: 219–53, Overland and Berg-Nordlie 2012: 32–33). Around the turn of the century, Russian Sápmi was still not particularly urbanized. In 1901, northern Kola and Aleksandrovsk had

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approximately 500 and 300 inhabitants, respectively, while southern Umba and Kandalakša both had approximately 500 inhabitants in the period 1914–1916 (Kol’skaja ènciklopedija 2019b, 2019c, 2019f). The entire population of the area was 8,626 in 1897 (Rantala 2006: 165). Comparing this with Norwegian Sápmi, we find that in 1900, Tromsø town alone had more than 7,000 inhabitants. Still, the colonization process drastically changed the demography and the socio-economic interrelations in the disfavor of the Russian Sámi (Kuropjatnik 2005: 178). The 1900s would bring even more dramatic changes. In the period 1915–17, during which Russia was participating in World War I (1914–18), a railway was built between St. Petersburg and the Murman Coast for military-strategic purposes. The terminus, established in 1916 just north of Kola, was named after the Imperial family: Romanov-na-Murmane (Romanov on the Murman [Coast]). After the Russian Revolution, the station town was renamed Murmansk (Baron 2007: 1–2, 75–76; Berg-Nordlie 2015a; 2017; Fedorov 2011: 173). A Sámi name used for the city is Murman lánn’. After the war, the railway, and the revolution came a period of massive state-orchestrated industrialization, securitization, urbanization, and immigration of non-Sámi. From the 8,626 inhabitants of 1897, the population of Russian Sápmi had risen to 23,006 in 1926; and by 1939, there were 291,178 people living there. In the same period, figures for the population counted as Sámi stood still—1,736 (20 percent) in 1897, 1,708 (7.4 percent) in 1926, and 1,755 (0.6 percent) in 1939 (Demoscope. ru 2019a, 2019b; Rantala 2006: 165). As noted above, these stagnant numbers must be read in the light of assimilation and statistical invisibility. Nevertheless, it is clear that the Russian Sámi had become a very small minority in their own lands. In 1938, the area constituting Russian Sápmi was separated out into a province of its own. This had been proposed already in the 1860s, then with the suggested name “Lapland Governorate” (Laplandskaja gubernija); but when the idea finally came to fruition, there was no reference to the Indigenous people in the name of the new province. The name given was Murmansk Region (oblast'), with Murmansk city as its administrative center (Fedorov 2011: 177). In addition to its political centrality and its important harbor, educational institutions like the Murmansk Arctic State University (est. 1939) were established in the city. Like its predecessor Kola, Murmansk was largely destroyed by invaders from the West—this time the Axis powers during World War II—but the city was rebuilt, and its population continued to grow, peaking in 1989 with some 470,000 residents. Subsequently, Murmansk was hit hard by the post-Soviet population decline experienced

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by many northern urban areas in Russia (Heleniak 2017; Zavalko 2011: 202), but with its current (2010) population of 307,257 it nevertheless remains by far the largest city in Sápmi, indeed in the entire Arctic. In the immediate vicinity of Murmansk there are also other sizeable urban localities such as Severomorsk (pop. 67,331) that hosts the headquarters of the Northern Fleet, and Kola (pop. 10,437). During the “Soviet Century,” several large towns were also built in inland areas along the railway that had cut across Russian Sápmi. These were constructed as centers for mining, ironworks, and military security (Robinson and Kassam 1998: 13). In the middle of this urban belt is Mončegorsk (est. 1937, pop. 45,369), the name of which is taken from the Sámi toponym Mončetuntur (Kol’skaja ènciklopedija 2019k). To the north is Olenegorsk (Púdze várr’) which received urban status in 1957 and has a current population of 23,072 (Kol’skaja ènciklopedija 2019j). To the south are Apatity and Kirovsk, both established in the mid-1930s. Apatity is the largest city of the inland urban belt, with 59,672 residents, while nearby Kirovsk has 28,625. The 1900s saw Russian Sápmi divided by this urban “railway belt” between Murmansk and Kandalakša into what Yulian Konstantinov (1999: 21) has called two halves—“western industrial and eastern pastoral.” East of the railway belt, the peninsula is much less urbanized: here, the mining town Revda (est. 1950, pop. 8,414) is the largest town. In Revda’s immediate vicinity is Lovozero (Lujavv’r), which was first registered as an inhabited vicinity in 1608 and was a Sámi market and church place during the 1800s. It is home to only 2,871 people but is noteworthy as a place where Russian Sámi live particularly compactly (Kol’skaja ènciklopedija 2019l; Mustonen and Mustonen 2011a: 51). On the far northeastern coast is the military area Ostrovnoj, which includes an eponymous village of 2,171 people, near the old Sámi settlements Jokanga (Jovvkui) and Varzino (Ársjogk) (Roto et al. 2008). West of the railway belt, near the Finnish and Norwegian borders, lie the districts of Kovdor and Pečenga. The eponymous central town of Kovdor was established in 1953 as a small village, and already by 1965 it had become a town, today home to 18,820 people (Kol’skaja ènciklopedija 2019i; Mužikov 1996: 62). The Pečenga (Peaccäm) District directly borders NATO-member Norway and is heavily militarized. It has several urban areas, the largest being Zapoljarnyj and Nikel. The former, established in 1955, has a population of 15,825 (Kol’skaja ènciklopedija 2019h). As for Nikel, it was established under the name Kolosjoki at a time when the Peäccam area was part of Finland and called Petsamo (1921–44). Nikel has a current population of 13,131 (Kol’skaja ènciklopedija 2019m).

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Seen as a whole, the urban population of Murmansk Region (2015– 2016) is estimated as 704,954, out of a total of 762,173 (NPE 2016/ 2015).17 The urban population is more than ten times larger than the rural population.

The Urbanization of the Russian Sámi How have Russian Sámi settlement patterns changed during the dramatic part of Sámi and Russian history that began in 1917? At the beginning of the 1900s, the Russian Sámi were still a largely rural and pastoral population, living in syjjt communitites (see siida, chapter 1, this volume) (Sergejeva 2000; Volkov et al. 1996; Wheelersburg and Gutsol 2008). The new authorities in Moscow saw this as a pre-modern way of life that would have to be abolished on the way toward communism. Consequently, the syjjt life was eventually done away with by governmental fiat. Initially after the Revolution, Russian Sápmi was occupied by foreign interventionists and Russian anti-Bolshevik forces, but it was reclaimed by the Russian authorities in 1920 (Lokhanov 2013). The initial Indigenous policy of the Soviet Union had progressive aspects in terms of cadre cultivation among ethnic minorities, language vitalization, and in some cases limited autonomy (Berg-Nordlie 2015a, 2017). However, the state also enforced a policy of industrial and economic “development” that included forced collectivization, also of the Indigenous peoples. Earlier (“primitive”) forms of human interrelations were to be replaced by new industrial relations that would provide rapid economic growth (Odzial 2008: 16–19). The Russian Sámi did not lose their traditional lifestyle at once—most still followed a traditional semi-nomadic lifestyle until the 1930s (Alymov 1927: 9). However, in the mid-1930s, the collectivization policy was implemented also in Russian Sápmi. The Sámi were forced to become sedentary and toward the end of the decade experienced political repressions that included the execution of several Sámi and non-Sámi supporters of Sámi culture (Berg-Nordlie 2017; Kalstad 2009: 38–42; Kiseljov and Kiseljova 1987: 75; Kuznetsova 2006: 127–28; Sorokazjerdjev 2006: 61–67; Stepanenko 2003). By 1940, the approximately 19 syjjts of Russian Sápmi had been turned into nine collective farms (kolkhozes) (Afanasyeva 2013; Mustonen and Mustonen 2011b: 88–90, 2011c: 215; Overland and Berg-Nordlie 2012: 34–35). Russian Sámi life appears to have remained generally rural for some time: according to the economic census of 1926–27, there were

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371 Sámi households, 85 of them sedentary and 286 nomadic. Around 40 percent of the Sámi people were living in the coastal areas, living by sea fishing, while those on the interior fished in the lakes and rivers. Among other sources of income were reindeer herding, pearl trade, and reindeer-based transportation (Kal’te 2003: 57). If we are to believe the censuses, the Russian Sámi were not greatly involved in the massive urbanization of the time—in the 1939 census, only 88 Sámi were counted in the urban population (Demoscope.ru 2019c). This information must, however, be taken with a grain of salt, given what we know about assimilation and statistical invisibility. World War II was followed by “the Amalgamation” (ukrupnenie)—a USSR-wide policy of merging smaller economic units and smaller settlements in order to save money and increase economic efficiency. The Amalgamation of the 1950s–1970s was also intended to facilitate the state’s attempts to control and subsidize smaller settlements (Grant 1995: 124–25; Odzial 2008: 44–45). In a process that lasted until 1968, some twelve originally Sami settlements (see Afanasyeva 2013: 31; 2019) were deemed economically unpromising and were closed down by the state. The Sámi populations of these settlements were forcibly relocated to one central settlement—Lovozero in the eastern interior. The re-localization was poorly planned and implemented, leading to housing problems and unemployment, and subsequently other social ills. There have been many testimonies of this abrupt first meeting of the rural Russian Sámi with village life, and its social and economic consequences (Afanasyeva 2013: 54–59, Allemann 2010: 87–93; Overland and Berg-Nordlie 2012). One result of the Amalgamation was that the rural Sámi population was forced into something we may call “semi-urbanization” or “relative urbanization”: forcibly moved from a pastoral life to living compactly in villages. In addition to Lovozero, Sámi people were settled in the Komi settlement of Krasnoščel’ye (Krasne syjjt), in Jona (Joŋŋ syjjt) of Kovdor District, and in Tuloma (Tullem) in the northwest (Mustonen and Mustonen 2011a: 35; 2011d: 163). Lovozero District was planned to be an area where Sámi culture would be preserved, in a Sovietized form (Berg-Nordlie 2015a), and seminomadic reindeer herding was continued here in the form of two large reindeer-herding state farms (sovkhozes). However, these employed both Sámi and non-Sámi, and were run by non-Sámi (Konstantinov 2015; Vladimirova 2005). At this point, a social and cultural divide developed within the Russian Sámi population between those who participated in reindeer

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herding and those who had other jobs. This division was partly gendered, as women were excluded from herding jobs, but on the other hand were well represented among the Sámi who undertook higher education in more urban areas. Several authors have commented on this rough division of the Russian Sámi population into two “stereotypical” halves—village-urban-female and pastoral-herding-male. Among the consequences of this division was that many men had problems finding wives, and many women married non-Sámi in the settled communities—often resulting in Russification of language, culture, and identity (Afanasyeva 2013: 56; Mustonen and Mustonen 2011b: 88; Overland and Berg-Nordlie 2012: 37, 52–57). Concerning another Russian Indigenous people—the Siberian Yukaghirs—Rane Willerslev (2010: 190, 194, 196–97) has commented on what was considered an “informal status hierarchy” in the Indigenous population, with urbanite women at the top and the men involved in traditional economic activities at the bottom. Sámi individuals also moved to other and more urban settlements in order to take jobs in industries or the public sphere or undertake higher educations. Some assimilated, but there were also those who retained their Sámi ethnic identity during this process. In addition to Murmansk and the inland urban belt, Sámi also moved to cities outside of Sápmi such as Leningrad (St. Petersburg). Some leading figures in the Sámi ethno-political and cultural organizing that began in the 1970s were Sámi who had studied at Herzen University in Leningrad and returned to the Kola Peninsula (Overland and BergNordlie 2012: 63–64). As of 2010, the number of census-registered Sámi living in Russian Sápmi according to the Russian Census was 1,599—which shows an overall decline since 2002, when the Sámi population in Russian Sápmi was estimated at 1,769. In 2010, 651 Sámi individuals (40.7 percent) were counted as urban. In the whole Russian Federation, 1,771 Sámi were registered in the census (2002: 1,991), 44.4 percent of whom lived in urban areas. There are no available data on exactly where the Sámi-registered urban population of Russian Sápmi lives, but it can safely be assumed that many of the urbanized Sámi live in Murmansk City, the economic and political hub of the region. Among the other urban areas, Mončegorsk may be noted for having its own Sámi organization (see chapter 4, this volume). A large number of the Sámi who are not considered “urban” live compactly in the village of Lovozero. There is no separate census showing exact statistical data on the Sámi population in Lovozero, but in 2007 the two main Sámi

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organizations of Murmansk Region—OOSMO (Public Organization of the Sámi in Murmansk Region) and AKS (Kola Sámi Association)— estimated the number of Sámi in Lovozero to be 870 people. This figure includes only members of the two organizations and excludes people under the age of eighteen.

Conclusion The suboptimal data situation poses a general challenge to studies of Sámi urbanization and also to the discussion of what political measures should be taken in dealing with this social development. The data problem is particularly acute for Finland, where Sámediggi Electoral Registry data are less accessible for researchers, than they are in Norway and Sweden, and where, due to registration practices, the SER is also likely to include a smaller share of the population who self-identify as Sámi than is the case for Sweden and Norway. The possibilities for studying Sámi demography are better in Norway and Sweden, but in all three states, available Sámi datasets do not capture the entire Sámi population. In fact, Nordic censuses stopped registering ethnicity just before these states began to undergo large-scale regional urbanization processes and a northto-south redistribution of the population—social processes that are bound to have affected much of the Sámi population. In Russia, data on self-reported ethnicity exists, but there is an obvious situation of underreporting. On the other hand, the data that we do have indicate clearly that the Nordic Sámi have been undergoing a process of urbanization, particularly after World War II, but also prior to this. Sámi individuals have moved to urban areas to find work; and as higher education became more widely available, they have also settled in urban areas for that reason. For the Nordic Sámi, the urbanization process has in principle been voluntary. However, it should be recalled that many Sámi villages were burned down during World War II, causing an initial uprooting that may have contributed to the willingness to move away. Economic compulsion as a “push” factor in urbanization must also be kept in mind—people may move away voluntarily but still against their real wishes, if the decisions of the politically and economically empowered make it difficult enough to continue living in rural areas. The Russian Sámi experienced urbanization later than the Nordic Sápmi, but in a more dramatic fashion—forced resettlement, repres-

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sion, massive state-orchestrated reorganization of social relations, a rapid and overwhelming influx of non-Indigenous people, and the relatively sudden appearance of large towns and cities on their traditional lands. Indeed, the urbanization process in Russian Sápmi can be described as a traumatic event for the Indigenous people there. Drawing on various statistical indicators and examining the economic and political significance of different urban areas, we may conclude that the localities listed below are home to a significant number of Sámi people. In Norway, notable hot spots of Sámi urbanization are Tromsø (Romsa) and Alta (Áltá). The first originated as a medieval Norwegian outpost, the second is situated in an area that was entirely Sámidominated until some centuries ago and has only recently grown into a town. On the “second tier” we find Hammerfest (Hámmárfeasta) and Bodø (Bådåddjo/Buvvda), coastal towns established as trade centers in the 1700s and 1800s respectively, as well as Trondheim (Tråante), which is Norway’s oldest city and Sápmi’s second largest city. In Sweden, Kiruna (Giron) stands out, followed by Gällivare (Váhčir/ Váhtjer). Both are mining towns in the far north, the latter relatively old for a non-Sámi settlement in this area (the 1700s), the former younger (1900). The “second tier” in Swedish Sápmi are the cities of Umeå (Ubmeje), Luleå (Luleju), and Skellefteå (Syöldete). The first two originated in the 1600s as Swedish coastal outposts, linked to the Sámi hinterland by rivers and to the Swedish south by the Baltic Sea. The third was established in the late 1800s. In Finnish Sápmi, Rovaniemi (Roavvenjárga), which grew out of extraction of various boreal resources, is likely the most important urban area for the Sámi. In Russia, many Sámi have made Murmansk—the largest city in Sápmi—their home. Like nearly all urban areas in Russian Sápmi, Murmansk is quite young, having been established during World War I. In this chapter, the focus has been on Sápmi, the Sámi homeland— but it should be borne mind that Sámi urbanization has also occurred in cities outside of Sápmi. Indicators show that in Norway, Oslo (Oslove) is one of the major Sámi urban areas, while in Sweden, Stockholm (Stockholbma) appears to be high up on the “second tier” of Sámi urban areas. In Finland, many Sámi live in Helsinki (Helsset) but also in Oulu, the major city of that state’s northern area. And in Russia, St. Petersburg has been a particularly important non-Sápmi destination for Sámi urbanization.

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Table 2.1. | Registered Sámi in the four states of Sápmi. This table shows the number of persons aged eighteen years and older who fulfill various criteria for Sáminess and have chosen to register in the Nordic SERs, and the number of self-registered Sámi in the latest all-Russian census. As explained, these figures do not reflect the total number of Sámi in the four countries but provide a “minimum number” for the states’ Sámi populations. Data from Gks.ru 2010, Sámediggi.fi 2016, Sámetinget.no 2021, and Sametinget.se 2021.

Norway

Sweden

Finland

Russia

Total

18,103 (2019)

9,220 (2020)

5,876 (2019)

1,771 (2010)

34,970

Mikkel Berg-Nordlie is a historian who works as a researcher at the NIBR Institute for Urban and Regional Research at the Oslo Metropolitan University (NIBR—OsloMet), and is responsible for Sámi history articles in the Great Norwegian Encyclopedia (SNL). He wrote his PhD at UiT—Arctic University of Norway on the history of Russian Sámi representation in Russian politics and pan-Sámi networking, and holds an MA in peace and conflict studies from the University of Oslo). Anna Andersen (née Afanasyeva) holds a PhD in humanities with specialization in history, an MA degree in Indigenous Studies from UiT—The Arctic University of Norway, and an MA equivalent in pedagogy from the Murmansk State Arctic University (MAGU). She defended her PhD dissertation titled “Boarding School Education of the Sámi People in Soviet Union (1935–1989): Experiences of Three Generations” at UiT in 2019. She currently works at UiT and teaches as an invited scholar at various BA and MA courses at the Sámi University of Applied Sciences in Kautokeino.

Notes 1. See endnote 2 in chapter 1 for more on the terminological connection between Sámi and Finnish people. 2. Karl Nickul’s 1962 census also served as the basis for what was essentially the first Sámi Electoral Registry, a registry of Finnish citizens eligible to vote for the Sámi Parlameanta of 1973. This was the first “Sámi Parliament,” which eventually inspired today’s Sámediggi representative organs. In addition to his role as a researcher, Nickul was also an activist sympathetic to the survival of the Sámi culture and was one of the first to voice the idea of a parliament elected by and from a registry of ethnically Sámi citizens (Lehtola 2005: 164–67). 3. Not to be confused with the border-transcending Nordic Sámi Council, the Norwegian Sámi Council was a consultative and advisory organ in Norway that existed between 1964 and 1989. It was replaced by the Sámediggi.

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4. Aubert referred to unpublished material by Lina Homme and Reinhard Mook. 5. In Norway, census data on self-reported language usage are not publicly available until one hundred years have passed since the data were collected (Statistics Norway. “Statistics Norway: Official Statistics about Norwegian Society since 1876.” Retrieved 9 May 2021 from https://www.ssb.no/a/ folketellinger/). 6. This refers to interviews by Mikkel Berg-Nordlie and Eva Josefsen in selected Norwegian municipalities 2018–19, done as part of the Norwegian Research Council-funded project “The Borders of Sámi Politics (RAAJAH).” 7. Respondents who did not reply to the questions concerning SER, or who answered “don’t know,” were subtracted from this analysis. Twenty-seven percent of the population responded. 8. Trøndelag County was established in 2018 by merging the counties Nord-Trøndelag and Sør-Trøndelag. The maps at the front of the book (Map 0.1 and 0.2) show the pre-2018 provinces of Norway, including the now non-existing border between Nord- and Sør-Trøndelag. 9. This chapter’s population numbers for urban areas and provinces in Norway are from SSB (Statistics Norway) and refer to the demographic situation in 2017. 10. The University has official names in South and Lule Sámi. As Trøndelag is located in South Sápmi, the southern name is given here. 11. Bodø municipality is situated in the “border zone” between the Lule Sámi and Pite Sámi areas, but Nord University has no official Pite Sámi name, so only the Lule Sámi name is given here. 12. There was a massive merger of municipalities in Norway during the period 1958–1967, during which the total number fell from 744 to 454. Trondheim, Tromsø, and Alta merged with surrounding municipalities in 1964, while Bodø did the same in 1968. 13. According to Swedish legislation a person can be involved in the reindeer herding industry only if he or she is “of Sámi heritage” and is a member of a sameby (the Swedish administrative units for reindeer herding). According to Norwegian legislation, a person may not own reindeer within the Sámi Reindeer Herding Area (see chapter 1, this volume) unless he or she has at least one parent or grandparent who had reindeer herding as the main source of income; and moreover, he or she must be connected to a reindeer herding siida (see chapter 1)—valid types of connection to these are specified in the Reindeer Herding Act—and one must also be Sámi, but the term “Sámi” is not defined in this legislation. By contrast, legislation in Finland and Russia does not reserve reindeer herding to Sámi and/or persons from reindeer-herding families. 14. The rural municipality of Storuman is between Umeå and Stockholm on the list (404). Between Luleå and Skellefteå are the rural municipalities of Arvidsjaur (262), Vilhelmina (260), Arjeplog (258), and Sorsele (203). Some of these have population centers of some size, particularly Arvidsjaur village with 4,667 and Vilhelmina village with 3,512 residents. The other municipalities have administrative centers in the range of 1,500–2,500 residents. 15. That is not to say forced removals have not taken place in the Nordic countries. In relation to industrial ventures and the closing of borders that were

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cut through Sámi reindeer-herding lands, groups of Sámi reindeer herders in the West were also forced to relocate to other areas—leaving their old lands behind, often irreparably damaged, and in some cases bringing them into conflict with other Sámi reindeer-herding groups already living in the places to which they were moved. 16. All recent population figures for Russian localities are from the 2010 Census (Gks.ru 2010) 17. Chapter 1 gives Murmansk Region a population of 795,409, but that figure dates to 2010. The northern population in Russia generally exhibits a declining tendency.

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? chapter three

Young City Sámi in Norway and Sweden Making Space for Urban Indigenous Identities Astri Dankertsen

This chapter explores how urban Sámi identities are constructed and negotiated, focusing on the experiences of young, urban Sámi in Norway and Sweden. There are differences in the identity-negotiation processes that develop among Sámi in the four northerly states that have divided Sápmi, and indeed within the same states, but we also find some remarkable similarities regarding the urban context and its relevance for Sámi identities. This chapter analyzes the qualitative interviews from Norway and Sweden, from the urban areas of Oslo, Trondheim, Bodø, Tromsø, Alta, Stockholm, and Umeå (See Dankertsen and Åhren 2018 and the introductory chapter for details about methods and methodology). Identity is an important concept in studies of Sámi culture and society (Åhrén 2008; Dankertsen 2006, 2014; Eidheim 1969; Hovland 1996; Høgmo 1986; Kramvig 2006; Olsen 1997; Stordahl 1994;), and urban Sámi issues are becoming an increasingly central topic in politics as well as in research (Berg-Nordlie 2018; Broderstad and Sørlie 2012; Dankertsen 2006; Gjerpe 2013; Høgmo 2015; Kielland 2013; Lindgren 2015; Olsen 2010; Pedersen and Nyseth 2015; Ulfrstad 1989; Uusi-Rauva 2000; Valkonen 1998). As Hilary N. Weaver points out, Indigenous identity is a complex and controversial topic, where there is no consensus regarding what “constitutes an Indigenous identity, how to measure it, and who truly has it” (Weaver 2001:

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240). In addition, cultural identities also reflect race, class, education, region, religion, gender, and other categories relevant to individuals. Indigenous cultural identities usually reflect some commonalities regarding values, beliefs, and worldviews of Indigenous people, but Indigenous cultural identities have changed over time (as all cultural identities in fact do), both due to colonization and assimilation, and change due to changed circumstances within the Indigenous societies themselves. The concept of identity in an Indigenous context can be a problematic term because the concept of “identity” often leads to mistaken notions of purity and authenticity. This might be problematic in a situation where Indigenous people of today are trying to find a new common ground for cultural development and sense of community, after centuries of colonization and assimilation (Dankertsen 2014; Kuokkanen 2000). It can be questioned if urban Sámi identities today differ so greatly from the identities of Sámi people living in other areas. The world has become much more complex and interconnected, as people move between places, maintaining regular contact with people in other places, and are influenced by education, the media, art, music, and social media, to name a few. Is there such a thing as a specific urban Sámi identity? And is it possible to maintain Sámi language and culture in urban areas? These questions emerge frequently in connection with Sámi culture in urban areas. A precondition for the maintenance of Indigenous culture and community in urban areas is that the individuals themselves deem it possible to combine their culture and community lifestyle with city life. This chapter consists of seven sections. First, I will give an introduction to the complexity of Sámi identities today, and how this can be understood in an urban context. Then, I will give a brief introduction to the differences and similarities between the chosen urban Sámi communities and cities that will be discussed in this chapter. After that, I commence with the analytical sections: “Young and Indigenous across the Urban-Rural Divide: Urban Life, Rural Connections,” “Urban Sámi Hypermobility,” “Making Space for Urban Sámi Identities,” and “Different Sámi, Same City.” Lastly, I will end the chapter with a concluding discussion of the major findings and theoretical implications.

The Complexity of Sámi Identities Sámi society today is socially, economically, and culturally complex. Urban Sámi communities reflect this complexity in a special way be-

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cause the cities have often become home to Sámi people from many different Sámi areas. While some may have grown up in the city, perhaps in families that have lived several generations there, others have recently moved from areas considered to be traditional Sámi areas. Some have their roots in areas where Sámi language and culture have maintained a strong position—which also influences the way they see themselves in relation to the city. Others come from areas where Sámi language and culture have been marginalized, where many people have undergone an “identity shift” and no longer consider themselves to be Sámi (see Eidheim 1969; Olsen 2007, 2010). However, more and more people in these areas are now trying to find a way back to their Sámi roots and revitalize the Sámi language and culture (see Hovland 1996) or are seeking to express identities that reflect the cultural complexity of both their community and their own background (see Dankertsen 2014; Kramvig 2005). This complexity means that there is not one way of being an urban Sámi, but many. In her study of young Sámi and their identities in Sweden, Christina Åhrén (2008) describes how young Sámi in Sweden are valued differently depending on their heritage and cultural competence. Also in Finland, this leads to the question of who is Sámi and who is not, in the process of identity negotiation, in turn creating a cultural hierarchy where the cultural competences and identities of everyone may be questioned. We find similar issues in the ethnographic material of Arild Hovland (1996) writing on Kåfjord (Gáivuotna) and Kautokeino (Guovdageaidnu) in Norway. These two Sámi municipalities are quite different, but they have long historical ties. Whereas Kautokeino is often described as “the most Sámi” place in Norway because it is a municipality where reindeer herding is still of fundamental importance for the general economy, in addition to being a municipality where the Sámi language maintains a strong position, the situation in Kåfjord has been quite different. From World War II until the 1990s, the Sámi language and culture had become almost invisible in this coastal Sámi municipality, as in many other Sámi areas in Norway. Then, in the 1990s, some youth of Sámi ancestry mobilized and took back their Sámi identities. This process of re-establishing their Sámi identities in Kåfjord and other Sámi areas has led to a polarizing and emotionally charged debate on what it is to be Sámi, what a Sámi identity is, and who are entitled to call themselves Sámi. That being said, this debate in Norway has resulted in a more open and inclusive Sámi society today, by opening up for new ways of talking about Sámi identities in terms of complexity, ambiguity, and multicultural belonging. As Britt Kramvig (2005) points out, the refusal to define

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oneself in terms of clear-cut, dualistic categories can be seen as a form of resistance to the logic of nationalism imposed by the political institutions of colonial states in the past and present, and by today’s Sámi political institutions, where identities are defined in terms of categorical boundaries—territorial, cultural, or linguistic. Instead of defining themselves in terms of dualistic categories, many Sámi now focus on relationships in their everyday lives and networks of interrelated people, where being Sámi is one, but not the only, component of those relationships. It is impossible to talk about Sámi identities without taking into consideration the colonial situation and the historic and present-day marginalization of Sámi language and culture. Patrick Wolfe’s (1999, 2006) account of settler colonialism as a structure, not an event, is useful in this context. Within this framework, the distinction between colonization and settler colonization is that the former entails exploitation, whereas the latter leads to extinction; and the ways Indigenous people are defined are often chosen by settler colonial logic, not by the Indigenous people themselves. Indigenous people are often represented as unsettled, nomadic, rootless, etc., in the settler-colonial discourse, which legitimizes colonization by eliminating people’s connection to the land and water, and limiting their possibilities for cultural change. This settler colonial logic has continued to shape how Indigenous people define themselves. As Rauna Kuokkanen (2007) reminds us, powerful colonial institutions have shaped people’s minds, whether through education, economics, culture, or politics. It is impossible to impose a dualistic understanding of Indigenous identities without taking into consideration how colonialism has shaped people’s worldviews and their ways of thinking, living, and interacting with one another: “Even today, in the era of so-called postcolonialism, Indigenous peoples are the targets of various forms of internal colonialism and neo-colonialism” (Kuokkanen 2007: 412). Sámi identities are often defined, both by the majority society and by some Sámi people themselves, in terms of what they now lack due to forced assimilation and colonialism, or how they are different from the majority, rather than how the Sámi define themselves in terms of relationships with their own people, their land, and their language and culture. How urban Sámi identities are defined must also be seen in relation to how Sámi culture is defined by the majority in terms of relations with the land. As Mikkel Berg-Nordlie (2018) points out, the situation of the Sámi must be understood in relation to their colonial history, where their homeland has been divided among Norway, Sweden, Fin-

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land, and Russia, and where the Sámi culture, language, and identity have been pushed to the margins by assimilation and resource alienation—geographically, economically, and politically. Today, Sámi culture remains locally dominant in only a few rural communities, and their presence has largely been written out of history. Many areas where Sámi people used to live, including many locations that are now urban areas, are defined by the majority society. This circumstance is something that the Sámi people share with Indigenous people all around the world. The challenges faced by urban Indigenous people involve more than prejudice and discrimination from the majority, or the precarious economic situations that may result from the combination of the former with rapid urbanization processes, or the cities’ lack of experience with the needs of Indigenous peoples. Members of Indigenous groups that were once predominantly rural, or who have been “ruralized” through government policy and popular discourse, may experience problems in reconciling life in an urban community with an Indigenous identity with its deep connotations to rural places and rural lifestyles. Many Indigenous peoples have experienced strong associations being drawn between “authentic” indigeneity and rurality: the pervasive notion that Indigenous people and their culture “really” belong in rural areas (Andersen and Peters 2013: 379–80; Denis 1997; Dorries et al. 2019: 10–11). Chris Andersen and Evelyn Peters (2013: 380) refer to this as a sense of “out-of-placeness” that affects urban Indigenous communities. As an internalized discourse, it affects the self-image of urban Indigenous individuals and communities, limiting their ability to integrate their urban and Indigenous identities. This can lead to a situation where “authorities either presuppose the illegitimacy of these communities or attempt to find in them stereotypical elements deemed sufficiently ‘different’ for governing purposes” (Andersen and Peters 2013: 380). In sum, the ruralization of Indigenousness makes it challenging to conceptualize urban Indigenous identity and culture and frustrates attempts at encouraging decision-makers to take urban Indigenous needs into consideration and to create adequate and appropriate urban Indigenous policies. This is highly relevant in connection with Sámi identity and culture in urban areas. For many people, the “authentic” Sámi are the reindeer herders, even though only a small fraction of Sámi people today follow this lifestyle, and the Sámi culture has also historically encompassed many other livelihoods as well. Kajsa Kemi Gjerpe makes this point clearly by stating “many people are forced to become inauthentic in order to be authentic” (2013: 82):

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I maintain that the notion of Sámi as one people is not wrong. But being one people does not stop us from being diverse. As one people, we are both reindeer herders and fishermen. We are doctors and teachers. Some spend their holidays travelling to foreign countries; others spend their holidays on the plateau.[1] Similarly to countless peoples all over the world we have experienced a severe assimilation policy and have fought our way through it. However, we cannot expect to come through such a process unchanged. (Gjerpe 2013: 93)

This binary opposition and the creation of the “otherness” of Indigenous peoples is an issue of relevance not only in an urban context. As noted by Rauna Kuokkanen (2000), who writes from a Sámi perspective, the link between Indigenous people, traditional knowledge, and “authenticity” is highly problematic because it paints a picture of the so-called traditional life of Indigenous peoples as frozen in time and space. In fact, traditional knowledge is a body of knowledge that “encompasses cosmologies, spirituality, relationships with the natural environment and the use of natural resources” (Kuokkanen 2000: 418): what constitutes tradition in the Sámi context is something that is connected to nature and natural resources. In this way, our perspective on Sámi urbanity stands in contrast to what is often considered to be “typical” Sámi. This picture of Indigenous peoples as frozen in time and space denies their cultures the opportunities for development and change, necessary to sustain a living culture (see Kuokkanen 2000). It also ignores the reality that many Indigenous peoples today live in urban areas with lifestyles not very different from those of the majority population. The idea of the “real” Indigenous identity as something linked to a traditional, rural life can also be traced to a colonial hierarchy where the West, by definition, is viewed as pure and authentic, whereas the Others are always understood as colonized, impure, and “inauthentic” (Bhabha 1994). This stereotyped presentation of non-Western people creates a hierarchy between those cultures that are denied development and change and those that can change without being understood as “damaged” or “inauthentic.” For example, being Norwegian is seen as perfectly compatible with having an urban lifestyle, even though most Norwegians up until quite recently lived in rural areas—but an urban lifestyle is not necessarily seen as compatible with being Sámi. Numerous scholars and activists have begun to challenge the idea that it is impossible for Indigenous people to participate in the modern world without “losing” their culture and identities (Denis 1997; Peters and Andersen 2013: 5; Starn and de la Cadena 2007). As Anne McClintock argues (1985: 40), Indigenous cultures are still, from a

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mainstream point of view, understood as something prehistoric and inherently out of place in modern times. To be an urban Sámi is thus conceptually opposed to what is the mainstream perspective sees as being Indigenous and thus is incomprehensible. An obstacle to the construction of a distinct urban Indigenous identity, noted with specific reference to the Sámi situation, is what Kjell Olsen calls “public spheres for the articulation of ethnic differences” (2007: 86). He refers to Harald Eidheim’s ([1971] 1990) description of Sámi identity as a social stigma in coastal Finnmark in the postwar era, and to Eidheim’s distinction between the Norwegian public sphere on the one hand, and the Sámi identities relegated to the private sphere on the other. Here Olsen holds that today the order of the spheres of interaction is quite different: because of changes in the socio-economic and discursive relations between the Sámi and the Norwegian population, the organizing principles of Sámi identities are no longer linked to shame. However, he also points out that there is still an unspoken social agreement: there is a public sphere with a joint identity—distinct articulations of Sámi identities are restricted to private spheres and specific zones classified as Sámi, such as Sámi centers or other Sámi institutions, or to specific dates, such as the Sámi National Day, 6 February. However, in an urban context, where there are many Sámi from other areas and where people do not necessarily know each other personally, some may feel a need to find ways of signaling to other Sámi in discrete ways that they too are Sámi. Heterogeneity is another aspect of urban Indigenous communities. The urban Indigenous community is not just a part of the city’s multicultural mosaic, but is often itself a multicultural community, with representatives from different ethnic groups or different sub-ethnoses of the same group. Chris Andersen (2013: 54) has noted that urban Indigenous communities work actively to organize across divides based on culture and identity. In some cases, this work is made more difficult because of hostile or suspicious attitudes among various groups, or at least certain representatives of different groups. Failure to establish an overarching Indigenous identity among Indigenous urban dwellers can reduce the capacity to work together to further their interests. This also causes what might have become one larger community to remain several sometimes very small communities. On the other hand, there are limits to how far a community can be expanded to encompass different cultures without losing one of the original goals of having an urban Indigenous community—namely that of practicing and preserving a shared culture. This applies also in the Sámi context. Even though there is a state border-transcending pan-Sámi society,

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there are still real linguistic, cultural, historical, and geographical differences among the various groups of Sámi, differences that become important for social classification and social interaction in urban areas (Berg-Nordlie 2018; Olsen 2007, 2014, see also chapter 1 in this volume). Such differences can disrupt community building and institutional and political development. While the issues discussed above pose serious challenges to urban Indigenous identity construction, all of them can be overcome through pragmatism, creativity, and activism. This chapter focuses on young Indigenous people in urban areas who are in a phase of life where creative experimentation with identities and culture is common. The city is a place where young people come to get an education, to work, and to take part in everything that urban life has to offer. This part of their life-cycle has a huge impact on how they lead their lives and define themselves. It can be posited that young Indigenous people may be particularly able to treat their culture actively and creatively in the encounter with other Indigenous communities and within an urban lifestyle. As Stuart Hall writes: “Cultural identities are the points of identification, the unstable points of identification or suture, which are made, within the discourses of history and culture. Not an essence but a positioning. Hence, there is always a politics of identity, a politics of position, which has no absolute guarantee in an unproblematic, transcendental ‘law of origin’” (Hall 1990: 226). Hence, identities are not just a reflection of the past, but just as much a constant reconstruction of our points of identification linked to history, culture, and power. Identities are a matter of “becoming” as well as of “being” (Hall 1990: 225). The urban context, where there is no clear space for articulation of Indigenous identities, is also a space for creativity and construction of new ways of belonging to one’s nation. Urban Indigenous lifestyles and identities therefore become a border life, or an in-between space, as Homi Bhabha puts it, where “the ‘beyond’ is neither a new horizon, nor a leaving behind of the past” (1994: 2). He describes cultural complexity as “a moment of transit where space and time cross to produce complex figures of difference and identities, past and present, inside and outside, inclusion and exclusion” (1994: 2). For young, urban Sámi, this means that the collective production of urban Sámi identities takes place in a culturally complex urban space where what it is to be Sámi must be renegotiated and redefined. This involves both challenges and possibilities for cultural creativity. Given that identities today are usually theorized as multiple, situated, and contextual, urban Indigenous identities must in some way reflect the specific urban Indigenous context. For many Indigenous

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people living in urban areas today, their lifestyle can also be categorized as a kind of “hypermobility,” understood as a migration pattern between the city and the rural areas where their family originated. This disrupts the separation of the urban and the rural space, from an Indigenous point of view (Anderson 2013: 60; Hull 1984; Norris and Clatworthy 2003). For many young Indigenous people in urban areas, this means that they can maintain strong connections to their homeland even though they live in the city. As this chapter will show, hypermobility has become an element in the identity formation of young, urban Sámi.

Urban Sámi Identities in Different Cities and Different States There are differences between the cities and between the four northern states in which Sámi live, but also some similarities. We analyze these similarities in terms of the experienced lack of space for urban Sámi culture, both in urban society and in wider Sámi society. As shown in chapter 2, some cities have relatively large Sámi populations while others have small communities; in some towns, a sizeable share of the population identify as Sámi, while in others the Sámi are among the smaller ethnic communities. Some present-day cities were built on old Sámi lands, where the presence of Indigenous people has often been written out of history by the settler colonial power; other urban Sámi communities find themselves in a situation of “domestic diaspora,” being outside the Sámi homeland yet within their state of origin. The presence or absence of institutions of higher education is also a relevant difference. As many young Sámi move to the city to study, campuses become places of daily socializing, where they can reinforce—or lose—their Sámi identities. Finally, in connection with urban intra-Sámi multiculturalism, where members of the urban Sámi population come from many different Sámi areas, it should be noted that some of the cities examined here have a more culturally complex Sámi population than others. There are also differences among these cities as regards the history of Sámi organization and visibility. Moreover, during the project period that resulted in this book, we found that many of the cities we studied were undergoing processes of change regarding urban Sámi policymaking, with new possibilities for urban Sámi. From being almost invisible in some cities, Sámi identities and culture had now been elevated to something the urban municipalities had on their agendas,

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if not necessarily prominently so (see also Berg-Nordlie 2018; chapter 2 in this volume). This in turn has expanded the experienced space for being urban and Sámi, involving a reconceptualization of what it is to be Sámi. As explained in the introductory chapter, Sápmi is divided among four states, in which the Sámi populations have a range of different histories of urbanization and where various Sámi policies apply. This has an impact on identity politics and identities. The states in focus in this chapter, Norway and Sweden, are arguably the most similar among the four. In Russia, the historical policy of forced relocations led to geographical redistributions of Sámi sub-ethnic groups. New communities were formed from people originating in different parts of Russian Sápmi and there has been sizeable intergroup mixture. When the cultural revitalization movement began in the 1970s, a choice was made to focus on revitalizing only one of the five Sámi languages historically present in Russian Sápmi (Afanasyeva 2013; Berg-Nordlie 2017; Overland and Berg-Nordlie 2012).2 Sámi identities in Russia do not seem to have focused on sub-ethnoses as much as in the other states. They have a more pan-Sámi character, where different Sámi groups have actively chosen to consolidate for strategic purposes, making urban Indigenous multiculturalism less of an issue. On the other hand, the ruralization of Indigenousness is a definite challenge. Closeness to nature, fishing, and reindeer herding are vital identity-markers for Sáminess, and the parts of Russian Sápmi officially recognized as “Places of Traditional Inhabitance [etc.]” are all non-urban (BergNordlie 2017; see also chapters 1 and 4 in this volume). The situation in Finland is also unique in some aspects. The definition of the “Sámi Domicile” as consisting of rural municipalities in the extreme north of Finland (see chapter 1) has effectively constructed an association between the Sámi and this specific area with its non-urban characteristics. It is not uncommon to see the Domicile presented as being coterminous with Finnish Sápmi, despite the historical primacy of the Sámi in areas far to the south of this zone. Finland also stands out because of the intensity of the ongoing debate around Sámi identities. Persons who are not registered as voters in the Sámediggi, but who are of Sámi descent, are often described and socially treated as non-Sámi (see the introduction and chapters 2 and 4 in this volume). Some persons who have not been allowed to register in the Sámediggi Electoral Roll refer to themselves as “non-status Sámi,” echoing the discourse of “non-status Indians” in the Americas (Saarivara 2012: 12). The Finnish-Sámi debate on how to determine who is Sámi and who is not, with no easy answer, spurred by the need

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of both the Sámi and Finnish political institutions for clear-cut boundaries, has had an impact on the construction of urban Sámi identities in Finland. It places people in cultural hierarchies where competences and identities can always be questioned. Thus we see how the colonial presence still affects how Sámi people view themselves and how the state defines them in terms of categories. While Norway and Sweden are in many ways the most similar among the four states, there are differences in Sámi policy highly relevant for the question of urban identities. In Sweden, the state pursued a dual policy of segregation and assimilation, from the late nineteenth century up until the postwar period. Rural and reindeer-herding Sámi communities were the only ones officially deemed “pure” Sámi, and there were targeted policies aimed at keeping them socially and culturally separate, whereas other Sámi were not recognized as such and experienced assimilation pressure. This has led to a strong association in Sweden between Sámi ethnicity and not just rurality, but reindeer herding in particular. Even today, much of the Swedish state’s Sámi policy is focuses on the reindeer-herding industry, a fact that is a source of political contention within Swedish Sápmi (Lantto 2014). In Norway, official state policy toward the Sámi aimed at assimilation into the majority culture (“Norwegianization”) from the mid1800s until the mid-1900s. Since then, policy has shifted to the point where the state has formally committed itself to protect and facilitate Sámi culture, language, and community (Minde 2010). Except for some special laws and regulations for those involved in the reindeer-herding industry, the Norwegian state does not distinguish between reindeer-herding Sámi and other Sámi.3 Also in Norway, reindeer herders are often stereotypically presented as “the real Sámi,” but there are also strong Sámi communities with long associations to other traditional industries such as fishing and farming. While these are all rural industries, it still fosters recognition of the Sámi population as more complex and multifaceted than in Sweden, in turn arguably more conducive to the innovations necessary for building a specifically Sámi urbanity. That being said, in both Sweden and Norway, the individual’s degree of connection to reindeer herding is thematized when Sámi identities are discussed, in addition to the connection to rurality and degree of competence in a Sámi language. The latter has become thematized in discussions in both states about Sámi identities because Sámi of certain areas and economic niches were more affected by the assimilation policy than others. There are fewer language users among descendants of non-reindeer-herding Sámi and those from

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southern or coastal locations. This shows how state policies also contribute to the way the Sámi themselves categorize their own people, and how they limit Sámi possibilities for the future because of stereotypes produced by settler colonial logic.

