Frank Vladimir Natawë

Frank Vladimir Natawë (1927-2000)

— An account of the funeral of Frank Vladimir Natawë, by Nadezda Nesnik, Montréal, Québec (edited)

— An article by Dr. John Hadjinicolaou after his encounters with Vladimir : “A First Nation Chief’s ‘Secret Path’ to Orthodoxy”

Instead of the usual format, the life of Frank Vladimir Natawë is presented by means of personal recollections.

Frank Vladimir Natawë is known also as Frank Curotte and as Akwiraes Natawë.

Part 1 : Nadezhda’s account

Some time ago, I (Nadezhda Nesnik) attended a “Mohawk Longhouse” funeral for Frank Vladimir Natawë. Vladimir is the name he took at his conversion, at his baptism into the Orthodox Christian Faith. In time, he became also a subdeacon.

Traditional longhouse

Early life of Frank Natawë

In 1927, Frank (Akwiraes) Curotte (Natawë) was born in Kahnawake, near Montréal, Québec, Canada. He was born to full-blooded Mohawk parents, Louis Tharonienhawitha (1891-1973) and Theresa (Martin) Kanenratentha (1891-1985).

Frank was educated by Roman Catholic nuns who referred to the Mohawks as savages, which hurt him, even in old age. His Mohawk family name was Natawë.

A brilliant man, speaking the 5 dialects of the Iroquois Nation, Vladimir had travelled the world and he had come home to his people for his final rest. He also had the status of a chief in Kahnawake.

Becoming an Orthodox Christian : receiving the name Vladimir

Vladimir was humble, fervent, and very pious, and he kept the fasts, feast-days, and all the rituals of the Church. He enjoyed nothing better than to serve in several Orthodox churches, although mostly at the Russian Orthodox Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul and later at the Sign of the Theotokos Church in Montréal, Québec, and he made friends amongst the clergy. Vladimir was a student of theology at Concordia University in the late 1970s. He also hosted a jazz programme on the Mohawk radio station.

Vladimir was a most talented man, a linguist, musician, academic, teacher, and with all this he was decent, kind and generous. He is remembered as never refusing anyone in need, as can be seen at his funeral in Kahnawake, a Mohawk Reserve just across the Saint Lawrence River from Montréal ; by the attendance and generosity of the villagers (as they prefer to be called) who all participated in one way or another. Some donated ; some volunteered ; some baked ; some built, served, worked and arranged the funeral, which was a bit long, as will be evident. The cost was shared by the whole village.

Repose of Vladimir, 2000

When Frank Vladimir Natawë suddenly fell asleep in the Lord (around 4 p.m.) on 25 May, 2000, word spread quickly amongst the population of 7,000.

The elders took him to the funeral parlour, where they washed his body (the old custom, as is the Orthodox Christian custom).

The elders dressed the body in the regalia of the chief of the Turtle Clan — the finest, soft deer skin, fringed and beaded for leggings ; a shirt of coloured ribbons and beads, and fringed ; on his chest, necklaces of coloured beads and a pendant of the turtle. On his feet were placed the most exquisite beaded and fringed moccasins, and on his head, he wore a headdress made of a beaded band, in the centre of which were upright eagle feathers : this denotes the status of a chief. In his hand, he held an eagle feather. His whole shroud was hand-sewn by a talented seamstress, and donated.

Mohawk longhouse, eastern door

Preparation ; funeral

When the deceased was dressed, he was brought to the Longhouse through the front door, feet first, lying on a board ; and when he left, it would be by the back door, feet first, and then around the Longhouse, in the same order, to complete a circle, and then to the grave. The Longhouse is a long, rectangular log cabin, with a door at each end, and windows all around. The benches around the room on three sides are elevated for good viewing of various functions, and all is of wood. The deceased was placed on a plywood board the size of his body, which was covered with a traditional hand-woven blanket, in designs for the dead. He was carried by 8 chiefs through the front door, and he was placed in the centre of the Longhouse. The board rested on a platform a metre high for clear viewing from all sides. A plate of corn, beans, peas, seeds and fried bread was placed to one side of his head, to be buried with him. Only a few flowers were seen, as this is a modern custom ; the Mohawk tradition does not stress wreathes and mountains of flowers, but things closer to nature and earth.