Young and Indigenous across the Urban-Rural Divide: Urban Life, Rural Connections Interviews with young, urban Sámi show that the link between Sámi identities and rural places is still highly relevant. The colonial states’ historic and present-day politics toward the Sámi, the nationalistic ideology of having clear-cut boundaries between people, culture, and territories, and the need of present-day Sámi political institutions to define who are to be considered Sámi—all this has an influence on how Sámi people perceive themselves and others, and how they are perceived by the majority society. Even though a considerable number of Sámi today live in cities, there is still a kind of “out-of-placeness,” as Andersen and Peters (2013: 379) describe it, related to the idea that urban Sámi culture is not “real” or “authentic” Sámi culture— precisely because Sámi culture remains so strongly associated with rural areas. Even though young Sámi of today have opportunities to learn their language, culture, and traditional knowledge, they have grown up in communities where the colonization and assimilation of Sápmi still has a tight grip on those living in Sámi areas and who might have hidden Sámi ancestry. Moreover, people tend to associate political Sámi symbols with Sámi language and the lifestyle of reindeer herders and other traditional Sámi livelihoods such as fishing, hunting, and gathering. An urban lifestyle is often deemed “un-Sámi” by default due to the persistence of this close association between the rural and Sámi culture. As our interviews with young, urban Sámi showed, these young people are trying to make space for an urban Sámi identity, where “being Sámi” is something more than following a rural lifestyle. Their active ways of performing an urban Sámi lifestyle, and their creative ways of making space for new ways of being Sámi that challenge the stereotypes of what it is to be Sámi, can be seen as having emerged in resistance to narrow discourses of what it is to be Sámi. Powerful colonial institutions have shaped people’s minds and the ways of defining what it is to be Sámi, but the youth in this study are actively resisting these ways of defining Sáminess. Their ways of being Sámi in the city exemplify what Kramvig (2005: 46) has called a form of “re-

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sistance against categories of identity that are experienced as too narrow or exclusive.” Through their everyday lives and their creative use of old and new Sámi symbols and events, and their active use of social media, they challenge the idea that Sámi culture “really” belongs in rural areas or is a culture that must be understood as something that existed a long time ago and now can be found only in museums. These young people have grown up in a time when they, to a much greater extent than earlier generations, can take their cultural rights for granted. Indeed, many young Sámi possess a cultural confidence that earlier generations could only dream of. However, young, urban Sámi are not a homogeneous group, and the different locations examined here vary with respect to their Sámi histories and how Sámi language and culture are integrated and accorded space. Some have moved to the city quite recently, while others are second and third generation urban Sámi. For young Sámi in places like Alta, where the language and traditional knowledge have disappeared or have a weak position, young people can find it difficult to relate to these “official” Sámi symbols, whereas others actively connect their Sámi identities to these symbols. In Alta (Áltá), there are youth with close connections to Sámi communities in the interior of Finnmark County, some from reindeer-herding families, and there are also youth from other municipalities in Finnmark with ethnically mixed or ambiguous families. While young Sámi from reindeer-herding families may experience prejudice against their lifestyle and background, youth from communities with more culturally complex or ambiguous everyday lives may feel that they are not considered “good enough” to be accepted as real Sámi. These ways of evaluating self and others in terms of narrow categories show how the colonial frames still influence how people define what it is to be Sámi: these young people’s identities are defined in terms of what they lack because of colonialism, forced assimilation, and marginalization—not in terms of who they are today and their specific relations to Sámi land and their families, friends, and communities. In turn, this way of defining creates a social dynamic where conflict or avoidance often become the sole options when talking about Sámi issues. This resembles the dynamic that Kramvig describes. “Both in political and academic debates, this emphasis on differences has developed into a situation where ethnicity has become a question of purity: either Norwegian or Saami, you cannot have both. For ethnically mixed families in multi-ethnic communities in the region this has resulted in a situation of ambiguity” (Kramvig 2005: 59). This ambiguity has involved various aimed at avoiding tensions in everyday life. For ex-

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ample, young people from Sámi, Norwegian, or ethnically mixed or ambiguous families may downplay Sámi issues in their everyday lives in order to avoid conflicts or tension because these matters are so contested and ambiguous. In turn, Norwegian language and culture become the norm for interaction in the everyday lives of young people in Alta. For young Sámi who choose to ignore this norm, everyday life may sometimes be quite difficult. As “Márjá” (16) explains, she often experiences situations where she feels that she has to justify her right to be Sámi. She says that she has been called touchy, sensitive, and easily offended, even by teachers at her school. She says that she has felt the need to point out that she was Sámi because she felt like a minority. It is okay here to say that “I distance myself from Sámi culture” or “I don’t want to identify as Sámi in any way.” That is so provoking for me, and then there are lots of people who don’t like it that I let myself be provoked. And I’m easily provoked when people talk about Sámi issues, or if someone offends Sámi culture. (“Márjá,” 16, Alta)

This quote shows how the complex ethnic dynamic creates conflicts in school for young Sámi like “Márjá” who do not want to submit to the norm whereby Sámi language and culture should be hidden or downplayed in public. When she stands up for herself and for her culture, and refuses to hide her identity but instead displays it in public, others interpret that as her being an “agitator.” Settler colonialism is still lurking; people have adopted settler colonial ways of defining themselves, thus participating in the elimination of their own culture. When others provoke “Márjá,” they interpret her being provoked as a way of expressing conflict, or that she is easily offended. For “Márjá,” the fact that they claim to distance themselves from Sámi culture, even though they may have Sámi ancestry themselves, is even more provocative. “Martin,” a former high school student in Alta and a member of the Sámi youth organization Noereh, explains: In Alta there was a lot of talk about Sámi issues. The high school is located close to the [Sámi] kindergarten. You often could hear friends make comments about it [the Sámi kindergarten], that the best thing would be simply to burn the building down and get it over with. . . . I don’t like to hear things like that, but I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t know what to say. . . . You get used to not thinking about it. (“Martin,” 22, currently Oslo)

Even though young Sámi today have grown up in a time when Sámi language and culture are much more accepted and appreciated than before, young Sámi still experience racism, hateful comments, and

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jokes about their language and culture. The fact that many Sámi people themselves participate in these practices shows how the logic of elimination of settler colonialism continues to haunt people’s lives in Sámi societies. As “Martin” explains, this kind of discrimination in everyday life is something that even young Sámi have to learn to ignore. Nasty comments may come even from friends, as this quote demonstrates. According to “Martin,” this was quite common when he attended high school in Alta. He chose to ignore it because he did not know how to deal with it. Instead of challenging his friends about their discriminatory comments, he simply ignored them and tried not think about them, as a way of getting through the school day. “Martin” and “Márjá” have different strategies regarding how they negotiate their identity in public and how they react to discrimination in their everyday life. “Martin” further explains: I have a theory about why it’s easier in Oslo and Trondheim—that it has something to do with the history of Norwegianization in Alta. So many people have spoken Sámi and Kven[4] and Finnish. And many people have changed their whole identities. The Sámi identity got repressed more severely. The shame of having an ethnicity other than Norwegian may be stronger in Alta, since the people there have actually changed their identity over the last hundred years. (“Martin,” 22, currently Oslo)

“Martin’s” thoughts about the differences between Alta, Trondheim (Tråante), and Oslo (Oslove) are similar to what researchers like Astri Dankertsen (2014), Britt Kramvig (2005), and Kjell Olsen (2007) have written about Sámi communities that have experienced severe Norwegianization. This ambiguity may be the reason why Sámi identity has become such a complex matter, where public expression of Sámi identities sometimes generates conflicts between different groups of Sámi and between Norwegians and Sámi. Whereas racist attitudes towards the Sámi do exist in both Oslo and Trondheim, the issue is more complex in places like Alta. People in Trondheim and Oslo often consider Sámi culture and language to be something exotic and fascinating, and not something experienced directly in their own everyday lives. For people in Finnmark, Sámi language and culture are hardly something distant or exotic since most of them have long been acquainted with various aspects of Sámi life, and many have Sámi ancestry themselves. Due to the complex history of Finnmark County and the Norwegianization process, making space for Sámi identities in urban Finnmark may generate conflicts between different groups of Sámi, between Sámi and Norwegians who may feel excluded, and between persons with a strong Sámi identity and others who themselves may have distant Sámi ancestry but who now identify as Norwegians.

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These conflicts can often be linked to how Sámi identities are socially defined: who gets to be defined as Sámi and who does not. This is an issue found in all four countries. While young, urban Sámi try to make space for urban Sámi identities, Sámi identities are still strongly associated with the use of natural resources through traditional activities like berry picking, hunting, fishing, and reindeer herding. We find this “out-of-placeness” of an urban Sámi identity among young, urban Sámi in other interviews as well, as with sixteen-year-old “Márjá” from Alta: There are about ten of us [in class] who have Sámi as our first language. But, since the school has a thousand students, it sometimes feels like I’m the only Sámi there. You never hear Sámi spoken in the hallways, and I seldom have a chance to use Sámi. Of course, there are many Sámi pupils there, but not that many who speak Sámi. That’s why it’s good to attend the Sámi class and be able to speak Sámi. It’s a very special feeling, to walk into that class. Walk into my own “bubble” and speak my native tongue. It’s so relaxing. But then, as soon as I leave the classroom, there is not a single Sámi word to be heard anywhere. (“Márjá,” 16, Alta)

The quote shows how lonely “Márjá” sometimes feels as a young, urban Sámi, because her urban everyday life is so detached from her own Sámi culture and the language, with little space for her to articulate and perform her Sámi identity. Sámi class becomes a haven in a city where there is not always space for Sámi culture and language. She clearly says that it is “so relaxing” and gives her “a very special feeling,” which is her way of describing her sense of belonging to Sámi language and culture. At the same time, she says that being Sámi at school can feel quite lonely. Even if Alta is the largest town in Finnmark, a county that is deeply associated with Sámi culture even in its name, the invisibility of the language and culture are striking. As “Márjá” says, it sometimes feels like she is the only Sámi in school, even though it is a school with a thousand students, many of them Sámi. “Márjá’s” experience shows how important Sámi classes are for young, urban Sámi. Such classes, in addition to language training, make space for developing a Sámi identity in an urban context. We can thus analyze the lack of space for urban Sámi identity as made clear in the interview with “Márjá.” This is also relevant for the public administration of Sámi issues in urban areas. “John,” an advisor working for the County Governor of one of the three northern counties of Norway, says that Sámi politicians can sometimes be a bit narrowminded; they should focus more on urban Sámi since more and more Sámi are settling down in cities. “It’s is better to survive in the city than to die in the countryside,” “John” says. He also mentions that

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there are many young Sámi in cities nowadays who do not have strong connections to the rural areas in Sápmi. For instance, second- or even third-generation Sámi in the city may not have close relatives in the traditional Sámi areas and may not have the same feeling of belonging to the areas where their parents or grandparents originally came from. “Does this mean that they cannot feel a sense of belonging among the Sámi?” “John” asks rhetorically. It is necessary to prioritize the urban Sámi, not only with language training and festivals, but in politics as well. “John” mentions the Tromsø/Ullsfjord gákti as an example. A gákti is a traditional type of Sámi clothing, and how it is made shows where the wearer or their family comes from. Some parts of Sápmi have lost their traditional gákti patterns due to Norwegianization and among them is the Tromsø (Romsa) area. During the current millennium, though, a gákti has been designed especially for Sámi in Tromsø, based on knowledge about gákti traditions from the sur-

Image 3.1. | Tromsø/Ullsfjord gáktis. A gákti is a type of traditional Sámi clothing. It shows what district of Sápmi the wearer or their kin is connected to. Some local gákti traditions were lost during periods of particularly hard discrimination and assimilation. The Tromsø/Ullsfjord gákti is a modern reconstruction based on local tradition, a gákti for Tromsø city (Romsa) and the nearby rural area Ullsfjord (Moskavuotna/Vuovlevuotna), and other rural areas surrounding Tromsø, Norway. Gáktis and photo by Lone Beate Ebeltoft.

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Image 3.2. | Oslove Noereh (Oslo Youths). Oslove Noereh (Oslo Youths) is a non-partisan organization for Sámi youth in Norway’s capital Oslo (Oslove). The photo is taken at the Oslo Sámi House in front of a mural by the Sámi graffiti artist Anders Sunna. The flag is the Sámi Pride Flag, which merges elements of the Sámi national flag and the LGBTQ+ Rainbow Flag. The Sámi Pride Flag has been used since the first Sápmi Pride parade, which took place in 2014 in the town of Kiruna (Giron), Sweden. Photo by Mads Suhr Pettersen, property of Oslove Noereh.

rounding rural areas. This is something that can be done in other cities as well, as a way of creating an urban Sámi identity. Alta also has its own gákti, likewise by way of rural gákti traditions in the greater district where Alta lies. In this way, the politicians and the Sámi residents of Alta and Tromsø have reconceptualized the cities as Sámi places, not only as Norwegian cities where Sámi people live. In this way, they have made space for Sámi urban identities. The local gáktis are an example of how Tromsø and Alta have become places where Sámi can feel that they belong, not only in a Norwegian sense, but in a Sámi sense as well.

Urban Sámi Hypermobility As Paul Pedersen and Torill Nyseth (2015) point out, with specific reference to the phenomenon of urban Sáminess, the increased mobility of people in our times also has an impact on place identities and

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belonging, where people can have feelings of belonging to several places at the same time. The urban space enables complex and multilocal place identities as well as new ways of articulating Indigenous identity in a culturally complex urban context. Being an urban Sámi today is linked to hypermobility and belonging to many different places at the same time. Because rural areas are still such an important part of being Sámi, many young Sámi spend considerable time traveling back and forth. Hypermobility thus becomes a way out of the “out-of-placeness” of urban Sámi identities: people can stay connected to rural areas while spending their everyday lives in the city. Indeed, young Sámi may not necessarily define themselves as having an “urban Sámi” identity even though they live in a city. Many of the young Sámi interviewed for this project feel that urban life is important to them, but they all describe their Sámi identity in relation to one or more rural places of origin. Thus, we can say that they have multilocal identities performed through Sámi hypermobility. As Nyseth and Pedersen (2014: 147) write: “Urban Sámi identities are being ‘stretched out’ across particular places and territories. In that sense we could say that they are carriers of dual identities.” “Lene,” a young Sámi woman living in Oslo says: “I am not a city Sámi. I have lived in the city for only two years” (“Lene,” 20, Oslo). “Lene” distances herself from an “urban” Sámi identity. She explains that she grew up in a rural Sámi area, and connects her Sámi identity to this place. However, in her everyday life there is a distinction between the urban and the rural, which can sometimes be blurred by what can be characterized as urban Sámi hypermobility, involving patterns of migration between cities and rural areas (Pedersen and Nyseth 2015). This movement between the urban home and the rural home communities creates complex situations where identities transcend the traditional idea of identities as mono-local. In fact, multi-local identities are common among Indigenous people and diaspora populations in general (Anderson 2013: 60; Hull 1984; Norris and Clatworthy 2003), challenging the idea of identities as placebound, closely linked to one homeland and one community. For many young Sámi in urban areas, traveling back and forth between the homeplace and the urban home is an important part of being Sámi today. “Mikkel,” a young Sámi man, lives in Bodø (Bådåddjo/ Buvvda) but is originally from a rural area in the greater district. The interviewer asks him if there is a big difference between living in Bodø and in his homeplace, to which he answers that there is no difference. He has the same friends, and they all drive back and forth between his place of origin and Bodø. Some of his friends live in Bodø and visit their homeplace on weekends, while others still live in their

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place of origin but pay weekend visits to Bodø. “Mikkel” also likes to attend Sámi festivals and meetings, so he spends a lot of his free time traveling to Sámi “happenings” all around Sápmi. He explains that he is not very politically active or interested; he does this only because it is fun to meet young Sámi from other places. Participating in festivals and meetings has become an important part of his Sámi identity. His story shows that hypermobility is a central element in being Sámi for young people today and that hypermobility in itself is a performed Sáminess. “Kristin” (20) grew up in the interior of Finnmark County, and her life story shows us how Sámi hypermobility is important to understanding Sámi identities today. Both “Kristin’s” parents are Sámi, but they come from different Sámi areas, and neither of them has any family background in the municipality where “Kristin” grew up. She and her brother speak North Sámi because they had Sámi in school and grew up in a municipality where the Sámi language has a strong position. However, neither of her parents speaks Sámi because in the places where they grew up the Sámi language did not have a strong position. “Kristin” now lives in Tromsø, and both of her parents have moved away from the municipality where she grew up. She says she cannot imagine herself moving back to the municipality where she grew up, mainly because neither of her parents originally came from there. She does not have a place that she calls “home” anymore. However, she still has many friends from the place where she grew up. In addition, “Kristin” has a boyfriend from another Sámi region. “Kristin’s” Sámi identity is thus multi-local and complex, where hypermobility is an important part of her performed Sámi identity and where she connects her Sámi identity to many different places at the same time. Hypermobility is perhaps even more important for those who come from families with a strong connection to reindeer herding. “Lina” was born in Stockholm (Stockholbma) but has always had strong linkages to reindeer herding and Sámi traditional knowledge. Even though she has always lived in the city, she does not define herself as an urban Sámi, due to her strong connections and sense of belonging to reindeer herding and her family’s place of origin in the interior of northern Sweden. These ties to traditional knowledge and traditional Sámi livelihoods are central to her Sámi identity, even though her everyday life always has been in the city. For many young, urban Sámi with family ties to rural areas, especially to families who practice reindeer herding, hypermobility becomes a way of combining a traditional Sámi lifestyle with an urban one: they can be both urban and rural at the same time. For these young people, the impact of the urban and the rural on their Sámi identities is quite complex. It is

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situational and contextual, because the distinction between the urban and the rural Sámi population is unstable and situational. Some of the young informants in our project have lived in several urban and rural places and have parents who have moved between places. For them, multi-local Sámi identities have become the “new norm.”

Making Space for Urban Sámi Identities While there are differences between the case-study cities in the four Sámi countries, the challenges that young Sámi encounter in the cities are similar. In all four countries, young, urban Sámi are all trying to find ways of making space for Sámi identities in an urban context where there is often little room for articulations of Sámi culture and identity. Being a young Sámi in an urban context can be quite lonely for some. Others, however, make space for Sámi identities in various ways, where the cities not only represent an obstacle to Sámi identities, but also offer new ways of being and becoming Sámi. As Marianne Gullestad (2006) has argued, equality in a Nordic context is often framed as sameness: people need to see themselves as more or less the same in order to maintain a sense of community and a sense of equality. This often results in a communication style where commonalities are emphasized while differences are downplayed. When some individuals are perceived as too different, that becomes a threat to the social order, and those who do not “fit in” are excluded in order to restore the sense of sameness. For young Sámi, showing their identity or using the Sámi language can in itself be perceived as a threat to basic values in the majority society. In order to make space for an urban Sámi identity, they need relevant others who can support them. Thus, they have to find strategies for making a space for their difference, and ways of establishing commonalities between themselves and the majority population in the city. In the project reported here, we have interviewed teenagers as well as young adults in their twenties. Being a teenager can be challenging in and of itself and being Sámi does not always make this easier. We find a difference between our younger informants (aged thirteen to eighteen) and those who are older regarding the space they have for expressing their identities. Many urban Sámi activities such as concerts and parties also involve alcohol, which excludes minors. For the youngest ones, school and family are still the major Sámi arenas. “Maria,” aged thirteen, describes her urban everyday life as quite ordinary, not differing from that of her classmates, except for the fact

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that she learns Sámi at school and wears Sámi dress on special occasions. When asked what she likes to do after school and on the weekends, and if she likes to do anything Sámi, she said that she does not do anything special: she does her homework, listens to music, and likes to read. She reads mostly fantasy literature, and the music she listens to is mostly international pop music. “Maria” spends most of her time with non-Sámi friends, except for her cousin. She sometimes listens to Sámi music when she is alone or with her family. Occasionally they visit relatives and her mother’s homeplace, but her everyday life is generally not so different from that of others at her school. According to “Maria,” the most important thing is to be proud to be Sámi. Also the two siblings “Robert” (16) and “Christina” (13) say that school and family the most important Sámi arenas. They now live in Tromsø with their mother. Their grandfather grew up in a more rural part of the coastal Sámi area, but left when he was young. Their mother grew up outside the traditional Sámi area but feels a strong connection to Sámi culture today, which is partly the reason why “Robert” and “Christina” also feel connected to Sámi culture. “Robert” and “Christina” have no connection to their Sámi family’s place of origin, and they have never visited the place where their grandfather came from. Moreover, most of their family members have now moved away from that place. However, “Robert” and “Christina” lived for a while in a municipality in the core Sámi area where they still have friends. They see this as an important time regarding their identities, even though they have no family connection to that place. “Christina” and “Robert” spend their afternoons doing homework or spending time with friends. “Christina” used to be on a roller-derby team; “Robert” likes table tennis. With the exception of “Robert’s” Sámi language class, “Christina’s” interests in duodji (Sámi handicraft), celebrating the Sámi National Day wearing gákti, and sometimes listening to Sámi music with their mother, their everyday life does not differ greatly from that of other youth in Tromsø where they live. They once attended a Sámi political meeting with their mother, but said that they do not care much about politics. When asked about participation in youth activities, they said they did not know much about the opportunities for people of their age: activities tend to be for university students and adults, not the under-eighteens. For the younger Sámi, such as “Maria,” “Robert,” and “Christina,” who are still in junior high and high school, Sámi organizations seem somewhat irrelevant to their everyday life, nor are there many activities that appeal to them or include them. For the youngest Sámi

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interviewed in connection with the project, we can thus say that there is a lack of space for Sámi identity performance, which in turn can affect urban Sámi identities. School and Sámi language training and family are the most important arenas for Sámi identities for them. Indeed, Sámi language training in school is a very important arena for the youngest informants. As regards urban Sámi identities, here it should be borne in mind that some young Sámi have grown up in the city and do not have strong connections to the rural areas where their parents, or grandparents, originally came from. A new generation of Sámi is growing up in settings where the urban lifestyle matters the most, and they feel that they belong in the city. For those who do not have living grandparents or close family ties to the rural areas anymore, the urban life is the only possible life for them. Especially for those youth, it is important that there are urban spaces for Sámi culture where they can express their identities and make space for an urban Sámi life. “Thomas” is one of the young men we interviewed in Stockholm. He says that it is easy to be Sámi in the city because the city allows a different kind of freedom. He explains that he is not interested in the lifestyle in interior Swedish Lapland. While he was growing up, he was not interested in snowmobiles, reindeer, or other things that belong to that lifestyle. If you come from a small place, threatened by depopulation, he explains, and do not have the same interests as most people there, you do not gain self-confidence—it is as if the world is happening somewhere else. For “Thomas,” it is the world of popular culture that interests him. It is this world he wants to belong to, to live in, and to grow old in. At the same time, he claims that it is easier to succeed as a Sámi artist if you live in the city. There are more people there like him, it is possible to “get a voice” in a different way than in the rural areas, he explains. In this sense, we can say that “Thomas” is trying to find a way of expressing an urban Sámi identity that differs from both the rural Sámi identity and non-Sámi urban youth. He thus makes space for an urban way of expressing his Sámi identity. For a long time, “Thomas” wanted to be someone else. He wanted to be “Stockholm cool.” He did not feel that he was worth anything at all as a person from rural Sápmi. However, today he has a different perspective. Now, being Sámi in Stockholm has a quality in itself, he says. We can conclude that in his own way he has found a way of being a cool urban Sámi and that being Sámi in itself is a part of what makes him “cool.” Because “Thomas” did not grow up in the city, he finds it difficult to answer how young Sámi people who have grown

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up in the city experience being Sámi. However, he adds that he has met many young, urban Sámi in his work life, and he feels that they have a different kind of profundity, a broader focus, compared to “ordinary” Stockholmers. Being Sámi gives them something extra that other young people do not have. However, “Thomas” says that young, urban Sámi often become invisible in the big city and they want to be more visible as Sámi. City life is the norm, he says, and it is the voices and perspectives of the urban Stockholmers that count. He adds that young Sámi live in a society where it is the rural life that counts and is the norm, and where it is the urban life that is invisible. We can interpret this as a way of expressing that there is not enough space for the urban in Sámi culture. In “Thomas’s” story, the urban and the rural, the Swedish and the Sámi, represent diametrically opposed norms and lifestyles: Sámi culture is associated with the rural, whereas the urban is defined by Swedish urban culture. Many of those who struggle to define an urban Sámi lifestyle and culture become invisible, in Swedish as well as in Sámi society. For others, however, it can be easier to be Sámi in a big city. According to “Susanne” (20), who is active in the Norwegian Sámi Association (NSR), this is especially true for young Sámi who have grown up in places that have a more complicated relationship to their Sámi past and present. If you come from a place where Sámi [language and culture] lives, it [the culture] will probably be weakened. But for someone like me who grew up in a place where the Sámi [language and culture] has a weak position, almost dying, moving to a place where I can meet other Sámi people has given me more people to talk to [in Sámi], since it used to be only mum, dad, and my sister. It was worst in “Viknes” [the municipal center]. Here in Oslo, you sometime encounter people who joik after you,[5] but it is probably not malicious. People simply don’t know that much [about Sámi culture], it is exotic. In [her place of origin] people often don’t like Sámi people . . . In a way, I feel there is less racism in Oslo, since I come from a place where there is so much of it. In Oslo, you seldom experience racism against Sámi people. (“Susanne,” 20, Oslo)

Moving from a place where there is still considerable discrimination against Sámi people and where many still conceal their Sámi identity to Oslo where there are many Sámi people from all over Sápmi can be a relief. While in her home village, “Susanne” could speak Sámi only with her parents and sister, in Oslo she meets Sámi people all the time. In a sense, she is closer to her own culture in the non-Sámi city of Oslo than in the place where she grew up, where many people have

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Sámi ancestry, but where the language is threatened and many still choose not to articulate their Sámi identity. She adds that it is easy to hide in a big city like Oslo, where no one knows who your family is, and that this feels like a kind of freedom. Furthermore, In the city you can hide if you don’t want to be recognized as Sámi. I often don’t say that I’m Sámi because I want people to focus on something else. Everyone doesn’t know that [family name] is a Sámi name. Many people believe that I’m from Greece or Finland. If they ask, then I answer, but not everyone asks. It is fun, in Oslo you can find new Sámi people everywhere. I always wear something Sámi like this (shows her shawl) so that others can find me. Some of us use things like this when we go out. I often see people with Sámi things like this, and then I walk up to them and say “hi.” (“Susanne,” 20, Oslo)

Paradoxically, the low knowledge about the Sámi among Norwegians in Oslo becomes something that gives young Sámi like “Susanne” a sense of freedom and flexibility as to performing and articulating their Sámi identity. The city is a place where she can meet Sámi from all over Sápmi, a place where she has better chances of preserving her own language and culture. When we recall how Sámi culture is still strongly associated with rural Sámi areas, and how young Sámi still link their Sámi identity and belonging to places in rural areas in the traditional Sámi territories, an “urban Sámi identity” becomes a paradox in itself. This freedom the city gives young Sámi is also relevant for minorities in Sámi society. For minorities, such as homosexual and transsexual individuals, the city can be a place where they can express themselves. “Lina,” a young lesbian Sámi in Sweden, says that it can be difficult to be LGBTQ in traditional Sámi areas, especially in traditional, male-dominated reindeer-herding communities. “Lina” was born in the city, but her family are reindeer herders, and herding is something that she also takes part in whenever she has the opportunity. She says that she has never lived in the Sámi countryside, but that she believes it is easier to be queer in the city. She talks about Queering Sápmi, a project that works for and with Sámi people and that challenges norms about gender and sexuality. “Lina” says that this project has been strongly connected with urban areas, perhaps because the queer movement itself is so strongly connected to the urban, even though many project participants live in traditional Sámi areas. “Káre,” a young female student in Tromsø, is of mixed Sámi origin: her mother is from the Northern Sámi region, her father comes from the Lule Sámi region (for more on Sámi subgroups, see chapter 1,

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this volume). She grew up in a third municipality where neither of her parents has any relatives, but where the Sámi language has a strong position. “Káre” links her Sámi identity to a culturally complex and multi-local world, not to one particular homeplace where she feels that she belongs. Moving back to the place where she grew up is not an option for her: she likes Tromsø and wants to stay there. Her description of her Sámi identity shows that there are ways of being Sámi that are not necessarily connected to a specific location. She feels connected with the Sámi people through practices and personal bonds. In defining Sámi identities like this, “Káre” also opens up ways of being Sámi that also include being urban Sámi. When we interviewed the leader of the Sámi student organization in Tromsø (Sámi Studeanttaid Searvi Romssas, SSSR), he confirmed that there are not many active members in the organization today: it is mostly the members of the board who are active. The SSSR still have two important happenings per year. They arrange a popular Christmas party in December and they arrange a party during the Sámi cultural week in February in connection with the celebration of the Sámi National Day. These two arrangements are very popular among students and other young (or young at heart) Sámi in Tromsø. However, the level of activity in the organization is quite unstable. Some years, there is considerable activity, while other years there are few active members or activities. The SSSR leader explained to us that at the time they were in a period with few activities except for the Christmas party and the Sámi Cultural Week. The rest of the year, Sámi students mostly interact through private networks and ordinary student life, and not SSSR membership. However, many of our young informants say that they use social media to get in contact with other young Sámi. Many of the case-study cities have Facebook groups like “Sámi in Trondheim,” where they share links to Sámi concerts and other events or plan gatherings. Social media has indeed become a game-changer for identity work in everyday life, making it is easier to get in touch with people with similar identities. Many activities that used to require formal organization can now be arranged easily through social media. “John,” an advisor on Sámi issues, says that he can see a change in Sámi communities in cities in Norway, even in Tromsø where Sámi organizations have had a strong position for decades. Not so long ago, the Sámi student organization had many members and activities. Today’s students have other interests. He adds, however, that this is not necessarily a bad thing: it might be that the young Sámi today have a strong Sámi identity and do not need an organization to preserve their

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Image 3.3. | Rural arts, urban setting. Children at the Sámi kindergarten Cizáš (The Sparrow) in Oslo (Oslove) are shown how to prepare a goahppil (female capercaillie) by a kindergarten employee who brought it home from hunting. Photo courtesy of Mikkel Berg-Nordlie.

identities. They have the confidence to do it on their own, and they have the networks in the city that give them a sense of Sámi belonging. The city is a place where Sámi identity is a matter of “becoming” as well as of “being” (Hall 1990: 225), where individuals negotiate and find new ways of being Sámi. While some use organizations to meet other Sámi and express their Sámi identities, others have different networks. There is diversity among young, urban Sámi, just as there is among urban youth in general, with the city offering a range of ways for expressing their identities. Thus, there are many different ways of making space for urban Sámi identities, in turn opening up new ways of being and becoming Sámi.

Different Sámi, Same City What constitutes Sámi urbanity? That is a complex question that is also related to the social and cultural complexity of the Sámi people

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Image 3.4. | Urban arts, rural setting. A lávvu tent painted by Sámi graffiti artist @Illuzina (Linda Zina Aslaksen) from southern Norway. Installation at the international Indigenous festival Riddu Riđđu which is held annually in rural Manndalen, Kåfjord (Olmmáivággi, Gáivuotna). The piece shows Canadian-American Indigenous artist and activist Buffy Saint-Marie, who performed at the festival that year (2019). Photo: Astrid Carlsen, Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 4.0 license.

as a whole. Urbanization of Sámi people involves a concentration of the diversity that exists throughout Sápmi, including negotiations of identities. Some cities are located in areas that traditionally have had Sámi settlement, such as Bodø, Alta, and Umeå (Upmeje/Ubmeje);

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other cities, such as Oslo and Stockholm, are outside of Sápmi. Sometimes the Sámi have moved to the cities; and sometimes cities have developed in areas that already had Sámi settlements. There are many differences between the cities and how they relate to Sámi culture and history (see chapters 1 and 2 in this volume). This is also reflected in how the cities profile their relation to Sámi culture, for instance, in official documents. According to the Cooperation Agreement between the Norwegian Sámediggi and the Municipality of Bodø: “Likewise, it is ascertained that Bodø has had Sámi settlements from ancient times up until today, that the municipality has a growing Sámi population, that the municipality also is host to a number of Sami students” (Municipality of Bodø/ Sámediggi 2015). Here we can see how the city of Bodø connects this Sámi political initiative both to the Sámi history of the area and to the fact that many Sámi people have moved to the city. This perspective was also reflected in several official speeches in the opening ceremony of the Sámi Language Center in Bodø in 2018, where the local Sámi history of the area was mentioned, that many Sámi people from various areas have moved to the city, that a Sámi kindergarten section has been opened in Bodø, and that Nord University in Bodø started the “Senior Teacher in Lule Sámi” program the same year. We can here see how the municipality of Bodø and the Sámediggi are “rebranding” Bodø—or Bådåddjo, the Lule Sámi name of the town—as a Sámi town, even though Sámi language and culture have been almost invisible for a long time. Furthermore, the cultural complexity of cities is linked to identity categories of the past and present and to colonial history. As Tahu Kukutai points out, “Statistical representations of Indigenous peoples are constrained by official identity categories that are socially constructed and historically contingent” (2013: 312). This also reflects ideas about who are to be included or excluded from these categories, which in turn is connected to what Kukutai describes from New Zealand as “colonial policies of racial amalgamation, with the expectation that Māori would eventually lose their separate identity and become absorbed” into the dominant white Western society (2013: 312). Likewise, as a result of assimilation policy, relocations, marginalization, and intermarriage, the Sámi today are a diverse population, ranging from those who identify solely as Sámi, to persons with a more complex Sámi identification. The cities have also been important not only for the Sámi people who have traditionally lived in the specific geographical area where the city is now, but also as meeting points for trade, work, and education for people from different Sámi groups in the region. Because the

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cities often have people from several different areas, their linguistic, cultural, and colonial histories are quite different, and this in turn has an effect on identity negotiation processes in cities. The various subgroups used to be integrated into a complex socio-economic system where Sámi in different areas and with different livelihoods cooperated and were connected through reciprocal relationships—or verddevuohta/“guestfriend”6—through friendship, kinship, and practical aspects of everyday life, but state policies have weakened these old ties (Eidheim 1966). Often this can be a source of conflict and tension between different subgroups in Sámi communities living in cities, where Sámi from different areas with different colonial histories and perceptions as to who the “real” Sámi are may show a lack of solidarity with each other. Such tensions are apparent in Sweden as well, where the idea that reindeer herders are the only “real” Sámi is far more pronounced than in Norway, where today there is a greater cultural diversity within Sámi society. To belong to a recognized sameby—a Sámi village, the juridical counterpart to the Norwegian reindeer-herding districts—is an important source of Sámi rights in Sweden, and thus an important factor in identity. “Olle,” a young Sámi living in Umeå, explains how he takes part in reindeer herding and how it feels like a part of the mountain life. “I still consider reindeer herding as the ‘real’ Sámi culture, and a lot of people do not want to cut the ties to their homeplace” (“Olle,” 21, Umeå). “Olle” indicates that reindeer herding is still the most important symbol of Sámi culture in Sweden. This, he explains, has to do with the fact that Sámi rights regarding hunting and fishing are connected to the reindeer herders. Furthermore, he thinks that many choose to live in Umeå because it is easy to travel home and take part in the activities connected to reindeer herding. “Olle” has family ties to the interior part of northern Sweden and to reindeer herding, but he grew up in the city. He says that even though he did not take part in that world, his roots, his connection to the land there, are an important part of his Sámi identity. He would like to build a small cabin in the area where his family originally came from. Olle thinks it is easier to be Sámi in the interior, in the traditional areas: but he also acknowledges that many young Sámi in reindeer-herding communities have committed suicide, so he does not know if it is easier after all. On the other hand, “Olle” claims that Umeå has become an important part of Sámi society as whole, especially after the EU declared Umeå a European Capital of Culture in 2014. Here, even though reindeer herding is still an important part of what defines being Sámi in

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Sweden, the growing emphasis on Sámi culture in Umeå has changed this slightly, opening new ways of defining Sámi culture to include urban Sámi culture. A similar argumentation can be found in the interview with “Sara,” a young lesbian Sámi in Stockholm who has ties to reindeer herding: I do not see myself as a City-Sámi. My ties to the traditional areas have been so strong, and the Sámi [culture] is something that is connected to these areas and the activities there. The Sámi [culture] in the city is more difficult to define. But now I consider myself as being a Sámi in the city. (“Sara,” 20, Stockholm)

“Sara” grew up in the city, but her ties to the reindeer-herding communities make her feel Sámi. She says that she sometimes thinks it would be easier to take part in reindeer herding if she had not grown up in the city. She clearly connects her Sámi identity to reindeer herding, and her city upbringing makes her feel “less” Sámi. At the same time, she argues that because she is a lesbian it has been easier to be Sámi in the city: she feels that it is more difficult to be a lesbian in the male-dominated traditional Sami reindeer herding community. We see how the creation of this “new” Sámi subgroup—“the queer Sámi”—has opened up for urban ways of being Sámi, where this new subgroup is a way of defining Sámi identities that can include a more urban lifestyle. Cities in areas that traditionally have had Sámi settlements are often areas where Sámi language and culture have for a long time been marginalized and made almost invisible. Alta is located on the western coast of Finnmark, an area that has traditionally had a quite large coastal Sámi population (Eidheim 1969; Høgmo 1986; Olsen 2010). “Rolf,” who works at Álttá Siida, the Sámi cultural center in Alta (see chapter 4 in this volume), comments on the frustration of some parents who could not get places for their children in the Sámi kindergarten: Alta is a place where a lot of people have lost the [Sámi] language because of the Norwegianization policy. Then, their grandchildren and great-grandchildren apply [for placement in the Sámi kindergarten]. And I understand that. A generational ending to the Norwegianization process. They want a place in the kindergarten to bring back the language. . . . it is a shame to have to say “no” because we do not have enough places. (“Rolf,” Alta)

The focus on revitalizing Sámi language and culture has been an important factor throughout Sápmi, especially since the opening of the Sámediggi (the Sámi Parliament, see chapter 1 in this volume) in

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1989, with Sámi festivals such as Riddu  Riđđu in Kåfjord as an important factor. However, the largest and most dominant group is still the Sámi-speaking population in the interior of Finnmark, where the Sámi are in the majority. Because Alta is the largest town in Finnmark, with job opportunities and a university (UiT—The Arctic University of Norway, Alta campus), people from all over the county move to Alta for shorter or longer periods, including people from the interior. These individuals, with greater competence in Sámi language, have in turn been an important and dominant factor in the development of Sámi institutions, organizations, and activities in Alta. “Kari,” an activist who has worked with coastal Sámi issues for a long time, says: I wonder if the coastal Sámi [culture] just got “too much attention.” That is what I believe. Those who are in the Sámi organization were mostly from the interior areas. . . . Here, they were the ones who became “the Sámi” and could represent the Sámi [culture], and then the language center came and focused on the coastal Sámi [culture]. . . . It is difficult when you don’t have people who can speak those dialects [the coastal Sámi dialects], when you have to depend on people from other areas. (“Kari,” Alta)

“Kari” points out that the competence of those from the interior part of Finnmark is needed, but that there should also be a focus on the coastal Sámi language and traditions. She feels that the reindeer herders from Kautokeino are seen as the “real Sámi” and that this is in conflict with the focus on the coastal Sámi dialects and traditions. Here we see how the negotiation between different Sámi subgroups in Alta is linked to hierarchies in Sápmi that serve to disrupt Sámi mobilization. In fact, there are not only negotiations between the coastal and interior Sámi as to what Sámi culture in Alta should be, but also negotiations of coastal Sámi identities and how coastal Sámi culture should be presented. “Kari” mentions the Alta gákti—the Sámi dress introduced in Alta: When it was sewn [for the first time], it was called mearrasámegákti [coastal Sami gákti]. It was based on an old model from Øksfjord. They call it the Øksfjord gákti over there, but here they call it the Alta gákti.[7] I’ve even seen it in use in Hammerfest. There are different opinions on that. Some like it, some don’t. Some have changed it so much that it’s become unrecognizable, and I think that is a shame. (“Kari,” Alta)

We can see here that people also negotiate as to what coastal Sámi material culture should be and the amount of space for cultural change that is deemed acceptable. In the period when our fieldwork was

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conducted, several courses for learning how to make the Loppa/ Kvænangen/Alta gákti—Loppa (Láhppi) and Kvænangen (Návuotna) are nearby rural areas—were held in the region, and young people especially wanted to get a gákti for themselves. The gákti became increasingly visible in social media, especially through the Noereh campaign “International Gákti Day,” when young Sámi were encouraged to wear Sámi dress in their everyday life on a specific day and to share pictures in social media. Although an increasing number of young Sámi are growing up in the cities, as urban Sámi from Alta or Tromsø, they still tend to point out that they “originally” come from specific rural Sámi areas. The geographical area that constitutes the Municipality of Bodø is partly in the Pite Sámi area, where no one speaks the Pite Sámi language today, but where a growing number of people are becoming interested in their own Sámi past, and there are attempts to revitalize the Pite Sámi language Furthermore, the municipality is located in an area with reindeer-herding districts, where some of the reindeer herders are originally from the North Sámi region in Sweden. In addition, the municipality lies partly in the Lule Sámi area and close to areas where the Lule Sámi language still has a relatively strong position. The Lule Sámi language is also one of the three Sámi languages with official status in Norway. Thus, even though Bodø is said to be on the border between the Lule and Pite Sámi area, the official name and road signs are in Lule Sámi—Bådåddjo, not Buvvda—and the language taught in the Sámi kindergarten and school and at Nord University is also Lule Sámi, because the Pite Sami language has not yet gained the status of an official language in Norway, and there are no active users of the language in Norway. This is a source of tension within the Sámi communities in Bodø, not only between the Sámi and the non-Sámi residents, but also between different Sámi groups, and between Sámi who want to make Sámi language and culture visible again and those who are more comfortable with a situation where local Sámi history, and their own Sámi history, can remain invisible. Whereas Umeå, Alta, and Oslo have Sámi organizations and specific venues such as a Sámi center where people can meet, Bodø opened its Sámi center as recently as 2018.8 Moreover, active Sámi organizations have tended to recruit people from specific Sámi groups but not others. The members of the main Sámi NGO of Bodø and the surrounding district, Sálto Sámesiebrre, are mostly from the Lule Sámi area, with some members from the North Sámi area and the reindeer herders there. The Pite Sámi have their own organization; most of

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its membership is from the municipalities of Beiarn (Bájddár) and Bodø. There is also a Sámi parents’ network, but because the children who have Sámi training in school learn Lule Sámi, most parents are naturally also from the Lule Sámi area. The annual Sámi festival in February is the only time when Sámi people from different areas have an opportunity to come together (see also chapter 4 in this volume for more on Sámi civil society in the Bodø area). “Mikkel” from the Lule Sámi area explained that he has little contact with other Sámi people in Bodø apart from those from the Lule Sámi area: Bodø is a student city, and people come from all over Sápmi to study. There are new people coming all the time, but it is not that easy to keep track of them when there are no places to meet. Then it becomes mostly informal social networks and coincidences. (“Mikkel,” 21, Bodø)

He points out that while he thinks that Sálto Sámesiebrre does an important job, they do not do that much in Bodø because most of the members are from the Lule Sámi area. He feels it is important to have a place such as a center where Sámi from different Sámi subgroups can meet. “Mikkel” describes a city where the Sámi are divided into different subgroups, with few places to get in contact with each other. While there are Sámi people from a range of areas, this is quite different from the situation in, for example, Oslo and Tromsø, where young Sámi to a greater extent socialize with Sámi from other areas. Although this sometimes leads to inter-group tensions, it also creates opportunities to develop solidarity and to mobilize across the different Sámi subgroups, as “Martin” points out: It is very easy to be Sámi in Oslo. Here, there are actually a lot of Sámi. It’s easy to establish a social scene, easy to make Sámi friends. Now, with Oslove Noereh,[9] I think it will be even easier. I have great hopes for Sámi [culture] in Oslo. The Sámi House, language courses, and other courses, events for old and young Sámi. . . . And here, there’s a much more diverse group of Sámi. Diversity is fun. (“Martin,” 22, Oslo)

However, “Martin” adds that there is a challenge, because there are so many Sámi from different areas and many speak different Sámi languages or do not speak Sámi at all due to Norwegianization. They often have to speak Norwegian in order to understand each other and to include everyone. For him, this can be negative because he wants to use the Sámi language more. He wishes that there could be more arenas where the Sámi language(s) can be used.

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Both “Mikkel” and “Martin” argue that it is a positive thing that the Sámi communities in the cities are more diverse. For “Mikkel,” though, the fact that the Sámi communities in Bodø are divided, with little interaction between the different Sámi subgroups in the city, is clearly a bad thing. “Martin,” however, appreciates that there is a quite diverse group of Sámi in Oslo, and that they can meet and learn from each other in organizations such as Noereh.

Conclusion Even though the situation varies greatly in Russia, Finland, Sweden, and Norway regarding Sámi rights, policymaking, and the corresponding identity discourses, we can note some similarities. There is increasing urbanization among Sámi, and yet, being urban and Sámi represents a kind of “out-of-placeness,” as being Sámi is still closely connected to the traditional rural Sámi areas. Urban Sámi identities involve complex and multi-local place identifications, with many Sámi living what can be categorized as a “hypermobile” life, migrating between rural and urban locations/settings, but with strong connections to the rural Sámi areas (Anderson 2013: 60; Hull 1984; Norris and Clatworthy 2003; Pedersen and Nyseth 2015). We can link the migration pattern to the strong association between “authentic” indigeneity and rurality, where the urban Indigenous identity becomes a kind of “out-of-placeness” in an Indigenous context, even though more and more Indigenous people live in cities (Peters and Andersen 2013: 379). We argue that Sámi identities must still be understood within the rural/urban dichotomy, which in turn has an impact on how urban Sámi identities are negotiated. However, we find that young, urban Sámi are trying to find new ways of being Sámi, where being urban and being Sámi are not necessarily incompatible categories. Being a young, urban Sámi involves a complex negotiation between the past, present, and future in a way that also opens new ways of being Sámi. In addition, the urban Sámi communities are diverse and culturally complex communities, with Sámi from different areas and with a range of interests and lifestyles. This diversity makes a space for cultural creativity. To be young and Sámi in a city enables and presupposes cultural creativity, living in a place where people from different parts of Sápmi meet members of the majority population and other cultural minori-

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ties as well. Cities are places where young people come to get an education, to work, and to take part in everything that urban life has to offer. This lifestyle has a huge impact on how they live their lives and how they define themselves. Urban Sámi identity challenges the very definition of what it is to be Sámi. As noted in the introduction with reference to Stuart Hall (1990: 225), identities are a matter of “becoming” just as much as of “being.” The urban lifestyle thus opens up new ways of being Sámi. While previous generations often hid their Sámi identities, many young Sámi of today have a very different perspective. They live in a time when there is more space for being Sámi, when more and more people are proud of being Sámi, and they demand their right to be Sámi in an urban environment. This opens up urban Sámi creativity because it requires reinventing what it is to be Sámi in an urban environment and making space for Sámi identities in places where there has been little room for expression of Sámi identity. Astri Dankertsen holds a PhD in sociology and an MA in social anthropology. Dankertsen is Associate Professor in Sociology at Nord University in Norway and is currently the head of The Division for Environmental Studies, International Relations, Northern Studies and Social Security.

Notes 1. “The Plateau” here refers to highlands in the Scandinavian interior that are of high importance for many reindeer-herding Sámi groups, and they are symbolically connected to Sáminess, particularly by the non-Sámi majority. The Norwegian word, Vidda, is elsewhere in this book translated as “The Plains.” The corresponding term in North Sámi is duottar. 2. Four Sámi languages are generally considered historically present in Russian Sápmi: Ter, Kildin, Skolt (Notozerskij), and Akkala (Babinskij). In addition, a coastal variety of North Sámi known as Fil’man has historically been spoken in the northwest part of Russian Sápmi (Leinonen 2008). 3. In Norway, the right to have influence over natural resources are realized through arrangements where not only urbanized Sámi are granted extensive influence over local natural resources, but also non-Indigenous persons who live on Indigenous lands (Skogvang 2017). 4. For more about the Kven ethnic identity, see footnote 2 in chapter 1, and footnote 5 in chapter 4. 5. Joik is the traditional Sámi singing technique. When non-Sámi “joik after” Sámi people, it is often a way of making fun of Sámi people by making fun of their singing technique.