Day and night, the whole village kept coming throughout the 3 days, the Longhouse being open for viewing and paying respects, since the body must not be left alone until burial (as is the custom of the Orthodox Christian Church, and also of Judaism). The idea that one can have the company of family and friends, even in death, is a very comforting thought. The other cabin, called a Cookhouse, was also open throughout this time, to allow some nutrition for all. Provided was hot corn soup, aboriginal-style, fried bread, coffee, tea and juice. All the food and drink was donated and volunteered, and most appreciated by those who took part in the all-night vigil. There was no shortage of visitors from amongst the local population, and they all took turns at vigil – people from all walks of life, the ones he helped, his friends, some teachers from Concordia University, where, in middle-age, Vladimir obtained a Bachelor of Arts degree in linguistics and religion. Some came from the Orthodox churches where he had served and visited, and some from the days when he had enlisted in the army and played saxophone in the Canadian Grenadier Guard’s Band.

In the army, he had received a special service medal, and he was given an honourary discharge to look after his aged and ailing mother. He was the only son to survive a disastrous house-fire in which his three younger brothers perished. Other siblings died in infancy, leaving only him and an older sister out of nine children. His sister had been ill for years. The village children came in turns, and so did mothers with babies in strollers, to pay respect. Some came in wheelchairs from the hospital, and all spoke in hushed voices, sharing remembrances, and arranging amongst themselves who would take part in the all-night vigils. They divided into 2 3-hour shifts. It was amazing how they all co-operated. And, to keep awake, there was always the Cookhouse.

On the afternoon of the funeral, the Longhouse was filled to capacity, as people from Akwesasne and Wnedake Reserves, as well as Kahnawake, Ottawa and other places, came to mourn and bid Natawë a fond “ona-ki-wahi”. This means more than a final good-bye and is more like “I hope your road is good”. Their language is so very expressive. The first elder spoke only in “Kanien’keha” (Mohawk), as they all did, not in English, about the life of Frank Natawë, as he is known in the village : of his achievements, his good works, his philosophies, the work he did in his community, and in the establishment of the settlement of Ganienkeh, New York, where he taught in the Aboriginal Way School ; of his radio programmes in Mohawk language, and of his never having refused a person in need. The second elder told about the old way in the stone age. When someone died, they carried him with them on their travels, because they did not know what to do with the dead body ; they just did not know. The body began to smell, so the people decided to bury it in the ground. They have been doing this up to this day, and this will be the case for us. The third elder said that when someone dies, he does not take anything with him : not a house, not a car, not any of his possessions. “You can’t take the sun with you ; it’ll be here the next day. You can’t take the clouds ; they will be here the next day. You can’t take the nice day with you ; it’ll be here the next day and so on. Each one of us will die, and go into the earth, taking nothing with us”. This, I did not understand until it was translated later. It was very moving ; not a whisper was heard. We then moved silently to view the body for the last time, and then we moved silently out the back door, and the door was closed.

Left in the Longhouse were Frank’s daughter Elizabeth, her husband George, and their 5 children, grandchildren, and the chiefs, to prepare the body. They laid Vladimir on a bed of beaver pelts, and wrapped him up in the blanket, completely covering him, and strapped him with criss-crossed leather thongs to the “box” (because a four-inch border was put on all around the board). After some private time, the 8 chiefs, with their headdresses on, bore him on their shoulders, going out the back door, circling to the grave, where the volunteers were erecting the monument of the burial scaffold, of thin tree-trunks. At the grave, the body was covered in a magnificent buffalo skin, which had been donated. A few words were spoken. As the body slowly descended, Elizabeth screamed : “Daddy, Daddy”, and she was held by her husband and her son. The mourners threw earth into the grave, which was quickly filled, and the scaffold was then completed. A year later the scaffold was replaced by a stone monument, which was also donated. We slowly made our way to the Cookhouse. The memorial reception was a buffet of wonderful native and American foods. It consisted of corn soup (aboriginal style) ; chicken and dumplings soup ; meat of wild deer, moose, caribou, turkey, chicken, and delicious meat pies ; the 3 staples, called “the 3 sisters” : corn, beans and squash, prepared in various ways from casseroles to salads ; potatoes, wild leek, wild garlic, corn bread, fried bread, modern salads, and modern desserts ; and fruit juices (especially strawberry), coffee and tea. Most were in fine spirits, celebrating Vladimir’s life, not death. “Vetchnaya Pamyat” ! (Eternal Memory)

“Resting” was at the Route 207 Longhouse. The funeral was held on Monday, 29 May, 2000, in the Longhouse. The interment was at the Longhouse Cemetery. (“Montréal Gazette”, 27 May, 2000)

Post-funeral meal

Ten days later, some 200 helpers, all volunteers, were invited to the Natawë home for a meal and distribution of his possessions. Any left-over food from this meal was left on the table during the all-night vigil by the family members, George, Elizabeth and their son Jason. The next morning, the food was scraped off the plates, and collected along with Vladimir’s herbs (he was a renowned herbalist), and a baby’s papoose cradle board, made for the child Elizabeth had miscarried, and all were buried in the earth in the front garden. In sharing this experience, and relating these customs, it is clear to me how similar are many of the Mohawk and Orthodox burial customs. The Mohawk people, the Orthodox Church, and all who knew him are fortunate to have been a part of his life.

“Ona ki wahi” - “Vetchnaya pamyat” - Memory Eternal !

 May He who has dominion over the living and the dead ; and Who Himself rose again from the dead, Christ our 
 true God : through the prayers of His most pure Mother ; of the Holy, Glorious and All-laudable Apostles ; of 
 our Holy and God-bearing Fathers and of all the Saints, establish in the mansions of the righteous the soul 
 of His servant, Vladimir, departed this life ; give him rest in Abraham’s bosom, and number him amongst the 
 righteous ; and have mercy upon us ; forasmuch as He is good and loves mankind.  Amen. 
 – the dismissal prayer by the priest at the Orthodox “panikhida” service (prayer service for the departed)

Vladimir was survived by his only daughter Elizabeth (George), his sister Mae and his nephew Conrad, along with many grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Sign of the Theotokos Church in Église Saint-Léon-de-Westmount

Part 2 : John’s account

“A First Nation Chief’s ‘Secret Path’ to Orthodoxy : The Path of an Aboriginal, a Chief of the Mohawk Nation, led him to the Bosom of the Orthodox Church”

[This article, originally titled “The Passing of an Indian”, was first published in the Greek magazine “Synaxis”, volume 86, in a special issue, “America, America”.]

(“A Modern-Day Story of Orthodox ‘Lunacy’ in the Native Reserves of Canada”) [Translation by K N]

[“Lunacy“ refers to the behaviour of the “Fools for the sake of Christ”.]

by John (Yannis) Hadjinicolaou

Saturday night. Very few lights were on. In the Russian Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul, Vespers has just started. The shadowy silhouettes of the few faithful who were attending the service became more defined, as the candles were lit, one by one, on the candle stand. The iconostasis of the altar was very imposing; it was something that was carved by experienced craftsmen at the beginning of the century.

A “Gladsome Light” in Slavonic gave one a sense of inner peace and restfulness. At that moment everything seemed to be a prayer ; for the day that passed and the day that was to come. After the frenzy of the day, this refuge of thankfulness actually calmed the beasts of the mind.

First encounter

In the dim, half-light I could discern a few of the profiles there : an old Russian lady with her grandchild, a tall, skinny, middle-aged man, a young girl around fifteen, a young family with their two children . . . and suddenly, my attention was caught by a figure near the large window. Directly below it, I made out a silhouette that was completely different from all the others. It was a fifty-year-old Aboriginal with vivid, characteristic features, and his long hair tied back in a ponytail that reached his waist. My gaze rested upon him. . . . What a strange figure in here. . . . I imagined he was just a visitor. At the end of the service, I couldn’t fight the urge. I approached him, eager to meet him.

“Yannis”, I said to him in English. “Welcome”.

“Vladimir”, he replied.

“I’m Greek. And you ?” I asked him.

“So am I”, he replied.

I was stunned. . . . That was the last thing I expected to hear !

“Do you speak Greek ?” I asked.

He paused to think for a moment, then quoted in Greek : “In the beginning was the Logos, and the Logos was with God, and the Logos was God” [John 1:1]. Just as he finished saying this phrase, he burst into laughter. I was at a loss for words. . . .

“I am Mohawk”, he said sharply. “But somehow, I also feel Russian and Greek and Serbian and Romanian, because . . . I’m Orthodox”. . . . A glimmer appeared in his eye, as it did in my heart. . . . .

This was how Vladimir and I met. His name, before becoming Orthodox and being baptised Vladimir, was Frank Natawë.