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6. Verddevuohta is a concept that means “guest friend.” This is an ancient and important way of collaboration between the settled and reindeer-herding Sámi, which strengthened the mixed economy of the Sámi. The collaboration often involved lodging, boat transport, bartering of meat, fish, craft products. It was also historically, before this practice was banned by the state’s authorities, common that the settled Sámi had reindeers in their verdde family’s herd (Eidheim 1966). 7. Usually it is called Loppa/Kvænangen/Alta gákti, even though it has been reconstructed from an old gákti from Øksfjord (Ákšovuotna) in Loppa Municipality. However, some claim that the Alta version has changed so much in the last decades it might be time to separate this from the gákti used in Loppa and Kvænangen, which is more true to the original design. 8. This center opened after the NUORGÁV researchers had completed their interviews for the project. 9. Oslo’s chapter of the Sámi youth organization Noereh (see chapter 4 for more on this).

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Kukutai, Tahu. 2013. “The Structure of Urban Māori Identities.” In Indigenous in the City: Contemporary Identities and Cultural Innovation, ed. Evelyn Peters and Chris Andersen, 312–33. Vancouver: UBC Press. Kuokkanen, Rauna. 2000. “Towards an Indigenous Paradigm.” The Canadian Journal of Native Studies 20(2): 411–36. ———. 2007. Reshaping the University: Responsibility, Indigenous Epistemes, and the Logic of the Gift. Vancouver: UBC Press. Lantto, Patrik. 2014. “The Consequences of State Intervention: Forced Relocations and Sámi Rights in Sweden, 1919–2012.” Journal of Ethnology and Folkloristics 8(2): 53–73. Leinonen, Marja. 2008. “The Filmans: Nomads at a Dead End.” Journal of Northern Studies 2: 51–75. Lindgren, Anna-Riita. 2015. “Samisk blant samer i Helsingfors” [Sámi among Sámi in Helsinki]. In City-Saami: Same i byen eller bysame? Skandinaviske byer i et samisk perspektiv [City-Sámi: Sámi in the city or City-Sámi? Scandinavian cities in a Sámi perspective], ed. Paul Pedersen and Torill Nyseth, 237–78. Karasjok: ČálliidLágádus—Forfatternes Forlag. McClintock, Anne. 1985. Imperial Leather: Race, Gender and Sexuality in the Colonial Contest. New York: Routledge. Minde, Henry. 2010. “Assimilation of the Sami—Implementation and Consequences.” Acta Borealia: A Nordic Journal of Circumpolar Societies 20(2): 121–46. Municipality of Bodø and the Sami Parliament. 2015. “Avtale mellom Bodø kommune og Sametinget” [Agreement between Bodø municipality and the Sámi Parliament]. Retrieved 18 March 2020 from https://bodo.kommune .no/getfile.php/133802-1548405530/Bunntekst/Samisk/%20Sametinget% 20%28003%29.pdf. Norris, Mary Jane and Stewart Clatworthy. 2003. “Aboriginal Mobility and Migration within Urban Canada: Outcomes, Factors and Implications.” In Not Strangers in These Parts: Urban Aboriginal Peoples, ed. D. Newhouse and E. Peters, 51–78. Ottawa: Policy Research Initiative. Nyseth, Torill, and Paul Pedersen. 2014. “Urban Sámi Identities in Scandinavia: Hybridities, Ambivalences and Cultural Innovation.” Acta Borealia 31(2): 131–51. Olsen, Kjell. 1997. “Utfordringer og reorienteringer i forståelsen av det samiske.” Norsk antropologisk tidsskrift 8(3–4): 231–43. ———. 2007. “When Ethnic Identity Is a Private Matter.” Journal of Ethnology and Folkloristics 1(1): 75–99. ———. 2010. Identities, Ethnicities and Borderzones: Examples from Finnmark, Northern Norway. Stamsund: Orkana akademisk. Overland, Indra, and Mikkel Berg-Nordlie. 2012. Bridging Divides: Ethno-political Leadership among the Russian Sámi. New York: Berghahn. Pedersen, Paul, and Torill Nyseth. 2015. “Innledning.” In City-Saami: Same i byen eller bysame? Skandinaviske byer i et Sámisk perspektiv, ed. Paul Pedersen and Torill Nyseth, 11–30. Kárášjohka: ČálliidLágádus. Peters, Evelyn, and Chris Andersen. 2013. “Introduction.” In Indigenous in the City: Contemporary Identities and Cultural Innovation, ed. Evelyn Peters and Chris Andersen, 1–20. Vancouver: UBC Press.

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Sarivaara, Erika. 2012. “Statuksettomat saamelaiset Paikantumisia saamelaisuuden rajoilla” [Non-Status Sámi Locations within Sámi Borderlands]. Ph.D. dissertation. Kautokeino: Sámi Allaskuvla, DIEDUT 2/2012. Skogvang, Susann Funderud. 2017. Samerett: [Sámi law.]. 3rd edition. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget. Starn, Orin, and Marisol de la Cadena, eds. 2007. Indigenous Experiences Today. New York: Berg. Stordahl, Vigdis. 1994. “Same i den moderne verden. Endring og kontinuitet i et samisk lokalsamfunn” [Sámi in the modern world. Change and continuity in a Sámi community]. Ph.D. dissertation. Tromsø: University of Tromsø. Ulfrstad, Anneline. 1989. “Same og Osloborger: strategier for opprettholdelse av etnisk identitet” [Sámi and citizen of Oslo: strategies for maintaining ethnic identity]. Ph.D. dissertation. Oslo: University of Oslo. Uusi-Rauva, Kati. 2000. “Citysaamelaisten etnisyys” [City Sámi ethnicity]. In Beaivvi mánát: saamelaisten juuret ja nykyaika [Children of the sun: Sámi roots and modernity], ed. Irja Seurujärvi-Kari, 204–9. Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura. Valkonen, Sari. 1998. “Että tämmönen saamelainen minä olen. Saamelainen identtiteetti asuntoloasukupolven elämänkertojen valossa.” Master’s thesis. Tampere: Tampere University. Weaver, Hilary N. 2001. “Indigenous Identity: What Is It and Who Really Has It?” The American Indian Quarterly 25(2): 240–55. Wolfe, Patrick. 1999. Settler Colonialism and the Transformation of Anthropology: The Politics and Poetics of an Ethnographic Event. London: Cassell. ———. 2006. “Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native.” Journal of Genocide Research 8(4): 387–409.

? chapter four

Urban Indigenous Organizing and Institution-Building in Norway and Russia By and For Whom? Mikkel Berg-Nordlie, Anna Andersen, and Astri Dankertsen

This chapter explores historical developments as regards the organizational side of urban Sámi life with a focus on two specific types of urban Indigenous “spaces” that Sámi activists have created: urban Indigenous NGOs and urban Indigenous culture houses. We compare developments regarding the establishment of such spaces in Norway and Russia, analyzing them through the lens of the concepts of specialization, politicization, and partisanization. As discussed in preceding chapters, Indigenous peoples are subject to a strong association between rurality and “authentic” indigeneity—a pervasive notion that Indigenous people and their culture “really” belong in rural areas (Andersen and Peters 2013: 379–80; Denis 1997). This creates a sense of “out-of-placeness” for urban indigenousness (Andersen and Peters 2013: 380), something that not only has an impact on urban Indigenous identities, but also on policy making. Indigenous peoples’ organizations and the governance of Indigenous affairs are in many states structured in ways that lead policy to focus on rural areas. However, as Indigenous peoples urbanize, it becomes ever more pressing for the survival of Indigenous culture and identity that there is space to live Indigenous lives in urban areas,

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and that key political and administrative institutions and organizations have urban Indigenous policies. Indigenous NGOs have been created by urban Indigenous communities to provide a collective voice, a place to be, and necessary services for their community. As Chris Andersen and Evelyn Peters among others have noted, such organizations have often been pantribal or big-tent, that is, they unite members of different Indigenous groups (C. Andersen 2013: 57–58; Andersen and Peters 2013: 381–85; Peters and Andersen 2013a: 25, 2013b: 307–9). In other cases, different groups of Indigenous people find it better not to work through the same organizations, or do not manage to do so, resulting in situations where the same urban area can have several Indigenous organizations that organize cultural events or represent Indigenous interests. We describe the different ways in which Indigenous NGOs can be less than all-inclusive through our concepts of specialization, politization, and partisanization. Although NGOs are central to urban Indigenous political and social life, they are not the only actors on the stage. State-based actors such as urban municipal authorities and city-based provincial authorities have also come to be more involved. There can be different reasons for the presence of such actors in the arena. One is pressure from Indigenous civil society, who call on such actors to take responsibility when it becomes clear that NGOs alone cannot address all the needs of the urban Indigenous population or out of a philosophy that the state has the responsibility to address these needs. Legal obligations to ensure that the Indigenous population gets access to certain services may also push state-based actors into the arena and duties toward the Indigenous population may be bestowed on municipalities and provinces by higher levels of the state, such as in Russia where the provincial level has many responsibilities for the implementation of minority-related policy (Berg-Nordlie 2017: 13–14, 2018a; Malakhov and Osipov 2006: 505). Actors within municipal or provincial systems (politicians, administrative personnel, employees responsible for implementation) may also suggest Indigenous policy initiatives out of a sense that it would be proper that their institution should be active in the arena or out of idealism. In addition, private businesses have also gotten involved in urban indigenous affairs in many places—out of idealism, profit motives, or a combination of both—particularly by offering Indigenous cultural experiences, for both Indigenous and non-Indigenous people. Cultural and educational institutions, whether state-owned or private, are also important actors in urban Indigenous cultural life.

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Nevertheless, NGOs remain vital actors in urban Indigenous life. This chapter explores the structure of Sámi NGO life in Norwegian and Russian urban areas, the role of such NGOs as social spaces for the urban Indigenous population, and their role in the establishment and governance of a special type of Indigenous urban space: urban Sámi culture houses. These two types of urban Indigenous spaces— Sámi NGOs and Sámi culture houses—were underscored by many informants in the NUORGÁV project as being highly relevant when discussing the quality of Sámi cultural and social life in the city. These two were not the only types of Indigenous spaces that were brought up as important: informants also discussed services to Sámi elders, Sámi-oriented health services, regularly recurring Sámi culture events, and different types of arenas for young urban Sámi to learn and use Sámi languages (see Berg-Nordlie 2018a). When it comes to young people, the existence of good urban Sámi kindergarten and school systems stands out as being particularly central. Services that enable young Sámi growing up in urban areas to familiarize themselves with Sámi language and culture are of incomparable value for the continuation of Sámi language, culture, and identity. They provide the next generation with an Indigenous network beyond the family from an early point in life, normalize language and other aspects of Indigenous culture that are invisible in the wider urban context, and they provide youth with grown-up teachers and role models that possess Indigenous culture competence that their own parents may not always have due to the consequences of earlier anti-Sámi state policy that made cultural transfer difficult (see chapter 1 in this volume). Kindergartens and schools also provide a possibility for the parent generation to establish a community and useful networks—and even unite, as we see from the emergence of Sámi parents’ organizations in several urban areas across Norway. Nevertheless, this chapter limits itself to Indigenous NGOs in general and culture houses. These types of Indigenous spaces are, in principle at least, not limited to targeting specific generations or other subgroups of the urban Indigenous population but have the potential to be all-inclusive. The current chapter is divided into four distinct parts. The first part takes us through some reasons for the creation of urban Indigenous spaces and some benefits and drawbacks of being more and less inclusive. It also discusses some theoretical concepts of relevance for the study of urban Indigenous organizing, namely urban Indigenous spaces, specialization, politization, and partisanization. The second and third parts deal separately with urban indigenous organizationand institution-building in Norway and Russia. Both parts have the

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same structure: they begin with a brief history of urban Sámi organization in the state in question and move on to a presentation of urban Sámi NGO activity and culture house establishment since the 1990s. Our focus is on the extent to which the urban Indigenous spaces are characterized by specialization, politicization, and partisanization—or inclusiveness. How does the structure of Indigenous civil society in the two states impact NGOs’ potential to create and to be inclusive Indigenous spaces for the urban Sámi population? The fourth part concludes the chapter. Here we attempt to see if we can find any similarities in urban Sámi governance based on the cases we have examined, and we point out some key differences, challenges, and potentials. The front of this book contains a map that shows roughly where in Northern Europe the urban areas that are mentioned in this chapter are to be found (Map 0.1: Provinces and Key Urban Areas in Sápmi).

Space to be Indigenous Spaces of Inclusion and Exclusion The analytical concept “urban Indigenous spaces” was present in the research project NUORGÁV—An Urban Future for Sápmi (see the introduction in this volume) from the beginning, but after project researchers encountered a similar concept being used among some of the urban Indigenous informants, the theoretical concept’s content was adjusted. It was when the project’s researchers familiarized themselves with Sámi politics in Trondheim (Tråante), South Sápmi’s major urban area, that they became acquainted with a concept coined by local Sámi activists—“Sámi space” (Norwegian: samisk rom)—which was similar to our notion of urban Indigenous spaces, but carried a much wider meaning: It’s sort of an abstract concept. The idea is that Trondheim is also a Sámi place, a multicultural place, and that it always has been, but history is written by the winners, and they haven’t always given space to the Sámi. . . . We are working to create space for being Sámi in Trondheim [emphasis ours]. Not a physical house where you can go and be a Sámi for a couple of hours a day, but a tolerant climate, an attitude. (“Anita,” Tråante)

The informant underscores how Sámi space is not only a physical place, but also a social and cultural place that reflects the social and cultural complexity of the city. The Tråante conceptualization of Indigenous space was informed by the experience of being made in-

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visible in the city’s self-presentation and in urban politics—and also by a problem experienced by openly Sámi people: that they were met with contempt and suspicion by parts of the urban majority population. There is still a sense of “out-of-placeness” (Andersen and Peters 2013: 380) that restricts the space to be “openly Sámi” in the city. By “openly Sámi,” we mean people who do not choose to attempt to “pass” as non-Sámi. People who do not refrain from using the language, traditional Sámi clothes, certain symbols, and so forth. Negative reactions to visible Sáminess can be linked not only to the way Sámi people have come to be associated with rural areas and as such are seen as “out of place” in urban areas, but also to old racist notions about Sámi people and ideas about which places it is—and is not—acceptable to be openly Sámi. The discrimination against the Sámi pressured many to hide their Sáminess, some to the extent that their children grew up without knowing about their Indigenous heritage (Andreassen 2011; Aslaksen and Lian 2019; Minde 2005). The anti-Sámi attitudes exhibited by some people in the north are at least partly rooted in a type of self-covering aggression performed by Sámi who attempt to “pass” as Norwegians against people who are visibly Sámi. Later generations have learned this behavior, some without even being aware that their own connection to the Sámi people is the cause of it. This is what was noted by one of the informants from chapter 3, who explained anti-Sámi sentiments in Alta (Áltá) as resulting from “shame of having an ethnicity other than Norwegian” since many people in Alta “have actually changed their identity over the last hundred years” (”Martin,” earlier living in Alta, currently Oslo). Another informant describes how he started down the path of discriminatory behavior towards his own people, but decided to leave that path: I can’t say I was proud of it when I was young. All the negative ideas about the Sámi made an impression on me . . . . In my youth I got to hear it a lot. I tried to distance myself, and because of that, I often became a part of it. [emphasis ours] [informant points finger] “Look at those Finns . . .[1]” When I was about sixteen, I began to feel it wasn’t right. So, I stopped doing that. (“Jon,” Alta)

For some, it is not easy to “pass” as non-Sámi: they have names that give them away as Sámi, they speak Norwegian with an accent identifiable as Sámi, or they have physical features that match stereotypes about the Sámi. Such people are particularly at risk for being singled out as targets for people with racist attitudes toward Sámi. Another informant from Alta describes how in her youth she had changed her

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name, colored her hair blonde, and avoided sunlight so that her dark complexion would not be emphasized by tanning. After having gone back to her natural appearance, she has again experienced unwanted physical attention from strangers and is often addressed with ethnic slurs. They say, “Your cheekbones are insanely high, and you’ve got such dark hair, you’ve got to be a Sámi.” I don’t know, aren’t some Norwegians dark too? And some Sámi are blonde . . . . Many times, I’ve thought, “Why couldn’t I have been born to this world blond and blue-eyed?” Not so dark, not with this fjellfinn[2] skin [pinches her own skin]. Whatever they mean by that. People walk over to me and grab my hair to see if it’s real. “You’ve got that fjellfinn hair,” they say. (”Ruth,” Alta)

The following passage from the anthology series “Sámi School History” edited by Svein Lund (2003–13) is also an example of how people may be targeted by anti-Sámi racism solely due to their physical appearance—here, a Sámi man recounts his experiences as a student in the town of Narvik (Áhkánjárga), Nordland: I remember two classes in the eighth grade where we were to learn about the Sámi . . . I sat staring into my desk for two long hours, wishing I was somewhere else, being afraid that my Sámi background would be revealed. I remember a girl in my class, she whispered to somebody else, touched her cheekbones and pointed at me. I’ve since thought about how the others in the class didn’t speak to me for some weeks after that. That same year I was at confirmation school [religious education]. One of the girls had pronounced cheekbones. I wished that she weren’t there, and I wondered how I could get the size of my own cheekbones reduced. (Andreassen 2011, quoted in Lund 2003–13)

While attitudes to the Sámi appear to have changed for the better in the Nordic states, stereotypes like these are still not all that uncommon among non-Sámi people even today and still influence how Sáminess is hidden or shown spatially. Such experiences are not unique to the Nordic part of Sápmi. Chauvinistic attitudes toward Indigenous peoples also have a long history in Russia. Discrimination based on popular ideas of “race” is most pronounced against Indigenous individuals that are of an appearance considered to be more “Asian.” Such individuals may also be targeted by Islamophobes who mistake them for members of Russian ethnic minorities that are generally Muslim (Rohr 2014). The Sámi of Russia are not among the Russian Indigenous nations who are most physically dissimilar to the majority population, but derogatory attitudes

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exist also toward those Indigenous peoples that may more easily pass as majority Russians. This can be seen in relation to the traditional paternalism in the Russian relationship to its Indigenous peoples, where the state is seen by the majority population as a benefactor of the “small peoples” rather than a colonizer and exploiter (Berg-Nordlie 2017). The ills associated with the relative socio-economic depression that is prevalent among many Russian Indigenous groups have also given rise to prejudices that combine ethnic and class-based contempt. The IWGIA (International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs) sums up the racist stereotyping of Russian Indigenous peoples in their home regions as follows: “They are seen as child-like, incapable of real work, entirely addicted to alcohol and overly benefiting from state welfare and support” (Rohr 2014). Our Russian Sámi informants of different generations give different reports of their experiences of anti-Sámi sentiment. Those who were young in the 1960s describe experiencing racial slurs and violent conflicts in urban areas: Well, they called us “Lapps, Lapps” [ethnic slur], of course, sometimes it can be offensive. Well, because we were considered to be the lower class, the lowest tribe. Who took us for humans? “Lapps, Lapps.” You get tired of listening to it sometimes, and then it starts. The same people in the street attack us, so we are defending ourselves . . . (”Vladimir,” Murmansk, quoted in Afanasyeva 2019: 156)

The Sámi people in Russia and other Indigenous peoples were racialized in a manner that legitimized and camouflaged the state’s paternalism toward the Indigenous peoples because they were portrayed as primitive and unable to take care of themselves. Younger Russian Sámi informants have fewer negative experiences to share, and one claims that that the general tone in Russian Sápmi’s main metropolis Murmansk City (Murman Lánn') is one of “respect” and even “kindness.” This is likely to reflect an improvement in popular attitudes over time, something that is also observable on the Norwegian side of the border. It may also be noted that the informant who was most content with life as a Sámi in Murmansk City, who describes it as “pleasant, friendly and informative,” was born in the city, whereas Sámi who had moved to the city emphasized negative experiences more, such as the informant below who had encountered both negative stereotypes and supportive statements. Stereotypes are constant. That we smell badly, that we are illiterate and stupid. Well, there are illiterate and stupid people in all nationalities. . . .

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In the city some people supported me, saying, “It is right that you are not embarrassed to promote your own culture and speak up about it.” But someone [else] said that I was a crazy person. (“Sergej,” Murmansk City)

In Trondheim, the short-term desire of local activists was the establishment of Indigenous space in the sense of Indigenous breathing space. This illustrates how the marginalization of the Sámi appears through bodily manifestations of power structures in society (see Dennison 2018), and how bodies and sociomaterial spaces (see Massey 1994) are shaped through entanglements of power that restrict Sámi visibility in urban spaces—space for individuals to be openly Sámi (tolerance), but also for the city of Trondheim to be recognized as a place that also has a Sámi past and present (acceptance). Long-term visions for Sámi space in the city also included the creation of more concrete and physical institutions, such as a Sámi kindergarten—but it was seen as a precondition for achieving such gains that one first had to increase the space for Sáminess at the level of basic attitudes and popular consciousness.3 This chapter concerns other types of Indigenous spaces—more concrete and organized spaces—but it is nevertheless a valuable insight that organized Sámi spaces do not just have the function of promoting culture and identity, but also to be “safe spaces”—they constitute arenas where one is guaranteed to not experience discrimination when being openly Sámi. When talking about organized and institutionalized urban Indigenous spaces, we must underscore that “institutionalized” does not necessarily mean “physical.” Informants also brought up the importance of non-physical arenas for urban Sámi: communication technology has made it possible to create Sámi “spaces” online, where people can get in touch, organize formal and informal events, and support each other. Social media is as an essential component of modern urban Sámi life. Many urban areas have at least one Facebook group intended to unite the local Sámi population. They are an important counterweight to the social atomization that many Indigenous peoples experience in larger urban areas. Those Indigenous groups that do not cluster voluntarily or involuntarily in certain parts of the city (a phenomenon that may produce problems of its own, see Moran 2013) instead live their lives as geographically scattered Indigenous individuals who often lack common social arenas unless such arenas are deliberately organized. Under conditions of urban Indigenous atomization, there are few opportunities for Indigenous individuals to meet and practice Indigenous language and culture. In cities of a certain size, such urban Indigenous individuals are not just

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poorly connected with each other but may not even know about each other at all. Through social media groups, the Indigenous “atoms” may connect into more social “molecules”—individuals find out about each other, share information about opportunities to use and learn language and culture and coordinate and cooperate to make the city a better place to be Indigenous. Other types of Indigenous spaces noted by the informants as important were those that are institutionalized not in the sense of continuously existing, but by being regularly occurring, namely annual Indigenous cultural events. Informants particularly noted the importance of publicly celebrating Sámi National Day (6 February). In most urban areas, this is the major Sámi cultural event on any year’s calendar or even the only major Sámi cultural event. The celebration may stretch over several days with contributions from NGOs, state-based actors, and private businesses. Cultural events of a certain scale serve not just as arenas for Indigenous social congregation and enjoyment of Indigenous culture—but also as a temporary symbolic reclaiming of space in the city, a “ritual” to remind both the minority and majority peoples of the Indigenous people’s history and continued presence in the area (Berg-Nordlie 2018a; Johnson 2013). These events are often well-known among the majority population and may make it temporarily easier for people to be “openly Sámi” in public. This shows us how restrictions on expressions of Sáminess in public are not only of a spatial order, but also of a temporal order, where certain dates make it easier, and even generally accepted, to express cultural differences in public (see K. Olsen 2007: 75). In sum, the final concept of urban Indigenous spaces that we utilize in this book is wider than our project’s original idea of just physical places for Indigenous networking and culture—we instead refer to the latter specifically as urban Indigenous culture houses—but it is still narrower than the general concept that Indigenousness should have cultural space in the sense that it is tolerated and accepted. We define an urban Indigenous space as an institutionalized (constant or regularly repeating) arena that enables Indigenous social congregation and the usage and learning of Indigenous culture and language.

NGOs as Urban Indigenous Spaces: Specialization, Politicization, and Partisanization NGOs have much potential to serve as urban Indigenous spaces. They can be arenas for Indigenous socialization and networking, and they can organize events where one may use, learn, or experience import-

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ant aspects of Indigenous culture such as language, music, handicrafts, cooking, and so on. In addition to this, NGOs can provide a collective voice for the local urban Indigenous population. Three phenomena can be noted as potential obstacles to NGOs’ functioning as urban Indigenous spaces: specialization, politicization, and partisanization.4 “Specialization” refers to several Indigenous organizations catering to specific groups rather than having the abovementioned “big-tent” model of Indigenous organization, that is, one that transcends internal Indigenous cleavages. In the Sámi context, such groups may, for example, be sub-ethnic (see chapter 1) or generation-based. “Politicization” here refers to Indigenous organizations choosing to not unify the Indigenous population across the political spectrum but reflect political divisions within the Indigenous population. “Partisanization” is an extreme case of politicization in which organizations compete for votes in elections. These phenomena may also have positive aspects for the Indigenous population. Specialization can ensure that groups within the Indigenous community that may otherwise have been given less priority within a “big-tent” Indigenous NGO get a voice of their own and someone who works to provide for their interests. For example, in a situation where members of one Indigenous ethnos or sub-ethnos are locally outnumbered by another Indigenous group and perceive themselves as being given less priority by the “pan-tribal” organization, it may pay off for the internal minority to form a separate organization. Such specialization is not necessarily based on ethnicity or sub-ethnicity but can for example also be generation-based; for example, young people may feel that their interests are not given priority by the older people who dominate the NGOs, and thus separate youth organizations can be of value in order to create events of interest for the younger generation. Other subgroups of the Indigenous community may also feel the need to organize separately in order to cultivate a common identity that exists in contrast not just to the majority, but also to other groups within the Indigenous community. As for politicization and partisanization, one should keep in mind that internal political disagreements will happen, also in Indigenous communities, and individuals who disagree can only work together politically up to a certain point. The organization of movements to express conflicting views within Indigenous communities can be seen as a healthy democratic phenomenon. On the other hand, the fracturing of Indigenous civil society created by specialization, politicization, and partisanization has some clear disadvantages. One is that running an organization is time and energy consuming, and it takes twice the time and resources to keep

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two organizations in existence instead of one. On the level of external political representation, specialization leaves the Indigenous population without an organization that represents all of them—an organization that can be recognized as legitimately speaking on behalf of the Indigenous community as such. The absence of a representative body recognized by the Indigenous population itself can make it difficult to achieve Indigenous political influence. In the absence of such a body, it becomes possible for the authorities to pick Indigenous individuals who are in agreement with their agenda and to treat this as providing an Indigenous voice in the political process. Even if the authorities are genuinely interested in getting an impression of the general mood among Indigenous citizens, specialization may frustrate their possibilities to gather such knowledge. Challenges like these may be ameliorated by establishing an umbrella organization or other common Indigenous space, a collective “node” to unite the smaller groups on a common arena. Such common nodes for Indigenous micro-communities may also have leaders or staff who ease the organizational burden of the smaller organizations or provide representation in cases when the Indigenous population needs to stand united across organizational divides.

Urban Indigenous Organizing and Institution-Building in Norway Pre-Sámediggi Sámi Organizing in Norway When modern Sámi organizing began in the early 1900s, it was more rural than urban, but nevertheless had some important aspects connected to urbanity. After a period of reduced activity, the post-World War II era saw Norwegian Sámi NGO life reinvigorate itself, a process in which urban Sámi had an important part. From the 1960s, Sámi civil society expanded in both rural and urban areas. The 1960s and 1970s was a period of politicization: different responses to Norwegian policy toward the Sámi caused both mobilization and division in Sámi civil society. With the establishment of the Sámediggi in 1989, politicization developed into partisanization. Prewar NGO Organizing The earliest modern Sámi organizations were rural, rather than urban. The first known Sámi NGO was the Vieljažiid Searvi (Association of Brothers) in Eastern Finnmark. Among its members we find people living in the rural vicinity around the Tana (Deatnu) River and Fjord.

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People connected to this association made a Sámi-language newspaper that came out between 1873 and 1875 in the nearest urban area, Vadsø (Čáhcesuolu), and was edited by two alumni of the Tromsø Teachers’ College, Christian Andreassen and Peder Larsen Ucce (Dahl 2016: 93; Solbakk 2021; Zachariassen et al 2021; see also chapter 2 of this volume). Already in this early “outlier” of Sámi organization history, we may observe an interplay between urban and rural impulses. The first major wave of Sámi NGO founding was to come somewhat later, around the turn of the 20th century. This time too, the mobilization had a distinctly rural tendency—the first NGO to be established this time, in 1903, was in Seglvik, Kvænangen (Silvetnjárga, Návuotna) by among others Anders Larsen (Bjørklund 2017) who would go on to, among other things, write the first Sámi-language novel (see chapter 2 of this volume). Nevertheless, urban Sámi NGOs have been a part of Sámi civil society since this period: in 1904, the Lappish Central Association (Swedish: Lapparnas Centralforbund) was established in Stockholm, under the leadership of Elsa Laula Renberg (Henriksen 1976: 14). The first border-transcending Sámi congress (1917) was for practical reasons held in the major urban area of South Sápmi—Trondheim (S. Johansen 2015). Some of the later major meetings were, likewise, held in urban areas, most notably in Östersund (Staare) in 1918 (Henriksen 1976). It is notable that many of the organizational pioneers were from rural areas but had experienced important formative years as students or workers in urban areas. Such people include, for example, NGO founder Elsa Laula Renberg (studied in Stockholm), politician Isak Saba (laborer in Vadsø, studied in Oslo and Tromsø), author and newspaper editor Anders Larsen (studied in Tromsø), editor and organizer Daniel Mortensson (studied in Östersund, later settled in the village of Røros), and politician Per Fokstad (studied in Tromsø, Oslo, Birmingham, and Paris) (Berg 2020; Berg-Nordlie 2019; Jensen 2020; S. Johansen 2015; Sandøy 2010; Skåden and Fredriksen 2019; Stien 1976; Zachariassen 2012). Postwar NGO Organizing After a period of reduced activity during the late interwar and war years, the 1940s and 1950s saw a new spring of Sámi organizing in the Nordic states—both domestic and border-transcending, rural and urban (Berg-Nordlie 2013). The Sámi Reindeer Herders’ Association of Norway (Norgga boazosápmelaččaid riikasearvi) was established during a series of meetings in 1947–48: the first in rural, southern Majavatn (Maajehjaevrie), the second and third in urban areas— Trondheim and Tromsø. Simultaneously, in 1948, the organization

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Image 4.1. | Elsa Laula Renberg (1877–1931), Sámi organizational pioneer. Laula Renberg took the initiative for the first border-transcending Sámi political conference, which was held in Trondheim (Tråante) in 1917. A statue of her was erected in 2019, in the town of Mosjøen (Mussere), where the first Sámi women’s organization was established under her leadership in 1910. Photo by Camilla Tranås Kristiansen.

Sámi Searvi (Sámi Association) was established in Oslo (Andresen et al 2021a; Berg 1999). Sámi students played a role in the creation of Sámi Searvi (OSS, 1948; Otnes 1970). There were no universities in Norwegian Sápmi yet, so young Sámi who wanted the highest available education in

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Norway had to relocate to either Bergen or the capital. In Oslo, they formed a community of Indigenous academics in domestic diaspora who defied the assimilation policy and instead wanted to retain their connection to their homeland and its culture (Sapmi uit.no. 2020). The Sámi Searvi was initially an NGO specifically for Sámi living in Oslo, as well as non-Sámi allies, and was part of a larger umbrella organization for the associations of people who had moved to Oslo from various parts of Norway—the Union of City and Country Associations (Norwegian: By- og bygdelagsforbundet) (Berg-Nordlie 2018b; nsr.no 2003). However, in 1951 the Sámi Searvi reorganized into a Norway-wide NGO for all Sámi (Nesheim 1955). In 1959, a Sámi Searvi chapter was established in the village of Karasjok (Kárášjohka), Finnmark, and more rural chapters followed. By 1967, there were also chapters in the Finnmark municipalities Kautokeino (Guovdageaidnu), Porsanger (Porsáŋgu), and Tana (Deatnu) (Andresen et al 2021a). Opinions began to be voiced that the organizational center should be moved from the urban diaspora to the north, where most of Norway’s Sámi lived (Henriksen 1976: 10). In 1968, control over Norwegian Sámi NGO life was reclaimed by Sámi living in Sápmi: the Sámi Searvi was reorganized into the NSR—the Norwegian Sámi Association (Norgga Sámiid Riikkasearvi), the leadership functions were moved away from Oslo, and the Oslo Sámi Searvi (OSS) continued as just one of several NSR chapters (Andresen et al 2021b; Berg-Nordlie 2018b; Henriksen 1976: 10–11; nsr.no 2003). While the diaspora–homeland balance had now tipped drastically, the overall rural–urban balance was an altogether different issue— the northern urban areas very soon after got their first NSR chapters. Young Sámi with academic ambitions were now drawn to Tromsø (Romsa), where the first university in northern Norway was established in 1968 (opened 1972), and in 1969 an NSR chapter was established in that city (Romssa Sámi Searvi). In 1972, an NSR chapter was established in Alta (Álttá Sámi Searvi), which the following year became home to Finnmark County’s first university college. By then, Alta had become the hotspot of the most salient political conflict in postwar Norway. Politicization and Partisanization During the Alta Dam Conflict (1968–82), Sámi and environmentalist activists protested the flooding of a large area on the inlands east of Alta, including the Sámi-language village of Máze (Minde 2005). The NSR opposed the dam project. During this period, the NSR underwent a marked politicization: the organization emerged as an advocate of

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the rights of the Sámi as an Indigenous people. While this position was popular among many Sámi, it was not universally supported. A rival organization was established in 1979, the SLF (Sámi Countrywide Union), which took more moderate political stances and discussed the Sámi as first and foremost a minority within the Norwegian citizenry and not an Indigenous nation. This group gained particular popularity in coastal areas of Sápmi (Andresen et al 2021b; Berg-Nordlie and Schou 2011: 6, 11–12; Emanuelsen 2006). The Norwegian authorities’ Alta Dam project caused a politicization of Sámi civil society, in the sense that we use that term here: Sámi civil society divided into different organizational spheres based on political affiliation. The Alta Dam Conflict made it clear that Norway needed a new system for Sámi representation in governance, and the Sámediggi was established—an Indigenous parliament, consisting of representatives elected by popular vote (see chapter 1 in this volume). This revolution in political representation also had the consequence that it paved the way for the existing politicization of Sámi civil society to develop into fully-fledged partisanization. The first Sámediggi elections were held in 1989. The SLF decided not to participate, because they were opposed to having a representative organ elected by registered ethnic Sámi. As a result of this, the SLF lost relevance in Sámi political and organizational life. It eventually fractured and faded into obscurity (Berg-Nordlie and Schou 2011; Emmanuelsen 2006). The NSR made the opposite choice. They considered establishing a separate party structure through which its members could run for office. This would prevent a situation where the NSR was simultaneously both a non-governmental cultural organization and a party potentially in control of a state-based political organ. However, the organization eventually came to the decision that the NGO itself should run as a party in Sámediggi elections. The NSR had always been political, but it was now involved in competitive elections with the Sámi of other party lists. The only remaining countrywide and would-be “big-tent” Sámi culture NGO had now become a political party. The social-democratic Labor Party had a particularly long tradition of being a channel through which Sámi activists attempted to influence policymaking: this was the party of, among others, Anders Larsen; Isak Saba, the first Sámi elected to Norway’s parliament (1906–1912); and the anti-assimilation policy activist Per Fokstad (Henriksen 1976; Zachariassen 2012). There was originally some membership overlap between Labor and the NSR—Fokstad had, for example, participated at the NSR’s founding conference—but during the critical years of

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the 1970s, the two groups drifted apart. Labor supported the Alta Dam project and gave voice to more moderate Sámi political sentiments than the NSR. When the Sámediggi was established, double memberships in the NSR and Labor rapidly became a thing of the past. The leader of the Labor Party Sámi, Steinar Pedersen, was an NSR member at the time of the first Sámediggi elections but left the NSR after that organization and its allies set down the first Sámediggi “government” (Sámediggeráđđi) without Labor representation (NTB 1989). The NSR and Labor now became the two main rival parties in the Sámediggi. The partisanization of Sámi civil society was to become more pronounced in the Sámediggi era. New Sámi organizations were established, several of which competed with the NSR for votes in Sámediggi elections. Some of the parties were also expressions of Sámi organizational specialization: they appealed to the interests of specific Sámi subgroups, such as subethnic groups or inhabitants of certain geographic regions. Other parties reflected political differences and political rivalries within Sámi communities. There was also an increasing presence in Sámediggi politics of “mainstream parties,” that is, parties like Labor that were originally formed by Norwegians and were mainly active in Norway’s non-Indigenous specific municipal, county, and national parliaments. The partisanization of civil society had a not insignificant effect on Sámi social and cultural life. Politically active Sámi found themselves divided into different organizational spheres, and to a certain extent, the access of Sámi individuals to Sámi social and cultural arenas became predicated on their personal political affiliation. Local Indigenous spaces were often organized by the NSR in its capacity as a cultural organization, and some Sámi de facto experienced a loss of access due to not feeling welcome at, or not wanting to promote, a rival party’s events. The impact of partisanization was, however different from place to place. Some Sámi communities saw intense internal conflicts, while in other places, the Sámi leaders managed to work across political divides and cooperate in the establishment of non-partisan Indigenous spaces.

Urban Indigenous Organizing in the Sámediggi Era General Tendencies This section contains an overview of Sámi civil society in a selection of Norwegian urban areas that are considered important as hubs for Sámi urbanization (see chapter 2 in this volume): Alta, Tromsø, Oslo (first tier), Bodø, and Trondheim (second tier). The urban areas

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are presented from north to south (see maps at the beginning of the book). The second-tier urban areas are less pronounced as Sámi organizational nodes in their districts: Alta, Tromsø, and Oslo (Oslove) dominate their districts while Bodø (Bådåddjo/Buvvda) and Trondheim are rivalled by strong rural Sámi settlements in their districts. In the case of Trondheim this has recently changed somewhat, as the organizational landscape has restructured itself around a growing urban Sámi population. Partisanization is a feature in all the urban areas, since the cultural NGO, NSR, doubles as a party, and there are multiple other parties present in the urban areas that compete during Sámediggi elections. The extent to which parties other than NSR are active as cultural organizers varies from place to place, and there are also notable differences regarding their interrelations and structures for cooperation. One may observe that the presence of specialized and non-partisan Sámi NGOs in these areas have been increasing—Sámi youth organizations, student organizations, and parents’ networks have been established. Norwegian Sámi youth organizing has a tradition of being non-partisan, already from the 1996 establishment of the first such NGO in Norway, Davvi Nuorra (Northern youth), which sought to unite Sámi youth independently of their “economic niches, geography, and political positions” (Hovland 1996: 113). The same can be said about student organizing: before the Sámediggi was established, students were heavily involved in several urban NSR chapters, but after the partisanization of NSR—new, non-partisan, NGOs have been created by Sámi students. The parent networks are a younger type of Sámi organization that are also always non-partisan, open for all parents of Sámi children and youth. They work for, among other things, improved Sámi school and kindergarten services. Finally, one must mention the increased importance of social media in urban Sámi social life, particularly Facebook groups for local Sámi. These are non-partisan, non-politicized, and non-specialized— targeting the entire Sámi population of a given area. Since these are not NGOs, this chapter does not focus on them, but they nevertheless are so important for urban Sámi networking, socializing, discussion, and information-sharing that they must be mentioned. Alta (Áltá) A persistent assessment of Alta is that this town is, or at least has earlier been, plagued by particularly negative attitudes toward the Sámi. One informant was, for example, of the opinion that in Alta, the hate against the Sámi had a unique “depth and durability” (”Jon,” Alta).

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Earlier in this chapter we discussed the “policing” of visible Sáminess as part of “passing” as Norwegian, and as a form of behavior inherited from Norwegian-passing ancestors. Two other explanations were offered by informants: one is that Alta has a large population of people with Kven ancestry, and unresolved tensions between this national minority and the Indigenous Sámi play a part.5 Another explanation was residual tension from the Alta Dam Conflict. This conflict was summed up as “traumatizing” by a local informant (“Laila,” Alta): it created and exacerbated divisions in the population when it came to Sámi-related issues, also within the Sámi population itself, and some of these divisions have yet not healed. In this context, it may not be so difficult to understand why Alta’s politicians and bureaucrats have exhibited a certain reluctance to champion the creation of spaces to maintain and promote Sámi culture. One municipal employee described the local culture in administration and politics as one that had earlier produced Sámi “invisibility” in all regulative documents and political decisions: Sámi interests were simply not taken into account, effectively ensuring that policy neglected the interests of the Sámi. While the production of Indigenous invisibility in politics is not unique to Alta, the extent of it was seen by some as particularly notable. There are signs that this is changing, however: there has been increased dialogue between the municipality and the Sámediggi since 2011, and in 2019, the Sámediggi and Alta signed a cooperation agreement that contains a framework for interaction, some points of agreement, and some subjects of cooperation (Oskal 2019). Even so, the earlier absence of municipal commitment to Indigenous services made it necessary for civil society to take responsibility. The NSR chapter Álttá Sámi Searvi became a provider of organized Sámi spaces and services to the Sámi population. However, joining the NSR or frequenting the spaces established by them was not considered an option for everyone. The main reason for this has to do with the politicization and partisanization of Sámi civil society. In addition, the organization acquired a reputation among some as being primarily an organization for urbanized Sámi-speakers hailing from other parts of Finnmark, and not for the generally non-Sámi-speaking local population. It must be said that Alta NSR does have members who are precisely the latter kind of people, but this does not change the fact that some informants reported feeling unwelcome on those grounds. On the other side of the coin, several Sámi-speaking Sámi in Alta feared the ascension of a type of Sáminess that does not value the Sámi language, but instead focuses on other aspects of Sámi culture (see discussions in Bjørklund 2016; Nyseth and Pedersen 2014).

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First and foremost, we Sámi have a desire to preserve our language. The municipalities don’t necessarily understand this need. So, they don’t set off enough means for, for example, the schools. . . . People are now conscious that to teach your child Sámi requires a kindergarten that offers this language. As a minority in a majority society, the problem will be that our children do not get exposed to the language enough. (”Elle,” Alta) We get Sámi who moved here from the inland and know Sámi, but also Sámi who are raised here with Norwegian as their Sámi mother tongue. . . . the language is important, but if we end up with just the language and don’t care about the clothes, the handicraft, our nature usage—if we start using nature like the Southerners and city folk do . . . I don’t agree with those who say that the language carries the culture. (“Marianne,” Alta)

Indeed, many local informants brought up that for them the core aspect of Sáminess is not the language, but other parts of the culture such as handicrafts, music, and cooking or certain fundamental ideas about the relationship between the individual, family, and nature—or simply genealogical heritage (Berg-Nordlie 2021a). Two specialized cultural organizations were founded in Alta during the current millennium. The first, Gula (Hear, est. 2010), oriented itself towards local, coastal Sámi culture. The founders first considered establishing it as a movement within the Sámediggi political party Árja (Commitment), established in 2008 as a traditionalist party speaking for the interests of rural Sámi (Boine et al. 2008; Pettersen and Saglie 2019). This may seem an odd choice of party for an NGO based in Alta, but while Alta municipality has an urban center, it also has a rural hinterland of substantial size, and some of the leading Gula activists lived in such parts of Alta. In any case, Gula did not in the end “partisanize,” but instead established itself as a pure NGO. The other NGO, Friends of the North Calotte (est. 2014), focuses on Finnmark’s multiculturalism instead of exclusively on Sámi culture. While formally non-partisan, it was established by activists in the Sámediggi party The North Calotte People (Norwegian: Nordkalottfolket, NKF), which originated in the Alta area (est. 2009, called The Finnmark List from 2005 to 2009). NKF voices a position that northerners should organize across ethnicities, and tends to rhetorically invoke the equality of Kven, Sámi, and majority Norwegian culture (Mörkenstam et al. 2017: 197–201; Nyyssönen 2015; K. Olsen 2010). We were very clear that we did not want this mix of politics and culture. If we were to run courses and such, then we wanted anyone to participate without it being connected to the North Calotte People as a party. So, we established the association Friends of the North Calotte. (“Olaug,” Alta)

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While non-partisan, Gula was nevertheless spawned from discontent with the NSR-based structures in Alta and was at the time of field work not an NGO that unified people across the party divide. Likewise, the Friends of the North Calotte has a social, symbolic, and historical connection to the North Calotte People Party that may make it somewhat difficult to see it entirely as a non-partisan actor. Alta does, however, have one specialized Sámi organization that transcends party boundaries: the Sámi parents’ network (est. 2008). While Alta exhibits more intense internal Sámi political conflicts than some other Sámi cities, the degree of internal division should not be exaggerated. Our interviews indicate that those who are not active in the organizations or parties but are inactive members or nonmembers who just attend the cultural events, may not notice the conflicts between the Sámi leaders much at all. Some informants were not even conscious of who exactly it is that organizes the courses, concerts, and other activities that they attend. It is also not unheard of even for leading activists to attend cultural events organized by others. Tromsø (Romsa) In this largest urban area of Norway’s north, no Sámi cultural NGOs have been established with the goal of competing with the local NSR chapter, Romssa Sámi Searvi. There are other Sámi parties like Labor and Árja, but no formally non-partisan culture organizations like Gula. The absence of rivals to the NSR as a cultural organization may be partly explained by the presence of certain specialized Sámi NGOs. The Sámi Students’ Association of Tromsø (Sámi Studeanttaid Searvi Romssas) was established in Tromsø in 1983 as an open organization for all Sámi students. In the current millennium it has, like the University of Tromsø, changed its name and geographical field of activity: it is now the Sámi Student Association in North Norway (Sámi Studeanttasearvi Davvi-Norggas) and organizes students at UiT—Arctic University of Norway, which now also includes students in certain other northern towns such as Alta (see chapter 2, this volume). Like other Sámi youth organizations, the student organization has avoided partisanization—it neither runs for elections nor has it established formal ties to Sámi organizations that do. The non-partisan youth organization Davvi Nuorra had a Tromsø chapter, but this vanished upon the collapse of the mother organization in 2007. In 2009, a new non-partisan Sámi youth NGO was established—Noereh (Youths)—and in 2015, a local Noereh chapter was established (Anti 2009). Tromsø also has a Sámi Parents’ Network, which was established in 2002 (Nordlys 2002).