I so craved to hear his life story – both out of curiosity as well as genuine interest. Much later, we became friends. We shared many conversations and walks together, especially in his native village. He showed me paths and manners totally unknown to us Europeans. And always simply and unpretentiously, with no trace of arrogance. When I was with him, I always had a strong sensation of instruction, and whenever I admitted this to him, he always said that all beautiful things are mutual.

That first period has become unforgettable, when I was swept away by my youthful enthusiasm, and I kept asking him difficult questions. He would always calmly reply :

“I don’t know – will you tell me ?”

Once, when I was fed up with hearing myself say “I don’t know”, I begged him to tell me something, so, he showed some pity and said :

“Well, if you insist, I will tell you, after I ask my friend”.

He sprang up and then lay down on the ground, placing his ear to the ground.

“What are you doing ?” I asked.

“I am asking the Earth”, he said, and before I could recover from my surprise, he added somewhat hesitantly, “Like Aliosha Karamazov”.

I never again insisted on replies. I guess that with him, I was just living the surprise of a sudden lightning bolt that gives birth to a gentle rain that nourishes the earth.

It has been some time now that Vladimir has left us. His passing away – along with his will and testament – overwhelmed me. Now, that feeling of his presence, instead of fading into oblivion, appears before me every so often, and I thought I should record his experiences, images, memories, words and expressions, to sketch a portrait of his presence amongst us ... hopefully, so that my ear will also perceive ... the tumultuous silence of the mother earth of Vladimir-Karamazov to me.

Vladimir was born and lived all his life, until the day he died, in the Mohawk village of Kahnawake, an “Indigenous Reserve” just outside Montréal.

The Indigenous, or First Nations as they are more often called now in Canada (or Native Americans in the USA), along with the Inuit (the “Eskimo”) are the indigenous inhabitants of America. As such, they are seen by many North Americans today as “enjoying“ special privileges and treatment denied to other citizens, such as not needing a passport, exemptions from some taxes, receiving financial support from the federal government. In fact, these are rights gained at great cost to themselves, through treaty, as sovereign nations with the occupying “white” European nations, in return for the largely peaceful surrender of vast areas of their territories – “mother earth” as they call it.

These treaties originally, at least nominally, recognised the indigenous peoples as sovereign nations, confined them to diminutive enclaves – reserves (in Canada) or reservations (in the USA) – and the original equality degenerated into an arrogant cultural superiority, an unkind paternalism, that justified attempts by the “white” governments to extinguish the native cultures, to eradicate their “savage” ways. The resulting malaise has led to abnormally high alcoholism and suicide rates amongst them. The struggle for survival, individually and as a people, has been a daily concern, and they are justly proud to have preserved their traditions and languages in the face of overwhelming pressures.

In truth, the “savages” have had much to teach the “civilised” Europeans and, in fact, have given many gifts to the world, most often without acknowledgment, and amongst them is their form of government. The Mohawk people are governed in a unique manner.

Their supreme authority is the confederacy of five principal native nations : the Mohawk, Onandaga, Seneca, Oneida, and Cayuga. As a political union, and as a democratic government – leadership was not inherited, but by selection – the Iroquois Confederation, also known as the People of the Longhouse, predated European settlement of North America. The image of the longhouse implied that the nations should live together as families in one longhouse, the Seneca being the guardians of the western door, the Mohawk, the guardians of the eastern door and the Onondagas in the centre, the guardians of the hearth.

It is claimed that the Iroquois Confederation influenced the United States of America Constitution when it was drafted in the late 18th century. While the European Enlightenment then paid lip service to the ancient Greek ideals of democracy and political organisation, Europe at that time was governed exclusively by monarchies and aristocracies. The Iroquois Confederation provided a working model that the rebelling American colonists could emulate, even if failing to acknowledge their debt. A significant difference between the 2, however, was that the Iroquois constitutionally included women, whereas the Americans would exclude them.

There is a mutual respect amongst all of the Iroquois nations. There is a respect for the chiefs and the elders, and for the elderly women of each nation, and of one generation for another. Their love and respect for each other is the foundation of their Confederation.

In the territory of Kahnawake there are 3 nations, the majority being Mohawk. The village, numbering 5,000 today, was built in a strategic location in about 1600, next to the Saint Lawrence River, and is the main centre of the Mohawk people. Recent generations have gained a reputation, to the point of being stereotyped, as fearless workers in high steel.

Saints Peter and Paul Cathedral, Montréal, Québec

Another conversation

“Our village”, Vladimir told me,

 along with other native reserves was turned basically into a Roman Catholic 
 protectorate in the 18th century.  The Catholic missionaries had actually 
 tried in every way forcefully to convert our entire community.  Not with love, 
 but with a noose around the neck.  They trampled on centuries-old traditions 
 and they used other ones as springboards for their own designs.  I myself, 
 up to the age of 32, had kept to the trodden path.  As my mother, who was an 
 elder leader of our nation used to say, ‘By day a Roman Catholic for the eyes 
 of the world, and by night an Iroquois, for the eyes of the soul’. 
 
 But at the age of 32, I couldn’t tolerate that kind of restriction, that noose 
 that I was wearing, so I rebelled in my own way. [...] I researched our roots, 
 I learnt all of our native tongues, I studied at white men’s universities, 
 which for a native of my generation was a very unusual thing.  For years, they 
 had me as a travelling lecturer of comparative linguistics.  Quite often, I 
 would dishonestly play the clown at their academic games, since to them I was 
 a rare, exotic species of bird, with a different kind of plumage.  
 
 I used to compare our words with their French or English equivalents ; our 
 habits with theirs.  There were times that I felt as though they were 
 observing me like archaeologists observe fossils.  To me however, those 
 meetings alone – those cultural meetings – regardless of the response, 
 contained joy and grief together.  My rebellion was still thundering, 
 because it was muted, like the tread of a rabbit. [...] My mother – the 
 pillar of our community – was to me a source of wisdom and immense pain. 
 She was my ... Indian Zosimas. [...]

(He took a deep breath and continued).

My path to the Orthodox Church was a ‘secret path’, as we say in our tongue.
There came a time, that I became caught in her net, and ever since then, I have
been treading very discreetly, carrying a very heavy Cross. It happened to me
through linguistics. It was always the subject that impressed me most. By taking
linguistics courses, I became impressed when I happened to read the lives of
Saints Cyril and Methodius, who are known as the Apostles of the Slavs. I was
especially intrigued by the Cyrillic alphabet and the pursuant Slavonic tongue.
I asked my professor if there was any chance I could listen to Slavonic being
spoken. He suggested that I should visit one of the Russian churches.

I rang one of them, but I heard only the answering machine. I rang the next day,
and a friendly voice informed me that Vespers was held at 7 in the evening, and
that Sunday Service was held at 10 in the morning. I asked if I could attend.
He replied of course I could. I told him I wasn’t Russian, or Orthodox. He
responded that the Orthodox Liturgy was not only for the Russians or only for
the Orthodox, but for all people. So, I mustered some courage and went on a
Saturday evening to listen to spoken Slavonic and to meet the priest, who had
spoken so pleasantly. He was a priest-monk from Montenegro in Serbia. His name
was Father Anthony. [...] He, too, has passed away now. [...]

Well, anyway, the first Saturday that I attended Orthodox Vespers in the
Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul, I experienced something unprecedented. Looking at the
icons, listening to the melodies, observing the penance, bows and the prostrations,
the fragrance of the incense wafting in the atmosphere, were all reminiscent of my
having discovered the ‘secret path’. [...]

You won’t believe it, but, every now and then, I can discern parallels between the
native traditions and Orthodox tradition. Somewhere inside me, this discovery
fulfilled my native ethos and supplemented it. At first, I felt I was floating among
the clouds. During my first liturgy, I asked if I could stay on after the benedictions
for the catechumens. [...] They said : ‘You may’. So I sat down, like an Indian dog !
After that, I began to go more frequently. At first, on Sundays only, then on Saturdays,
and later on, during weekdays, whenever there were important feasts.

It wasn’t much later that I noticed confession was taking place in the evening, after
Vespers. It was the period of Lent. At the end, they all asked for forgiveness from
the priest. He placed his stole over their head and blessed them with the sign of the
Cross. I stood in line, but they said :
‘You can’t, you’re not Orthodox. This is a Holy Sacrament’.
‘But our entire life is a sacrament’, I said.
I pondered again, and asked them, ‘So, how can I become Orthodox ?’
‘Talk it over with the priest’, they suggested.

Not much time had passed by, when I decided I wanted to become Orthodox. On the day
that it was to take place, there was a snowstorm that didn’t allow me to leave the
village. It was postponed, for the feast of the Entrance of the Theotokos to the Temple.
And that’s how it finally happened. [...] I was given the name Vladimir.