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Image 4.2. | Toponymic protest sticker. In 2011, a suggestion to use traditional Sámi toponyms on signposts, together with the Norwegian toponyms, provoked conflict in Tromsø (Romsa). The sticker on this traffic light demonstrates support for using the Sámi name. Since 2019, visitors to Tromsø have been welcomed by signs showing the names of the city in Norwegian, Sámi, and Kven language (Tromssa). © Mikkel Berg-Nordlie.

Thus, Tromsø has non-partisan NGOs that cater to parts of the urban Sámi population in Tromsø—but they are specialized, as they only include children, youth, students, and parents. In addition to these, there exists a Facebook group for Tromsø’s Sámi, which is entirely open. Finally, it should be noted that in Tromsø, the need for organized Sámi spaces may not be as pressing as in many other urban areas in Norway. Sámi culture has a notable presence in the city’s vibrant cultural life and is not as “drowned out” by the majority culture as it is in, for example, Oslo and Trondheim. Bodø (Bådåddjo/Buvvda) In the capital of Nordland County, an NSR chapter was established during the 1980s (Finnmarksarkivene 2020; nsr.no 2007), but unlike its Alta and Tromsø counterparts, this local organization was later merged with rural NSR groups into one chapter that also covers the wider district surrounding the town. This association, the Sálto Sámesiebrre (Salten Sámi Association) has an area of activity that includes, among others, rural Lule Sámi cultural strongholds on the southwest

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coast of the Tysfjord (Divttasvuodna).6 This makes the town itself less nodal for the local NGO than it could have been. Even though Sálto Sámesiebrre has members from all over the Salten region, the organization has traditionally been dominated by the Lule Sámi—which may explain a reluctance among Pite Sámi to join the organization (for more on Sámi subgroups, see chapter 1 in this volume). Instead, an independent Pite Sámi NGO has been established—Salto bihtesamiid searvi—which mainly organizes people from Bodø and nearby rural areas. For a while, Bodø also had an NGO that aimed at being non-partisan and non-political—the Sámi Culture Club—which mostly arranged concerts and courses in Sámi cooking. Bodø also has two specialized Sámi organizations: a Sámi parents’ union (est. 2004), and union for Sámi students at the Nord University (est. 2019). The most open space for Bodø’s Sámi is found on Facebook, where a group has been established to share information and discuss events. In sum, all Sámi organizations local to Bodø are specialized to specific groups of the Sámi. The only non-specialized organization is partisan and also includes rural areas. One should note, however, that Sámi networking in Bodø tends to take an informal and grouptranscending character. Trondheim (Tråante) Trondheim’s Sámi civil society life earlier had much in common with Bodø: there was no purely local NGO until recently, and the local NSR chapter covered not just the city, but also two large provinces (South Trøndelag and Hedmark7), including a village that rivals Trondheim’s Sámi cultural and organizational nodality (Røros/Plaassje). During the 2010s, Trondheim-based members of the regional NSR chapter and activists in the specialized Sámediggi party Åärjel-Saemiej Gïelh (South Sámi Voices or ÅSG, established in 2009 to promote the interests of the Southern Sámi subgroup, Berg-Nordlie 2018a) worked together across party divides to improve conditions for Sámi living in Trondheim. In 2010, a network of such activists, with allies among Trondheim’s municipal politicians, succeeded in persuading the municipal board to set down a formal governance network where the appointed members—NGO representatives and municipal representatives—should discuss and give advice on how to improve “Sámi space” in the city (Berg-Nordlie 2018a). This network became instrumental in organizing a major, full-year centennial celebration of the first border-transcending Sámi congress—Tråante2017—and the realization of a municipal Sámi kindergarten (see endnote 3). The planning period and aftermath of Tråante20178 was accompanied by a rapid evolution in Trondheim’s urban Sámi organiza-

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tional structure. In 2016, a local non-partisan Sámi student union (Saemien studeenth Tråantesne) was established, and the next year a Sámi parents’ association was registered (Proff.no. 2017). In 2018, a non-partisan cultural organization was established under the name “Samisk Arena Tråante” (Proff.no 2018). This NGO began as an open Facebook group for Sámi in the Trondheim area, but later resulted in the establishment of a formalized organization that uses the Facebook page as its discussion forum. In 2018–19, the NSR divided its South Trøndelag and Hedmark County chapter into the Trondheim-centered Tråanten Dajve Saemien Siebre (nsr.no 2019) and the Røros-centered Guevteli Saemieh (nsr. no 2018). Thus, the ascendancy of Trondheim as a nodal point in South Sápmi had become reflected also in the NSR’s organizational structure. This restructuring is a direct consequence of Sámi urbanization and is evidence of the increased importance of the cities in Sámi organizational life. In 2019, a structure to unify the new Sámi organizations of Trondheim was established under the name Samisk Rom Trondheim—Saemien Sijjie Tråante (Sámi Space Tråante), which has a board consisting

Image 4.3. | Tråante, 1917. Participants at history’s first border-transcending Sámi political congress, held in Trondheim (Tråante) in 1917. Photo taken outside Trondheim’s Methodist Church, where the congress was held. A square close to this church was renamed in honor of organizational pioneer Elsa Laula Renberg in 2020. Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 3.0 license.

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Image 4.4. | Tråante2017. The centennial celebration of 1917’s Tråante congress. Sámi Pathfinders (Ofelaččat) speak outside the site of the 1917 congress. The Pathfinders are young Sámi who travel Norway, informing the general public about the Sámi and Sámi issues. The group is organized by the Ministry of Municipal Affairs and the Sámi University of Applied Sciences. Left to right: Knut Mikkel Hætta, Maja-Sofie Larsen Fjellström, Oda Kjær Eriksen, and Ole Nicklas Mienna Guttorm. Photo by Siv Eli Vuolab, Sámediggi. Wikimedia Commons, CC BY 2.0 license.

of representatives from the organizations Tråanten Dajven Saemien Siebrie, Saemien Studeenth Tråantesne, and Samisk Arena Tråante (Saemien Sijjie Tråante—Samisk Rom Trondheim 2019). Oslo (Oslove) In Norway south of Sápmi, the capital area of Oslo dominates Sámi politics and culture.9 However, local Sámi NGOs are also found in other parts of the South Norway region. The NSR has chapters in South Norway’s second largest city Bergen (est. 1969); in the west

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coast district Haugalandet centered around the town Haugesund (est. 2018); the Mjøsa Lake district of small towns and rural areas north of Oslo (est. 2008); and the rural and urban areas of Møre and Romsdal County (est. 1997). Nevertheless, all indicators point to Oslo being one of the top three “Sámi cities” in Norway, and the only one among the top five that is outside Sápmi. Among South Norway’s urban areas, we will hence focus on Oslo. As in Alta, there are several culturally active Sámi organizations, but unlike Alta it is not just the NSR chapter that doubles as a political party. The Sámi People’s Party (Sámi álbmotbellodat, SáB) was founded in 1999 with the involvement of NSR activists. It was initially intended to run for elections in the general political system of Norway (e.g., municipalities, counties, parliament), but SáB ended up also running for Sámediggi elections. Some places this happened in cooperation with the local NSR lists, but in Oslo, the SáB and NSR became political rivals. The NSR, SáB, and the Labor-affiliated group Sámi Social Democratic Forum (Aftenposten 1992) together constitute the “old firm” of Sámi political rivals in the capital area. In addition, there was the party Sámit lulde (Sámi in the South, which first ran for elections in 2001 under the name Sámi Settled in South Norway). Despite having a name that appealed to a broader “diaspora Sámi” position, this party was Oslo-oriented. Sámit lulde was present in the Sámediggi until 2017, when it did not run. That same year, Oslo’s SáB chapter gained representation in the Sámediggi for the first time after running a campaign that focused on the interests of urban Sámi, and especially targeting Oslo-based voters (see Berg-Nordlie and Skogerbø 2021). The youth organization Noereh established an Oslo chapter in 2015—at present Noereh’s only local chapter in addition to Tromsø and Ávjovárri. The latter covers the rural inland municipalities of Kautokeino and Karasjok. Oslove Noereh constitutes a particularly large and active chapter in Noereh. It rapidly became an active organizer of Sámi cultural events in the capital area, such as the nightclub concept Idja (Night). Youth activists initially experienced a period of conflict with some older leaders of established NGO parties. Young informants related experiences that they were not given an equal voice in planning cultural events, but instead were treated as a “resource pool” for the projects of older activists (Berg-Nordlie 2018a). Intergenerational relations have since become less conflictual than they initially were. As of 2020, Oslo also has its own, non-partisan, Sámi student organization, Saemien Studeenth Oslovisnie (Karlsmoen 2020). The parent segment in Oslo and its surrounding areas have also organized into the “Oslo and surrounding areas’ Sámi parents’ net-

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work” (Oslo og omegn samisk foreldrenettverk—Oslo ja biras Sámi váhnenfierpmádat, 2019). The organization was established partly to work for cultural arenas for young Sámi, but the concrete reason for its establishment was that at the time, there was a lack of Sámi parents’ involvement in important municipal decision-making concerning the future of the city’s Sámi school services. The organizational structure was modelled after an existing Sámi parents’ network in a more rural part of Norway—the North Nordland/South Troms Sámi Parent Network.10

Urban Indigenous “Culture Houses” in Norway and the Language Center Model General Tendencies In this section, we look specifically at the urban Indigenous space type of Sámi culture houses, in five urban areas. First, however, we will explain two concepts that often surface in discussions about Sámi culture houses—Sámi houses and Sámi language centers—and discuss some general tendencies that we have observed in regard to the urban Indigenous culture houses in the Norwegian cities and towns where we have performed our field work. When discussing “Sámi houses” with informants, a concrete institution that informants often refer to is the Oslo Sámi House, an institution in Norway’s capital that hosts and organizes cultural and political activities and is owned jointly by several Sámi organizations and institutions. This institution was, again, partly inspired by the House of Greenland in Copenhagen. As a more general concept in discourse, a “Sámi house” refers to a physical institution that works on a regular basis with Sámi culture and serves as a nodal point for members of the local Sámi community regardless of their individual political affiliation and subgroup membership—in other words, it is simply synonymous with what we call a “Sámi culture house.” There’s something special about having somewhere to meet. To use the language. To work with handicrafts or have different events, for example, in connection with the Sámi National Day, February 6th. (Ellinor M. Jåma, politician, South Sápmi—Adresseavisa Fredag, 8 September 2017)

As for a “Sámi language center,” this is not necessarily something other than a “Sámi house,” but rather just a slightly more concrete idea about how a Sámi culture house should be organized and what it should do. The origin of the “language center model” among the

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Sámi of Norway can be traced back to 1992 when the Sámi Language Administrative Area was established in Norway (see chapter 1 of this volume). A seminar on language revitalization was held by the Sámi University of Applied Sciences in the village of Kautokeino (Guovdageaidnu). At the time, this institution had a cooperation with Wales, and Sámi language revitalization activists had traveled there to observe measures taken to revitalize the Welsh language. The idea of importing the Welsh language center model to Sápmi was discussed, and in 1994 two rural, coastal municipalities in the Language Administrative Area became Sámi testing grounds for the model: Porsanger (Porsáŋgu) and Kåfjord (Gáivuotna) (Antonsen and Johansen 2013; Nygaard et al. 2012; regjeringen.no 2018). These centers offered teaching in the language and other aspects of Sámi culture. The model was eventually used elsewhere also, and in 2001, the Sámediggi established a system for regular funding of institutions that it recognized as “language centers.” These are institutions that, based on local needs and local dialects, work for the visibility, strengthening, and development of Sámi language (Antonsen and Johansen 2013; Nygaard et al. 2012; sametinget.no 2020b; Welsh Government 2020). “Language centers” are increasingly seen as a desirable component of urban Sámi culture houses, among other reasons because of the stable funding that the model guarantees. The governance of these urban indigenous spaces can be analyzed as a form of network governance, where actors from different sectors—state (for example, municipal, Sámediggi), Indigenous civil society, and even private business—come together (Berg-Nordlie 2017; Winsvold et al. 2009). How the ownership and governance structures are organized from place to place varies in accordance with local specifics, with important determining factors seemingly being the conflict and cooperation structure of local Sámi civil society, and the extent to which state-based actors are willing to involve themselves. Earlier in this chapter, we mentioned that municipal bureaucracies and politics can produce Indigenous invisibility. Urban municipalities have often been less than eager when it comes to supplying the indigenous population with targeted services, although there is significant local variation in this regard (Berg-Nordlie 2018). However, a general tendency during the current millennium is for urban municipalities in Norway to commit more than before to Indigenous-oriented services, such as getting involved in the type of urban indigenous governance described here. Notably, an increasing number of urban municipalities have signed cooperation agreements or joint declarations with the Sámediggi. These documents are different from case to case, but

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tend to detail some points of agreement, set procedures, and establish some focal points for urban Indigenous policy. Agreements have been signed between the Sámediggi in Tromsø (2013), Bodø (2015), and Alta (2019), and a joint declaration was signed with Oslo in 2016 (sametinget.no 2020a). A pertinent issue in regard to state-based actors’ involvement in urban Indigenous governance is how to guarantee Indigenous control, or even significant influence, when majority-dominated institutions become involved. As we shall see below, the issue of too weak Sámi influence has been raised in regard to some urban Indigenous projects, but generally the Norwegian state–Sámi civil society balance is not among the most prominent points of contention when it comes to urban Indigenous governance in Norway. In the case of Tromsø, we shall delve into an example of local majority-based resistance to the establishment of urban Indigenous spaces. Earlier in this chapter we have explored some explanations for such resistance, namely the legacy of anti-Sámi sentiments stemming from assimilation policy-era racism and the internalization of antipathy to visible Sáminess by “passing” individuals and their descendants. There are many other explanatory factors in addition to these. One such explanation is the philosophy held by some that Sáminess and Norwegianness is at some level mutually exclusive, leading to the conclusion that increased Sáminess equals decreased Norwegianness, so that increased visible Sáminess is experienced as an attack on the identity of a place as Norwegian. Other reasons involve the notion that Sámi institution-building—or even just increased Sámi visibility—heralds increased Sámi political influence, coupled with fears that increased Sámi political influence must necessarily decrease the political influence of the majority nation. In some anti-Sámi rhetoric, urban Sámi are referred to as “guests” and “immigrants,” and the local non-Sámi population conversely constructed as more native than the Indigenous nation. This resembles what Patrick Wolfe (2006) calls the settler colonial logic of elimination. While colonialism often is seen as an event, Wolfe claims that it must be seen as a structure that eliminates Indigenous people in the past, present, and future in order to legitimize the colonization of settler societies. The effect of the discourse on contemporary urban Sámi as “immigrants” is to legitimize desires to silence them. It is interestingly similar to a discursive pattern observed in the United States, by Nicholas Blomley (referenced by Smith 2019: 252): “(1) Removal of the Indian people from urban space, which requires imagining them as in the past or in nature; and (2) emplacement of settler

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society, which makes the city into a white place.” Terms like “settler” or “white” are rarely used to describe the majority population in Sápmi. On most of the west coast of Sápmi, the historical presence of non-Sámi Norwegians is so old that direct comparison to settler colonialism in the United States is only applicable up to a certain point (see chapters 1 and 2 in this volume for more on Sámi history). Nevertheless, the way of “talking the Indigenous people out of town” is strikingly similar: the historical reality of ancient, continuous Sámi presence in the urban area is discursively muted, and the fact that many of the “open” Sámi in today’s city have their roots from the city’s rural hinterlands or other parts of Sápmi is used to portray the Indigenous population as belonging elsewhere, effectively leaving the city as a discursively white-painted “clean slate,” devoid of Sáminess. Local intra-Sámi conflict dynamics are an important aspect both of the conditions for the organizational structure of urban Sámi culture houses and language centers and the conditions for their operation. Some of these conflicts are connected to the fact that urban areas are meeting points for Sámi individuals from many different Sámi areas, with different subcultures, different colonial histories, and different positions within present-day political Sápmi. While this heterogeneity is a potential strength for urban Sámi communities, it also means that distrust between Sámi groups and within Sámi groups can be played out on the urban arena and can disrupt the creation or effectiveness of urban Indigenous spaces. In urban areas, different types of Sámi congregate who have different foundations for their Sámi identity, and occasionally they perceive themselves as having different interests regarding which services should be prioritized for urban Sámi. Intra-Sámi conflict over urban Indigenous spaces may also be fueled by what is known as “Sámi melancholia” (Dankertsen 2014): negative reactions that result from a feeling of affinity to the Sámi community, but combined with a feeling of exclusion from it, a sense of bitterness toward those who “have more” in terms of Sámi language and traditions. This is similar to what Jean Dennison (2018) analyzes as a series of entanglements of “the affects of empire” and (dis)trust in the Osage Nation in the United States, where power structures constituted through governmental policies in the past and present are kept in place by emotional disruptions that create suspicion and distrust within the group and limit the space available for creating a common future. Dennison’s analysis of the distrust and divide between the Osage “haves” and “have-nots” resembles the conflicts and distrust between different Sámi groups. Our understanding of internal conflicts surrounding urban Indigenous spaces may also be helped by

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Christina Åhrén’s (2008: 184) analysis that following the assimilation policies of the past, there exists a mechanism in Sámi society in which some people from non-assimilated families may exhibit intolerance toward those Sámi who chose to hide their background, and their descendants. Such families may be viewed by some as having been disloyal to Sámi society during hard times, and they may face negative reactions if they are seen as being inadequately humble when returning to the Sámi “scene”—for example if they attempt to redefine Sáminess, decenter certain elements of Sáminess and promote other elements, alter parts of the traditional culture and so forth (see also chapter 3, this volume). Åhrén argues that the negative reactions can be analyzed as a way of trying to “save” the Sámi culture: criticism or rejection of Sámi who “center” other aspects of Sáminess than they themselves do can be seen as attempts to enforce what they see as necessary symbolic boundaries between the Sámi and the non-Sámi. Conflicts between those who are considered to be at the “center” of Sáminess and those who are considered, or consider themselves, to be in the “periphery” of it, may be particularly “hot” because both sides see themselves as the underdog, the one defending the weak party. Both sides feel a sense of moral duty to stand their ground strongly against the representative of a repressive authority structure. The same chain of events could be seen from two different perspectives. In the first version: minority-language practitioners who hail from communities that weathered the onslaught of assimilation are now defending the survival of the language against majority-language users who hail from the families who “gave in” and allowed themselves to be Norwegianized. In the second version: cultural “have-nots” are trying to reclaim what is theirs after the trauma of assimilation but are facing resistance from an “elite” who are lucky enough to hail from areas that escaped the onslaught and are now in possession of a cultural wealth that they lack. A final aspect of the culture houses and language centers described here that the reader should note is the relationship between rural centers and urban centers in Sámi society. Although the urbanrural divide is generally not considered any major political fault line in Sámi civil society and politics, we may observe some interesting urban-rural dynamics at play when it comes to some of the institutions described here. Alta (Áltá) In 2006, Alta became the first urban area to establish a Sámi language center. The previously established centers in rural areas had exhibited

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a wide range of organizational models, where some were integrated into the municipal administrative structures (f. ex. Kåfjord, Porsanger, and Nesseby/Unjárga), while others had mixes of state-based actors, NGO representatives, and private interests (f. ex. in Tysfjord, the Stuornjárga district, and Tana/Deatnu) (Nygaard et al. 2012). The Alta language center introduced yet another organization form, which grew out of local Indigenous governance patterns, as it essentially became the second “leg” of an already existing urban culture house structure. In the early 2000s, the NSR chapter in Alta had responded to an increased demand for services to the Sámi population by reorganizing and expanding its activities. In 2005, they set up a stock company to run a private kindergarten and to own the kindergarten building, which was also to serve as an arena for Sámi cultural activities. This stock company was named Álttá Siida—a very old word for a very modern organization form: the siida is a traditional Sámi political unit in which a community of people jointly owns and administers a set of resources (see chapter 1 in this book). Álttá Siida’s statutes specified that Alta NSR should own 67 percent of the stocks. Others were invited to buy the rest, but none showed interest in being minority owners. The Alta Sámi Language Center became the structure that was to manage non-kindergarten cultural activities in the Siida building. Like the statutes of the Siida itself, the statutes of the Language Center specified that the local NSR chapter should own 67 percent of stocks. In this case though, Alta municipality owned the remaining stocks. This organizational model committed the urban municipality to the language center while simultaneously anchoring the language center firmly in the major local Sámi NGO. However, this organizational model also cultivated a further sense of exclusion among some local non-NSR Sámi. In addition, five years into its existence, the Alta Language Center was subject to a muchpublicized conflict, which highlighted different ideas about what types of Sáminess should be given priority by urban Sámi institutions. When the Center began to organize a weekly gathering for non-Sámispeaking Sámi children, this provoked negative reactions from some who felt that such activities were inappropriate at the Language Center. Those in favor of the children’s gatherings argued that they constituted a space where non-Sámi-speaking urban Indigenous children could develop a sense of community and feel safer in their identity and culture, in addition to learning some Sámi words and phrases. They just wouldn’t accept that the kids in my group didn’t know Sámi and weren’t learning Sámi. [Anonymized] could suddenly come into the room

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and ask, “Doesn’t anyone here speak Sámi?” That’s horrible to hear for those children who hadn’t had the opportunity to learn Sámi. Some were learning. Others didn’t know the language at all. (”Kirsten,” Alta)

The gatherings were eventually discontinued. The Language Center’s director did not seek a renewal of her position and was later a driving force in establishing the NGO Gula (see above). While this conflict resulted in the closing of a space for non-Sámi-speaking Sámi children, it needs to be underscored that the Language Center has also done work specifically oriented toward the interests of the local Coast Sámi population, for example, by documenting and publishing remnants of this population’s old Coast Sámi dialect. Tromsø (Romsa) A language center was established in Tromsø municipality before Alta, but their activities were focused on the rural district of Ullsfjord (Moskavuotna/Vuovlevuotna). The municipality established the center in the hamlet Lakselvbukt (Moskaluokta) in 1997, and it became a formal language center in 2004. In 2010, it was given the name Gáisi, which refers to a particular type of mountain that characterizes the topography of this part of Sápmi. This had also, from 2009, been the name of the Sámediggi electoral constituency that covers Tromsø and its surrounding municipalities. The Sámediggi requested that the center’s governance structure should include a board with Sámi NGO representatives, and the municipality has since then set up such boards consisting of representatives from various Sámi organizations. Through this, two Sámi NGOs based in Lakselvbukt were given representation—Moskavuona NSR and Lakselvbukt Sameforening, a chapter of the SFF, a Sámi organization that split from the SLF in 1993 (Nygaard et al. 2012; sff.no 2020). There were also two open places on the board, that were filled by Sámi settled in the municipality’s urban area: representatives of the Tromsø NSR and the Tromsø Sámi Parents’ Network. According to Nygaard et al. (2012), Gáisi had a challenging job covering the geographically large municipality and addressing the needs of rather different Sámi communities. The evaluation also noted recruitment problems: it appeared challenging to attract qualified personnel who wanted to live in rural Lakselvbukt. In 2009, a person living in the city center became Gáisi’s director. Following this, the institution was administered from offices in the town hall. In 2016, Gáisi’s other employee—the language worker—moved to the city (Nygaard et al. 2012). Following this, the language worker position

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was made vacant, and when the center attempted to fill the vacancy, they specified that the workplace was optional—rural Lakselvbukt or urban Tromsø. Simultaneously, the NGO structures in the rural areas began to experience problems participating in the management of the language center. When Gáisi’s board was to be renewed, Lakselvbukt SFF did not submit a candidate. An informal arrangement was made in which a local handicraft association in Lakselvbukt instead sent a representative. The Moskavuona NSR chapter had formally ceased to exist because the necessary documents had not been submitted to the central organization. The city-based Sámi Student Union eventually filled that vacancy. Both management and most of the NGO representation on the board had now been de facto centralized to Tromsø, although the center continued to organize activities in both localities. In 2018, the office of the Tromsø-stationed language center worker was temporarily moved from the town hall to Tromsø’s “old town” area, more precisely to a house situated on a small mound called Skansen (The Fortification), which is seen as an important historical landmark in Tromsø. Skansen is the remains of a medieval fortification that may be connected to the historical establishment of a Norwegian fortress and church on the island where Tromsø is now situated. The buildings still standing on the mound are also very old, dating from the establishment of Tromsø city in the late 1700s (see chapter 2 in this volume for more on urban history in the north). Local media framed this temporary move as the language center being “moved to Skansen,” and referred to the Skansen house as having now become a local Sámi culture center “while waiting for a Sámi House” (nordlys.no 2018). The issue of a Sámi culture house in Tromsø had been discussed for a long time, but in 2018 these discussions took a new turn. A company had been commissioned to work out a proposal by the Sámediggi, Tromsø municipality, Troms county, and a regional bank. This company now proposed not just a Sámi House, but a much larger “Arctic Indigenous Center” with a target audience that was expanded from the local Indigenous and non-Indigenous population to also be heavily business and tourist oriented. Local Sámi civil society expressed skepticism toward the scale, the target audience described in the proposal, and the lack of Sámi NGO involvement in the early stages of the project. This process was entirely separate from the relocation of the language center’s office to Skansen, but local media nevertheless connected the two issues, and hence gave the impression that Tromsø’s oldest building had now been turned into a Sámi culture house. This caused controversy. To understand why, some context is needed about the politicization of Indigenousness in Tromsø.

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Some years earlier, in 2011, a conflict emerged over the project to include Tromsø’s in the Sámi Language Administrative Area (see chapter 1 in this volume for more on this administrative area). The majority of the municipal board’s members voted to apply for inclusion, and it hence appeared as if Tromsø was on its way to becoming the first urban municipality ever to join the Language Area. This was an election year, however, and an alliance of three right-wing parties (the Conservative Party, the Progress Party, and the Left Party)11 counter-mobilized to withdraw the application if their coalition won the upcoming vote. The ensuing political conflict, which has been discussed in detail by Paul Pedersen and Torill Nyseth (2015), polarized the population around the “issue” of the city’s Sámi population. Sámi citizens of Tromsø reported increased harassment, and the image of Tromsø as a city that is particularly welcoming toward the Sámi population received lasting damage (Berg-Nordlie 2021b; Lian and Doksæter 2016; P. K. Olsen 2011). The right-wing coalition eventually won the election, and upon taking over the leadership of the municipality withdrew Tromsø’s application to enter the Language Area. Instead of pioneering the inclusion of urban areas in the Language Area, the experience of Tromsø has probably contributed to the fact that no other city has since applied. The 2011 Tromsø Conflict established a discourse in the public debate that articulates the Sámi presence in Tromsø city as new and invasive. What happened in 2018 was that the issue of “the Sámi House at Skansen” became embedded in this anti-Sámi discourse. In 2018, senior Conservative Party members and other political activists—including the organization EDL, Ethnic Democratic Equality,12 an NGO founded on the coast of Finnmark to protest the Norwegian state’s measures to protect Sámi culture and language (Berg-Nordlie and Schou 2011; Nyyssönen 2015)—began a media campaign where they accused Tromsø’s municipal authorities of having “given to the Sámi” the symbolically important Skansen area and claimed that this was against the interests of the ethnic majority (Sirkka 2017; West and Andersen 2017). The rhetoric utilized against the urban language center included utilization of words like “guests” and “immigrants” about Tromsø’s Sámi population. This discourse was partly based on the observation that many—although far from all—of the people who openly self-identify as Sámi in Tromsø, hail from other parts of Norway and Sápmi, but it also included nods to a discourse of historical revisionism that (against all research-based knowledge) portrays Norway’s Indigenous population as immigrants from the east. The rhetoric also made use of the Sámediggi Electoral Registry to portray the urban

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Sámi population as relatively small, disregarding the fact that the SER is not by any means a complete registry of all the Sámi (see chapter 2 in this volume). There are only about 1,400 registered Sámi in Tromsø with its about 75,000 inhabitants. The Sámi—most of them immigrants—speak Norwegian fluently and are Norwegian citizens. They have the same rights as all other citizens of Tromsø. But this is not enough for them, they want Tromsø’s identity to change. They want to put their Sámi mark on the city and its surroundings, and now they want 20 Sámi [road]signs put up. (Bodil Ridderseth Larsen, Tromsø Conservative Party’s Senior Branch, iTromso.no 2018)

During the fall of 2018, the local newspaper iTromsø also ran a series of articles that effectively portrayed the Language Center as having been stolen from rural Lakselvbukt. This was based on the abovementioned de facto concentration of staff and NGO involvement in the Language Center to the urban part of the municipality. Right-wing politicians utilized the opportunity to suggest that the center should be “shut down or moved back,” that is, from urban Skansen to rural Lakselvbukt (Johansen 2018; Pedersen 2018; Ságat.no 2018). At the moment of writing, the center is still temporarily housed at Skansen and still organizes activities both in Lakselvbukt and Tromsø. The current board once again includes representatives from the municipal structures, the urban Sámi community, and the rural Sámi community. The city Sámi are represented by the NSR chapter and the student union. The parents’ network is also represented, in the form of a deputy representative for the student union’s board member. Lakselvbukt is represented by the SFF chapter and the handicraft association (Spraaksenter 2021). As for the actual project for a “Sámi house” in Tromsø, the municipal board voted in favor of such an institution during the fall of 2019, on the condition that the Sámediggi and the county also provide financing for it. In their renewed cooperation agreement (2021), Tromsø municipality and the Sámediggi declared their intention of realizing the establishment of such an institution (Sametinget.no 2020a). Bodø (Bådåddjo/Buvvda) In the year of the language center controversy in Tromsø, Bodø began to establish its own Sámi language center (nrk.no 2018).13 This center is currently in a three-year establishment phase, during which it is to gradually scale up its activities and eventually become a formal language center. The Bodø Sámi Language Center was established as

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part of the municipal structures but financed by both the municipality and the Sámediggi. Its offices were put in the new and central multifunctional culture house “Stormen” (The Storm) that hosts a library, café, event venues, and more. The increasing visibility of Sámi culture has been subject to controversy also in Bodø, but not to the same extent as in Tromsø. While writing this book, Bodø was named Cultural Capital of Europe for 2024, and this has boosted the focus on Sámi culture in the city even further. While Bodø’s Language Center has not faced the same onslaught from critics that the center in Tromsø has had to endure, there have been some internal Sámi disagreements—with aspects of both internal minority dynamics and urban-rural conflicts. The Bodø area is variously claimed to be part of the Lule Sámi area, the Pite Sámi area, or both. The cooperation climate between representatives of these groups has not always been optimal. The Pite Sámi are a much smaller community whose near-extinct language until recently had no official orthography, with the effect that it was impossible to give Pite Sámi toponyms official status, and Lule Sámi orthography was often used to represent Pite Sámi place names (S. Andersen 2019). Representatives of the Pite Sámi have earlier argued that the Lule Sámi are given priority over them, among others, in the choice of the town’s Sámi name—Lule Sámi Bådåddjo, but not Pite Sámi Buvvda. The Pite Sámi community has its own culture center—Duoddara Ráfe (Peace of the Plains)—in Beiarn (Bájjdár), a rural municipality near Bodø, while Lule Sámi tends to be the language in focus in the urban center of the district. One reason for this is that the urban area is on the Lule Sámi side of the Salten Fjord (Sáltovuodna) that is often seen as dividing the two language areas, but it is also because many Sámi have moved to Bodø from rural Lule Sámi cultural strongholds farther north in Nordland County (Andersen and Paulsen 2017). The linguistic orientation of the Bodø language center was discussed in light of this, and it was concluded that while it was to focus on the Lule Sámi language, it should also “include” the other languages historically present in Nordland County—Pite Sámi, South Sámi, and North Sámi. Trondheim (Tråante) In Trondheim, a Sámi house, language center, or similar Sámi culture institution was considered to be far down on the priority list by activists interviewed prior to 2017, for several reasons. Chiefly, the activist milieu gave priority to the organizing of a centennial celebration of the first border-transcending Sámi congress which was held

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in Trondheim in 1917. The year-long festival, Tråante2017, would fill 2017 with Sámi events centered on this main city of Norwegian South Sápmi. The celebration was an event of importance for the entire bordertranscending Sámi people, but also very important for the Sámi of Trondheim specifically. Some activists described Tråante2017 as a symbolic reclaiming of the city, in the sense that it served to educate the urban population that Trondheim is also a part of Sápmi and a historically important part at that. Another reason for the noted absence of desires for a Sámi culture house was that the Sverresborg Folk Museum at the time had some of the functions associated with such an institution—it served as a non-politicized nodal point for Sámi activists and as a venue for Sámi events.14 Nevertheless, following the Tråante2017 celebration, the establishment of a local Sámi house was suggested by a politician from the South Sámi Sámediggi party Åarjel-Saemiej Gïelh (Adressa.no 2017). Through a long process—involving, among others, the municipality and the urban Sámi NGOs’ umbrella organization Saemien Sijjie Tråante—a municipally owned house was located in the central part of the city, and a process began to convert it into a Sámi house for Trondheim (Ságat.no 2020). As for a language center, there already exists such centers with responsibilities for South Sámi—e.g., Aajege (The Source, est. 2005), which is located in the village of Røros (Plaassje) (Aajege.no 2020). Oslo (Oslove) The Oslo Sámi House was established in 2004 as a venue and organizer for Sámi cultural events, which also had office space for the Sámi NGOs/parties that owned it (Samiskhus.no 2020a). While inspired by Copenhagen’s Greenland House, the Oslo Sámi House was not provided with the same high status and large facilities but has instead rented various localities in central parts of Oslo. The first incarnation of the House was a foundation co-owned by the three traditional Sámi political rivals in Oslo—the local NSR chapter, the Sámi People’s Party, and the Sámi Social Democratic Forum. Through the House, these three rival actors created a neutral Sámi space of sorts. While the House did provide a common arena and a common project, the disagreements and conflicts did not entirely subside, which one may expect because the NGOs’ doubling as political parties undeniably gives them competing interests at some level, even if all the organizations are oriented toward the same ultimate goal of working for the Sámi and their culture. In 2014, the organizational structure

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was remade completely, and the House now became a stock company in which 51 percent of stocks were held by the original owners, while 49 percent was in the hands of a new owner, the Sámediggi (Samiskhus.no 2020a). Such direct involvement in a local institution is uncommon from the Sámediggi’s side. This unique aspect of Oslo’s urban Indigenous governance can be understood from several factors. First, the House in Oslo has strategic potential—it is not just a local culture house but can also be an institution that builds consciousness about the Sámi and a positive impression of Sámi culture in the capital of Norway. Second, there had been some public accusations against the Sámediggi of giving too little priority to the growing Oslo Sámi community. Third, Sámi media had reported critically about the management of the House’s economy. Finally—and this is the main reason given by several informants—the conflict level between the actors that owned the House was still high, and the Sámediggi was seen as a possible broker between the other owners (Aslaksen 2011; Berg-Nordlie 2018a). Nevertheless, not all major players in Oslo’s Sámi community were incorporated into the new House structure. The municipal Sámioriented structures—the Sámi kindergarten and school structures— had no formal attachment to the House.15 In addition, a new and vital Sámi NGO was established the year after the House was reorganized—Oslo’s Sámi youth organization Oslove Noereh, which had no representation in the culture house’s board. This lack of youth representation proved to be a weak point for the House’s functionality as an organizational node for local Sámi civil society. According to activists in the youth organization, they were invited into projects at a stage where much had already been decided, and when their organization proposed projects to the Sámi House, they risked losing control over them because the board made important decisions without them. This initial rift between activists in the new, non-partisan youth organization and the “old firm” of parties that governed the Sámi House led to a period where the two actors organized events in relative isolation from each other. The youth organization eventually found an alternative partner—physically located next door to the Sámi House: Riksscenen, a folk music-oriented cultural institution partially owned by Juiggiid searvi, an NGO for practitioners of traditional Sámi music. Together with Riksscenen, Oslove Noereh launched the Sámi club concept Idja (Night) (Berg-Nordlie 2018a; riksscenen.no 2020). The relationship between the youth organization and the culture house would go on to improve, but the youth organization remains without ownership or representation on the House board.

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During the following years, the Sámi House secured improved financing from the Sámediggi in particular, as well as the municipality and became more visible and important in Oslo’s Sámi cultural life. In 2017, the House employed a new manager in a 50 percent position, moved to a much larger locality in the downtown area, and expanded the scope of its activities. This made it easier for the House to realize more of its potential as a nodal point and an open arena for the urban Sámi population. During this time, different models for how the House should be further developed circulated in Oslo’s Sámi community, and the language center model was brought up by informants when discussing the future of the House. In 2018, House activists and the Sámediggi started a project to—as in Bodø—build up a Sámi Language Center at the Oslo Sámi House over a three-year period (samiskhus.no 2020b). Since 2004, the Oslo Sámi House has become a much more visible and nodal actor in the capital’s indigenous life, and in 2019 was awarded by Oslo municipality for its work with Sámi art (Persen 2020). The organizational model has, however, proven to be somewhat a weak point. In 2021, the leader of the Language Center quit

Image 4.5. | Three weaving women. Course in čuoldin, a Sámi weaving tradition, at the Sámi House in Oslo (Oslove), Norway. Some participants practice on the street in the warm summer weather. © Mikkel Berg-Nordlie.

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Image 4.6. | Sámi children in Oslo. Two Sámi children in Oslo (Oslove) admire their šiellas while waiting for the bus. A šiella is a traditional type of Sámi jewelry, often a small silver ball with smaller rings attached to it. Šiellas are traditionally given to small children—to hang over them while they sleep as an amulet for protection. Later it can be worn, for example, in a chain around one’s neck or attached to one’s gákti belt. © Mikkel Berg-Nordlie.

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in protest over difficult working conditions, citing among others “the ownership structure that involves political rivals” as a complicating element (Solaas 2021). This started a debate in Sámi media regarding organizational models for Sámi houses, which is still ongoing at the moment of writing.

Urban Indigenous Organizations and Institutions in Russian Sápmi Pre-Soviet and Soviet Sámi Organizing When comparing Sámi organization history in Norway and Russia, it should be expected that significant differences will be revealed: these two states have had radically different historical trajectories that have also affected the histories of their Indigenous peoples. The Sámi living in the Russian Empire (e.g., in Finland and Russia) did not participate in the pioneering border-transcending organizational activity of the early 1900s, in practice this border-transcending work was limited to Norway and Sweden, which were part of a political union from 1814 to 1905 and parted rather amicably (see chapter 2 in this volume). There were also some notable differences between the Norwegian/Swedish and Russian/Finnish Sámi populations at this point in history: several people among the western Sámi had undergone education in urban areas, and there were Sámi who were active in the growing Labor movement—while in the Russian empire, such semi-urban or Labor-affiliated Sámi leaders did not appear at the time. The Kola Peninsula, as with most of the other peripheral territories of the Russian Empire prior to the Revolution, was predominantly a rural agrarian region, and it was difficult for the Sámi there to access educational institutions. That said, the Russian Sámi were indeed present in the urban life that Russian Sápmi had—they were firmly integrated into the area’s socio-economic dynamic through trade and as subjects of the legal and political systems. During the 1800s, there were also administrative structures that involved Sámi representation in the form of envoys annually sent by some of the Sámi communities to the Russian authorities. Particular mention often goes to the sobbar or Sámi assembly in the town of Kola, after which the current-day Sám’ Sobbar representation structure is named (Berg-Nordlie 2015a; Jefimenko 1878: 55–59; Kalstad 2003: 49, 2009: 21–24; Kharuzin 1890; Ušakov 1997: 306–7, 436–37). Furthermore, some Sámi were stationed in or

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near urban areas through the military. It is in connection with the latter phenomenon that two Sámi reportedly took part in the storming of the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg during the Russian Revolution (Kalstad 2009). The years 1917–1921 were extremely tumultuous for the Russian Sámi, as indeed for people in Russia as a whole. Following the 1917 Revolution, the Kola peninsula was occupied by Allied forces and not reclaimed by Russian authorities until several years had passed (Lokhanov 2013). After reclamation, the new Soviet Indigenous policy began to be implemented in eastern Sápmi. This policy was initially rather progressive in terms of Indigenous self-determination: native minority areas were to be given limited autonomy, and it was considered a policy goal to cultivate “cadres” (administrators and politicians) from the Indigenous population. Education was seen as a key element of this (Bowring 2008: 13–18; Kal’te 2003: 21, 23–27; Krjažkov 2010: 52–55; Myklebost and Niemi 2015a, b; Shapovalov 2004–5:). In 1925–26, the rabfak was initiated—a preparatory faculty to train working cadres among Indigenous peoples of the north at the Herzen University of Leningrad (formerly—and today again—St. Petersburg) (Rantala 2006). Later, in 1930, this faculty developed into a separate Northern Department of the Institute of the Peoples of the North (Khomich 1999: 76; Kiseljov and Kiseljova 1987). Sámi were also given the opportunity to study in this former capital of Russia, and many Sámi students went south to receive higher education and return to their community. This arrangement came to be important in cultivating the Russian Sámi population’s own urban political activists (Overland and Berg-Nordlie 2012). Territorial autonomy never materialized for the Russian Sámi. Microlevel rural councils (tuzemnye sovety) were set up for a time, and there were also suggestions on the table for two Sámi autonomous districts that would have covered most of the peninsula, but this never happened. In the end, only Lovozero District in the east was given the symbolic status as “national” despite the main settlement there being predominantly one of the Komi people (see chapter 2 in this volume) and not of the Sámi. Effectively, Russian Sámi policy was “ruralized” and also partially relegated to the east of the peninsula—only eastern, rural parts of Russian Sápmi were identified as areas to have Sámi political structures or symbolic Sámi status, and no “national” status was given to the western areas between the “railway belt” and the border to Norway and Finland. Security concerns are likely to have been an important reason for not establishing Sámi autonomy there (Berg-Nordlie 2015a). The main proponent of the autonomy was

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the ethnographer Vasilij K. Alymov, who was an envoy from the Indigenous policy field’s authorities in Moscow and was connected to a network of local Sámi who, among other things, were involved in the creation of Sámi schoolbooks. Alymov concretely represented the Committee of the North, which was established by the All-Russian Central Executive Committee in 1924 and existed until 1935 (Dasjtsjinskij 2006; GAMO 1928, 124–25; Kuznetsova 2006; Sorokazjerdjev 2006; Stepanenko 2003). A number of local Committees of the North were established in this period as a link between center and periphery and sought to involve the Indigenous population in the new state structures that worked with issues relating to them. A branch of this committee was based in Murmansk from 1927 to 1930 (GAMO 1928, 45–46) and worked not just with the Sámi, but also with other local minorities characterized by rurality and traditional economic activities—including the Komi, a small group of Nenets who had come with the Komi to Russian Sápmi, and the Pomors, who are descendants of early Russian colonists in Russian Sápmi. People in the network around the Murmansk branch of the Committee of the North were later charged with false accusations of treasonous activities. Many were incarcerated, put into the prison camp system, or, like Alymov, executed (Ogryzko 2010: 21; Siegl and Riessler 2015: 17). The initially promising Soviet policy was during the mid-1930s replaced by a harsher policy of forced collectivization and centralization. The Stalin era collectivization was followed by the ravages of World War II, after which Murmansk City had to be more or less rebuilt in its entirety. In the 1950s came the “Amalgamation” policy that saw the Sámi resettled from their traditional villages to larger settlements. The Sámi of Russia thus experienced forced de-ruralization and ceased to be a predominantly rural and semi-nomadic people (see chapter 2 in this volume). After the Amalgamation, many resettled Sámi groups spent significant portions of their lives in centralized small towns and bigger cities. The village of Lovozero (Lujavv’r) came to be a particularly important demographic and cultural center for the Sámi. Lovozero has since the Amalgamation been considered a cultural and demographic “capital” of the Russian Sámi. Members of the resettled Sámi groups were also present in other important urban areas such as Mončegorsk (Mončetuntur) and Apatity with their mining industries, and not least Murmansk City with its political-administrative centrality along with opportunities for work and education. Murmansk and Lovozero are within the traditional Kildin Sámi area, on the coast and inland, respectively, while Mončegorsk and Apatity are within the Akkala Sámi area. However, in the Russian Sámi context such a focus on

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subgroups and their distinctions is not as important as in the rest of Sápmi. Sámi in the Murmansk Region generally do not identify themselves that much with their “subgroups,” at least not to the extent that this—as observed in Norwegian Sápmi—becomes a source of conflict. During the late decades of the Soviet Era (1950s–1980s), a Sámi cultural activist milieu emerged in Russia. Several of the leading figures had received higher education at Herzen University in St. Petersburg. Among these “cadres” from St. Petersburg were, for example, Nina Afanasijeva, Sergej Semjaškin, Vasilij Selivanov, Anastasija Mozolevskaja, Iraida Vinogradova, Roza Jakovleva, and Anastasja Khvorostukhina. The first major project these activists got involved in was language revitalization, which was a dire need on the Kola Peninsula where the Sámi languages were in a downward spiral and was a project that was not seen by the Soviet authorities to be controversial enough to warrant negative attention (Overland and Berg-Nordlie 2012). As perestroika began in the 1990s, more explicitly political activities were allowed, and many of the language activists now became central in organizational efforts. During the 1980s, Russian-Sámi activists made connections across the Iron Curtain to the Sámi of the Nordic countries. There had also earlier been some Sámi contacts that transcended the geopolitical divide, for example, during the North Calotte Conventions in Murmansk City during 1966 and 1977 (Bones et al. 2015: 458; Kiseljov and Kiseljova 1987: 192–94)—but now, the window for networking between Russian and Nordic Sámi became much more open. The educational opportunities in Leningrad had had the important effect of giving Russian Sámi women a specific advantage in the age of ethno-political organizing: as is not uncommon in minority movements, the early leaders and organizers had higher educations, and since the study programs that had been made available for the Sámi at Hertzen were subjects predominantly studied by women in Soviet culture, many of the early Sámi leaders were female. It was hence no coincidence that the first Iron Curtain-transcending organization was the Sámi women’s organization Sáhráhkká (Hætta 2003: 48–50).

Organizational Growth and Urban-Rural Tensions in Post-Soviet Russia The Association of the Kola Sámi (AKS) was established in 1989 during the final years of the USSR. The AKS was intended to unite the Sámi living in all the various cities, towns, and villages across Russian Sápmi. The foundational meeting was not held in the eastern

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Sámi demographic center of Lovozero, but in the regional political, economic, and transportation hub of Murmansk City. It was seen as necessary for the organization to be close to the authorities of the province in order to make it easier to affect policymaking of relevance for the Sámi, and for this reason Murmansk City was chosen for the AKS’s headquarters rather than Lovozero. In other towns and villages of Murmansk Region, the AKS instead opened local chapters (Overland and Berg-Nordlie 2012). During the decade that followed, different internal conflicts sprang up within the AKS, one of which was a rural-urban conflict. Some Sámi were unhappy that the leadership was in Murmansk City while most Sámi lived in the rural center of Lovozero. Here we might see a mirror of the organizational prehistory of NSR in Norway, where discontent gradually grew against the centrality of a major urban area outside a demographic “core area.” Unlike in Norway, however, the rural majority did not manage to claim control from the centre. Instead, Russian Sámi civil society fractured into two organizations, namely the Murmansk-centered AKS and the Lovozero-centered OOSMO (Public Organization of the Murmansk Region Sámi). While the positions and relationships of these two organizations have undergone many changes in the two decades that followed, it has remained a feature of Russian Sámi civil society life that OOSMO has a stronghold in Lovozero while the AKS has a stronghold in Murmansk City (Overland and Berg-Nordlie 2012; Berg-Nordlie 2017). In 2007, OOSMO/AKS signed a cooperation agreement at a meeting in Murmansk, and the organizations were to work together to establish a “Russian Sámi Parliament” (Kuéllnegknjoark Sám’ Sobbar), that is, an organ analogous to the Nordic Sámediggis. This cooperation faltered in 2010, as leadership in the AKS changed, and that organization became less supportive of the parliament project (Berg-Nordlie 2017, 2018c). Certain reasons given by local informants for their support of the Sámi parliament project are interesting: in addition to the “obvious” reason of having a representative body that could serve as the voice of the Russian Sámi, several of them emphasized that such a body would unite the Sámi, who were now divided into different, often politicized, NGOs: [such an institution] can unite us, all the organizations, the entire people . . . Now there are all these councils and all these [NGOs] . . . There’s too little unity among us. (“Vera,” Russian Sámi activist, quoted in BergNordlie 2015b)

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This is akin to a phenomenon observed in Norway, namely, a demand for more open Indigenous spaces and arenas where Sámi can network across the borders of NGOs that are specialized and politicized. Unlike in Norway, Russian Sámi civil society has not experienced partisanization, but definitely politicization and specialization around economic niches, settlement patterns, and political groupings. During the current millennium, a special type of organization appeared in rural Russian Sápmi, the so-called obščinas, which were micro-organizations created with the stated aim of reintroducing and developing traditional small-scale private Sámi reindeer herding and other traditional Sámi economic activities. Sámi reindeer herding had been forcibly collectivized, centralized, and put under non-Sámi administration during the Soviet era, and the resulting large reindeerherding companies were privatized after the fall of the USSR. The first Russian Sámi obščina—“Kildin”—was established in 2002 and was in fact headquartered in Murmansk City (Kalstad 2009; Vladimirova 2006; Yakovleva et al. 2004: 5). Later, however, authorities in Murmansk Region came to follow a policy of only allowing the registration of such organizations in the districts that are on the List of Places of Traditional Inhabitance and Traditional Economic Activities (see chapter 1 in this volume, and Berg-Nordlie 2015b). This effectively excluded urban Sámi from forming such organizations, which in turn became a problem when provincial authorities later implemented reforms that had the effect of increasingly basing the state’s Sámi representation structures on the obščinas. The number of obščinas in Murmansk Region has grown significantly since 2002, and today about forty such organizations are registered in the province (Gov-Murman.ru 2020a). In 2007, another type of organization was established in Russian Sápmi—National Cultural Autonomies (NCAs). This type of organization, which is regulated by a separate federal law, has high symbolic status in Russia and can receive state funding to perform its services. Its activities are not territorially bound to one particular municipality, but can be distributed to all members of an ethnic group regardless of their place of residence, political views, or other factors, in other words, it is an organization meant to encompass all members of an ethnic group and engage in culture promotion rather than politics. NCAs are mainly used by immigrant minorities in Russia as a way to organize the diaspora community and to receive funding that can be used to maintain and promote the ethnic minority culture (BergNordlie 2015a; Berg-Nordlie and Tkach 2016; Osipov 2010). It is un-

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common for Indigenous peoples to use this organization form, but the Russian Sámi have done so. For the Russian Sámi, the NCAs have become a distinctly urban, or at least small-town, form of ethnic organizing. When Sámi NCAs were established in Mončegorsk, Apatity, and Revda, this was partly an answer to the emergence of obščinas on top of other types of organized Sámi spaces that were available for Sámi in more rural areas, particularly the large rural district of Lovozero. As stated by one member of the Mončegorsk NCA: [a National Cultural Autonomy] . . . works well here, where there are few Sámi, but in Lovozero there are organizations, sovkhozes,[16] they are living compactly . . . Here we are spread among many others. This is our way of uniting (“Vadim,” quoted in Berg-Nordlie 2015b).

The NCAs were also explicitly intended to overcome the divisions created by Russian Sámi NGO specialization and politicization and to create more open Sámi spaces. The first NCA sprang out of a joint effort of OOSMO and one AKS chapter (Jona AKS in Kovdor), a project that was initially intended to lay the foundations for a Russian Sámediggi, but which eventually shifted over to focus on implementing the NCA model known from elsewhere in Russia (Berg-Nordlie 2015b). When the Mončegorsk NCA was established at a conference in Lovozero, the local newspaper Lovozerskaja Pravda underscored the “openness” of the model: this was a space for “all Sámi, be they in OOSMO or AKS” (Lovozerskaja Pravda 2007). In addition to AKS/OOSMO, the obščinas, and the NCAs, some other organizations in Russian Sápmi should be mentioned before we move on to looking at urban Sámi cultural institutions in Russia. The duodji (Sámi handicraft) organization Čepes Sám’ has been active since the 1990s and is located in Lovozero village. During the organizational “boom” among the Russian Sámi following the 1998 founding of OOSMO, several other organizations have emerged that are neither connected to the two would-be “big-tent” NGOs nor classified as NCAs or obščinas, such as the Murmansk-based Ecological Sami NGO Sami Fund of Nature (Moroshka.ucoz.ru 2020), the Mončegorsk-based NGO Sámi Fund for Heritage and Development, which is connected to the movement for a Russian Sámediggi (Berg-Nordlie 2017, 2018c), and last but not least, the first successful establishment of a Russian Sámi youth organization—Sám’ Nuraš (Sámi youth, established 2009).17 The establishment of the youth organization was initiated by urban Sámi youth of families that had been forcibly resettled from their vil-

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lages during the 1960s, many of them students and all of them at the time living in Murmansk City. The headquarters of the organization were based in Murmansk City, but from the moment of its establishment, Sám’ Nuraš still had status as an all-regional NGO. The organization worked systematically to expand its activities to reach and involve Sámi youth from rural areas and to create a network of Sámi youth that spanned the peninsula. Like the AKS and OOSMO, its activities took place both in urban and rural areas. After a period where the leaders came from other parts of Russian Sápmi, Sám’ Nuraš reverted to being headquartered in Murmansk City, while still implementing activities in other parts of Russian Sápmi, often through cooperation with other Sámi NGOs that have a more established presence in rural and small-town Russian Sápmi.

Urban Sámi Culture Centers in Russia: Governance and Openness In the Norwegian-Sápmi part of this chapter we focused on distinct institutions in individual urban areas. In Russia, the situation is somewhat different, as there are generally no Sámi cultural centers in urban areas. Lovozero village does have a comparable “culture house”—the National Cultural Center (Russian: Nacional’nyj kul’turnyj centr). This is a building in the center of town that serves as a venue and organizer for important cultural events. Its architectural expression is even inspired by Sámi culture, or at least inspired by the general Russian impression of the building traditions of the “small peoples of the North.” Lovozero is the main village that the Sámi were forcibly moved to, and as such it is definitely part of the Russian Sámi urbanization history, having played a key role in the population’s forced de-ruralization. Also, it is one of the larger compact settlements of Russian Sámi, and because of this is more characterized by urbanity than many other parts of rural Russian Sápmi. Nevertheless, we do not consider Lovozero to be comparable to urban centers such as Tromsø or Alta in Norway, but rather to the larger Sámi villages such as Kautokeino or Karasjok. Along the small towns of the “railway belt” we find a type of institution that has potential to be more similar to the urban Sámi culture houses of Norway: namely the above-mentioned NCAs. The Revda NCA did not have much activity and eventually closed down, but the NCA of the twin city Apatity-Kirovsk has been more active, and the Mončegorsk NCA shows particular comparative potential with Norwegian Sámi culture houses. This NCA has a physical space provided by the municipality, which constitutes their offices and a venue for cul-

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tural activities. The venue contains a small public museum to showcase Sámi culture, which among others is visited by children of preschools and schools, along with adult residents of the town. This activity bears some resemblance to a project run by the Oslo municipality and the Oslo Sámi House in which school children visit the Sámi House to learn about Sámi culture and history and the current situation of the Sámi. It is not an uncommon practice for Russian local authorities to provide NCAs with such localities and support (Berg-Nordlie and Tkach 2016). The NCA form may thus be well suited for the purpose of urban Indigenous culture houses by virtue of being an organization that Russian authorities are familiar with and have an established tradition of supporting. NCAs in Russian Sápmi have received support from municipal structures, the All-Russian Public Foundation National Welfare Fund, and the regional and federal fund of the Northern Peoples’ Center (more on this institution below). They have also received financing from abroad for their cultural activities, such as the Sámi Council’s Culture Committee and the Danish NGO Infonor. NCAs have democratic membership structures that allow for Indigenous empowerment. In the specific Russian Sámi context, the NCAs have the advantage of transcending the barriers between the politicized main NGOs—the AKS and OOSMO. Thus, the NCAs have the potential to be particularly open urban Indigenous spaces under the democratic control of a broad spectrum of local Sámi. Nevertheless, NCAs are rarely used by Indigenous peoples, and the choice of using this organizational form, associated as it is with priježie (immigrant) peoples, was also criticized by one informant as being unsuited for an Indigenous people such as the Sámi. The NCAs are also cultural organizations rather than political ones, which limits their potential to serve as a political voice for urban Sámi. Still, the NCAs are involved in ecologically oriented activities, for example, they’ve run the government-funded project Sejd’’javvr’ (Holy lake) that aims at preserving the ecological balance of the Kola Peninsula (Danilov 2010; Kremlin.ru 2009). Murmansk City, the largest urban area in Sápmi, is a place where Sámi culture is not particularly visible, and the urban Indigenous sociopolitical infrastructure includes fewer Sámi institutions and services to the Sámi population than do many smaller cities and towns in the West. In 2004, however, an institution was established in the city that has come to have a significant impact on Sámi cultural and political life not just in the city, but also in Murmansk Region as a whole. After the fall of the USSR, there had been a prolonged period of institutional instability in Murmansk Region’s official structures for Indig-

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enous policy, but the institution that was established in 2004—the Center for Native, Small-Numbered Peoples of the North (Russian: Centr korennykh maločislennykh narodov Severa), later renamed Center for Northern Peoples (Russian: Centr narodov Severa)—proved to have some staying power. Despite the name change, the center still seems mainly oriented toward the Indigenous people (“native, small-numbered people” in Russian parlance—see chapter 1 in this volume) of the region, the Sámi, although as we shall see below it does not exclusively limit its activities to Sámi affairs (Berg-Nordlie 2017; Gov-murman.ru 2020b; Vinogradova 2005: 3). The Northern Peoples’ Center is a state regional budgetary institution (gosudarstvennoje oblastnoje bjudžetnoje učreždenie or GOBU). It is an example of a type of institution that Russia has many of, namely institutions (učreždenija) that are policy-implementing and are owned by state-based actors, in this case the provincial authorities, but also have some degree of autonomy in their actions. This type of institution also has a role in ethno-politics in other parts of Russia for non-Indigenous peoples and for example house offices for the government-employed experts and coordinators of urban multi-ethnic affairs who implement ethnic policy and attempt to coordinate with the representatives of ethnic minorities, provide offices or meeting spaces for ethnic minority organizations, and serve as venues for ethnic minority culture events. The existence of such institutions in ethno-politics constitutes part of the Russian network governance trend, where the state seeks a closer relationship with parts of civil society that do not challenge the regime, and the new public management-like trends that involve creating specialized institutions that operate between elected officials and constituencies (Aasland et al. 2016: 153–54; Berg-Nordlie and Bolshakov 2018; Berg-Nordlie and Tkach 2016: 182–83). The Northern Peoples’ Center, or “the GOBU” as it is often referred to in Russian Sámi contexts (Konstantinov 2015: 237–38), is the type of organization described above, only for an Indigenous people. It is a combination of a provincial administrative structure and a “culture house” that provides venues, funding, and employed personnel. In contrast to many other such state-based “culture houses” in Russia, and also in contrast to the urban Sámi culture houses seen in Norway, the GOBU’s scope of activities is not just limited to one city, but to the entirety of Murmansk Region. Another difference between the urban Sámi culture houses of Norway and the GOBU is that the GOBU’s activities are not limited to Sámi affairs. It has tended to consider its target population to also encompass the Komi population of Mur-

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mansk Region. The Komi people living on the Kola Peninsula are descended from migrants who came to Kola during the 1800s (Overland and Berg-Nordlie 2012), and they are not an Indigenous nation in this area. Their historical background is more comparable to the Kvens of northern Norway. The Komi are, in fact, not even considered part of the “native small-numbered people” category in their traditional homeland farther east in Russia, because the number of Komi in the Russian Federation is more than 50,000 individuals (see chapter 1 in this volume). Nevertheless, Russian policy has sometimes tended to treat the Kola Komi as part of the same category as the Kola Sámi, due to perceived cultural and social similarities (Mustonen and Mustonen 2011). The GOBU has treated the Komi as part of their responsibilities, and with the name change to Northern Peoples’ Center, the name of the institution no longer stood in the way of this. A change in their strategic documents made in 2016 also shifted their priorities from Indigenous peoples (“small-numbered, native peoples”) to “the intangible cultural heritage of the peoples of the Russian Federation in the field of traditional folk culture” (Gov-murman.ru 2016, 2019). This has been controversial among the Sámi because it communicates a disregard for the colonization-induced challenges of the Sámi and the Indigenous status and rights they are granted in order to assist them in overcoming these challenges. Yulian Konstantinov (2015) also underscores this tendency of the administrative authorities not to treat the Indigenous Sámi any differently from other ethnic minorities in the area (2015: 237–38). Nevertheless, a substantial amount of the GOBU’s activities were and are targeted at offering Sámi cultural services and organizing distinct Sámi cultural and social activities, both urban and rural (GOBU 2012). In terms of activities related to the culture house, the center participates in organizing Sámi national holidays, cultural festivals, exhibitions of national arts, round tables, and seminars. The GOBU also provides support to Sámi NGOs by assisting in organizing and conducting meetings and seminars. In particular, the GOBU’s services include the organization of such festivals as the Sámi Festival of the North (Lovozero), the Summer Bear Games Festival (Lovozero), the Autumn Sámi Games Festival (Loparskaja, a village in the rural hinterland of Murmansk City), the Sámi Musical Festival (the railway belt town Olenegorsk/Púdze várr’), and Sámi National Day celebrations (Murmansk City and other places); various scientific-practical conferences and round tables covering acute Sámi issues; consultation meetings between authorities, obščinas, and other Sámi NGOs; and various Sámi cultural and art exhibitions.

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The GOBU has networked closely with Sámi and other culturally oriented institutions and organizations in the region—such as the National Cultural Center in Lovozero, the AKS, OOSMO, Sám’ Nuraš, the Murmansk Regional Museum of Local Folklore, other culture houses in the region, and independent Sámi artists, intellectuals, and writers. The GOBU also deals with organizing and carrying out the publishing of educational, literary, and artistic works, documentary films, and art reflecting the historical, socio-economic, cultural, and linguistic identity of the Kola Sámi people. Should the GOBU be considered an “urban Indigenous culture house”? Our answer to that question is yes, at least partially. At its core, though, the GOBU is something else entirely: a cultural and administrative institution that operates throughout the entire province. Granted, some of the urban language centers in Norway also cover rural areas in the vicinity of the city, but there is a difference between operating in the urban hinterlands and covering the entirety of the country’s part of Sápmi. Nevertheless, in the city where it is located, the GOBU does fulfill some of the roles that are taken by Sámi culture houses in Norway—it organizes cultural events, it constitutes a venue for cultural events, it is a hub for projects aimed at Sámi culture promotion, and it is a nodal point of orientation for local Indigenous civil society. In this context one should perhaps keep in mind that just like the “local culture house” in Murmansk City is actually more of a regional entity, “local Indigenous civil society” in Murmansk City is also very much regionally oriented. While Sámi activists in cities and towns of Norway tend to work a lot with the creation of urban Indigenous spaces in their own city, the focus of Murmansk-based activists is perhaps somewhat more often than in Norway on creating events that are of benefit to the entire Sámi community of the state or even on creating events that take place elsewhere. The Sámi culture houses described in the Norwegian cases are very different in terms of governance: the examples showcase total ownership by state-based actors (e.g., Gáisi Sámi Language Center, owned by Tromsø municipality), majority or total Indigenous non-state ownership (e.g., the Álttá Siida and Alta Language Center, where stocks are controlled by the NSR chapter), and the involvement of state-based Indigenous representative structures on the owner side (e.g., the Oslo Sámi House, with joint Sámediggi and party ownership). In Russia, we find the Mončegorsk NCA to constitute an Indigenous civil society-governed urban culture house, while the GOBU is a completely state-owned one. As the case of Tromsø shows, Indigenous civil society can be included in governance even if the institution as such is

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state owned. In the case of the GOBU, Sámi civil society involvement in its governance has been an issue of some contention and is an issue deeply connected to the “Sámi Parliament conflict” that characterized Russian Sámi politics particularly between 2007 and 2014. Much has been written about this conflict elsewhere (Berg-Nordlie 2017, 2018c), but we will here discuss the connection between that conflict and the GOBU’s first attempt at securing a link to Indigenous civil society. It is part of the task of institutions such as the Northern Peoples’ Center to attempt to coordinate with ethnic minority civil society in order for the state to more smoothly implement its minority policies by getting information and assistance from below. The minority organizations benefit by gaining access to institutions and persons with the power to help solve tasks of interest to their group (Aasland et al. 2016; Berg-Nordlie and Tkach 2016). In 2006, the GOBU created the Coordination Council (Russian: Koordinacionnyj Sovet), a body that collected the leader or vice leader of every single Sámi NGO in Murmansk Region—at the time eighteen smaller and larger organizations. This format emphasized the GOBU’s character as a primarily regional and not a local urban entity. However, the council experienced an internal conflict that was at least partly rural-urban. The Coordination Council was groundbreaking in being the first statebased forum to unite Sámi representatives from all of Russian Sápmi. However, there was also much discontent with its structure because, unavoidably, people compared it to the Nordic Sámediggis—in Russian Saamskie parlamenty or Sámi Parliaments—and this comparison made the Coordination Council fall drastically short: instead of being a national-level body, it was placed very low in the state’s administrative hierarchy (an advisory body to a policy-implementing institution owned by a subunit of the provincial government), and, unlike the Sámediggis, it was not democratically elected. Another issue was that the system made each of the small individual obščinas as powerful as the two “big” organizations, the AKS and OOSMO. The AKS and OOSMO made an agreement to work for the establishment of a Sámi Parliament in Russia. The Mončegorsk NCA also involved itself in this work, despite this type of organization not normally being preoccupied with “politics.” There was more enthusiasm for the Coordination Council among some of the rural obščina activists—some of whom had also earlier wanted an “obščina council” and saw aspects of this in the Center’s “user group” council (Berg-Nordlie 2015b, 2017). After mounting internal disputes among Sámi activists, and between some Sámi activists and the authorities, the Center abolished

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Image 4.7. | National Cultural Center. The village of Lovozero (Lujavv’r), Russia, has a National Culture Centre built in a style meant to evoke Indigenous culture. The central dome resembles a Sámi lávvu tent. Source: Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 3.0 license.

the Coordination Council in 2008. This was the end of the system of an organized “user group” body for the GOBU, but just the beginning of the dispute over a Russian Sámi Parliament, which can be read about in more detail elsewhere (Berg-Nordlie 2017, 2018c). After 2009, the GOBU began to work closely with a new structure, the Council of Representatives of the Native, Small-Numbered Peoples under the Government of Murmansk Region, a body of people nominated by obščinas and selected by the governor. This model sidelined the pro-Sámi Parliament activists of OOSMO and the AKS. Because obščinas are rural-only, this also in principle excluded urban activists from direct participation in giving input to the GOBU. Political realities are complex, however, and it was not unheard of for obščinas to be represented by urban-settled people, and activists associated with other organizations—even key activists in the movement for a Russian “Sámi Parliament”—were, in practice, sometimes involved in planning and carrying out cultural activities with the GOBU (Berg-Nordlie 2015b). In 2010, another Sámi representative structure was established, the Sám’ sobbar (Sámi assembly), which was open for more diverse representation than the “obščina council.” While originally created by the movement for a Russian Sámediggi, the Sobbar has since 2014, following changes in its composition, worked closely with the provincial authorities (Berg-Nordlie 2018c).

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Conclusion In this chapter we have gone through some key elements in the structure of Sámi civil society life in Norwegian and Russian urban areas, both historically and in the present, and on the governance of some urban Sámi “culture houses” in the two states. The reader may be left with a general impression of differences rather than similarities, which is to be expected when comparing such different entities as a Nordic state and a province of the Russian Federation. There are, nevertheless, some interesting similarities to point out. First, the chapter has demonstrated that both in Norway and Russia, urbanization is a driving force in Sámi organizing. As discussed in other chapters, the Sámi as a people tend to be associated with rural settlements and villages—somewhat incorrectly because the Sámi have always had a relation to the urban areas that developed in Sápmi, but due to historical processes of exclusion and immigration the Indigenous people have indeed come to be culturally stronger in rural areas. The history of Sámi organizing does, however, show that individuals who spent parts of their lives in urban areas for higher education and work have had key roles in the building of modern Sámi political movements. We observe this, for example, in the early organizational pioneers of Nordic Sápmi, several of whom had lived for longer or shorter periods in urban areas; in the fact that Norway’s strongest Sámi organization, the NSR, had its early roots in the southern capital Oslo; in the vital role of St. Petersburg-educated Sámi in the birth of the modern Russian Sámi movement; and in the choice of the provincial capital for the headquarters of the first Russian Sámi NGO, the AKS. The skills and networks acquired by the Sámi in urban areas have obviously been of benefit for the Sámi people in their struggle for cultural survival, and the political centrality of certain key urban areas has made it necessary for the Sámi to focus on cultivating a presence there. The milieus that have formed among the Sámi living in cities have been important organizational innovators and channels of communication between the Indigenous nation and the majority’s main institutions of power. This leads us to our second point, that while there is an effective symbiosis between the urban and rural Sámi communities, there is also evidence of some urban-rural Sámi conflicts in both states. In Russia, the division within the AKS during the 1990s was partly caused by this, and when a schism eventually occurred, the new organization, OOSMO, embodied (among other things) rural Sámi communities in opposition to the urban leadership of the AKS. Later, we

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observed aspects of urban-rural conflict as the provincial authorities of Murmansk Region began to construct Sámi representation structures that favored a rural organization type. In Norway, we can see traces of the urban-rural conflict in the prehistory of NSR, where discontent emerged over the centrality of Oslo in Sámi civil society. We have also seen some indications of opposing interests when it comes to discussions over the location and services of language centers— institutions of key importance for Sámi language and culture revitalization in Norway. Sámi urban-rural conflicts are not high on the agenda of Sámi public discussions in Norway, and there appears to be a public consensus that urban and rural Sámi both have rights to cultural survival, and little discursive space for (or interest in) advocating the position that urban and rural Sámi may have conflicting interests. As discussed in chapter 3, there are also strong social ties between urban and rural Sámi communities, and many urban Sámi have an identity that connects them to rural Sápmi, all of which strengthens the solidarity between city and countryside. Nevertheless, it should not be ignored that the cultural and socio-economic drive toward urbanization is also a direct threat to the survival of many rural Sámi communities, and to a certain extent this is a zero-sum game, as the migration of Sámi from rural communities to urban communities redistributes demographic resources and competence from the former to the latter. The alliance of urban and rural Sápmi is dependent on Sámi political leaders managing to present a convincing program for cultural survival in urban and rural areas simultaneously. If a mood begins to spread at the grass roots in rural or urban areas that their part of the Sámi community is not being given the priority it needs, then urban-rural conflicts may become more prominent in the Sámi politics of the future. A third finding is that the urban areas exhibit a strong degree of local variation in the structure of Sámi civil society and institutions— although this variation is greater in Norway than in Russia. Despite the existence of NGOs and political parties that have a countrywide (or in Russia’s case, province-wide) presence, the constellations and interrelations of civil society-based actors vary from location to location. Regarding the way institutions are organized, Sámi activists and allies in different places have had different opportunities to build structures for cultural survival, and have taken them, thus also resulting in high organizational heterogeneity. Local urban Indigenous institutional and organizational life is essentially “homegrown,” as it has emerged from and adapted to local specifics. Neither the Sámediggi nor any other overarching actor has had the authority, re-

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sources, or desire to attempt to streamline the urban institutional landscape. Nevertheless, in Norway the “language center model” is becoming a standard type of institution for urban Sámi to have or to strive for. This type of institution can, however, be organized in many different ways, and the ones observed here exhibit strong dissimilarities in terms of ownership and in terms of their relationships to both state and non-state actors—which, again, reflects local specifics. This local variation in relationships between key urban institutions and actor types also includes the Norwegian Sámediggi, which has different types of involvement with different urban Sámi cultural institutions. In Russia, “the GOBU” is simultaneously the de facto Sámi “culture house” of Murmansk City and a province-wide institution that has responsibilities for Sámi in both rural and urban areas throughout Murmansk Region. The centrality of GOBU constitutes a similarity in Sámi politics of different cities, towns, and villages of Russian Sápmi. Nevertheless, Russia also has local and specific urban Sámi institutions, most notably the Mončegorsk NCA. The latter example does, however, also exhibit an element of regionalism over localism in Russian Sámi organizing: the NCAs of Murmansk Region are united in a regional umbrella organization, headquartered in Apatity-Kirovsk. A fourth finding is that in both Norway and Russia, due to fragmentation of Sámi civil society there are challenges when it comes to creating Indigenous spaces that are seen as adequately open for the entire local Sámi population. The situation in both Norway and Russia is that Sámi civil society at different points began to become fragmented—partially through specialization, and partially through politicization, with the latter process in Norway having culminated with partisanization following the establishment of the Sámediggi. This fragmentation is not a particularly urban phenomenon, but its consequences are perhaps particularly negative in heavily majoritycultural areas such as towns and cities, where arenas to be in Sámi culture and society outside of the home have to be actively created. Under such conditions, it is arguably crucial to establish Indigenous spaces that are experienced as inclusive. We do indeed observe that many Sámi in both countries have tried to work toward the establishment of open and inclusive urban spaces that can gather Sámi from different organizations and groups. The involvement of the Sámediggi in local urban institutions can also be seen as safeguarding the openness of these institutions because, being a representative institution, it transcends party boundaries. In Russia, Sámi activists have on multiple occasions worked for the creation of a Russian Sámediggi, in part precisely because such an institution was seen as capable of uniting

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the organizationally fragmented Sámi around a common institution. There is a certain irony to this because the Sámediggi of Norway, while certainly a nodal actor that serves as a common arena for different Sámi voices and possessing organization-transcending legitimacy, simultaneously has had the effect of further fracturing the Sámi civil society landscape because its very existence creates incentives for partisanization. In Russia, the desire for a Sámediggi was part of what led to the creation of the NCAs, the organization type that must be said to be the most open urban Indigenous space in Russian Sápmi as it exists independently of the AKS/OOSMO divide. In both Russia and Norway, it is notable that youth organizations have to a larger extent avoided becoming embroiled in internal political conflicts—Sám’ Nuraš is outside the AKS/OOSMO divide, and Noereh like its predecessor Davvi Nuorra is not connected to any political party. Also among other more recently established Sámi organizations in Norway, such as for example the Sámi parents’ networks, one may possibly detect a tendency toward choosing to avoid having a formal connection to any political party. Regarding the youth organizations in Norway and Russia, one should note that they have quite urban memberships. This can be seen as reflecting the urbanization of young Sámi, but it could also be seen as reflecting that while the culturally stronger rural Sámi areas do not have such a great need for organized Sámi spaces, and the culturally weaker rural areas have fewer potential members for such organizations—the cities and towns have both the needs and the demographic traits that encourage the formation of such organizations. Finally, we should point to an important distinction between the role of the city in Russian and Norwegian Sámi organizing, namely that Norwegian Sápmi is more multi-nodal than Russian Sápmi. Murmansk Region is a geographically smaller part of Sápmi than Norwegian Sápmi, with a much smaller Sámi-identifying population. There is also no question that Murmansk City is the political, economic, and demographic center of that area. It is the place of residence for many key Sámi activists in several province-wide organizations and it is an important arena for events and meetings that are of consequence to the entire province, and the role of “the GOBU” in Sámi cultural and political life on the peninsula has served to further entrench the nodality of Murmansk City in Russian Sápmi. It is common to say that Lovozero is the “capital of Russian Sápmi,” but it may be more correct to say that Lovozero is the “rural capital” and that Murmansk City is the “urban capital” of Russian Sápmi. In comparison, Sámi social and political life in Norway is multi-nodal. Oslo has a particular

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political centrality because it is the capital of Norway, and a special position for the Sámi of its own region (South Norway), but power and economic means are more decentralized than in Russian Sápmi. There are several cities and towns that have a claim to some nodality in Sámi affairs because of important cultural and political functions, and also several villages—the rural-urban Sámi relationship is more balanced in Norway than in Russia. In fact, it is most often rural Inner Finnmark, where the villages Kautokeino and Karasjok are situated, that is referred to as the “central” part of Norwegian Sápmi. The more empowered position of rural areas in Norwegian Sápmi than in Russian Sápmi also means that the cities of Norwegian Sápmi do not have to take the central coordinating role that Murmansk City has to, so the Sámi of urban areas are freer to focus on local needs. If anything, the urban areas of Norwegian Sápmi are “capitals” for their regions and their local Sámi subgroups, but even in this they may be rivaled by villages in the same region. Mikkel Berg-Nordlie is a historian who works as a researcher at the NIBR Institute for Urban and Regional Research at the Oslo Metropolitan University (NIBR—OsloMet), and is responsible for Sámi history articles in the Great Norwegian Encyclopedia (SNL). He wrote his PhD at UiT—Arctic University of Norway on the history of Russian Sámi representation in Russian politics and pan-Sámi networking, and holds an MA in peace and conflict studies from the University of Oslo). Anna Andersen (née Afanasyeva) holds a PhD in humanities with specialization in history, an MA degree in Indigenous Studies from UiT—The Arctic University of Norway, and an MA equivalent in pedagogy from the Murmansk State Arctic University (MAGU). She defended her PhD dissertation titled “Boarding School Education of the Sámi People in Soviet Union (1935–1989): Experiences of Three Generations” at UiT in 2019. She currently works at UiT and teaches as an invited scholar at various BA and MA courses at the Sámi University of Applied Sciences in Kautokeino. Astri Dankertsen holds a PhD in sociology and an MA in social anthropology. Dankertsen is Associate Professor in Sociology at Nord University in Norway and is currently the head of The Division for Environmental Studies, International Relations, Northern Studies and Social Security.

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Notes 1. “Finn” is an ethnic slur for the Sámi in the Norwegian language. See chapter 1 for more on the usage of “Finn” to mean “Sámi,” and how it came to take on the character of a slur. 2. “Fjellfinn” is also a slur used against the Sámi. It means “Mountain Finn” (see footnote above). It is often used specifically to refer to reindeer herding Sámi and Sámi living in the highlands of the interior. 3. After years of work to expand cultural space in terms of tolerance and acceptance, a Sámi kindergarten was opened in 2017. The Sámi kindergarten in Trondheim is a Sámi section within a majority-Norwegian municipal kindergarten. It offers services in South and North Sámi, and the institution has the responsibility to be a resource for Sámi culture in relation to other kindergartens in Trondheim municipality (“Ferista friluftsbarnehage” [Ferista outdoor kindergarten]. Retrieved 11 May 2021 from https://www.trondheim .kommune.no/org/oppvekst/barnehager/ferista-fbhg/). 4. The concepts of “specialization,” “politicization,” and “partisanization” as utilized here have been developed from the broader concept of “specialization” as used in Berg-Nordlie 2018a. 5. The Kven national minority has its roots in immigration waves that began in the 1700s, in which people resettled from the Tornedalen district in Sweden (now divided between the states Finland and Sweden) to the northern coasts under Danish-Norwegian dominion. Some of these immigrants formed communities where a specific variant of Finnish was spoken, and were targeted by Norway’s assimilation policy from the late 1800s (Elenius 2019; Forsgren and Minken 2020). A large share of the population in the far north of Norway has mixed ancestry—their ancestors may include both Indigenous Sámi, majority Norwegians, and people that came with the Kven Immigration. The ethnic group(s) that a person identifies with will depend on different social, cultural, and linguistic conditions. The modern Kven identity is based on putting emphasis on the aspects of one’s heritage connected to the Kven Immigration or the communities that resulted from this event. During the Norwegianization period, it was widely held to have higher social status to be of Kven heritage than Sámi, but after the Norwegian Sámi policy shift, the northern ethnopolitical landscape instead came to be characterized by a main dichotomy of dominant people-Indigenous people, and the Kvens fit into neither of this dichotomy’s main categories (Berg-Nordlie and Schou 2011). The category “national minority” has been established in Norway for the Kvens and other peoples like them (non-Indigenous but old ethnic minorities), but there are nevertheless some fears of being sidelined and forgotten by the Norwegian state, and some few again channel these fears into resentment against the Sámi. 6. For transparency: Author and editor Astri Dankertsen is a member of the board of Sálto Sámesiebrre and has also been a member of the national board of the NSR. She was also a deputy representative in the Norwegian Sámediggi for the NSR from 2013 to 2017. 7. Both these provinces are now defunct. In 2018, Sør-Trøndelag was merged

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8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

with Nord-Trøndelag into Trøndelag, and in 2020, Hedmark was merged with Oppland into Innlandet. For transparency: Tråante2017 was at one point a project partner of NUORGÁV, the research project that resulted in this book. The conference “An Urban Future for Sápmi?” was organized by the editors as part of Tråante2017. Of the population registered to vote in the South Sámi constituency, 29.3 percent lived in Oslo County/Municipality in 2017 and 41.7 percent lived in the larger Oslo urban agglomeration. Comparatively, South Norway’s second largest urban agglomeration in terms of Sámediggi voters (and citizens in general) is Bergen (Birggon), which only had 4.7 percent of South Norway’s Sámediggi voters. For transparency: Author and editor Mikkel Berg-Nordlie was involved in the creation of this organization, served as its leader 2019-2021, and is currently a member of its board. Norwegian: Høyre, Fremskrittspartiet, and Venstre. The name of the smallest of these parties, the liberalist Left Party, dates back to the late 1800s, before the emergence of more left-leaning political forces, i.e., the labor movement and the socialist parties. Today, the Left Party is counted among Norway’s right-wing parties. For transparency: Authors and editors Mikkel BergNordlie and Astri Dankertsen are active members of political parties on the left wing. At the time of writing, Berg-Nordlie leads the Socialist Left Party’s Sámi Political Council, and Dankertsen is a member of Bodø’s municipal board for the Red Party. The “equality” in EDL’s name refers to an ideal that citizens should be treated formally equally with no regard for ethnicity. However, the group tends to portray Norwegian culture and language as something neutral that all citizens in Norway can and should adhere to, whereas being Sámi should be an entirely private matter. The organization’s spokespersons are known to attack visible Sáminess. EDL spokespersons have also given voice to conspiracy theories about a half-century-old international Sámi plot to take over the north, and engaged in unfounded historical revisionism that frames the Sámi as non-Indigenous (Berg-Nordlie and Olsen 2020; Berg-Nordlie and Schou 2011, Nrk.no 2011). For transparency: Author and editor Astri Dankertsen was at the time a deputy representative for the Norwegian Sámi Parliament (NSR) in the Sámediggi and a representative in the Bodø Municipal Council (Red Party), and took part in the initiative to establish the Sámi Language Center in Bodø. For transparency: The NUORGÁV Project participated in Tråante2017 by organizing an open, two-day conference titled “An Urban Future for Sápmi,” which was held at Sverresborg and in cooperation with the institution. For transparency: One of the authors (Berg-Nordlie) has children who are in the Sámi kindergarten and who participate in the municipal Sámi school system, has served as a parents’ representative, and has also been involved in voluntary project activity at the Sámi House. The large reindeer-herding companies are still often referred to by the Soviet term despite post-Soviet restructuring into private firms. This is somewhat

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telling of their retained “cornerstone” status in certain rural parts of Russian Sápmi. 17. For transparency: Author Anna Andersen (née Afanasyeva) was the first leader of Sám’ Nuraš.

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Overland, Indra, and Mikkel Berg-Nordlie. 2012. Bridging Divides: Ethno-Political Leadership among the Russian Sámi. New York: Berghahn. Pedersen, Lisa. 2018. “Spekulerer i uredelig spill av daglig leder” [Speculating in dishonest play by executive leader]. iTromsø. Retrieved 22 March 2020 from https://www.itromso.no/meninger/2018/08/30/%C2%ABSpekulerer-i-ure delig-spill-av-daglig-leder%C2%BB-17423436.ece. Pedersen, Paul, and Torill Nyseth. 2015. “Innledning” [Introduction]. In City-Saami: Same i byen eller bysame? Skandinaviske byer i et Sámisk perspektiv [CitySaami: Sámi in the city or city Sámi? Scandinavian cities in a Sámi perspective], ed. Paul Pedersen and Torill Nyseth, 11–30. Kárášjohka: ČálliidLágádus. Persen, Hannah. 2020. “Samisk Hus mottok kunstnerpris” [Sámi House received art award]. Ságat 7 September, 2020. Retrieved 29 June 2021 from https:// www.sagat.no/nyheter/samisk-hus-mottok-kunstnerpris/19.23625. Peters, Evelyn J., and Chris Andersen. 2013a. “Aboriginal Urbanization in Canada: Background.” In Indigenous in the City: Contemporary Identities and Cultural Innovation, ed. Evelyn Peters and Chris Andersen, 21–27. Vancouver: UBC Press. ———. 2013b. “Mãori Urbanization in New Zealand.” In Indigenous in the City: Contemporary Identities and Cultural Innovation, ed. Evelyn Peters and Chris Andersen, 305–9. Vancouver: UBC Press. Pettersen, Torunn, and Jo Saglie. 2019. “Hand i hand? Om bysamer som tema i valgprogram ved sametingsvalg i Norge 2009–2017” [Hand in hand? Concerning urban Sámi as a subject in election programs for Sámediggi elections in Norway 2009–2017]. Norsk statsvitenskapelig tidsskrift 3: 115–40. Proff.no. 2017. “Samisk Foreldrenettverk Tråante” [Sámi Parent Network Traånte]. Retrieved 22 March 2020 from https://www.proff.no/selskap/samisk-foreld renettverk-tr%C3%A5ante-2017/troms%C3%B8/medlemsorganisasjoner/ IF6MO3410PU/. ———. 2018. Samisk Arena Tråante. Retrieved 22 March 2020 from https:// www.proff.no/selskap/samisk-arena-tr%C3%A5ante/trondheim/medlems organisasjoner/IF81L6R10PU/. Rantala, Leif. (ed.) 2006. Dokument om de ryska samera och Kolahalvön. Rovaniemi: Lapin yliopistopaino Regjeringen.no 2018. “Fakta om samiske språk” [Facts about Sámi languages]. Retrieved 22 March 2020 from https://www.regjeringen.no/no/tema/ur folk-og-minoriteter/samepolitikk/samiske-sprak/fakta-om-samiske-sprak/ id633131/. Riksscenen.no. 2020. “Idja.” Retrieved 22 March 2020 from https://www.rikss cenen.no/idja.455253.no.html. Rohr, Johannes. 2014. Indigenous Peoples in the Russian Federation. IWIGA Report 18. Retrieved 19 March 2020 from https://www.iwgia.org/images/publi cations/0695_HumanRights_report_18_Russia.pdf. “Saemien Sijjie Tråante—Samisk Rom Trondheim.” 2019. Retrieved 22 March 2020 from https://www.facebook.com/Saemien-Sijjie-Tr%C3%A5ante-Sam isk-Rom-Trondheim-214196748600672/. Ságat.no. 2018. “Språksenteret som stakk hjemmefra” [The language center that ran away from home]. Sagat.no. 24 August 2018.

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———. 2020. “En viktig milepæl for Trondheim” [An important benchmark for Trondheim]. Avisa Ságat. Retreived on 20 January 2021 from https://www .sagat.no/en-viktig-milpal-for-trondheim/19.24054. Sametinget.no. 2020a. Byavtaler. Retrieved 22 March 2020 from https://www .sametinget.no/Politikk/Samarbeidsavtaler/Byavtaler. ———. 2020b. Språk. Retrieved 22 March 2020 from https://www.sametinget.no/ Tjenester/Spraak. Samiskhus.no. 2020a. “Om oss.” samiskhus.no. Retrieved 22 March 2020 from https://www.samiskhus.no/om-samisk-hus. ———. 2020b. “Samisk språksenter.” samiskhus.no. Retrieved 22 March 2020 from https://www.samiskhus.no/samisk-spraksenter. Sandøy, Ragnhild. 2010. “Fornorsking av Finnmark blei deres liv” [Norwegianizing Finnmark became their lives]. Samisk skolehistorie 4. Davvi Girji. Retrieved 22 March 2020 from http://skuvla.info/skolehist/tanapioner-n.htm. Sapmi uit.no. 2020. “Samisk skole og undervisning” [Sámi school and education]. Retrieved 22 March 2020 from http://sapmi.uit.no/sapmi/TopicSea rch.do?search=Samisk+skole+og+undervisning&collection=%2Fdb %2Fsapmi&structure=topic&id=1096905035401-8&testt=&searchpath =metadata%2Ftitle%5B%40language%3D%27norsk%27%5D—-descrip tion%5B%40language%3D%27norsk%27%5D%2Ftext%2Fpara. Sff.no. 2020. “Om samenes folkeforbund SFF” [Concerning the Sámi Popular Association]. Retrieved 22 March 2020 from http://samene.no/om-oss/. Shapovalov, Aleksandr. 2004–2005. “Straightening Out the Backward Legal Regulation of ‘Backward’ Peoples’ Claims to Land in the Russian North: The Concept of Indigenous Neomodernism.” The Georgetown International Environmental Law Review 17: 435–36. Siegl, Florian, and Michael Riessler. 2015. “Uneven Steps to Literacy: The History of the Dolgan, Forest Enets and Kola Sami Literary Languages.” In Cultural and Linguistic Minorities in the Russian Federation and the European Union, Multilingual education 13, ed. Heiko F. Marten, 189–230. Cham: Springer International Publishing. Sirkka, Karl-Wilhelm. 2017. “500 Samiske stedsnavn og Skansen som ‘samisk senter’ i Tromsø?” [500 Sámi place-names and Skansen as a ‘Sámi center in Tromsø?]. Nordlys. Retrieved 22 March 2020 from https://nordnorskdebatt .no/article/500-samiske-stedsnavn-skansen. Skåden, Sigbjørn, and Lill Tove Fredriksen. 2019. “Anders Larsen.” Store norske leksikon. Retrieved 22 March 2020 from https://snl.no/Anders_Larsen. Smith, Lindsay Claire. 2019. “Talisi through the Lens: Locating Native Tulsa in the Films of Sterlin Harjo.” In Settler City Limits: Indigenous Resurgence and Colonial Violence in the Urban Prairie West, ed. Dorries Heather, Robert Henry, David Hugill, Tyler McCreary, and Julie Tomiak, 251–70. East Lansing: Michigan State University Press. Solaas, Steinar. 2021. “-Ukultur. Sier opp jobben ved samisk hus” [A bad culture. Quits job at Sámi House]. Ságat 1 June, 2021. Retrieved on 29 June, 2021 from https://www.sagat.no/sier-opp-jobben-ved-samisk-hus/19.27591. Solbakk, Aage. 2021 (year of publication not indicated). ”Muittalægje – vuosttas sámi aviisa.” [The Narrator – the first Sámi newspaper]. Calliidlagadus.org.

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Retrieved 1 July, 2021 from http://www.calliidlagadus.org/web/index.php ?sladja=61&vuolitsladja=106&giella1=sam. Sorokazjerdjev, Vladimir V. 2006. “Alymov och den nordliga komitéen” [Alymov and the northern committee]. In Dokument om de ryska samerna och Kolahalvön, ed. Leif Rantala, 61–66. Rovaniemi: Lapin yliopistopainu. Spraaksenter.no. 2021. “Styremedlem” [Board member]. Spraaksenter.no. Retrieved 29 June 2021 from https://spraaksenter.no/tromso. Stepanenko, Aleksandr, ed. 2003. Rasstreljannaja sem’ja (istoričeskie očerki o kol’skikh saamov) [Translation]. Murmansk: Isskustvo Rossii. Stien, Laila. 1976. “Elsa Laula: En samisk foregangskvinne” [Elsa Laula: A Sámi pioneer]. Ottar: Om Samiske Pionerer [On Sami Pioneers]. Retrieved 22 March 2020 from https://www.nb.no/items/URN:NBN:no-nb_digibok_2012021605 025?page=19. Ušakov, Ivan. 1997. Izbrannye proizvedenija: Tom 1: Kol’skaya zemlja [Selected works: first tome: The Kola Land]. Murmansk: Murmanskoje knižnoe izdatel’stvo. Vinogradova, Svetlana N. 2005. Saami kol’skogo poluostrova: osnovnye tendencii sovremennoj žizni [Sámi of the Kola Peninsula: basic tendencies of their contemporary life]. Apatity: KNC RAN. Vladimirova, Vladislava. 2006. “Just Labor: Labor Ethic in a Post-Soviet Reindeer Herding Community.” Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, Uppsala Studies in Cultural Anthropology 40. Uppsala: Uppsala Universitet. Welsh Government. 12 22 March 2020 from http://cymraeg.gov.wales/events/ canolfannau/?lang=en. West, Sandra, and Vidar Andersen. 2017. “Er ikke samer gode nok leieboere?” [Aren’t Sámi good enough to rent the house?]. Nordlys. Retrieved 22 March 2020 from https://nordnorskdebatt.no/article/ikke-samer-gode-nok-leieboere. Winsvold, M., K. B. Stokke, J. E. Klausen, and I. L. Saglie. 2009. “Organisational Learning and Governance in Adaption in Urban Development.” In Adapting to Climate Change: Thresholds. Values. Governance, ed. W. N. Agder, I. Lorenzoni, and K. O’Brien, 476–90. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wolfe, Patrick. 2006. “Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native.” Journal of Genocide Research 8(4): 387–409. Yakovleva, Elena, Vibeke Tuxen, Johan Albert Kalstad, and Kristjan Tõnisson. 2004. The Plan of Economic and Social Development for the Kola Sami Ancestral Communities. Retrieved 22 March 2020 from https://ecoprint.ee/. Zachariassen, Kjetil. 2012. Samiske nasjonale strategar: Samepolitikk og nasjonsbygging 1900–1940. Isak Saba, Anders Larsen og Per Fokstad. [Sámi national strategists: Sámi politics and nation building 1900–1940. Isak Saba, Anders Larsen and Per Fokstad. Kárášjohka/Deatnu: ČálliidLágadus.

? chapter 5

Sámi Urbanization in the Global Currents of Indigenous Urbanization Chris Andersen

The world has never been more urbanized than it is in 2021. The United Nations (UN) reports that roughly 55 percent of the world’s total population reside in urban locales, compared to only 30 percent in 1950. This proportion is expected to grow to nearly 70 percent by 2050. The UN reports further that among global geographical regions, North America and Europe possess the highest proportions of urbanization anywhere on the planet (United Nations World Urbanization Prospects 2018). This population redistribution—shaped both by rural-to-urban migration and by increased birth rates of those migrating to urban locales—is expected to coincide with the future growth of “megacities,” often defined as cities with populations of ten million or higher (United Nations World Urbanization Prospects 2018). The urban migration experienced by the world’s population has also been mirrored, particularly in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, by the urbanization of Indigenous peoples. In short, much of Indigenous urbanization takes place—and as such, is most productively understood—in the context of these larger global currents. Within this broader context of urbanization, I will make two contextual points to orient the rest of this chapter and to situate urban Sámi experiences within the currents of global Indigenous urbanization. First, there is no single way to be “authentically” Indigenous. This is a slightly gentler way of asserting that all Indigeneities—urban or

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not—are co-constituted in relation to the colonial contexts they exist in. This assertion may seem distressing, but it need not be: in a modern context, it offers us conceptual and, given the focus of this book, physical space to think through the complex contexts through which Indigeneity is played out in the modern world. Second, it is fundamentally important to recognize that despite this reality, urban Indigenous residents continue to contend with deeply rooted stereotypes about what Indigeneity is, who Indigenous peoples are and where we (supposedly) belong, all of which sustain a deep chasm between “urban” and “Indigenous” that can make them appear incommensurable. At its core, this chasm represents a sine qua non example of what post-colonial scholar Partha Chatterjee (1993) has classically termed “the rule of colonial difference.” By this, he was referring to the essentialized and apparently immutable differences used to justify historical colonial projects (including Indigenous territorial disposition and the replacement of Indigenous political societies and governance systems with those of invading colonial authorities) while sitting at the base of liberal nation-states—like those of the Nordic countries and elsewhere—and that continue to shape the way national governments think about and act on their relationships with Indigenous peoples. This ontological chasm provides important context for understanding how the relationship between urbanization and Indigeneity is perceived and what is so problematic about it. All urban Indigenous residents—urban Sámi included—live physically and symbolically within this “rule of difference,” a facet of modernity that positions us as not just being different from, but “less than,” the places where (again, physically and symbolically), it is presumed, real Indigeneity springs from and resides. In a Sámi context this is produced through narratives about, for example, the central importance of reindeer herding/herders to “authentic” Sámi culture but more broadly, the fundamental whiteness of the structure of modernity has proven itself endlessly capable of producing and legitimating images, icons, and discourses of “real Indigeneity” that Indigenous people in general and urban Indigenous residents in particular do not, and indeed cannot measure up to. In such modernist thinking—and the basic discourses that undergird modernity—“urban” and “Indigenous” are mutually exclusive and thus, incommensurable: everyone knows, according to such deeply furrowed discourses, that cities are places where Indigenous people go to live and where Indigenous cultures go to die. Historian Coll Thrush (2007) has referred to these ways of thinking about the relationship between Indigeneity and urban life as “ghost-

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ing,” a phenomenon by which dominant society relegates Indigeneity to the status of being a remnant of the past and as such contemporary urban Indigeneity literally becomes a conceptual impossibility. Moreover, like all ghost stories, those about Indigenous peoples and our presence in urban locales are confirmatory and often, fictitious: ghosting, that is to say, is confirmatory to the extent that it tells us only what we expect to hear and see. The weight of such stories is both an index of the powerlessness of Indigenous communities— urban and otherwise—to push back against the apparent truth of colonial discourses and the awesome weight of non-Indigenous societies that dismisses Indigenous pasts and our presences. Additionally, they represent an indicator of the manner in which the privilege of whiteness sitting at the heart of colonial modernity produces social relations in which non-Indigenous people (need) spend little time on thinking about Indigeneity, let alone urban Indigeneity. A basic framing of these broad global colonial “truths” offers a useful conceptual foothold for understanding the specificities of Sámi urbanization, and it is in the global aspects that characterize Indigenous (and colonial) peoples that we turn our attention to the distinctiveness of Sámi urbanization—and urban Sámi—experiences. Undertaking a summary of these complex contours is complicated by the fact that the phenomena lend themselves to rich but theoretically and empirically incredibly diverse discussions. As such, the chapter will touch on selected theoretical and empirical points that resonate—and productively depart from—the urbanization experiences of Indigenous peoples in other colonial contexts. And it is in those comparative/juxtapositional contexts that we can understand both the situational locality and structural homologies of Sámi urban Indigenous experiences. It is in the interplay between local specificity and global structural similarities that I pitch this chapter. In the context of focusing on what I regard as global “gaps” in the research literature pertaining to Indigenous urbanization, I will focus in particular on four categories through which urban Indigenous experiences need more attention globally. These include: (1) a discussion of the constitutive power of national/colonial context (mentioned earlier) and the manner in which all Indigeneity—urban Indigeneity included—gets co-constituted in relation to; (2) longstanding and persistent issues relating to robust data as it pertains to nearly any context of urban Indigenous demography, let alone culture and experiences; (3) the relatively understudied contexts of youth experiences pertaining to Indigenous urbanization; and (4) the role played by distinctive institutional structures to the

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creation and maintenance of Indigenous communities in urban locales. Roadmapping the chapter in this manner, I will turn to the first discussion: the analytical importance of the interplay between local and global contexts to understanding urban Indigeneity.

Respecting the Complex Specificity of Colonial Contexts The broader Indigenous urbanization literature has not thought particularly deeply in its writing about the ontological relationships between, for example, the term “Indigenous” and the numerous nation-specific autonyms that those who would fall under the broader political category “Indigenous” would use to describe our collective selves. This is crucial not just because it allows us to ask questions about why and how we use the terminology we do, but because it also encourages us to think collectively, across time and space, about the political possibilities of thinking and acting locally and globally with respect to urban Indigenous experiences. For example, in his discussion of Indigenous urbanization in Latin American countries, Philipp Horn highlights the manner in which the strategic deployment of “Indigenous” across different national contexts came to exert a powerful force in shaping constitutional reforms that “incorporated international legislation on indigenous rights into domestic law” (2019: 7) around urban Indigenous communities in particular. Definitional transparency is additionally important, however, because it points to the manner in which state logics and state categorizations have not only profoundly shaped the quality of life that Indigenous communities and peoples (can) possess, they have likewise shaped—and narrowed—the very manner in which we can think and speak about the term Indigenous itself, and how Indigenous people within particular national contexts, have chosen to do so. That is to say—and at the risk of sounding provocative—all Indigeneity is co-constituted with(in) colonial nation-statehood: Indigenous peoples are thus not Indigenous as such despite colonialism but rather, (partly) because of it. This is a sobering position to take, because it is asking us no less than to think about what possibilities—if any—exist for understanding Indigeneity outside of the elemental power of global colonialities. And this is perhaps particularly important to think about in an urban context since, as Olsen (2007: 75–76) has pointed out in a Sámi context, ethnicity is and cannot be a private matter to the extent that in the post-World War II era, Sámi live not just in smaller villages but in larger cities as well.

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Criteria that are often used to conceptually “locate” a people’s Indigeneity are prior presence; historical and present attempts by dominant states and later nation states to dominate these “prior societies” and their attempts to “write over” the legitimacy of the languages, cultures and identities with those of the dominant culture; and our presence in the conceptual boundaries of the new, socio-political “capture nations” (Chartrand 1991) that have colonized us. When we think about these criteria in our present context, they become somewhat self-explanatory and point to a larger truth about the last five hundred years of colonial projects that have swept across the globe: namely, that while these projects may be local in practice, they are global in ideology (see Hall 1995 for a sophisticated but accessible discussion of these ideas). We can further contextualize this by addressing what at first glance might seem a trivial question: why would we expect Sámi urbanization experiences to resonate with those of other Indigenous peoples across the globe? For that matter, why would we expect any Indigenous urbanization experiences to resonate? Given the place-based distinctiveness of Indigenous societies, the presence of differences seems much more obvious: “Indigenous peoples” includes a population of more than 475 million people who speak more than 4,000 languages (Culturalsurvival 2021) among nearly five thousand distinctive cultures and societies. Moreover, all Indigenous peoples have “interacted”/been forced to interact with nation-states in ways that have, through the passage of centuries, left an indelible mark on our Indigeneity distinctive to that national/colonial context. As such, we would expect Sámi urbanization experiences to differ greatly from those of other Indigenous peoples, in the same way we would expect the experiences of all Indigenous peoples to differ. As it turns out, nation-states with pretentions to global imperialism possessed numerous cultural similarities stemming from their incorporation of a burgeoning capitalist/colonial ethos, deeply saturated in the “rule of colonial difference” (Chatterjee 1993) noted earlier. As such, they tended to respond to Indigenous social characteristics with similar logics and for similar reasons: namely, to dispossess and displace Indigenous relationships to land and to place along with Indigenous governing systems and replace them with their own. Different colonial powers employed different processes but generally, most tended to include the establishment of a frontier bulwark (often in the interests of trading); in certain cases, formal military intervention; an increasingly totalizing extension of government control with accompanying land policies that were almost always at odds with In-

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digenous ones; cultural modification policies that demonized Indigenous cultural practices and imposed colonial ones; and the imposition of various extractive economic policies that detrimentally impacted Indigenous relationships to land, to territory, and to “place” (for an expansive discussion of these strategies, see Bodley 2014; Robbins 2019). These two clusters of characteristics—“Indigenous” and “colonial”—offer analytical purchase for thinking through the “push” and “pull” factors through which colonialisms exerted themselves on our ancestors and their/our historical territories, just as they continue to do so today. Mikkel Berg-Nordlie (2018: 50), for example, argues that in a Sámi context, these push-pull factors can include (from a “push” perspective) threats to traditional industries such as fishing, farming, and herding, and (from a “pull” perspective) education, employment, and lifestyle opportunities. These push-pull factors resonate in most parts of the globe, part of the so-called “modernization” eras of the post-World War II nation-states. The attendant growth of nation-states with their own urbanization likewise exerted an impact on the pace and shape of Indigenous urbanization. These conceptual pathways are, however, severely complicated by the inability—due to existing data limitations—to take a clear snapshot of what urban Indigeneity actually looks like. I will now turn to this second “lens” now.

Indigenous Data and Their Complexities Understanding the constitutive power of colonialism provides solid bedrock for understanding the context within which the debates around (urban) Indigeneity assume the complex contours they do. For example, state definitions of Indigeneity tend to focus on narrow and often decontextualized criteria. Even under such unitary state-sponsored pretentions to objectivity, the criteria selected constitutively shape the categories used to collect the data. Population estimates produced from that data create the classifications that then ensue and the social engineering that can arise (see Poole 2016 for this discussion in a New Zealand Māori context). This powerfully shapes the very materials we have to begin to speak about these issues as social phenomena across time and space. Understanding this conceptual backdrop, what is perhaps distinctive about Sámi political imaginings and urbanization experiences is the fact that for many Indigenous peoples elsewhere, the boundaries of colonial nation-state claims tend to map over Indigenous territories

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completely;1 in juxtaposition, the territorial boundaries of Sápmi only partially map over the geo-political boundaries claimed by the colonial nation-states within which the geographical and indeed sociological “edges” of Sápmi exist (see Berg-Nordlie 2018). As such, urban Sámi research is able to distinguish between urbanization trends within colonial nation-states broadly, and Sámi urbanization trends within Sápmi itself. This is an interesting conceptual exercise and one that, demographically speaking, has much to offer Indigenous centered discussions of Indigenous urbanization in other parts of the world, particularly in contexts where Indigenous peoples were in a historical position to sign treaties with colonial states (to what extent is urban Indigenous mobility tied to treaty boundaries, for example?). Certainly, the current scarcity of available demographic data—particularly in the post-World War II period—severely complicate the ability of scholars interested in urban Sámi research to answer basic questions pertaining to how urban areas formed in Sápmi and similarly, when and where larger scale urbanization of Sámi occurred (see chapter 2 in this volume). The lack of data is a widespread dynamic that Indigenous people(s) the world over must deal with, and it shapes the kinds of policy discussions we can engage in with our respective nation-states. For example, in her discussion of the structure of urban Māori in New Zealand, Māori demographer Tahu Kukutai (2013) notes the limitations that statistical data about Māori and urban Māori impose on the ability to answer questions about the distinctiveness of urban Māori demography. In a Canadian context, I (2013b) have argued for the creation of an “urban Indigenous supplement” to attach to what gets currently used to analyze urban Indigenous demography in Canada, which is the Canadian census. Like all Indigeneity, urban Indigeneity is place-based, such that what Indigeneity “looks like,” what its demographic characteristics reveal and what its co-constituted relations to the city look like, all conspire to produce a form of Indigeneity that, while sharing commonalities with urban Indigeneity of other locales, is nonetheless distinctive to that place. In Canada, current official statistics cannot capture that density (see Andersen 2009) or that locality: an urban Indigenous supplement that sought out more city-specific information would go a long way toward providing more place-based texture. In doing so, it might help produce more nuanced and effective policy with respect to urban Indigenous communities. Data availability is crucial issue because, as Phillip Corrigan and Derek Sayer elegantly observed in their now-classic longue durée discussion of the growth of the British state, much of the power of mod-

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ern state authorities lays their ability to make pronouncements about the empirical realities of social life within the geo-political borders they claim. To wit: “states state . . . they define in great detail acceptable forms and images of social activity and individual and collective identity; they regulate, in empirically specifiable ways, much—very much, by the twentieth century—of social life” (1985: 3). And a major prong through which “states state” is through the strategic deployment (or removal) of the statistical machinery required to gather data. This presents specific issues in a Scandinavian context, precisely because the time in which extensive and rapid urbanization of Sámi people to cities occurred and as such, when such data would have been most useful, Nordic states discontinued the collection of vital data. To take up the data scarcity in more detail, Scandinavian demographers (i.e., Axelsson 2011; Pettersen 2011) have discussed how fears emanating from Nazi use of data shaped the way state officials positioned themselves in relation to the continued collection of such data (which is to say, they discontinued the practices). Similarly, Victoria Tauli-Corpuz, UN Special Rapporteur on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, notes that fears about how collecting data on Indigenous peoples are thought to potentially exacerbate discrimination and lead to further conflict are unfounded (Tauli-Corpuz in Kukutai and Taylor 2016: xxii). Intergenerationally, such decisions create a relative paucity of official data such that any attempts to paint a more complete demographic picture of the Sámi (let alone the urban Sámi population) necessarily require a painstaking collation of what local and regional statistics do exist. And what is clear from the discussion in this volume is that, very likely, the total size of the Sámi population is being underestimated—perhaps vastly so (more on this below). In short, the kinds of data paucity experienced by scholars in search of painting a robust demographic picture of urban Sámi and Sámi urbanization is not only similar to what a scholar would encounter attempting to paint a picture of the Sámi more generally, but it resonates strongly with the lack of data available to urban Indigenous communities the world over. Indigenous organizations in other nation-states (particularly those formerly part of the British Empire) perhaps possess more raw data on Indigenous populations to engage with, but they all deal with the same issues—either with respect to a lack of data or, equally detrimental, to the lack of nuance in stategenerated categories—as those encountered in the study of urban Sámi community and population demographics. For example, in a recent collection on Indigenous data sovereignty, Victoria Tauli-Corpuz, UN Special Rapporteur on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, emphasized

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that the global lack of reliable data on Indigenous peoples—particularly disaggregated data—represents one of the foundational concerns to the process of creating the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (Kukutai and Taylor 2016: xxi). Despite the longstanding gaps within Sámi demography, Mikkel Berg-Nordlie and Anna Andersen (chapter 3 in this volume) painstakingly document and trace the ways “data activists” from the 1950s onward attempted, even given their limited capacity to do so, to build data collection infrastructure to combat the otherwise near-complete erasure of Sámi presence from the national demographic picture that Nordic countries were building in the post-World War II period. This activism continues in the present day, despite Nordic states’ continued unwillingness to help fund and collect comprehensive Sámispecific data. Interestingly, the original data activism occurs much earlier than it did in other national jurisdictions—in Canada, for example, analogous “data sovereignty” discussions and activism are rooted in the 1980s and even the 1990s, decades later than was the case in Nordic countries. This activism appears more in temporal line with the activism of urban Māori advocates, who were calling for housing audits for newly arrived Māori in the early post-World War II period (Kukutai, pers. comm.). In addition to the mere presence of data, important methodological discussions about the robustness of data collection and interpretation to understanding Sámi urbanization as a demographic phenomenon resonate strongly with the dynamics that characterize the situation of urban Indigenous demography the world over. The combination of outright gaps in data, inconsistent usage of terminology that produce wildly different statistical estimates, and inability to disaggregate data more locally leaves anyone interested in issues of Indigenous urbanization being unable to produce such seemingly straightforward conclusions as the total number of Indigenous people living in urban areas, the total percentage of Indigenous people living in urban locales, the rate of Indigenous urban migration, let alone more multifaceted reasons that attempt to get at the internal complexities of why Indigenous people migrate to begin with, the characteristics of their migration, and the success of urban policies and practices to produce “welcoming cities” (UN-Habitat 2010: 10–25). In their summary of this issue, for example, the UN-Habitat report on urban Indigenous migration points to existing data gaps as playing a strong role in our understandings of Indigenous urbanization policies and practices. To wit: “Most telling are the gaps in the data, in particular the inconsistent use of data methods, data in-

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dicators and variables to measure education, employment, health, housing and well-being” (2010: xiv). In this broad context, the report authors pointedly explained that “[l]ocating current statistical and census breakdowns of urban indigenous populations across the different regions (Latin America, Asia, the Pacific, the Arctic, Africa and Eurasia and the Russian Federation) proved arduous. Furthermore, there seemed to be an inconsistent coverage of indigenous peoples across regions” (2010: 5). More specifically, in her discussion on data and UNDRIP (United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples), Megan Davis notes that data challenges for Indigenous peoples in Africa are perhaps especially fraught, due to their “often . . . weak institutional capacities [to conceptualize data collection] as well as limited financial resources to collect statistics and disaggregate among the various ethnic, linguistic, religious and other groups that may be present in the country” (2016: 25). She adds that in many African countries, Indigenous peoples are not recognized as such by the colonial states they reside in. Any broader issues pertaining to Indigenous data also impact urban Indigenous data, since at a basic level the latter usually involves a disaggregated analysis of broader statistical trends. Davis’s (2016) point about the undercounting of Indigenous peoples in Africa—which then skews the overall statistical picture demographers are able to produce—resonates more broadly with urban Indigenous demography elsewhere (see Andersen 2013b). And likewise, in a Sámi context, national differences exist in studying the phenomena of Sámi urbanization within and across Nordic countries in terms of data collection, access, and (in juxtaposition) their gaps. Nonetheless—these differences notwithstanding—data pertaining to Sámi urbanization appears to be afflicted by the same challenges and limitations that afflict urban Indigenous populations the world over, which is that available data fails to capture the full complexity of the population they are otherwise attempting to measure (see Axelsson 2011; Petterson 2011). The notion of “undercounting” is more complex than it might appear at first blush, not least because what any demographic “count” looks like is based on the categories used and the uses to which the data will be put (see Andersen 2018 for a discussion of this in a Canadian context). In any case, various attempts to count Sámi have relied on excessively narrow and in some cases, dated criteria of Sámi identity that have produced unsatisfactory and, from a policy perspective, less useful data. Understanding both the lack of data about urban Indigeneity and the relative “blurriness” of the statistical information that does exist

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is important not least because it shapes the kinds of conclusions we can arrive at—and the cautiousness with which we should arrive at them—regarding our statistical imaginings of urban Indigeneity. And, while taking conclusions about urban Indigenization with a grain of salt does not mean that we should render no conclusions about what we know, it should nonetheless spur us toward thinking about how to pragmatically critique but also creatively move beyond the limitations that the current data contexts provide. Much of the discussion about global urban Indigenous migration, for example, is deeply premised on the notion that Indigenous migrations move from rural to urban areas. As we will see, though this is not a misguided assumption, it is too simplistic to account for the nuances of urban Indigenous migration. Returning again to the UN-Habitat (2010) report, the authors note the fluidity of global Indigenous migration, the diversity of reasons why Indigenous individuals and families make the momentous decision to migrate, and the contours of the migration and “arrival” experiences that follow. And, while Indigenous migration research has tended to position motivations within the context of “push and pull factors”—lack of economic opportunities and social and health services that “push” Indigenous people to urban locales and the “pull” of the opportunities perceived to be in urban contexts—the report authors caution against such binaries, suggesting that “voluntary/forced migration” dichotomies rarely capture the structural inequities that undergird decisions to migrate, such that even “voluntary” decisions to migrate are attached to underlying inequities such as the violation of their human rights, broadly conceived (2010: 19). Yet, numerous gaps still exist in global discussion of urban Indigenous migration, one of which is the axiomatic assumption that rural to urban mobility represents a key factor in the increase of Indigenous populations in urban contexts. Juxtapose this dominant discourse with the discussion of Evelyn Peters (2011: 82), who makes the important point that, in a Canadian context at least, urban Indigenization was not always the result of Indigenous families or individuals moving to cities. In some cases—the Canadian context she discussed included historical locales that served as fur trade forts morphed, intergenerationally, into urban spaces—the cities grew up in Indigenous territory, rendering their Indigenous residents urban more or less incidentally. All of this is to say that no single Indigenous migration experience exists. Different nation-states bore witness to, at times, vastly different Indigenous urbanization motivations and experiences. In a Sámi context, as with all urban Indigenous contexts, the geo-political parts

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of Sápmi colonized by different nation-states—Norway, Finland, Sweden and Russia—experienced their colonization differently (see chapter 1 in this volume). The importance of conceptually disaggregating Indigenous urbanization experiences across national contexts effectively asks us to think, in any discussion of these issues, about the nation-state-specific strategies and policies that profoundly shaped the “push” and “pull” factors that lead Indigenous individuals and extended families to move into urban locales. In the United States and Canada, for example, the destruction of traditional economies as well as the creation of reserve and reservation locales that limited the ability of Indigenous residents to live a good quality of life, likely “encouraged” migration to urban centers. Likewise, external factors such as the role of Indigenous servicemen during World War II acted as a powerful force. In the United States in particular, a burgeoning war industry offered employment to Indigenous people (including women) on a scale never previously seen and a relocation program “encouraged” thousands of tribal members to leave their reservation homes with promises of employment, housing, and welfare payments (see Fixico 2000). Understanding the specificity of national, regional and even city-specific urbanization experiences is the first step in moving beyond what much of the existing data on Indigenous urbanization can tell us. Berg-Nordlie (2018: 50), as discussed above, points to the mix of attenuation of opportunities to live a thriving traditional lifestyle and the various educational, employment, and lifestyle opportunities of urban spaces as fueling the “push/pull” phenomenon in North European states. In the third section of this chapter, I will note the extent to which the idea of differentiating between different Indigenous urbanization experiences, though an important methodological point, should not be thought of only in terms of differences between national contexts. Instead, that differentiating impact occurs within migration experiences as well. A focus on this differentiation represents an important theoretical and methodological addition to the urban Indigenous literature globally (requiring both a sophisticated focus on identity and a methodological focus on youth). I turn to this discussion now.

Youth Experiences Pertaining to Indigenous Urbanization One of the distinct drawbacks of statistical portraits of any kind—in addition to the seemingly omnipresent lack of data just surveyed—is that by their very nature, they represent a static lens and thus work

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best to provide a “snapshot” of a given locale rather than an ongoing, dynamic accounting of its social relations. As such, little analytical purchase exists to statistically explore how identities of any kind—Indigenous and more specifically, urban Indigenous—are constructed or negotiated. Thus, any attempt to focus on urban identities, identification and the processes of both represent important methodological contributions, for three reasons: first, it requires us to understand identities as something socially constructed and negotiated (using Stuart Hall’s work, something that is at once about “being” and “becoming” [1993); second, a focus on urban Indigenous youth more specifically productively complicates dominant narratives about urban indigenization and indigeneity; and third, a focus on the omnipresence of a feeling of “out of placeness” for urban Indigenous youth in particular underscores the dynamic by which they productively push against as they fashion their identities. Though the UN purposely stayed away from a static definition of “Indigenous” (identity), much of the literature tends to understand identity somewhat statically in terms of the “loss” associated with moving to urban locales and the decisions made by many of those migrating to “hide” their identities in order to facilitate their acceptance in urban locales (and perhaps to pave the way for better lives for their children) (see UN-Habitat 2010: 44). Likewise, identity gets additionally positioned in the context of the politics of identity around the extent to which urban Indigenous identities may be understood as “authentic” or “real” (for discussions of this debate, see Andersen 2013a; Ramirez 2007; Thrush 2007). As we will peruse below, the narrative of “loss” and “recovery” has tended to presuppose urban Indigeneity experiences that are adult rather than youth-focused and in doing so, misses out on important nuances of the Indigenous urbanization experiences. The work of critical race theorist Stuart Hall provides a firm footing for understanding the contextual complexities of (Indigenous youth) identity. Stuart Hall juxtaposes uses of identity in two contexts. In the first, he argues that identity can be positioned as a form of being: as an essence that appears to offer us a “stable, unchanging and continuous frame of reference and meaning, beneath the shifting divisions and vicissitudes of our actual history” (1993: 223). This “sameness” provides a stable touchstone upon which we (think we can) define what is authentic and not in any given group. Of relevance here, we might think about the power of coming from a Sámi reindeer herding family for demonstrating authentic Sáminess, but more globally we can think in analogous terms of the relationship between “real” Indi-

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geneity and rurality. As Astri Dankertsen notes in this volume (chapter 3), this discourse of authentic being produces feelings of “out of placeness” that urban Sámi youth push back against. If in a very literal sense Hall’s positioning of identity in this first context is about “being” (and the forms of being that we can trust to act a bedrock of sameness or authenticity), he also positions identity in a second, juxtaposed sense: as becoming. In this modality, identity does not offer a stable or unchanging sameness but instead, exists more contextually and more creatively within “the continuous ‘play’ of history, culture and power” (Hall 1993: 225). As such, identities produce opportunities for commonality and difference, cohesion and dissent, unity and discord. As such, what we think of as identity is rarely just one or the other of these pairs—identities always/already exist in their interplay and juxtaposition. Rather than “either/or” situations, identity’s “complexity exceeds this binary structure of representation. At different places, times, in relation to different questions, the boundaries are re-sited” (Hall 1993: 228). In this way, the trajectories just noted—commonality/difference, cohesion/dissent, unity/ discord—always sit at the heart of how contemporary identities are framed. Moreover, Hall’s understanding of identity, particularly in its juxtaposition between being and becoming, encourages us to position it not (just) as something we “are” but as something that we perform in our acts of becoming (more on this below). In the theoretical context of thinking about the differentiated experiences of urban Indigenous youth, Hall is useful for drawing attention to the unstable and shifting character(s) of urban identity: within the different national and city-specific contexts, most obviously, but also in the manner in which, for example, urban Sámi youth understand their relationships to their (Sámi) selves. Hall’s juxtaposition of “being/essence/past” and “becoming/transition/future” likewise encourages us to understand the way the current character of modernity produces identities that, rather than representing fixed, stable entities, instead encourage identities that sit liminally (and sometimes incommensurably productively, if we may use that phrase) within competing discourses, “draw[ing] on different cultural traditions at the same time; and which are the product of those complicated cross-overs and cultural mixes which are increasingly common in a globalized world” (1995: 629). The decision to engage with the complexities of identity in the poststructuralist tradition of Stuart Hall (1993, 1995) produces a number of interesting and analogous connections to multiple national contexts, and the manner the literatures specific to these contexts have sought

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to grapple with urban Indigenous identity complexities in similar ways.2 Likewise, numerous authors have delved into the experiences of Indigenous urbanization in particular cities (and as such, would seem to be situating identity as “multiple and contextual” per Hall’s discussions),3 but few of them have explored the implications for a complex theoretical engagement with the concept of identity itself. Situating identity in a global context with respect to urban Indigenous youth, UN-Habitat explicitly notes that, at least in the context of migration, “much of the . . . discourse and debates regarding Indigenous peoples are from the standpoint of the ‘adult’” (2010: 20). In practice, this has meant an overabundance of discussions about migratory experiences moving from rural areas to cities as experienced by adults, rather than what a disproportionate number of Indigenous youth experience, which is to say, being born and raised entirely within a city. The way we understand urban Indigeneity as a migratory experience thus fails to pay heed to, for example, the specific technological strategies that urban Indigenous youth have developed to maintain social and cultural connections between rural and urban communities (2010: 22). The “out of placeness” accorded to urban Indigenous identities— present in Nordic cities and based on the presumption that “real” Sáminess is located in rural locales—is ubiquitous in dominantculture understandings of Indigeneity (as indicated in the introduction to this chapter) insofar as it places a discursive weight on the shoulders of urban Indigenous youth while they attempt to negotiate their own Indigenous identities in an urban context. And yet in his discussion of urban Indigeneity in Bolivia, Horn (2019) observes a confidence among urban Indigenous youth: “indigenous youth, born in the city and often lacking attachments to rural communities of origin, have been more likely to fuse indigenous traditions and languages with popular urban culture” (2017: n.p.). Likewise, Goodale (2006: 634) notes that “[i]nside Wayna Tambo [an urban cultural center], newly urbanized campesino adolescents who speak Quechua, Aymara, and Spanish—and idiosyncratic Hispano-Amerindian hybrids—are constructing new forms of [Bolivian] cosmopolitanism that combine an emergent indigeneity with other, more global forms of inclusion.” As such, the feelings of out of placeness experienced by urban Indigenous youth, when understood through the context of Hall’s dialogical understanding of identity, produces an analytical context in which rather than attempting to compare urban Indigenous youth practices of identity-making to those of (presumably) more authentic locales— whatever we might imagine those to stereotypically be—challenges

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the foundations of what it means to be Indigenous and the extent to which such claims are mediated by such subject vectors as age. The novel and creative articulation and “play” of identities exists in productive juxtaposition to the broad, assimilatory impulse that underlies much of the way most people think about (the seemingly inevitable result of) Indigenous migration to urban contexts. For example, demographer John Taylor argues with respect to urban Indigenous communities in Australia that “rather than shedding their culture, many people were involved in a process of cultural production combining old and new, and, rather than breaking with communities of origin, they were building broader communities of association based on commonalities in Aboriginal life” (Taylor 2013: 252), a line of thinking similarly underscored by Kelly Greenop and Paul Memmott (2013: 257) in their complex deployment of “interculturality” to explore and analyze urban Indigeneity in Brisbane Australia.4 Importantly, while many urban Indigenous youth live in urban contexts, they do not necessarily understand themselves as “urban Indigenous,” since for many youth, their location of residence can and does change year by year (in a Canadian context, the hyper-mobility of Indigenous families is so demographically well known that demographers have referred to the phenomenon as “churn”). This bifurcation between “urban Indigenous people” and “Indigenous people who are urban” has interesting implications for how we understand selfarticulations and performances of Indigenous identity but it also encourages us to shift our ontological understanding of cities from discrete “locales” to what Renya Ramirez (2007) has referred to, in the context of her research on urban Indigenous communities in northern California, as “native hubs.” The idea of a (native) hub is anchored in the notion that urban locales are just that: hubs in a larger social, cultural, and political “wheel” that links rural to urban Indigenous cultures and communities across space and time. The idea of native hubs is analytically valuable for articulating how urban Indigenous peoples who live away from longer standing Indigenous communities—even over multiple generations—are able, if they so choose, to maintain connections to those communities. Moreover—returning to our discussion of Hall’s positioning of identity—hypermobility for urban Indigenous youth is more complex than understood in terms of crossing over an “urban-rural” divide. Additionally, it speaks, or can at least, can speak, to the centrality of social networks to how urban Indigenous youth live their everyday life and as such, how urban Indigenous youth negotiate and perform their Indigeneity. Similarly, the idea of social networking means that

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in addition to physical hypermobility, urban Indigenous youth have access to a new form of “symbolic” hypermobility through the increased presence of social media platforms such as Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. To the extent that “virtual identities” such as those created in social media are “composable” (Lumby 2010: 69), in addition to their value for linking events to interested community participants, they represent “an attractive option for people who have been held hostage to very rigid notions of who they should be, and how they should look and act” (2010: 69). In her own discussion of urban Indigenous identity on Facebook, Lumby (2010) demonstrates the extent to which Facebook operates as a novel forum through which urban identities are created, performed, and curated, and she notes, importantly, that the kinds of “being”/authenticity and “becoming”/fractured future debates that characterize much of the everyday corporeal lives of urban Indigenous residents continue to play themselves out in these new fora. To the extent that is the case, social media mediums work to “embed offline identities” (see Carlson 2013; Christiansen 2003). In sum, the complexity and multiplicity that accompanies discussions relating to urban Indigenous youth in particular offers important touch points for complicating the literature in productive ways: (1) the negotiated character of urban Indigenous identities; (2) the specificity of the everydayness of urban Indigenous youth identity practices in particular; (3) her attentiveness to the continued connectedness of urban and rural locales (physically and symbolically); and (4) the nation-specific and even city-specific character of Indigenous identities. Tracing identity in the contours of these markers requires painstaking theoretical and empirical attention, but it is well worth it to the field of urban Indigenous literature to peruse and pursue.

Institutional Structures In this final section, I will turn to a discussion of urban Indigenous organizing and the central place of institutions in that context. There exist few clearer markers of the specificity of urban Indigeneity than the kinds of institutions that are fashioned, since they, more than most other markers of community or identity, speak to what is possible and practical in any given geo-political context. Moreover, they speak directly to what the “policy field” of any given municipal context looks like in practice and the kinds of relationships that cities hold with larger political bodies (state, provincial, regional, national, etc.).

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As such, institutions can represent a key organizational element of much of contemporary urban Indigenous community life. Perhaps among the more abstract elements of urban Indigenous literature discussions is the manner in which definitions of “community” are (often not) discussed. As is the case with many key concepts in intellectual fields, it takes on such a strong presence that it comes to be presumed rather than interrogated. It is thus worth mentioning that while laying out a discussion of urban Indigenous “space” is often physical (in her discussion of the murder of Indigenous woman Pamela George in western Canada, critical race theorist Sherene Razack [2000] lays out the extent to which “urban Indigenous spaces” are physically demarcated by municipal officials), it is of course also simultaneously social and cultural, as well, created partly in resistance to being banished (Peters 2011) from the physical and conceptual representations of the cities that urban Indigenous residents live in. The “rule of difference”/ out of placeness of urban Indigeneity noted throughout this chapter has in turn produced, along a spectrum, two racialized contexts: (1) experiences of racism and hostility for those visibly “marked” as Indigenous; and (2) increased attempts at “passing” for those who could do so (i.e., looking and acting non-Indigenous) to avoid these kinds of interactions and experiences. Hence, urban Indigenous community participants and activists attempted to create spaces that would give them freedom from this racialization. It is in this context that we may see the central importance that a physical institution that welcomes urban Indigenous residents can take on. This sometimes takes the form of a general “culture house” and other times as more specifically oriented toward the preservation and teaching of Indigenous languages or cultural performances. The presence of analogous “centers” for urban Indigenous communities seems nearly ubiquitous the world over, and for good reason: from a policy perspective, cultural centers often serve not only as a “safe space” for urban Indigenous residents to escape the hostility of the city, they serve as a delivery unit for urban Indigenous policies and programs. To offer an incomplete list of examples: • In Canada, David Newhouse notes that the emergence of these spaces (often termed “Friendship Centres”) and their associated organizations “fostered a sense of community, provided a meeting place, and began to create a visible Aboriginal presence” (2003: 244); • In the United States, “American Indian Centers” became a key part of most urban Indigenous communities (see Martinez et al. 2016);

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• In New Zealand, recently migrated Māori urban residents began to recreate local marae (meeting spaces) (see Barcham 1997); • In Australia, every city with a significant urban Indigenous population possesses a cultural center; and • In South America (in this case, Bolivia, Ecuador, and Chile), culture centers functioned as a central point of a highly dynamic and multi-ethnic Indigenous communities (Horn 2019; Warren 2017; Webb 2014.) All of this is to suggest that the vernacularity of urban Indigenous institutions notwithstanding (a vernacularity that marks all urban Indigenous communities), organizations and institutions constitute a central component of urban Indigenous communities. Urban Indigenous literatures of non-Sámi countries have documented the importance of cities to the growth of Indigenous advocacy in rural spaces, reversing the oft-cited polarity of culture and power (rural to urban) to demonstrate the manner in which urban locales shape the politics and possibilities of advocacy in rural spaces. Often called “Red Power” in Canada and the United States, Bruce D’Arcus (2010: 1,242) argues, for example, that “[t]he Red Power Movement . . . had important, even essential, connections to urban politics and urban spaces.” He in fact goes further to suggest that much of the rural character of the Red Power movement is not only profoundly connected to the urban activist experiences as well, but that experiences in urban locales made rural activities possible. The sentiment grounding this statement fits well with Reyna Ramirez’s (2007) “Native hubs” frameworks to the extent that it asks us to understand cities as nodes rather than locales (pointed out earlier) with tendrils of culture and power that expand far beyond the formal municipal boundaries of the city and that can, in many contexts, reach out to touch the lives of rural dwelling Indigenous residents. People move and return and so too does culture. Both the ethos and consequences of the (often otherwise invisibilized) presence of “Indians in unexpected places” (Deloria 2004) link urban and rural spaces. This dynamism of physical and cultural movement has also produced a distinctive form of politics in urban Indigenous spaces. Certainly, in a Canadian context, the Indigenous urban context bears witness to both the highly situational context of its politics (see Andersen and Strachan 2012) and the push and pull of different Indigenous organizations about whose jurisdiction urban Indigenous residents fall under with respect to advocacy (see Newhouse and Peters 2003).5 These fall along roughly urban-rural lines, but the hypermobility of Indigenous residents complicate that binary, as well. In a

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Chilean context in line with the recent economic policies of the Chilean state, Sarah Warren (2017) similarly notes that urban Indigenous organizations have split into three “camps”: what she terms “temporarily urban,” “adamantly urban,” and “reconciled urban,” each based on the elements of their Indigenous identities they choose to politicize.6 These dynamics, though specific to their national contexts, demonstrate the complex manifestations of identity as they play themselves out in their colonial contexts—as in Sápmi, as in all Nordic countries, as in all (urban) Indigenous contexts, the world over. In sum, properly understanding Indigenous urbanization requires both a sophisticated understanding of Indigenous societies in the specificities of their colonial contexts, as well as the complexity of Indigenous urbanization globally. I end this chapter by suggesting a number of dimensions that scholars can focus on: a) analyses of both the broadly statistical and the highly contextual, place-based character of Indigeneity, Indigenous identity, and the diverse processes though which these are understood and talked about and the boundaries of those conversations; b) comparisons of cities, regions, and nation-states can demonstrate the centripetal and centrifugal forces of Indigenous identity (and the manner in which Indigenous people(s) themselves make sense of these juxtaposed forces); c) their focus to the “out of placeness” that shapes many of the scholarly, policy, and other conversations about urban Indigenous identity; and finally, d) the manner in which urban locales represent not just an additional source of oppression for Indigenous residents but as a space for creative resistance and innovation; and their respect for—and careful attention to—the deep complexity of urban Indigenous communities as engines of cultural production for Indigeneity. Chris Andersen is the dean of the Faculty of Native Studies at the University of Alberta. He became a faculty member of the Faculty in 2000 and received his PhD in 2005 from the UoA Department of Sociology. In 2014, he was awarded full professorship. He is the former Director of the Rupertsland Centre for Métis Research and additionally served as the Interim Institutional Co-Lead of Indigenous Initiatives for the University of Alberta from February 2018 to August 2019. Andersen was a founding member of the Native American and Indigenous Studies Association Executive Council, is a member of Statistics Canada’s Advisory Committee on Social Conditions and is

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editor of the journal Aboriginal Policy Studies. In 2014, he was named as an inaugural Member of the Royal Society of Canada’s College of New Scholars, Artists and Scientists.

Notes 1. To give examples within the former British Empire, the geopolitical boundaries of New Zealand, Australia, Canada, the United States claimed by their respective governments was/is also Indigenous territories and claimed by Indigenous peoples as such. 2. In Canada, see Andersen 2013a, 2013b; Laliberté 2013; Lawrence 2004; Neale 2017; Patrick et al. 2011; Proulx 2003, 2006; in the United States, see Jackson 1998; Kulis et al. 2013; LaGrand 2002; Mays 2015; in Australia, see Lumby and McGloin 2009; Rolls 2001; Yamanouchi 2010; in New Zealand, see Coombs 2013; Kukutai 2013; in Bolivia and Ecuador, see Goodale 2006; Horn 2019 in Chile, see Warren 2017; Webb 2014). 3. The United States Indigenous urbanization literature in particular has tended to take individual cities as their main area of focus and as such, numerous city-specific discussions of urbanization exist but with little comparative ethos. See for example Chicago (Fenelon 1998; LaGrand 2002); Denver (Graves and Van Arsdale 1966; Lucero 2013); Detroit (Danziger 1991); Albuquerque (Jojola 2000); Los Angeles (Blackhawk 1995; Price 1968; WeibelOrlando 1999); Milwaukee (Lowery 1998); Minneapolis (Shoemaker 1998); San Francisco (Ablon 1964; Ramirez 2007); and Seattle (Chadwick and Strauss 1975; Thrush 2007) 4. Of course, nothing ontologically distinctive underscores the interculturality of urban Indigeneity in particular; it is a social fact of all interactions between (in this case Indigenous and non-Indigenous) peoples over the past five or so centuries. Though this point is noted by Kelly Greenop and Paul Memmott (2013), it is nonetheless important to underscore the analytical value of thinking about Indigeneity (urban or otherwise) in an intercultural context— and here I draw us back to Stuart Hall’s positioning of identity—because it places as much value on the “becoming” as it does the “being.” 5. For example, due to Canadian government policy, when residents left a “reserve” and moved to the city, they were no longer eligible for the benefits that came from living on reserve. Because of that, numerous organizations sprung up in different provincial and municipal jurisdictions to attempt to fill the gap. However, as First Nations and broader Indigenous political organizations that represented First Nations were able to reshape their relationships with the federal government, they began to re-assert their relationships with urban residents. This has produced numerous tug-of-wars between socalled “status blind” organizations, and organizations that require affiliation or membership with a particular community or legal status (see Chartrand 2002 for an extended discussion of these issues). 6. Sarah Warren (2017: 701) differentiates between these camps as follows: “Some organizations refused the moniker ‘urban’ and instead are ‘just living

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in the city.’ Others embrace their urbanity, using a Mapuche word to describe themselves and are ‘people of the city.’ Finally, other organizations try to overcome the rural-urban divide, and are ‘transcending the city.’”

References Ablon, Joan. 1964. “Relocated American Indians in the San Francisco Bay Area: Social Interaction and Indian Identity.” Human Organization 23(4): 296–304. Andersen, Chris. 2009. “Critical Indigenous Studies: From Difference to Density,” Cultural Studies Review 15(2): 80–100. ———. 2013a. “Urban Aboriginality as a Distinctive Identity, in Twelve Parts.” In Indigenous in the City: Contemporary Identities and Cultural Innovation, ed. Evelyn Peters and Chris Andersen, 46–68. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. ———. 2013b. “Urban Aboriginal Planning: Towards a Transformative Statistical Praxis.” In Reclaiming Indigenous Planning, ed. Ryan Walker, Ted Jojola, and David Natcher, 260–82. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press. ———. 2018. “The Colonialism of Canada’s Métis Health Population Dynamics: Caught between Bad Data and No Data at All.” Journal of Population Research 33: 66–82. Andersen, Chris, and Jenna Strachan. 2012. “Urban Aboriginal Policy in a Coordination Vacuum: The Alberta (Dis)Advantage.” In Fields of Governance 2: Making Urban Aboriginal Policy in Canadian Municipalities, ed. Evelyn Peters, 127–59. Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Axelsson, Per. 2011. “‘In the National Registry, All People Are Equal’: Sámi in Swedish Statistical Sources.” In Indigenous Peoples and Demography: The Complex Relation between Identity and Statistics, ed. Per Axelsson and Peter Sköld, 117–34. Berghahn Books. Barcham, Manuhuia. 1997. “The Challenge of Urban Māori: Reconciling Conceptions of Indigeneity and Social Change.” Asia Pacific Viewpoint 39(3): 303–14. Berg-Nordlie, Mikkel. 2018. “The Governance of Urban Indigenous Spaces: Norwegian Sámi Examples.” Acta Borealia 35(1): 49–72. Blackhawk, Ned. 1995. “I Can Carry on from Here: The Relocation of American Indians to Los Angeles.” Wicazo Sa Review 11(2): 16–30. Bodley, John. 2014. Victims of Progress. 6th edition. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers. Carlson, Bronwyn. 2013. “The ‘New Frontier’: Emergent Indigenous Identities and Social Media.” In The Politics of Identity: Emerging Indigeneity, ed. Michelle Harris, Martin. Nakata, and Bronwyn. Carlson, 147–68. Sydney: University of Technology Sydney E-Press. Chadwick, Bruce and Joseph Strauss. 1975. “The Assimilation of American Indians into Urban Society: The Seattle Case.” Human Organization 34(4): 359–69. Chartrand, Paul. 1991. “Terms of Division: Problems of “Outside-Naming” for Aboriginal People in Canada.” Journal of Indigenous Studies 2: 1–22. ———. 2002. Who Are Canada’s Aboriginal Peoples? Recognition, Definition and Jurisdiction. Saskatoon: Purich Publishers.

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Chatterjee, Partha. 1993. The Nation and Its Fragments: Colonial and Postcolonial Histories. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University. Christensen, Neil. 2003. Inuit in Cyberspace. Copenhagen: University of Copenhagen Museum, Tusculanum Press. Coombs, Brad. 2013. “Māori and Environmental Justice: The Case of “Lake” Otara.” In Indigenous in the City: Contemporary Identities and Cultural Innovation, ed. Evelyn Peters and Chris Andersen, 334–53. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. Corrigan, Phillip, and Derek Sayer. 1985. The Great Arch: English State Formation as Cultural Revolution. Hoboken, NJ: Blackwell Publishers. Culturalsurvival. 2021. “The Issues.” Cultural Survival.org. Retrieved 27 January 2021 from https://www.culturalsurvival.org/issues. Danziger, Edmund 1991. Survival and Regeneration: Detroit’s American Indian Community. Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press. D’Arcus, Bruce. 2010. “The Urban Geography of Red Power: The American Indian Movement in Minneapolis-Saint Paul, 1968–70.” Urban Studies 47(6): 1241–55. Davis, Megan. 2016. “Data and the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples.” In Indigenous Data Sovereignty: Toward an Agenda, ed. Tahu Kukutai and John Taylor, 26–38. Canberra: Australia National University Press. Deloria, Philip. 2004. Indians in Unexpected Places. Lawrence: University of Kansas Press. Fenelon, James. 1998. “Discrimination and Indigenous Identity in Chicago’s Native Community.” American Indian Culture and Research Journal 22(4): 273–303. Fixico, Donald. 2000. The Urban Indian Experience in America. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Goodale, Mark. 2006. “Reclaiming Modernity: Indigenous Cosmopolitanism and the Coming of the Second Revolution in Bolivia.” American Ethnologist 33(4): 634–49. Graves, Theodore and Minor Van Arsdale. 1966. “Values, Expectations and Relocation: The Navajo Migrant to Denver.” Human Organization 25(4): 300–307. Greenop, Kelly, and Paul Memmott. 2013. “Aboriginal Identity and Place in the Intercultural Settings in Metropolitan Australia.” In Indigenous in the City: Contemporary Identities and Cultural Innovation, ed. Evelyn Peters and Chris Andersen, 256–81. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. Hall, Stuart. 1993. “Cultural Identity and Diaspora.” In Colonial Discourse & Postcolonial Theory: A Reader, ed. Williams, Patrick & Laura Chrisman, 222–37. London: Routledge. ———. 1995. “The Question of Cultural Identity.” In Modernity: An Introduction to Modern Societies, ed. Stuart Hall, David Held, Don Hubert and Kenneth Thompson, 595–634. London: Polity Press. Horn, Philipp. 2019. Indigenous Rights to the City: Ethnicity and Urban Planning in Bolivia and Ecuador. London: Routledge Press. Jackson, Deborah 1998. “‘This Hole in Our Heart’: Urban Indian Identity and the Power of Silence.” American Indian Culture and Research Journal 22(4): 227–54.

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Jojola, Ted. 2000. Urban Indians in Albuquerque, New Mexico: A Study for the Department of Family and Human Services. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico. Kukutai, Tahu. 2013. “The Structure of Urban Māori Identities.” In Indigenous in the City: Contemporary Identities and Cultural Innovation, ed. Evelyn Peters and Chris Andersen, 311–33. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. Kukutai, Tahu, and John Taylor. 2016. Indigenous Data Sovereignty: Toward an Agenda. Canberra: Australia National University Press. Kulis, Stephen, M. Alex Wagaman, Crescentia Tso, and Eddie F. Brown. 2013. “Exploring Indigenous Identities of Urban American Indian Youth of the Southwest.” Journal of Adolescent Research 28(3): 271–98. LaGrand, James. 2002. Indian Metropolis: Native Americans in Chicago 1945– 1975. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Laliberté, Ron. 2013. “Being Metis: Exploring the Construction, Retention and Maintenance of Urban Metis Identity.” In Indigenous in the City: Contemporary Identities and Cultural Innovation, ed. Evelyn Peters and Chris Andersen, 110–31. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. Lawrence, Bonita. 2004. “Real” Indians and Others: Mixed-Blood Urban Native Peoples and Indigenous Nationhood. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Lowery, Christine 1998. “From the Outside Looking In: Rejection and Belongingness for Four Urban Indian Men in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, 1944–1995.” American Indian Culture and Research Journal 22(4): 361–83. Lucero, Nancy. 2013. “‘Being Indian in the City’: Generational Differences in the Negotiation of Native Identity among Urban-Based American Indians.” In Indigenous in the City: Contemporary Identities and Cultural Innovation, ed. Evelyn Peters and Chris Andersen, 193–215. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. Lumby, Bronwyn. 2010. “Cyber-Indigeneity: Urban Indigenous Identity—Facebook.” The Australian Journal of Indigenous Education 39: 68–75. Lumby, Bronwyn, and Colleen McGloin. 2009. “Re-Presenting Urban Aboriginal Identities: Self-Representation in Children of the Sun.” The Australian Journal of Indigenous Education 38(1): 27–35. Martinez, Donna, Grace Sage, and Azusa Ono. 2016. Urban American Indians: Reclaiming Native Space. Westport, CT: Praeger Publishers. Mays, Kyle. 2015. “Indigenous Detroit: Indigeneity, Modernity, and Racial and Gender Formation in a Modern American City.” PhD dissertation. Urbana Champagne: University of Illinois. Neale, Katharine. 2017. “Feeling ‘At Home’: Re-evaluating Indigenous IdentityMaking in Canadian Cities.” Platforum: Journal of Graduate Students in Anthropology 15: 74–94. Newhouse, David. 2003. “The Invisible Infrastructure: Urban Aboriginal Institutions and Organizations.” In Not Strangers in These Parts: Urban Aboriginal Peoples, ed. David Newhouse and Evelyn Peters, 243–53. Ottawa: Policy Research Initiative. Newhouse, David, and Evelyn Peters, eds. 2003. Not Strangers in These Parts: Urban Aboriginal Peoples. Ottawa: Policy Research Initiative. Olsen, Kjell. 2007. “When Ethnic Identity is a Private Matter.” Journal of Ethnology and Folkloristics 1(1):75-99.

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Patrick, Donna, Julie-Ann Tomiak, Lynda Brown, Heidi Langille, and Mihaela Vieru. 2011. “‘Regaining the Childhood I Should Have Had’: The Transformation of Inuit Identities, Institutions and Community in Ottawa.” In Aboriginal Peoples in Canadian Cities: Transformations and Continuities, ed. Heather Howard and Craig Proulx, 47–62. Waterloo: Wilfrid Laurier Press. Peters, Evelyn. 2011. “Emerging Themes in Academic Research in Urban Aboriginal Identities in Canada, 1996–2010.” Aboriginal Policy Studies 1(1): 78–105. Pettersen, Torunn. 2011. “Out of the Backwater? Prospects for Contemporary Sámi Demography in Norway.” In Indigenous Peoples and Demography: The Complex Relation between Identity and Statistics, ed. Per Axelsson and Peter Sköld, 185–96. New York: Berghahn Books. Poole, Ian. 2016. “Colonialism’s and postcolonialism’s fellow traveller: the collection, use and misuse of data on indigenous people.” In Indigenous Data Sovereignty: Toward an agenda, ed. Tahu Kukutai and John Taylor, 57–76. Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research (CAEPR). Price, John 1968. “The Migration and Adaptation of American Indians to Los Angeles.” Human Organization 27(2): 168–75. Proulx, Craig. 2003. Reclaiming Aboriginal Justice, Identity and Community. Saskatoon: Purich Publishing. ———. 2006. “Aboriginal Identification in North-American Cities.” Canadian Journal of Native Studies 26(2): 405–39. Ramirez, Renya. 2007. Native Hubs: Culture, Community, and Belonging in Silicon Valley and Beyond. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Razack, Sherene. 2000. “Gendered Racial Violence and Spatialized Justice: the Murder of Pamela George.” Canadian Journal of Law and Society 15(2): 91–130. Robbins, Richard. 2019. Global Problems and the Culture of Capitalism. 6th ed. London: Pearson Publishing. Rolls, Mitchell. 2001. “The Meaninglessness of Aboriginal Cultures.” Balayi 2(1): 7–20. Shoemaker, Nancy. 1988. “Urban Indians and Ethnic Choices: American Indian Organizations in Minneapolis, 1920–1950.” The Western Historical Quarterly 19(4): 431–47. Taylor, John. 2013. “Indigenous Urbanization in Australia: Patterns and Processes of Ethnogenesis.” In Indigenous in the City: Contemporary Identities and Cultural Innovation, ed. Evelyn Peters and Chris Andersen, 256–81. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. Thrush, Coll. 2007. Native Seattle: Histories from the Crossing Over Place. Seattle: University of Washington Press. UN-Habitat. 2010. Urban Indigenous Peoples and Migration: A Review of Policies, Programmes and Practices. United Nations Human Settlements Programme (UN-Habitat). United Nations World Urbanization Prospects. 2018. “2018 Revision of World Urbanization Prospects.” UN.org. Retrieved on 28 August 2019 from https:// www.un.org/development/desa/publications/2018-revision-of-world-urban ization-prospects.html. Warren, Sarah. 2017. “Indigenous in the City: The Politics of Urban Mapuche Identity in Chile.” Ethnic and Racial Studies 40(4): 694–712.

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Webb, Andrew. 2014. “Articulating the Mapu: Land as a Form of Everyday Ethnicity among Mapuche Youth of Chile.” Latin American and Caribbean Ethnic Studies 9(3): 222–46. Weibel-Orlando, Joan. 1999. Indian Country L.A.: Maintaining Ethnic Community in Complex Society. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Yamanouchi, Yuriko. 2010. “Exploring Ambiguity: Aboriginal Identity Negotiation in Southwestern Sydney.” Environment and Planning A 42(2): 285–99.

? conclusion

An Urban Future for Sápmi? Mikkel Berg-Nordlie, Astri Dankertsen, and Marte Winsvold

The chapter at hand constitutes some conclusive words to the book as a whole, some summary observations about Sámi urbanization, and urban Sámi life. We take the book’s title as the point of departure for our discussion, or more precisely a few possible interpretations of the title that we have been made aware of by informants and representatives of user groups.

What’s in a Name? An Urban Future for Sápmi? Indigenous Urbanization in the Nordic States and Russia. The first part of the title, the question An Urban Future for Sápmi? might seem to imply that our book focuses on something hypothetical—in other words, that Sámi urbanity, or urbanity in Sápmi, is something that exists in the future, and only potentially. However, as we have shown, the presence of Sámi in urban areas, and the existence of urban areas in Sápmi, is well-established and far from new. Various other ways of reading the title have also been called to our attention—readings that reflect differing worldviews, fears, and hopes among the readers. For example, there is what one may call a rural-positioned pessimistic reading, in which the title is understood as suggesting that the future of the Sámi is to be found in the urban areas, but not in the rural areas. Such a message was not our inten-

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tion, but that interpretation describes a scenario that unfortunately may be not so far-fetched. We can also note the existence of an urbanpositioned pessimistic reading, where the question mark is taken to suggest that the Sámi—despite their very real urban past and present—do not necessarily have an urban future.

Sámi Urban-Rural Divides This book has largely dealt with urban Sámi affairs, not the predicament of rural Sámi today. The current demographic trend is toward urbanization—a deeply challenging turn of events for a nation that has its cultural strongholds in rural areas. The reading of the question in the title as implying that we might believe that there is no rural future for Sápmi, may reflect deep-seated fears within parts of the Sámi community. The prospect of rural Indigenous collapse becomes even more frightening for those who suspect that there is no urban future for Sápmi either. As shown in chapter 4 of this volume, there is a strong association between Sámi culture and rurality that limits the ability to imagine an urban future for Sápmi, and that influences how Indigenous people living in cities define themselves in terms of where they “really” belong. These stereotypes are similar to what other Indigenous people experience (Andersen and Peters 2013: 379–80; Denis 1997): studies have shown that individuals may experience major difficulties in reconciling their urban and Indigenous identities. This may be especially difficult for those who have lived in the city for generations and have a weakened connection to traditional lifestyles. However, as shown in chapter 3 of this volume, urban Sámi youth of today are actively challenging these stereotypes, seeking to create new ways of being Sámi that are integrated in their urban lifestyle, without losing their links to the past. The association of Indigeneity with rurality can also prove challenging when it comes to urban Indigenous governance (Andersen and Peters 2013: 380). Legitimization of Indigenous rights often presupposes the existence of stereotypical traits in line with the dominant group’s expectations of what a given Indigenous people is like. An urban Indigenous population may not stand out as sufficiently recognizable for the dominant group to be aware that it has specific needs and rights. Even if we assume that Sámi ethnicity will survive in urban environments, urban Sámi culture will not be the same as rural Sámi culture.

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Important elements of rural Sámi culture cannot be replicated in an urban environment. It should be possible to maintain many aspects of Indigenous culture, such as language usage, clothing traditions, and art. Even some aspects of traditional nature usage can be continued, if Indigenous urbanites have access to the types of landscape that their people utilize under rural conditions and are thus able to continue harvesting from nature in traditional ways, although now as a form of recreation rather than as an important economic activity. However, that is a very different kind of Indigenous nature usage than that which is practiced by Indigenous people who follow traditional lifestyles in the primary sector of the economy—such as reindeer herding, fishing, gathering, and hunting. This type of Indigenous lifestyle cannot be replicated within city limits. It also seems unrealistic that the type of language usage found in certain rural parts of Sápmi could be established in majoritydominated cities. The survival of Sámi language in the city can only be as a minority language used by a smaller section of the urban population. Those who move to an urban area from rural parts of the country where Sámi simply is the local language, will often experience that they have lost something of fundamental value. Unless urban Sámi-speakers should desire, and manage, to cluster themselves demographically in certain geographical parts of their cities, the intensity of Sámi language usage that is still found in certain rural areas cannot be replicated within the cities of the majority population. “Urban Sámi life” is necessarily a type of Indigenous life where the language is a minority language and incomes are not derived from directly utilizing natural resources. That said, this is already the situation in much of today’s rural Sápmi: most rural Sámi do not make their living mainly from traditional economic activities, and Sámi is a minority language in most of rural Sápmi also. Rural Sámi who live in areas where the language has become a minority language and who are not personally connected to the primary sector of the economy will find that continuing with their way of living the Sámi life will not necessarily be more difficult under urban conditions—it will be experienced as easier by many. But nevertheless: the “Sámi PrimarySector Life” is available only for people based in rural areas, and it is likewise only in certain rural areas that the “Sámi Majority-Language Life” is available. The survival of these important types of Sámi lifestyle requires a rural future for Sápmi. Sámi urbanization does not, in itself, work to the detriment of these two rural Sámi lifestyles. The urban and rural Indigenous communities may even strengthen one another—the existence of both rural

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and urban communities within an Indigenous nation enables the existence of a larger range of products, competences, and connections that can be advantageous for all. But if it is possible to imagine a rural–urban Indigenous equilibrium, we can also imagine a “tipping point” where that equilibrium is lost. At one point, population decline in a rural area can become so pronounced that what we may call “the pulse” of the place begins to ebb out. The place becomes less interesting to live in for many of today’s people, who have lifestyle ideals that are characterized by a certain degree of cultural urbanity even if they are born in and live in rural areas. More fundamentally, with a shrinking population, the economy slows down and the number of persons available to provide services dwindles, making it difficult to remain for those who want to. Some of the factors causing out-migration are made more pronounced by the very same out-migration, causing a downward spiral. In this way, urbanization may become a direct demographic threat to the survival of rural Sámi cultures. As pointed out in this book, Sámi urbanization is not just about migration, but also about local urban Sámi revitalization. However, there is also an unmistakable element of rural–urban redistribution in the ongoing urbanization process, and the consequences are already becoming evident. The extent to which Sámi youth organizations are active in urban areas could be one indicator, although this may also reflect the fact that youth in rural areas where Sámi culture is still strong likely feel less of a need to create organized Indigenous spaces. The redistribution of the Sámi civil-society sector in Norwegian South Sápmi, described in chapter 4, is also worth noting: since the turn of this millennium, Trondheim city has fostered an increasing number of local Sámi organizations, and indeed one of the major regional organizations in Southern Sápmi eventually reorganized itself into one urban-centered and one more rural NGO. Similarly, further north, in Tromsø, the rural activist milieu appears to have weakened whereas Sámi organizational activity in the municipality’s urban center has continued to grow. On the Russian side of Sápmi, the organizational center of the youth organization has gravitated towards Murmansk City, the largest city north of the Arctic Circle. Another indicator of the urban reorientation is pointed out by Torunn Pettersen and Jo Saglie (2019): since 2013, Sámediggi parties in Norway have increasingly included urban Sámi issues in their election programs, and “urban Sámi issues” have by now become an established topic in the Sámi political debate, one that all parties must relate to.

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In terms of short-sighted self-interest, it could be argued that the urban Sámi may have less interest in politics aimed at facilitating the survival of rural, traditional economic activities—and instead give priority to urban language- and culture-oriented politics. Whether urban– rural Sámi solidarity is strong or weak depends on, among other things, the answer to a question posed in the introduction of our book: Do urbanized Indigenous individuals retain their connections to rural areas? Or are their connections to rural cultural strongholds severed? As detailed in chapter 3 of this volume, the continued and strong link to the “traditional” Sámi cultural areas, and the way that many urban Sámi define themselves in terms of their connection to these areas, even after generations of living in the city, make urban Sámi identities somewhat multi-local. Although many of the Sámi youth interviewed for this project feel that urban life is important to them, they all describe their Sámi identity in relation to one or more rural places of origin. Those who have recently moved to the city often maintain their direct ties to their place of origin through visits back home, perhaps moving back and forth throughout their lives. Even after generations of urban life, members of the youngest generation may retain a connection to the rural place(s) where their Sámi family has its origin. We can see in our empirical material how some informants express their multilocal identities through hypermobility, moving between the urban and the rural. Social media also provides ample opportunities for young people to retain active connections to their rural place of belonging while living a fully urbanized life. Multilocal identities become a way out of the “out-of-placeness” some experience as urban Sámi, as they may stay connected to rural areas while spending their everyday life in the city. As Torill Nyseth and Paul Pedersen (2014: 147) write, “urban Sámi identities are being ‘stretched out’ across particular places and territories. In that sense we could say that they are carriers of dual identities.” Moving from identities to politics, urban Sámi voters do not seem to favor policies detrimental to rural Sámi lifestyles (Mörkenstam et al. 2017: 214–16). However, even if Indigenous urbanites retain a partly rural identity and support rural issues, there is still a risk that they may give priority to urban issues if they have to choose where to focus their political attention or what to prioritize when budgets are to be set. Furthermore, even if the urban Sámi population retain their solidarity with the rural Sámi population and are willing to sacrifice their own interests to the benefit of the rural population, the redistribution of the population still leads to a certain geographical redistribution

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of power. In 2019, the Sámediggi Electoral Registry (SER) of Norway was shown not merely stagnant but dropping in the rural Ávjovárri constituency in Finnmark, where the two kinds of rural Sámi lifestyles described above have a stronghold. As a consequence of this redistribution within SER, Ávjovárri lost one Sámediggi representative—and Gáisi, the mixed urban–rural constituency where Tromsø is located, gained one representative. This provoked debate, and indeed alarm, among some Ávjovárri residents—as well as some urbanized but loyal former residents. The mayor of Kautokeino (Guovdageaidnu), one of the three Ávjovárri municipalities, expressed fears that the Sámediggi would in the future become a “city parliament” and that the interests of the rural areas would be forgotten (nrk.no 2019). The tendency toward rural depopulation directly impacts the urban–rural balance among Sámediggi voters, and this fact alone will have political effects, spurring continued debate about the final implications of the current rate of Sámi urbanization in Norway, Sweden, and Finland.

Urban Sámi Ethnic Survival As for the second of the pessimistic readings of our title, it is possible to envision that attempts at maintaining Indigenous culture in urban areas will ultimately fail. We are currently in an epoch of Sámi history where, after a long period of Indigenous invisibility and assimilation, urban areas are experiencing a pronounced growth in people with Sámi identity-connections, some born and raised locally; others who have migrated in from rural areas. We can also note the growth of Sámi institutions and organizations in urban areas. But might this still go wrong? One aspect of the survival of the Sámi culture in the cities is the fear that there may not be enough space there for Sámi culture to blossom and develop on its own terms. Many traditional Sámi communities have a repertoire of social relations and interactions defined as Sámi, and the use of Sámi language and practices may be an integral element of interaction in many situations. Can an urban, majority-dominated context offer adequate possibilities for the survival of Sámi identity, community, culture, and language? As Kjell Olsen (2007) points out, there are only a limited number of public spheres that are reserved for the expression of Sáminess: expressions of Sámi identity are often seen as being a private matter. These (informal) restrictions may prove challenging for the preservation of the Sámi

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languages in urban areas, as the opportunities to use it in everyday life are more limited. Racist sentiments of the past have become less widespread, and the cities have become more tolerant regarding Sámi expressions in the public sphere; and there furthermore appears to be a growing interest for Sámi culture among the majority population and politicians in the cities—but anti-Sámi racism still remains a problem also in urban areas, and to varying extents the accepted norms for how Sámi should behave in public still remains. These norms entail a restriction in expressions of identities that “stand out” as Sámi, for example wearing traditional Sámi clothing. The “neutrality” that the public sphere is supposed to be characterized by is in reality not neutral at all: the majority ethnos’ language and culture is never challenged— while expressing open Sáminess is constructed as non-neutral, “ethnic,” noisy, as performing a statement. While it is positive that urban authorities are increasingly showing an interest in Sámi culture, we also need to be critical of the ways in which Sámi culture is expressed in public and the extent to which Indigenous people are involved when the dominant group and its institutions produce “Indigenous” cultural content. We may take the northern town of Bodø’s role as European Capital of Culture 2024 as an example. Sámi culture is an important part of the Capital of Culture project, and in connection with this there are debates about the tourism industry and its use of Sámi culture, with references to muchcriticized usage of Sámi culture by the tourist industry of Rovaniemi in northern Finland. There have also been debates about Indigenous involvement in relation to the project for a Sámi House in Tromsø, which was at one point criticized for having fallen out of touch with the local Sámi and their interests (chapter 4 in this volume). We need to consider the ways Sámi culture is performed and how Sámi communities and society in general are involved when dominant-group people and their institutions perform Sámi culture, so that the cultural expressions in urban areas do not fall into the trap of presenting Sámi people in stereotypical and potentially racist ways. Stereotypes about what it is to be a “real” Sámi also have an effect on how young urban Sámi feel that they can express their Sámi identities, as seen in chapter 3 in this volume. These stereotypes may in turn lead to a sense of alienation within the local urban Sámi population, who may not feel at home in the dominant notions of Sáminess as these resonate poorly with their own Sámi lifestyles. As Rauna Kuokkanen (2000: 218) points out, change is something that happens

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in all living cultures: indeed, it is a prerequisite for the survival of any and every culture. The link between the concepts “Indigenous” and “traditional” may in some cases involve racist ideas of Indigenous cultures as frozen in time and space, as something that once existed in the past, but has been irreparably damaged by colonization. Despite the growing awareness of the present-day conditions of Sámi culture, we can still find portrayals, especially online and in newspapers, with stereotypical images of what “real” and “authentic” Sámi culture is and should be. These stereotypes—drawing on rurality and (often ill-informed notions about) the Sámi culture of the past—are further used to delegitimize urban Sámi rights and the need for Sámi policymaking in the cities. The chances for urban Sámi identity and culture to thrive will improve if more widespread acceptance can take root in society—both Indigenous and dominant-group society—that urban Sámi lifestyles are no less Sámi than the rural Sámi lifestyles. The current millennium has also seen some prominent conflicts centered on the identity of the urban areas themselves, most notably the 2011 conflicts in Tromsø (chapter 4) but also debates in Umeå surrounding the Sámi profile of the city when it was the European Capital of Culture (see Hudson et al. 2019). Such conflicts are a product of the long-lasting suppression of local Sámi history, identity, and culture. The Sámi aspects of places were suppressed during the era of assimilation, but the postwar Sámi movement began a process that set about righting some of the wrongs. In many rural areas this process has been going on for a long time, and in some places the Sámi re-emergence process has moved to a phase of general normalization of Sáminess as an integral element in local culture and history. Some urban areas are going through their own variant of this process now, with different dynamics appearing in different cities. In-migration of Sámi from rural areas combined with the normalization of urbanites’ Sámi heritage as part of their identity are driving factors behind the increased visibility of Sáminess in urban areas. Potentially, the reemergence of Sáminess in urban areas could re-construct the identity of the city itself: no longer just a place for the Sámi to assimilate, and possibly even something more than a place where the Sámi can live as themselves, but as a place that in itself has a double ethnic identity. This re-emergence process is not without counter-reactions. As Christine Hudson et al. (2019) have discussed, and as has been observed also in this book (chapter 4), portions of the dominant group may at some point feel that the new visibility of the Sámi aspect threatens to weaken the status of the city as a place for their own group. Such sentiments derive from the view that the Indigenous and

An Urban Future for Sápmi? | 253

dominant-group identities are fundamentally at odds, that a locality cannot be, for example, a Norwegian place and a Sámi place at the same time. This zero-sum attitude represents a direct threat to Sámi ethnic survival in the cities, as it paints the re-emergence of Indigenous culture, identity, and history as a threat to the majority population. Such enemy-imaging must be successfully defused, and space be made for cities to be places that both the Sámi and the dominant group may identify as their own. In the introductory chapter, we posed the question of what happens to Indigenous individuals who take part in the demographic shift. Do they suffer identity loss, loss of language and culture, and lose social ties with their ethnic community? If not, how do they maintain identity, language and culture under urban circumstances? The answer varies depending on what type of Sámi urbanite we are talking about. As noted above, migrants from heavily assimilated parts of Sápmi may experience more opportunities to express their Sáminess in the cities than in rural areas, and less discrimination from parts of the majority population—while migrants who come from “Rural Primary Sector Life” or “Majority-Language Life” are likely to experience urbanization as far more challenging. A third category are the Sámi who have grown up in urban conditions. To some extent, their skills and familiarity with Sámi culture and language will reflect the competences of their parents, but also the Sámi infrastructure of the city where they grow up: the kindergarten services, schools, Sámi culture houses, organizational life, and so on. Here we find large differences between different urban areas, as well as between states. Parts of this book have discussed the growing phenomenon of organized urban Indigenous spaces: arenas where Indigenous urbanites can live out their culture, learn more about their culture, and maintain an Indigenous community. We consider such spaces essential to Sámi ethnic survival in urban areas. The presence of different types of Sámi in the same urban Indigenous spaces can make the “space” more robust in terms of numbers and finances, and the possibilities of mutual learning of each other’s competences—a process in which people that come from strongly Sámi-cultural rural areas have much to offer. However, joint spaces for these two poles on the cultural-linguistic spectrum may also create challenging situations regarding language usage: there may be discontent that the majority language is heavily represented in or even dominates the Indigenous space, particularly if non-speakers demand that the majority language is spoken in order to include them, or contrariwise non-Sámi speakers may experience pressure to avoid the Indigenous space because they lack language

254 | Mikkel Berg-Nordlie, Astri Dankertsen, and Marte Winsvold

competence. This represents a challenge to constructing robust organized spaces for Indigenous ethnic survival in the city. The urban Sámi language issue is also complicated by the fact that different Sámi languages and dialects co-exist in the cities. While some of the urban areas studied in this book are in areas traditionally inhabited by Sámi people, the original dialects of these areas’ non-nomadic Sámi have largely disappeared: their descendants are unlikely to speak any Sámi language. The reindeer-herding Sámi who have traditionally spent parts of the year in the local area, are likely to speak dialects that are different from those of the old non-nomadic Sámi populations. Those who have migrated to the cities from rural places where the Sámi language is still in a strong position bring in new dialects, even new Sámi languages. This local Sámi multilingual situation poses a challenge to the survival of Sámi language in the urban Sámi spaces: not just the coexistence of non-Sámi speakers and Sámi speakers, but also the coexistence of multiple Sámi languages, which may ultimately result in the language of the ethnic majority becoming an urban Sámi lingua franca. Opinion varies as to how essential it is for language survival in cities to have urban spaces where one language is spoken by all, and regarding which spaces should be more open and more closed. This is a difficult issue: in some settings, it may be essential for everyone present to understand Sámi at some level—but it is also impossible to delimit a social space for Sámi-speakers without exacerbating the feelings of exclusion and discrimination that are already deep-seated in many Sámi who do not understand the language. To maintain social cohesion among urban Sámi, some degree of mutual understanding must be established about which social spaces must be entirely open and which need to be reserved for language-users; perhaps even more importantly, there must be a culture of acceptance that in the open spaces everyone will not always understand each other, and that speaking a language that not everyone present understands is both socially permissible and indeed necessary for language survival. Another issue discussed in this book is the specialization and politicization, and even partisanization, of Sámi civil society life—and how this might be a challenge to the creation of urban Indigenous spaces. However, this phenomenon is not necessarily fundamentally negative; the emergence of new organizations that cater to different Sámi subgroups may also lead to a more varied and rich Sámi cultural life where the specific interests of different Sámi subgroups are more adequately taken care of. The emergence of organizations that express internal political differences can be healthy from a democratic per-

An Urban Future for Sápmi? | 255

spective. Also, differently politicized Indigenous organizations may cultivate networks with different organizations of the dominant ethnos, and the existence of majority-Indigenous networks on all sides of the political spectrum is likely to benefit Sámi ethnic survival. It is, however, essential that various Indigenous NGOs manage to cooperate, or at least coordinate, with one another; that neutral spaces exist for Indigenous people of different organizations, and there is some form of umbrella organization to act as a common Indigenous voice. Otherwise, social cohesion in local Indigenous society will be weakened and may ultimately affect the possibilities for the survival of language and culture. In the Nordic states, the Sámediggi representative organs constitute such an organization-transcending common voice, but this organ exists at the state level rather than the local, urban level. The Sámediggi in Norway is increasingly active in relation to Sámi urban life. Nevertheless, there is obviously a limit to the capacity that a state-level institution has for involving itself in purely local affairs, so there is a need for organization-transcending representation of local or regional Sámi communities. Chapter 4 shows us various attempts, with varying degrees of success, to create Sámi organizational structures that are “big-tent,” that is, that unite local or regional NGOs and create opportunities for the Sámi to have a common voice at the local/regional level. We have observed significant local variations regarding the structure of local urban Sámi life. These differences arise from elements such as differing local Sámi civil society dynamics, different degrees of local conflict intensity connected to Sáminess, different degrees of Sámi visibility in local political affairs, and the different budgetary constraints of urban administrations. The variance is such that we might expand the central question of this book: An urban future for Sápmi— in which urban areas? It is perhaps particularly important that the cities and towns here identified as “first-tier” and “second-tier” urban areas (chapter 2) take special responsibilities for creating robust Sámi spaces, and that many different types of actors manage to work jointly on this. Civil society, municipality, county, Sámediggi, central state apparatus, and the private sector all have a role to play in this regard.

Networking and the Future of Sápmi A recurring theme in this book is conflict. Not just conflicts between the state or the majority-dominated social structures and the Sámi, but also internally, between different parts of the Sámi community.

256 | Mikkel Berg-Nordlie, Astri Dankertsen, and Marte Winsvold

The most contentious of these conflicts are those that touch upon what it means to be Sámi or who should be excluded from or included in various organized Sámi social spaces. Internal conflicts are present to different degrees within the Indigenous communities of different states and cities, and it is not given us to know what the outcome of these conflict dynamics will eventually be in different places. While conflict is a natural element in any society, the Sámi people are perhaps particularly vulnerable to the negative aspects of internal conflict, due to their position as an Indigenous minority nation divided by several nation-states. If there is anything history has taught us, it is that nothing lasts forever. The fluctuations in the Sámi policies of different states illustrate this quite well. The Sámi people today face several serious challenges to ethnic survival—not just from the culture-destroying social processes that keep on moving even after active assimilation policies have been formally abolished, but also from specific policies that these states implement despite being formally committed to Sámi ethnic survival: while one hand of the state works to assist Indigenous cultural revitalization, the other works de facto against it. This problematic situation exists even now—in a time when all four states exhibit more positive attitudes toward the Sámi than earlier in history and in a time when some of the states that divided up Sápmi are in possession of capital and resources that make it economically entirely within reach for them to contribute in the rebuilding of what they destroyed. We must ask: what will happen to the Sámi policies of these states in times of severe economic downturn, increased ethnonationalist turns in the public mood, and democratic decline? These three negative tendencies are current global trends, and they have, to varying extents, already reached Norway, Sweden, Finland, and Russia. The imminent future may well bring an even harder struggle for the Sámi to survive as an ethnic group. Negative developments in the economy, tolerance level, and democracy of the dominant groups’ states are potential scenarios for the future that all Indigenous peoples must prepare for. An important part of this preparation work is to build both strong internal social cohesion, and strong networks with different parts of the majority society. The current work done to establish various types of Indigenous spaces in urban areas, the range of organizations and networks forming and growing in the cities, and the emergence in urban Indigenous communities of ways of dealing with internal cultural and organizational plurality so as to foster social cohesion and maintain Indigenous culture may prove vital for the resilience of the Sámi in the future.

An Urban Future for Sápmi? | 257

While the reflections of this final chapter have focused on challenges, we also wish to point out that the changes in urban Sámi policy and organizing observed since the turn of the millennium must be recognized as growth. Despite the conflicts and setbacks, the current period may be categorized as one of continuing renaissance for Sámi culture, identity, and language in the cities and towns of Northern Europe. The necessity of urban Sámi policy has largely been accepted and the needs of urban Sámi have become an important part of Sámi political debate. Networks, organizations, and institutions have been created that may prove strong enough to survive the upcoming challenges. In the cities of Northern Europe, foundations are being constructed that can enable the Sámi to have a future also in the urban areas.

Image 6.1. | Sámi Festival. Marja Mortensson from Svahken sijte in rural Hedmark holding a concert in downtown Oslo (Oslove). © Mikkel Berg-Nordlie.

258 | Mikkel Berg-Nordlie, Astri Dankertsen, and Marte Winsvold

Mikkel Berg-Nordlie is a historian who works as a researcher at the NIBR Institute for Urban and Regional Research at the Oslo Metropolitan University (NIBR—OsloMet), and is responsible for Sámi history articles in the Great Norwegian Encyclopedia (SNL). He wrote his PhD at UiT—Arctic University of Norway on the history of Russian Sámi representation in Russian politics and pan-Sámi networking, and holds an MA in peace and conflict studies from the University of Oslo). Astri Dankertsen holds a PhD in sociology, and an M.A. in social anthropology. Dankertsen is Associate Professor in Sociology at Nord University in Norway and is currently the head of The Division for Environmental Studies, International Relations, Northern Studies and Social Security. Marte Winsvold has a PhD in political science from the University of Oslo. She works at the Institute for Social Research in Oslo, and her research interests centers on political participation and the interface between civil society and formal government structures. In particular, Winsvold has been interested in the participation of underrepresented groups in formal political processes and the conditions for adequate representation.

References Andersen, Chris, and Evelyn Peters. 2013. “Conclusion: Indigenizing Modernity or Modernizing Indigeneity?” In Indigenous in the City: Contemporary Identities and Cultural Innovation, ed. Evelyn Peters and Chris Andersen, 377–87. Vancouver: UBC Press. Denis, Claude. 1997. We Are Not You: First Nation and Canadian Modernity. Peterborough: University of Toronto Press. Hudson, Christine, Torill Nyseth, and Paul Pedersen. 2019. “Dealing with Difference.” City 23: 4–5. Kuokkanen, Rauna. 2000. “Towards an Indigenous Paradigm.” The Canadian Journal of Native Studies 20(2): 411–36. Mörkenstam, Ulf, Johannes Bergh, Ragnhild Nilsson, Jo Saglie, and Richard Svensson. 2017. “Politiska skiljelinjer i den samiske väljarkåren i Norge och Sverige” [Political dividing lines in the Sámi electorate in Norway and Sweden]. In Ett folk, ulike valg [One people, different elections], ed. Eva Josefsen, Ulf Mörkenstam, Ragnhild Nilsson, and Jo Saglie, 195–219. Oslo: Gyldendal Akademisk. Nrk.no. 2019. “Sametinget kan bli et by-ting. 2019” [The Sámi Parliament can become an urban Parliament]. nrk.no. Retrieved 8 January 2020 from https:// www.nrk.no/finnmark/sametinget-kan-bli-et-by-ting—1.14715344.

An Urban Future for Sápmi? | 259

Nyseth, Torill, and Paul Pedersen. 2014. “Urban Sámi Identities in Scandinavia: Hybridities, Ambivalences and Cultural Innovation.” Acta Borealia 31(2): 131–51. Olsen, Kjell 2007. “When Ethnic Identity Is a Private Matter.” Journal of Ethnology and Folkloristics 1(1–2): 75–99. Pettersen, Torunn, and Jo Saglie. 2019. “Hand i hand? Om bysamer som tema i valgprogram ved sametingsvalg i Norge 2009–2017” [Hand in hand? About urban Sámi as a theme in the election programs for the Sámi parliamentary elections in Norway 2009–2017]. Norsk statsvitenskapelig tidsskrift 35(3): 115–40.

? appendix a

Toponyms in Sámi Languages and Other Languages

Abbreviations: A = Akkala Sámi. FI = Finland. I = Inari Sámi. Ke = Kemi Sámi. Ki = Kildin Sámi. L = Lule Sámi. N = North Sámi. NO = Norway. P = Pite Sámi. RU = Russia. So = South Sámi. Sk = Skolt Sámi. SE = Sweden. T = Ter Sámi. U = Ume Sámi. Dominant people’s toponym

Sámi toponym

Alta (NO)

Áltá (N), Álaheadju (N)

Avjovarre (NO)

Ávjovárri (N)

Beiarn (NO)

Bájddár (P)

Bergen (NO)

Birggon (N)

Boden (SE)

Suttes (L)

Bodø (NO)

Bådåddjo (L), Buvvda (P), Budejju (N)

Enontekiö (FI)

Eanodat (N)

Evenes (NO)

Evenášši (N)

Fatmomakke (SE)

Faepmie (So)

Finnmark (NO)

Finmárku (N)

Gällivare (SE)

Váhtjer (L)

Appendix A | 261

Dominant people’s toponym

Sámi toponym

Hammerfest (NO)

Hámmarfeasta (N)

Härnösand (SE)

Hïernesaande (So)

Harstad (NO)

Harsttak (N)

Hattfjelldal (NO)

Aarborte (So)

Inari (FI)

Aanaar (I), Anár (N), Aanar (Sk)

Ivalo (FI)

Avveel (I), Avvil (N), Â’vvel (Sk)

Jämtland (SE)

Jïemhte (So)

Jokanga (RU)

Jovvkui (T)

Jokkmokk (SE)

Jåhkåmåhkke (L), Dálvvadis (L)

Jona (RU)

Joŋŋ syjjt (Ki)

Kautokeino (NO)

Guovdageaidnu (N)

Kandalakša (RU)

Kánntlúht (Ki)

Karasjok (NO)

Kárášjohka (N)

Kemi (FI)

Giepma (N)

Kemijärvi (FI)

Giemajávri (N)

Kirkenes (NO)

Girkonjárga (N)

Kiruna (SE)

Giron (N)

Kittilä (FI)

Gihttel (N)

Kola (fjord) (RU)

Kuellnegkvúnn (Ki), Kúll’vúnn’ (Ki)

Kola (peninsula) (RU)

Kuèllnegknjoarrk (Ki)

Kola (river) (RU)

Kúll’jógk (Ki), Kuellnegkjogk (Ki)

Kvalsund (NO)

Fálesnuorri (general area, N), Ráhkkerávju (hamlet, N).

Kvænangen (NO)

Návuotna (N)

Krasnoščel’ye (RU)

Krasne syjjt (Ki)

Kåfjord (NO)

Gáivuotna (N)

Lakselvbukt (NO)

Moskaluokta (N)

Levanger (NO)

Lievenge (So)

262 | Appendix A

Dominant people’s toponym

Sámi toponym

Lofoten (NO)

Váhki (N), Lofuohtta (N)

Lovozero (RU)

Lujavv’r (K)

Loppa (NO)

Láhppi (N)

Luleå (SE)

Luleju (L)

Lycksele (SE)

Liksjoe (So), Likssjuo (U)

Majavatn (NO)

Maajehjaevrie (So)

Malmberget (SE)

Málmmavárre (L)

Manndalen (NO) Masi (NO) Mo i Rana (NO) Mončegorsk (RU) Mosjøen (NO) Murmansk (RU)

Olmmáivággi (N) Máze (N) Måahvie (So) Mončetuntur (A) Mussere (So) Murman lánn’ (K)

Narvik (NO)

Áhkanjárga (N)

Nesseby (NO)

Unjárga (N)

Øksfjord (NO)

Ákšovuotna (N)

Olenegorsk (RU)

Púdze várr’ (K)

Oslo (NO)

Oslove (So)

Östersund (SE)

Staare (So)

Örnsköldsvik (SE)

Orrestaare (So)

Piteå (SE)

Bihtám (P)

Pečenga (RU)

Peäccam (Sk)

Porsanger (NO)

Porsáŋgu (N)

Rovaniemi (FI)

Roavvenjárga (N)

Rypefjord (NO)

Lávželuokta (N)

Røros (NO)

Plaassje (So), Röörose (So)

Appendix A | 263

Dominant people’s toponym

Sámi toponym

Seglvik (NO)

Silvetnjárga (N)

Skellefteå (SE)

Syöldete (U), Skillehte (So)

Skånland (NO)

Skánit (N)

Sodankylä (FI)

Soađegilli (N)

Sortland (NO)

Suortá (N)

Steinkjer (NO)

Stientjie (So)

Sundsvall (SE)

Sjädtavallie (So)

Svolvær (NO)

Spållavuolle (L)

Sør-Varanger (NO)

Mátta-Várjjat (N)

Tärnaby (SE)

Dearna (So), Deärnná (U)

Tjeldsund (NO)

Dielddanuorri (N)

Torneå (FI)

Duortnus (N)

Trondheim (NO)

Tråante (So), Troandin (N)

Troms (NO)

Tromsa (N), Romsa (N)

Tromsø (NO)

Romsa (N), Tromsa (N)

Trøndelag (NO)

Trööndelage (So)

Trondenes (NO) Tuloma (RU)

Runášši (N)

Ullsfjord (NO)

Moskavuotna, Vuovlevuotna (No)

Umba (RU)

Umm’p (K)

Umeå (SE)

Upmeje (So), Ubmeje (U)

Utsjoki (FI)

Ohcejohka (N)

Vadsø (NO)

Čáhcesuolu (N)

Varzino (RU)

Ársjogk (Ki)

Varzuga (RU)

Vúr’se (K)

Vardø (NO)

Várggát (N)

Vesterålen (NO)

Viestterálas (N), Vester-allase (L)

Tullem (Sk)

? appendix b

Cyrillic–Latin Transliteration System

Transliteration table and example from Mikkel Berg-Nordlie (2017).1 Cyrillic

Latin

а

A

б

B

в

V

г

G

д

D

е

e je – in the beginning of words and after vowels (except “-ie” at the end of a word)

ё

Jo

ж

Ž

з

Z

и

I

й

J

к

K

л

L

м

M

Appendix B | 265

Cyrillic

Latin

н

N

о

O

п

P

р

R

с

S

т

T

у

U

ф

F

х

Kh

ц

C

ч

Č

ш

Š

щ

Šč

ъ

´´

ы

Y

ь

´

э

È

ю

Ju

я

Ja

Special cases ā

Á

Kil’din Sámi letter. Ѣ

Ě

Outdated Russian letter, used in old documents and literature I Outdated Russian letter, used in old documents and literature

Ì

266 | Appendix B

Example: “Song of the Sámi People” in Russian translation Национальный гимн саамов2

Nacional’nyj gimn saamov

Под Медведицей Большой

Pod Medvedicej Bol’šoj

вдали синеет край Саамов.

vdali sinejet kraj Saamov.

Гора уходит за горой,

Gora ukhodit za goroj,

вода мелькает за водою.

voda mel’kajet za vodoju.

Грады вершин и гребни сопок

Grady veršin i grebni sopok

стремятся к небу высоко.

stremjatsja k nebu vysoko.

Шумят леса, текут там реки,

Šumjat lesa, tekut tam reki,

стальные мысы достигают

stal’nye mysy dostigajut

пространств волнующих морей.

prostranstv volnujuščikh morej.

Notes 1. Berg-Nordlie, Mikkel. 2017 “Fighting to be Heard—In Russia and in Sápmi. Russian Sámi Representation in Russian and Pan-Sámi Politics, 1992–2014.” Ph.D. dissertation. Tromsø: UiT – Arctic University of Tromsø. Retrieved 12 May 2021 from https://munin.uit.no/handle/10037/11405. 2. Saami.su. Saamskaja simvolika (http://saami.su/saamskaya-simvolika.html).

Index

? 6 February. See Sámi: National Day A Aanaar, 40–1, 56, 73, 261. See also Inari Aanar, 40–1, 56, 73, 261. See also Inari Åärjel-Saemiej Gïelh (ÅSG), 168, 183 Aarsæther, Nils, 76 activism, 114, 227 Afanasijeva, Nina, 190 Africa, 228 Áhkanjárga, 62, 65, 75, 152, 262. See also Narvik Åhrén, Christina, xiv, 6–7, 21, 40, 105, 109, 176 Akkala Sámi, 40–2, 142, 189, 260 Ákšovuotna, 138, 143, 262. See also Øksfjord Albuquerque, 239 Aleksandrovsk, 84 Alta, ix, 36–7, 42, 62, 67, 75–6, 79–80, 91, 93, 107, 119, 120–22, 124, 134, 137–39, 143, 151, 152, 160–67, 171, 174, 176–78, 198, 260. See also Áltá Áltá, ix, 36–7, 42, 62, 67, 75–6, 79, 80, 91, 93, 107, 119–22, 124, 134, 137–39, 143, 151–52, 160–67, 171, 174, 176–78, 198, 260. See also Alta

Alta Battallion, 75 Alta Dam Conflict (1968–82), 36–7, 160–62, 164 Álttá Sámi Searvi. See NSR: Alta chapter Siida, 137, 177, 198. See also Alta; Áltá; Sámi Language Center: in Alta Älvdalen, 47 Alymov, Vasilij, 61, 87, 189 Amalgamation, the, 88, 189. See also collectivization, forced America, 34 Central, 4 Latin, 222, 228 North, 4, 78, 219 South, 4, 237 American Anglo-American, 24 Canadian-American, ix, 134 Indian Centers, 236 Indigenous, ix, 4, 134 Native American, 22, 238 Anár, 40–41, 56, 73, 261. See also Inari Andersen, Anna, 208, 227 Andersen, Chris, 111 Andreassen, Christian, 158 anti-Sámism, 10, 149, 151–53, 174, 180, 251. See also assmilation; Norwegianization policy; racism

268 | Index

Apatity-Kirovsk, 42, 86, 189, 193–94, 203 Arctic, the, 1, 86, 228 Circle, 248 Council, 39 Indigenous Center, 179 University of Norway, 21–2, 46, 65–7, 92, 138, 166, 205, 258 Arkhangelsk, 84 Ársjogk, 86, 263. See also Varzino Asia, 1, 4, 152, 228 assimilation, ix, 4, 8, 34–6, 45, 57–8, 61, 74–5, 85, 88, 108, 110–12, 117–19, 123, 135, 160, 161, 174, 176, 206, 250, 252. See also anti-Sámism; discrimination; Norwegianization policy; racism AKS, 90, 190–95, 198, 200–2, 204 Aubert, Vilhelm, 57–8, 78, 94 Australia, 1, 3, 24, 234, 237, 239 chapter 5 Australian Aboriginal, 4, 9, 234, 236 authenticity, 11, 13, 108, 111–12, 118, 141, 147, 219–20, 231–33, 235, 252 autonomy, 43, 87, 188, 193, 196 Ávjovárri, 79, 250, 260 Noereh, 171 Avveel, 73, 260. See also Avvil; Â’vvel; Ivalo Â’vvel, 73, 260. See also Avvel; Avvil; Ivalo Avvil, 73, 260. See also Avveel; Â’vvel; Ivalo Axelsson, Per, 5 Aymara, 233 B Bådåddjo, 42, 65, 76, 79, 91, 93, 107, 125, 126, 134–35, 139–41, 162–63, 167, 168, 174, 181, 260. See also Bodø; Buvvda Bájddár, 140, 182, 260. See also Beiarn Barents Euro-Arctic Cooperation, 22, 39 Beiarn, 140, 182, 260. See also Bájddár

Bergen, 63, 114, 160, 170, 207, 260. See also Birggon Berg-Nordlie, Mikkel, 110, 224, chapter 3 Bahbha, Homi, 115 big-tent, 148, 156, 162, 193, 225. See also pan-tribal Bihtám, 71, 260. See also Piteå Birggon, 63, 114, 160, 170, 207, 260. See also Bergen Boden, 71, 260. See also Suttes Bodø, 42, 65, 76, 79, 91, 93, 107, 125–26, 134–35, 139–41, 162–63, 167, 168, 174, 181, 260. See also Bådåddjo; Buvvda Bolivia, 233, 237, 239 Bolshevik, 87. See also Russian Revolution: of 1917; Soviet Union Brisbane, 234 British Empire, 84, 226, 239 Broderstad, Ann Ragnhild, 77–8 Buvvda, 42, 65, 76, 79, 91, 93, 107, 125–26, 134–35, 139–41, 162, 163, 167–68, 174, 181, 260. See also Bådåddjo; Bodø Burning of Finnmark, 75. See also evacuation, forced; scorched earth tactics borders, creation of between Denmark(-Norway) and Sweden in 1751, 34 between Finland and the Soviet Union in 1947, 86 between Norway and the Russian Empire in 1826, 33 between Sweden and the Russian Empire (with Finland) in 1809, 72 C Čáhčesuolu, 63, 67, 80, 158, 263. See also Vadsø California, 234 Canada, 3, 22, 24, 78, 225, 227–30, 234, 236–37, 239 Čepes Sám’, 193 Chatterjee, Partha, 220

Index | 269

Chicago, 239 Chile, 237, 238, 239 Christianization, 33, 44, 64, 83. See also churches; missionary activity; monasteries; witch trials churches, x, 33, 66–7, 86, 170, 179 City-Sámit, 82 coastal Sámi, 41, 65, 74, 109, 118, 128, 137–38, 165, 178 collectivization, forced, 87, 189, 192. See also Amalgamation, the; relocation, forced colonial, 7–11, 14, 17, 33–4, 110, 112, 115, 117–20, 135–36, 174–75, 220–25, 228, 238 colonialism, 5, 8, 9, 14, 33, 110, 119–21, 174–75, 222, 224. See also settler colonialism colonization, xv, 1, 2, 4, 7–9, 11, 30–3, 65, 84, 85, 108, 110, 118, 174 Committee of the North (USSR), 189 Conservative Party (Norway), 180, 181 cooperation agreements (municipalSámediggi), 135, 164, 173, 174, 181 Coordination Council (Russia), 199– 200. See also Northern Peoples’ Center Copenhagen, 172, 183 Corrigan, Phillip, 225 deCosta, Ravi, 6 Council of Representatives of the Native, Small-Numbered Peoples under the Government of Murmansk Region (Russia), 38, 200, 202. See also Northern Peoples’ Center; Sámediggi: movement for a Russian Crimean War, 84 critical race theory, 231, 236 culture and complexity, xiii, 108–9, 114, 117, 119, 133–35, 150 and creativity, xv, 114, 141–42 and hierarchies, 13, 89, 109, 112 čuoldin, x, 185. See also duodji

D Dálvvadis, 71, 80, 261. See also Jåhkåmåhkke; Jokkmokk Dankertsen, Astri, 121 Davis, Megan, 228 Davvi Nuorra, 163, 166, 204 Dearna, 263. See also Deärnná; Tärnaby Deärnná, 263. See also Dearna; Tärnaby definitions of Indigenousness. See under Indigenousness demography, 1, 3, 5, 20, 24, 45, 54, 59, 76–7, 85, 90, 189, 191, 202, 204, 221, 225–28, 246, 248, 253 Indigenous, 221, 225, 227–28 of the Sami, methodological issues, 55–61 statistical invisibility, 85, 88 Denmark(-Norway), 33, 47, 63, 67, 69, 83 Dennison, Jean, 175–76 Denver, 239 Detroit, 239 Dielddanuorri, 263. See also Tjeldsund discourse, xii, 7, 11, 16, 110–11, 114, 116, 118, 141, 172, 174, 180, 220–21, 229, 232–33 discrimination, ix, 4, 11, 13, 18–9, 30–1, 34–5, 57, 74, 111, 121, 123, 130, 151–52, 154, 226, 253–54. See also anti-Sámism; assimilation; racism domestic diaspora, 79, 81, 115, 125, 160, 171 Duoddara Ráfe, 182 duodji, 128, 156, 165, 172, 179, 181, 193. See also čuoldin; gákti Duortnus, 42, 71, 72, 73. See also Tornio E Eanodat, 56, 260. See also Enontekiö Ecuador, 237, 239 EDL, 180, 207. See also anti-Sámism; assimilation; discrimination; passing; policing; racism

270 | Index

education, 3, 18, 62–4, 66, 67, 69, 72–5, 78, 85, 89, 90, 108, 110, 114, 115, 135, 142, 148, 152, 159, 187–90, 198, 201, 224, 228, 230 in Sámi. See Sámi school services Eidheim, Harald, 113 Enontekiö, 56, 260. See also Eanodat ethics, 2, 9, 15, 18–9, 40 ethnicity, 1, 2, 5–6, 10, 15, 17, 24, 31–4, 36, 39, 44–5, 47, 55–7, 60–1, 74–5, 87, 89–90, 113, 115– 17, 119–21, 136, 143, 151–53, 156, 161, 180, 192–93, 196–97, 199, 206–7, 222, 228, 237, 246, 250–56 eugenic policies, 8 Eurasia, 228 Europe, vii, 8–10, 12–3, 23, 31–3, 35, 42, 45, 47, 150, 182, 219, 257 evacuation, forced, 75. See also the Burning of Finnmark; relocation, forced; scorched earth tactics Evenášši, 260. See also Evenes Evenes, 260. See also Evenášši F Facebook, 132, 154, 163, 167–69, 235 Faepmie, 260. See also Fatmomakke Fálesnuorri, 23, 261. See also Kvalsund (district) Fatmomakke, 260. See also Faepmie festivals, ix, xi, 123, 126, 134, 138, 140, 183, 197, 257 farming, 117, 224 Fil’man Sámi, 142 Finland, vii, viii, xiv, 2, 31, 33–5, 37, 39–44, 46, 47, 56, 58–60, 62, 71, 72, 75–7, 81–4, 86, 90–3, 109, 116–17, 131, 141, 187–88, 206, 230, 250–51, 256, 260 Finmárku, 23, 31, 57, 63–8, 72, 75–6, 113, 119, 121–3, 126, 137, 205, 250, 260. See also Finnmark Finn meaning Finnish, 31, 47, 55. See also Kvens meaning Sámi, 47, 55

Finnmark, viii, xii, 23, 31, 57, 63–8, 72, 75, 76, 113, 119, 121–23, 126, 137–205, 250, 260. See also Finmárku Coast, 113, 136 East, 157 Inner, 67, 126, 138, 205 West, 137 Finmárku, viii, xii, 23, 31, 57, 63–8, 72, 75–6, 113, 119, 121–3, 126, 137–205, 250, 260. See also Finnmark Finnmark University College, 67, 160 Finnmork, 31, 43 First Nations, 239 fishing, 36, 88, 116–18, 122, 136, 224, 247

Fjellstrøm, Anna-Maria, 81 Fokstad, Per, 158, 161 Friendship Centres, 236 G Gáivuotna, 88, 109, 134, 138, 173, 177, 261. See also Kåfjord Gáisi, 178, 198, 250 giellaguovddáš. See Sámi Language Center: in Tromsø gákti, ix, xi, 74, 123–24, 128, 138–9, 143, 151, 165, 186. See also duodji Gälliväre, 42, 71, 80, 81, 91, 260. See also Váhtjer generation, 10, 21, 35, 60, 74–5, 92, 109, 119, 123, 129, 137, 147, 149, 151, 153, 156, 234, 246 genocide, 9 George, Pamela, 236 Germanic, 32 Giemajávri, 73. See also Kemijärvi Giepma, 73, 261. See also Kemi Gihttel, 56, 261. See also Kittilä Giron, ix, 42, 65, 70, 72, 78, 80, 81, 91, 124. See also Kiruna Gjerpe, Kajsa Kemi, xv, 111–112 GOBU, the. See Northern Peoples’ Center governance, 2, 6, 11–13, 22–3, 34, 36–8, 147, 150, 161, 168,

Index | 271

173–74, 177–78, 184, 194, 196, 198–99, 201, 220, 246 Indigenous, 2, 12, 173–74, 177, 184, 247 Grand Duchy of Finland, 72 Great Plains, 78 Guevteli Saemieh. See NSR: Røros area chapter Gullestad, Marianne, 127 Guovdageaidnu, xii, 17, 67, 79, 109, 138, 160, 171, 173, 194, 205, 250, 261. See also Kautokeino H handicrafts. See duodji Háhpárándi, 42, 71. See also Haparanda Hall, Stuart, 13, 114, 142, 231, 232, 239 Hámmárfeasta, 42, 67, 73, 79, 80, 91, 138, 261. See also Hammerfest Hammerfest, 42, 67, 73, 79–91, 138, 261, chapter 1 Hansen, Lars Ivar, 55 Haparanda, 42, 71 harassment, 180 Härnösand, 70, 261. See also Hïernesaande Harstad, 62, 66, 261. See also Hárstták Hárstták, 62, 66, 261. See also Harstad Helsinki, 42, 77, 82, 91. See also Helsset Helsset, 42, 77, 82, 91. See also Helsinki Herzen University, 89, 188, 190 Hïernesaande, 70, 261. See also Härnösand Horn, Philipp, 222 Hovland, Arild, 109 Hudson, Christine, 252 hunting, ix, 118, 122, 133, 136, 247 hypermobility, 108, 115, 124–27, 141, 234–35, 237, 241, 249 I ILO 169, 5, 39 immigrants, 55, 174, 180–81, 192, 195, 206

immigration, 47, 66–7, 85, 201, 206 Inari, 40, 41, 56, 73, 261 Inari Sámi, 40–1, 73, 260 Indigeneity, 2, 5, 11, 13, 111, 141, 147, 220–25, 228–29, 231, 233–35, 238–39, 246 Indigenous identity, 8, 107, 111–14, 125, 141, 234–35, 238 invisibility, 11, 85, 122, 164, 173, 250–52 livelihoods, vii, 3, 38, 40, 43, 89, 189, 192, 247, 249 policy, 8, 34, 87, 111, 148, 174, 188–89, 236 politics, 38 recognition of the Sámi as, 39–40 rights, 7, 37, 222, 246. See also ILO; United Nations: Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) ruralization, 111, 116, 188–89, 194 space, 7, 18, 21, 148–50, 154–56, 157, 162, 172–75, 192, 195, 198, 203–4, 236, 237, 253–4. See also Urban Indigenous: space toponyms. See toponyms Indigenousness, 1, 3, 5–9, 11, 13, 30, 111, 116, 147, 155, 179 objective criteria for, xiii, 7. See also Sámediggi: Electoral Registry subjective criteria for, xiii, 6. See also Sámediggi: Electoral Registry industrialization, 36, 63, 65, 67, 69–73, 85–7, 93, 189, 230 insider and outsider perspectives, 15–6 Iron Age, 32 Iron Curtain, 190 Islamophobia, 152 Ivalo, 73, 260. See also Avveel; Avvil; Â’vvel Ižma Komi. See Komi J Jåhkåmåhkke, 71, 80, 261. See also Dálvvadis; Jokkmokk

272 | Index

Jakovleva, Roza, 190 Jämtland, 41, 70–2, 81, 261. See also Jïemhte Jïemhte, 41, 70, 71, 72, 81, 261. See also Jämtland Jokanga, 86, 261 Jokkmokk, 71, 80, 261. See also Dálvvadis; Jåhkåmåhkke Jona, 88, 193, 261 Joŋŋ syjjt. See Jona Jovvkui. See Jokanga K Kåfjord, ix, 88, 109, 134, 138, 173, 177, 261. See also Gáivuotna Kandalakša, 83, 85–6, 261. See also Kánntlúht Kánntlúht, 83, 85–6, 261. See also Kandalakša Kárášjohka, 67, 79, 160, 171, 194, 205, 261. See also Karasjok Karasjok, 67, 79, 160, 171, 194, 205, 261. See also Kárášjohka Karelia, 84 Kathmandu, 4 Kautokeino, xii, 17, 67, 79, 109, 138, 160, 171, 173, 194, 205, 250, 261. See also Guovdageaidnu Kem’, 84 Kemi, 73, 261. See also Giepma Kemijärvi, 73, 261. See also Giemajávri Kemi Sámi, 40–1, 260 Kildin Sámi, 21, 40, 42, 189, 260 kindergarten. See Sámi: kindergarten Kiruna, ix, 42, 65, 70, 72, 78, 80–1, 91, 124, 261. See also Giron Kittilä, 56, 261. See also Gihttel Khvorostukhina, Anastasija, 190 KMNS. See small-numbered peoples of the North Kola Fjord, 83, 261. See also Kúll’vúnn’ Komi. See Komi Lappish District, 84 Peninsula, 31, 83, 89, 187–88, 190, 195, 197, 261. See also Kuèllnegknjoarrk; Murmansk: Region, a province of Russia

River, 83, 261. See also Kúll’jógk Sámi Association. See AKS Town, 83–6 Kolkhoz, 87 Komi, 39, 84, 89, 188, 196–97 Konstantinov, Yulian, 86, 197 Kovdor, 43, 86, 88, 193 Kramvig, Britt, 109, 118–19, 121 Krasne syjjt, 88. See also Krasnoščel’ye Krasnoščel’ye, 88. See also Krasne syjjt Kuèllnegknjoarrk, Peninsula, 31, 83, 89, 187–88, 190, 195, 197, 261. See also Kola: Peninsula Sám’ Sobbar, 38, 187, 191, 200. See also Sámediggi: movement for a Russian Kuellnegkvúnn, 83, 261. See also Kola: Fjord Kúll’jógk, 83, 261. See also Kola: River Kúll’vúnn’ 83, 261. See also Kola: Fjord Kukutai, Tahu, 135, 225 Kuokkanen, Rauna, 13, 17, 110, 112, 251–52 Kuusamo, 47 Kvalsund (district), 23, 261. See also Fálesnuorri Kvalsund (hamlet), 261. See also Ráhkkerávju Kvænangen, 139, 143, 158, 261. See also Návuotna Kvens, x, 47, 67, 121, 142, 164–67, 197. See also Finn the Kven immigration, 47, 67, 206 as contemporary ethnic group, 121, 142, 164–65, 167, 206 L Labor Movement, 187, 207 Party, 161–62, 166, 171, 187, 207 Lade, x, xiv, 18, 42, 63–6, 70, 76, 79, 91, 93, 107, 121, 132, 150, 154, 158–9, 160, 162–63, 167–70, 182–83, 206, 248, 263. See also Nidaros; Tråante; Trondheim Ladoga, 31

Index | 273

Láhppi, xii, 23, 139, 143, 262. See also Loppa Lakselvbukt, 178–79, 181, 261. See also Moskaluokta language area. See Sámi: Language Administrative Areas language center. See Sámi Language Center Länsman, Anne, 82 Larsen, Anders, 74, 158, 161 Lapland contemporary landscape of Sweden, 31, 71–3, 129 Governorate (Laplandskaja gubernija), 85 historical province of Sweden, 31, 43, 71–3 Region, province in Finland, 31, 41, 43, 56, 71–3, 75 University, xiii, 81 War, 75. See also World War II Lapp, 31, 34, 58, 60, 83–4, 153, 158 Codicille, 33 “Lapp shall be Lapp” policy, 34 Lappish Central Association, 158 Laula Renberg, Elsa, x, 158–59, 169 Lávželuokta, 67, 262. See also Rypefjord Leem, Knud, 65 Levanger, 64, 261. See also Lievenge Lievenge, 64, 261. See also Levanger Lindgren, Anna-Riitta, 81 Lofoten, viii, 65, 68, 262. See also Lofuohtta; Váhki Lofuohtta, viii, 65, 68, 262. See also Lofoten; Váhki Loparaskaja, 197 Loppa, xii, 23, 139, 143, 262. See also Láhppi Lopskaja Zemlja, 84. See also Kola: Peninsula; Russian Sápmi Los Angeles, 239 Left Party, 180, 207 Leningrad. See St. Petersburg LGBTQ+, ix, 124, 131, 137. See also queering sápmi; Sámi: pride flag Liksjoe, 71, 262. See also Likssjuo; Lycksele

Likssjuo, 71, 262. See also Liksjoe; Lycksele Loppa, xii, 139, chapter 3 Lovozero, xi, 43, 86, 88–90, 188–89, 191, 193–94, 197–98, 200, 204. See also Lujavv’r Lujavv’r, xi, 43, 86, 88–90, 188–89, 191, 193–4, 197–98, 200, 204. See also Lovozero Luleå, 42, 71, 76, 81, 91, 93, 262. See also Luleju Luleå University of Technology, 71 Luleju, 42, 71, 76, 81, 91, 93, 262. See also Luleå Lule Sámi, 40–2, 58, 64–5, 93, 131, 135, 139–40, 167–68, 182, 260 Lund, Svein, 152 Lycksele, 71, 262. See also Liksjoe; Likssjuo M Måahvie, 65, 262. See also Mo i Rana Maajehjaevrie, 158, 262. See also Majavatn Majavatn, 158, 262. See also Maajehjaevrie Málmmavárre, 71, 262. See also Malmberget Malmberget, 71, 262. See also Málmmavárre Manndalen, ix, 134, 262. See also Olmmáivággi Māori, 14, 135, 224–25, 227, 237 Mapuche, 240 Marae, 237 marginalization, 1, 5, 15–8, 84, 109–10, 119, 135, 137, 154. See also assimilation; discrimination; racism master race, 10, 34. See also racism Máttá-Várjjat, 80. See also Sør-Varanger McClintock, Anne, 112 methodology, 2, 9, 14–20, 35, 55, 80, 107–8, 227 Middle Ages, viii, 31–3, 61, 65, 68, 91, 179 Mii, 82

274 | Index

military, vii, 43, 61, 66–7, 71, 85–6, 179, 188, 223 Milwaukee, 239 mining, 36, 64–5, 67, 69, 71–2, 86, 91, 189 Minneapolis, 239 missionary activity. See Christianization Mo i Rana, 65, 262. See also Måahvie monasteries, 83 Mončegorsk, 42, 86, 89, 189, 192–94, 198–99, 203, 262. See also Mončetuntur Mončetuntur, 42, 86, 89, 189, 192–94, 198–99, 203, 262. See also Mončegorsk Moreton-Robinson, Aileen, 9 Mortenson, Daniel, 158 Moscow, 87, 189 Mosjøen, x, 65, 159. See also Mussere Moskaluokta, 178–79, 181, 261. See also Lakselvbukt Moskavuotna, ix, 123, 178, 263. See also Ullsfjord; Vuovlevuotna Mozolevskaja, Anastasija, 190 multiculturalism, 4, 64, 109, 113–14, 116, 150, 165 multilocal, 125, 249 multilingualism, 254 Murman Coast, 83–5 Colonist District, 84 Lánn’. See also Murmansk: City Romanov-na-Murmane, 85 Murmansk Arctic State University, 85 City, 24, 64, 42, 85–7, 89, 91, 153– 54, 189–95, 197, 198, 203–5, 248, 262 Region, a province of Russia, 38, 41, 43, 86, 87, 90, 94, 190–2, 195, 196, 199–200, 202–4 Regional Museum of Local Folklore, 198 Muscowy. See Russian: Tsardom Mussere, x, 65, 159. See also Mosjøen

N Napoleonic Wars, 63 Narvik, 62, 65, 75, 152, 262. See also Áhkanjárga Nazi Germany, 75, 226 national cultural autonomy (NCA), 192–95, 198, 199, 203–4 Cultural Center, xi, 194, 198, 200 nationalism, 34, 110 nation state, 220, 223 native hubs, 234, 237 Návuotna, 139, 143, 158, 261. See also Kvænangen Nenets, 289 Nepal, 4 Nesseby, 177, 262. See also Unjárga Newar, 4 New Zealand, 3, 24, 135, 224–25, 237, 239 NGOs, 12, 37–9, 82, 139, 147–50, 155–69, 170–1, 177–81, 183, 184, 191–95, 197, 199, 201, 202, 248, 255. See also partisanization; politicization; specialization NIBR Institute for Urban and Regional Research, xiii Nickul, Karl, 56 Nidaros, x, xiv, 18, 42, 63–6, 70, 76, 79, 91, 93, 107, 121, 132, 150, 154, 158–59, 160, 162–63, 167– 70, 182, 183, 206, 248, 263. See also Lade; Tråante; Trondheim nodality, 66, 168–69, 172, 183, 185, 198, 204–5 Noereh, ix, 120, 124, 139–41, 143, 166, 171, 184, 204 Novgorod Republic, 66–7, 83 Nordic Sámi Council. See Sámi: Council Nordic Sámi policy, 37 Nordic Sápmi. See Sápmi Nord-Trøndelag, 76, 93, 206, 207. See also Trøndelag Nord University, xiii, 64–5, 93, 135, 139, 168 Norrbotten, 71–2, 81

Index | 275

North Calotte Conventions, 190 Calotte People (party), 165–66 Norway, 63, 66, 75, 78, 160, 166, 197 Sámi, 16, 34, 37, 40–2, 64–5, 745, 126, 139, 142, 182, 260 Northern Peoples’ Center (“the GOBU”), 195–200, 203–4 Norris, Mary Jane, 4 Northern Europe, vii, viii, 10, 23, 31–2, 35, 42, 45, 47, 150, 257 Norwegianization policy, 34, 117, 121, 123, 137, 140, 206. See also assimilation Norwegian Research Council, xiii, 16–7, 93 Norwegians, 11, 32, 55, 66, 112, 121, 131, 151–52, 162, 175, 206 Norwegian Sámi Council, 57, 93 Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU), 64 Norse, 64–5 NSR, 130, 160–73, 177–78, 181, 183, 191, 198, 201–2, 207 Alta chapter (Álttá Sámi Searvi), 160, 164–66, 171, 177, 198 Berge chapter, 170 Bodø chapter, 167 Deatnu chapter, 160 Guovdageaidnu chapter, 160 Haugalandet chapter, 171 Kárášjohka chapter, 160 Lake Mjøsa area chapter, 171 Lakselvbukt chapter, 178–79 Møre and Romsdal chapter, 171 Oslo chapter (Oslo Sámi Searvi), 160, 170–73, 183 Porsáŋgu chapter, 160 Røros area chapter (Guevteli saemieh), 169 Salten chapter (Sálto sámesiebbre), 139, 140, 167–68, 207 Tromsø chapter, 160, 166–67, 178, 181 Trøndelag and Hedmark chapter, 168–69 Trondheim area chapter, 169

NUORGÁV project, xiii, xiv, 2, 8, 14, 16–7, 21, 143, 149–50, 207 Nyseth, Torill, 124, 125, 180, 249 O obščina, 192–94, 197, 199–200 Ofelaččat. See Sámi: Pathfinders Ohcejohka, 56, 263. See also Utsjoki Øksfjord, 138, 143, 262. See also Ákšovuotna Olenegorsk, 86, 197, 262. See also Púdze várr’ Olmmáivággi, ix, 134, 262. See also Manndalen Olsen, Kjell, 113, 121, 250 Onega, 31 OOSMO, Public Organization of the Sámi in Murmansk Region, 90, 191–95, 198–201, 204 openly Sámi. See visible: Sáminess Örnsköldsvik, 70, 262. See also Orrestare Orrestaare, 70, 262. See also Örnsköldsvik Orthodox, 83 Osage, 175 Oslo, 91, 107, 120, 121, 124–25, 130–31, 133, 135, 139–41, 143, 158–60, 162–63, 167, 170–72, 174, 183–87, 195, 198, 201–2, 204, 204, 207, 257, 262. See also Oslove Metropolitan University, xiii Sámi House. See Sámi House: in Oslo Sámi Searvi. See NSR: Oslo chapter Oslove, 91, 107, 120, 121, 124–25, 130–31, 133, 135, 139–41, 143, 158–60, 162–63, 167, 170–72, 174, 183–87, 195, 198, 201–2, 204, 204, 207, 257, 262. See also Oslo Noereh, ix, 124, 140, 171, 184 Östersund, 42, 70, 72, 158, 262. See also Staare Ostrovnoj, 86. See also Jokanga; Varzino

276 | Index

Oulu, 42, 82, 91 Sámit, 82 out-of-placeness, xv, 11, 111, 113, 118, 122, 125, 141, 147, 151, 231–33, 236, 238, 249 P Pacific, the, 228 Paleo-European languages, 32 pan-Sámi, 46, 113, 116 pan-tribal, 156. See also big-tent partisanization, 12, 147–50, 155–57, 160–64, 166, 192, 203–4, 206, 254 passing, 10, 74, 151, 153, 164, 174, 236. See also policing; visible: Sáminess paternalism, 34, 153 Peäccam, 43, 83, 86, 262. See also Pečenga Pečenga. See also Peäccam Pedersen, Paul, 78, 80, 124, 180, 249 Pedersen, Steinar, 148, 162 perestroika, 35, 190 Peters, Evelyn, 24, 78, 111, 229 Pettersen, Torunn, 80, 248 Petrograd. See St. Petersburg Piteå, 71, 260. See also Bihtám Pite Sámi, 40–2, 65, 93, 139, 168, 182, 260 Plaassje, 64, 158, 168–69, 183, 262. See also Røros Places of Traditional Inhabitance and Traditional Economic Activities, 44 policing, 164. See also discrimination; passing; racism; visible: Sáminess politicization, 11, 148, 150, 155–57, 160–61, 164, 179, 192, 193, 203, 206, 254 Pomor population, 189 trade, 63 Ponoj District, 84 Porsanger, 160, 173, 177, 262. See also Porsáŋgu

Porsanger, Anders, 64 Porsáŋgu, 160, 173, 177, 262. See also Porsanger post-colonial, 220 post-Soviet, 85, 87, 190, 207 private business, 12, 148, 155, 173 Program for Sámi Research, xiii Progress Party, 180 Púdze várr’, 86, 197, 262. See also Olenegorsk Push-pull effect, 3–5, 83, 90, 111, 224, 229, 230, 237 Q Quechua, 233 queer, 131, 137. See also LGBTQ+; queering Sápmi queering Sápmi, 131. See also LGBTQ+; queer R racialization, 2, 10–11, 153, 236 racism, 2, 4, 9–11, 13, 19, 24, 34, 35, 55, 74, 120–21, 130, 151–53, 174, 236, 251–52 “scientific,” race biology research, 9–10, 34–45. See also social Darwinism Ráhkkerávju, 261. See also Kvalsund (hamlet) “railway belt,” 86, 188, 194, 197. See also Kola: Peninsula Red Party (Norway), 207 Red Power movement, 237 Reiersen, Jan Einar, 73 reindeer herding, 34, 43, 56, 64, 84, 88, 93–4, 109, 111–12, 116–19, 122, 126, 131, 136–39, 142, 143, 158, 192, 206, 207, 220, 231, 247, 254 relocation, forced, 75, 88, 116, 134, 189. See also the Amalgamation, the; Burning of Finnmark Renberg, Elsa Laula. See Laula Renberg, Elsa representation, xiii, 12, 17, 18, 31, 35, 37, 38, 43, 56, 59–60, 70, 92, 157, 161–62, 168, 170, 171,

Index | 277

176–79, 181–82, 184–85, 187, 191–92, 196, 198–200, 202–3, 207, 232, 245, 250, 255. See also NGOs; Sámediggi resistance, 7, 8, 10–1, 75, 118, 174, 176, 236, 238 returnees to Indigenousness, 7, 75. See also revitalization Revda, 86, 192, 194 revitalization, 34–5, 41, 44, 75, 109, 116, 137, 139, 173, 190, 202, 248, 256 Roavvenjárga, 42, 73, 82, 91, 251, 262. See also Rovaniemi Romsa, viii-x, 42, 55, 57, 63, 66–8, 76, 78–80, 85, 91, 93, 107, 123– 24, 126, 128, 131–32, 139, 140, 158, 160, 162–63, 166–68, 171, 174, 178–82, 194, 198, 250–52, 263. See also Tromsø Romssa Sámi Searvi. See NSR: Tromsø chapter Røros, 64, 158, 168–69, 183, 262. See also Plaassje Rovaniemi, 42, 73, 82, 91, 251, 262. See also Roavvenárga Runášši, 66, 263. See also Trondenes rurality, 7, 11, 55, 111, 112, 117–18, 141, 147, 189, 232, 246, 252. See also Indigenous: ruralization; rural-urban balance or conflict ruralization. See Indigenous: ruralization rural-urban balance or conflict, 160, 176, 190, 199, 205, 246–50 Russian Empire, 72–3, 84, 187 Revolution of 1917, 34, 72, 85, 188, 199 Sámi Parliament. See Sámediggi: movement for a Russian Tsardom, 83–4 Russians, 32, 36, 39, 153 russkie (ethnic Russians), 36 Rypefjord, 67, 262. See also Lávželuokta

S Saba, Isak, 158, 161 Saemien Sijjie Tråante (renamed Tråanten Saemien Dåehkie in 2021), 169, 183 Studeenth Oslovisnie, 171 Studeenth Tråantesne, 8, 18, 169– 70 Saglie, Jo, 248 Sáhráhkká, 191 Salto bihtesamiid searvi, 168 Salto sámesiebrre. See NSR: Salten chapter Sám’ Nuraš, 193, 194, 198, 204, 208 sobbar, 38, 187, 191, 200 Sámediggi, 18, 33, 37, 44, 47, 56, 58–60, 67, 70–3, 78–81, 90, 93, 116, 135, 137–38, 157, 161–65, 168, 171, 173–74, 178–79, 181– 85, 191, 193, 198–200, 203–4, 206–7, 249–50, 255 electoral constituencies, 41, 43, 44, 47, 79, 178, 196, 207, 250 Electoral Registry, 37, 56, 58–60, 78, 80, 90, 92, 116, 180, 181, 207, 250 in Finland, 37, 73, 78, 90, 92–3, 116 movement for a Russian, 38, 60, 187, 191–93, 198, 200–1, 203–4 in Norway, 18, 37, 44, 47, 58, 67, 81, 93, 135, 157, 161–65, 168, 171, 173–74, 178–79, 181–85, 198, 203, 206–7, 249–50, 255 in Sweden, 37, 60, 70, 72, 81 Sámi Council, 56–7, 93, 195 Culture Club, 268 culture house, ix, 69, 150, 172, 177, 179, 182–84, 194, 196–98, 203, 236. See also Sámi House Domicile, viii, 43–4, 56, 58, 73, 81–2, 116 flag, ix, 124 Fund for Heritage and Development, 193

278 | Index

Fund of Nature, 193 homeland. See Sápmi. See also Sámi: Domicile kindergarten, ix, 120, 133, 135, 137, 139, 149, 154, 163, 165, 168, 177, 184, 206–7, 253 Language Administrative Areas, viii, 47, 59, 72, 77, 173, 180 melancholia, 175 National Day, 128, 132–33, 155, 172, 197 parents’ networks, 23, 149, 163, 166–69, 171–72, 178, 181, 204, 207 Parlameanta (Sámi Delegation), 37, 60, 92 parliaments. See Sámediggi Pathfinders, viii, 170 People’s Party (SáB), 171, 183 pride flag, ix, 124 Reindeer Herders’ Association of Norway (NBR/NRL), 158 religion, 9, 33, 108 school services, 122, 126–29, 139–40, 149, 163, 172, 184, 207 Searvi (Oslo), 159–60. See also NSR Social Democratic Forum (Oslo), 171, 183 Studeanttaid Searvi Romssas, 132, 166, 179 Studeanttasearvi Davvi-Norggas, 166, 174, 179 spaces, 12, 18, 129, 143, 149–50, 154–56, 162, 164, 167–69, 175, 183, 193, 203–4, 248, 253–56 “-speakers” and “non-speakers,” 41, 58, 100, 122, 126, 130, 138, 140, 164–65, 177–78, 247, 253–54 subgroups, 16, 41, 137, 168, 172 toponyms. See toponyms University of Applied Sciences, x, 17, 67, 170, 173 youth organizing. See Ávjovárri: Noereh; Davvi Nuorra; Noereh; Oslove: Noereh; Sám’: Nuraš Sámi House, 172–73, 251 in Alta. See Álttá: Siida

in Bodø. See Sámi Language Center: in Bodø inspired by House of Greenland, 172, 183 in Oslo, 9–10, 140, 142, 172, 183–85, 195, 198, 207 in Tromsø, 179–81, 251 in Trondheim, 182–83 Sami Language Center, 172, 173, 175–76, 198, 202–3 in Alta, 138, 176–78, 198 in Bodø, 135, 139, 181, 182, 207 in Kåfjord, 177 in Nesseby, 177 in Oslo, 183–87 in Porsanger, 177 in Røros, 183 in Stuornjárga, 177 in Tana, 177 in Tromsø, viii, 68, 178–81, 198 in Trondheim, 182 in Tysfjord, 177 inspired by Wales, 173 Sáminess, vii, xv, 11, 40, 57, 77, 92, 116, 118, 124, 126, 142, 151–52, 154–55, 164–65, 174–77, 207, 231, 233, 250–53, 255 Samisk Arena Trondheim, 169, 171 Sámit lulde, 171 San Francisco, 239 Sápmi borders of, 41, 43, 47 Finnish, 40, 46, 72, 91, 116 Nordic, 20, 61, 82, 84, 91, 201 Norwegian, 46, 62–3, 70, 76, 78, 85, 159, 185, 190, 194, 204 Russian, 20, 38, 42–3, 46, 82–9, 91, 116, 142, 187–90, 192–95, 199, 203–5, 208 Swedish, ix, 46, 69–71, 76, 79, 91, 93, 117 South, 41, 43–4, 47, 63, 70, 72, 76, 79, 91, 93, 117, 158, 169, 172, 183, 248 Sárá Project, 81–2 Sayer, Derek, 226 Scandinavia, xiv, 10, 31, 32, 75, 142, 226

Index | 279

“scientific” racism. See discrimination; racism scorched earth tactics, 75. See also Burning of Finnmark Seattle, 239 Seglvik, 158. See also Silvetnjárga self-determination, 6, 188 self-governance, 6, 34, 37, 174 Selivanov, Vasilij, 190 Seminarium Lapponicum, 64, 66 Seminarium Scholasticum, 64 Semjaškin, Sergej, 190 SER. See Sámediggi: Electoral Registry SeSam, Center for Sámi Studies, 66 settler colonialism, 9, 11, 84, 110, 115, 118, 120–21, 174–75 Severomorsk, 86 SFF, 178–9, 181 shame, 10, 113, 121, 137, 138, 151. See also passing; policing šiella, 10–1, 186. See also duodji siida, 32, 87, 93, 137, 177, 198 Silvetnjárga, 158. See also Seglvik Sjädtavallie, 70, 263. See also Sundsvall Skánit, 263. See also Skånland Skånland, 263. See also Skánit Skansen, vii, 68, 179–81 Skellefteå, 42, 71, 81, 91, 93, 163. See also Skillehte Skillehte, 42, 71, 81, 91, 93, 163. See also Skellefteå Sköld, Peter, 5 Skolt Sámi, 22, 40–1, 64, 73, 142, 260 Slavic, 32, 83 SLF, 161, 178 small-numbered peoples of the North (KMNS), 37, 39, 196, 197, 200 Smith, Linda Tuhiwai, 14, 17 Soađegilli, 56, 263. See also Sodankylä Sobbar, 38, 187, 191, 200 social Darwinism. See also antiSámism; discrimination; racism Socialist Left Party, 207 social media, 19, 108, 119, 132, 139, 154–55, 163, 235, 249. See also Facebook

Sodankylä, 56, 263. See also Soađegilli Sokolovskij, Sergej, 7 Sørlie, Kjetil, 77–8 Sortland, 65, 263. See also Suortá Sør-Trøndelag, 76, 93, 206, 207. See also Trøndelag Sør-Varanger, 80. See also Máttá-Várjjat Soviet Indigenous “spring,” 34, 87, 188 Soviet Union, 3, 35, 38, 87 Sovkhoz, 88, 193 South Norway, 79, 170, 171, 205 South Sámi, 40–2, 58, 64, 168, 182–83, 193, 207, 260. See also Sápmi: South Spållavuolle viii, 65, 68, 263. See also Svolvær specialization, 11, 21, 147–49, 155–57, 162, 192, 193, 203, 206, 254 SSSR. See Sámi: Studeanttaid Searvi Romssas; Soviet Union St. Petersburg, 43, 85, 89–90, 188, 190, 201 Staare, 42, 70, 72, 89, 158, 188, 190, 262. See also Östersund Stalinism, 34, 289 statistics, vii, 44, 46, 55, 57–9, 60–1, 70, 76–7, 80, 85, 88–9, 91, 135, 225–30, 231, 238. See also demography Statistics Norway, 55, 57, 76 Statistics Sweden, 70 Steinkjer, 64, 263. See also Stientjie stereotypes, xiii, 9–11, 13, 89, 111–12, 117–18, 151–53, 220, 233, 246, 251–53 Stientjie, 64, 264. See also Steinkjer STN-area, viii, 44, 58, 77 Stockholbma, viii, 42, 44, 69, 77, 81, 91, 93, 107, 126, 129, 135, 137, 158. See also Stockholm Stockholm, viii, 42, 44, 69, 77, 81, 91, 93, 107, 126, 129, 135, 137, 158. See also Stockholbma Stordahl, Vigdis, 17

280 | Index

Stormen. See Sámi Language Center: in Bodø subethnic, 20, 162. See also Sámi: subgroups Sundsvall, 70, 263. See also Sjädtavallie Suoma Sámiid Guovddášsearvi, 82 Suortá, 65, 263. See also Sortland Suttes, 71, 260. See also Boden Svahken sijte, xi, 257 Sverresborg Folk Museum, 183, 207 Svolvær, viii, 65, 68, 263. See also Spållavuolle Swedes, 32 Syöoldete, 42, 71, 81, 91, 93, 163. See also Skellefteå T Tärnaby, 263. See also Dearna; Deärnná Tauli-Corpuz, Victoria, 226–7 taxation zones in the Middle Ages, 32, 33, 44, 83 Ter Coast, 83 Ter Sámi, 40, 260 Thrush, Coll, 220 Tjeldsund, 263. See also Dielddanuorri Tornio, 42, 71, 72, 73. See also Duortnus Tråante, x, xiv, 18, 42, 63–6, 70, 76, 79, 91, 93, 107, 121, 132, 150, 154, 158–59, 160, 162–63, 167– 70, 182, 183, 206, 248, 263. See also Lade; Nidaros; Trondheim Tråante 1917, x, 160, 169, 182, 183 Tråante2017, x, xiv, 170, 182, 183 Tråanten Dajven Saemien Siebrie. See NSR: Trondheim chaphter Tråanten Saemien Dåehkie. See Saemien: Sijjie Tråante traditional economic activities. See Indigenous: livelihoods Troms, viii, 57, 63–7, 75–6, 172, 179, 263. See also Tromsa Tromsa, viii, 57, 63–7, 75–6, 172, 179, 263. See also Troms

Tromsø, 42, 55, 57, 63, 66–8, 76, 78–80, 85, 91, 93, 107, 123–24, 126, 128, 131–32, 139–40, 158, 160, 162–63, 166–68, 171, 174, 178–82, 194, 198, 250–52, 263. See also Romsa Tromsø Teachers’ College Trøndelag, viii, 63–5, 70, 75–6, 93, 168–69, 206–7, 263 Trondenes, 66, 263. See also Runášši Trondheim, x, xiv, 18, 42, 63–6, 70, 76, 79, 91, 93, 107, 121, 132, 150, 154, 158–59, 160, 162–63, 167–70, 182–83, 206, 248, 263. See also Lade; Nidaros; Tråante toponyms, x, 21, 31, 41–2, 47, 55, 62, 65, 72, 83, 86, 167, 182, 260–63 Tullem, 88, 263. See also Tuloma Tuloma, 88, 263. See also Tullem U Ubmeje, ix, 42, 69–70, 76, 80–1, 88, 91, 93, 107, 134, 136–37, 139, 252, 263. See also Umeå Ucce, Peder Larsen, 158 UiT—The Arctic University of Norway, 65–7, 138, 166 ukrupnenie. See Amalgamation, the Ullsfjord, ix, 123, 178, 263. See also Moskavuotna; Vuovlevuotna Umba, 83, 85, 263. See also Umm’p umbrella organization, 56, 82, 157, 160, 183, 203, 255 Umeå, ix, 42, 69–70, 76, 80–1, 88, 91, 93, 107, 134, 136–37, 139, 252, 263. See also Ubmeje; Upmeje Ume Sámi, ix, 40, 42, 69–70, 260 Umm’p, 83, 85, 263. See also Umba United Nations, 39, 219, 227, 231 Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP), 227–8 Expert Mechanism on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, 39 -Habitat, 227, 229, 233 Special Rapporteur on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, 226

Index | 281

Working Group on Indigenous Populations, 39 United States of America, 3, 10, 24, 78, 174–74, 230, 236–37, 239 University of Lapland, xiii, 72–3 Unjárga, 177, 262. See also Nesseby Upmeje, ix, 42, 69–70, 76, 80–1, 88, 91, 93, 107, 134, 136–37, 139, 252, 263. See also Umeå Uralic, 32 urban Indigenous atomization, 154–55 culture houses, 147, 155, 172, 195, 198, 233, 237. See also Sámi House; Sámi Language Center governance. See governance: Indigenous life, xv, 2–4, 12, 30, 149, 185, 247, organizations. See NGOs space, 7, 18, 21, 149, 150, 154–55, 157, 162, 172–75, 192, 195, 198, 203–4, 236–37, 148, 253–54, 156. See also Indigenous: space urbanity, xiii, 1–4, 11, 73, 77, 112, 117, 133, 157, 194, 240, 245, 248 USSR. See Soviet Union Utsjoki, 56, 263. See also Ohcejohka V Vadsø, 63, 67, 80, 158, 263. See also Čáhčesuolu Vágar, viii, 65, 68 Váhki, 65, 68, 262. See also Lofoten; Lofuohtta Váhtjer, 42, 71, 80, 81, 91, 260. See also Gälliväre Várdduo, Center for Sámi Research, 70 Vardø, 67, 263. See also Várggát Vardøhus, 65 Várggát, 67, 263. See also Vardø Varzino, 86, 263. See also Ársjogk Varzuga, 83, 263. See also Vúr’se Västerbotten, 70–1, 76, 81

Västernorrland, 41, 70, 81 Vesterålen, 65, 263. See also Vester-allase; Viestterálas Vester-allase, 65, 263. See also Vesterålen; Viestterálas Vieljažiid Searvi, 157 Viestterálas, 65, 263. See also Vesterålen; Vester-allase Viking Age, 61 Vinogradova, Iraida, 190 visible Aboriginal presence, 236 Sáminess, 11, 130, 139, 151, 154–55, 164, 174, 180, 185, 195, 207. See also passing; policing voice, 16, 19, 129, 148, 156, 162, 171, 191, 195, 107, 255 Vuovlevuotna, ix, 123, 178, 263. See also Moskavuotna; Ullsfjord Vúr’se, 83, 263. See also Varzuga W Weaver, Hilary N., 107 Westen, Thomas von, 64 White Sea, 84 whiteness, 10–1, 135, 175, 220–21. See also passing; policing Willerslev, Rane, 98 Winsvold, Marte, 21 witch trials, 33. See also Christianization Wolfe, Patrick, 9, 110, 174 World Council of Indigenous Peoples, 39 World War I, 34, 85, 91 World War II, 34–5, 54–5, 60, 67, 75–6, 82, 86, 88, 90–1, 109, 157, 189, 222, 224–5, 227, 230 Y Yukaghirs, 89 Z Zavalko, Sergey, 61