Much later, when reminiscing over my reception into the Orthodox Church, I drew out of
my memories the imposing figure of a Serb priest, who had visited our village when I was
young. His appearance and his manner had left a deep impression inside me. I remember
my mother having commented, ‘Now there’s someone who isn’t making propaganda with his truth’.

Another conversation

Quite some time had passed, when I decided to visit Vladimir again. This time, I went with two of my friends and a little car, equipped with tape recorders and microphones, and we departed one sunny morning for his village, Kahnawake. He had suggested that we meet at the Mohawks’ radio station since he had been the radio commentator for several years, and had promised us walks and conversations in their territory. We did find him at the radio station in the village, with headphones over his ears, reading the morning prayer in each and every Indian tongue, then in French and English. Naturally, his audience did not detect him making the Orthodox sign of the Cross.

We waited respectfully until he had finished. He removed the headphones and approached us. [...] He was more talkative than usual, and somewhat more cheerful.

“What would you like me to tell you ?” he asked warm-heartedly, “And what could you ever want to learn from me ?”

“Tell us whatever you want”, Gregory replied. “Say, for instance, something about your people, your celebrations, your mission. [...]”

“You’re going too fast”, he interrupted, “One thing at a time”.

“Well [...] my people [...]”.

It took him some time to formulate his reply. He was seated in an armchair, but found it was not comfortable for him. [...] He abandoned it and sat down on the porch with us. [...] He preferred to be on the same level as us.

 My people are simple, just like their food. The chief of the nation is a man, but 
 he is elected by the council of women-elders of the nation.  All of our group rituals 
 take place in the ‘longhouse’.  This has 2 doors.  The men enter through the eastern 
 door and the women from the western one.  It is a simple edifice, just like most of our 
 rituals are.  In our marriages, an integral part of the ritual is the blessing of the
 elders.  During our funerals, for both men and women, when they are carried into the 
 longhouse they enter through their separate doors, but the head of the deceased always 
 faces the east.  After 9 days, we prepare the funeral meal, but without salt. [...]

He suddenly jumped up, because the record he was broadcasting over the radio had stuck. He put on another record, made an announcement, and came back to us.

 What were we talking about ? Ah, yes ! The rituals.  I will show you the longhouse, before 
 it gets too dark. [...] Now, about our celebrations.  The entire year is a celebration.

He burst out laughing.

 We have the mid-winter festival (4 days long) ; we have the snow festival, the first
 bloom festival, the first crop – which is the berry ; the festival of plenteous harvest 
 (thanksgiving), the threshing festival (4 days), the festival of surplus, of rain and 
 of sowing, and the cycle starts all over again.  Something like an ecclesiastic calendar 
 of our holy earth. [...]

He took another deep breath and continued,

 We don’t say much, nor do we eat much ; we don’t get angry often, we love what was given
 to us and we continuously give thanks for the bounteous gifts. [...]

“Do you happen to have any tobacco ?” he asked me. “No”, I said.

 You know, we chew our tobacco – in other words, we eat it.  We don’t smoke it.  When you 
 smoke it, it turns into air, whereas if you eat it, it becomes one with you, and you bless 
 the earth that gave it to you. [...] 
 Now, what else did you ask me ? Ah, yes ! About my mission. [...] 
 What can I say ? My people got tired of the missionaries.  They have been coming here for 
 years, mostly to take rather than to give.  They never showed any interest in what we have. 
 They just brought on the steamroller, they flattened everything, and then they embarked on
 their [...] evangelical sowing. 
 But that Serbian priest was different. He actually gave something, with his presence [...] 
 he took nothing from us, except a piece of our heart.  That was what I loved, when I later 
 read about Saint Herman of Alaska and the Orthodox missionaries amongst the Aleut and 
 Tlingit people ; it is impossible for the mind not to make comparisons [...] as hard as 
 it may try [not to see them]. 
 I still remember that Jesuit, who told me to my face that he was instructed to teach 
 spirituality.  When he left our home, my mother shook her head in disapproval, saying, 
 ‘We, my child, are a spiritual people, while he, even if his Christ came to him, he would 
 sit Him down to preach at Him. [...]’

“Are there any other Orthodox amongst the Indians ?” Gregory asked again.

“I have met an Orthodox Inuit in Plattsburg, and one more – a very tall Mic Mac [Mi’kmaq]. There may be others who I’m not aware of. But in the Mohawk hospital we do have a couple of Serbian doctors, the Moscovites. Real gems of people ; they have a special love for our world, and they offer all their assistance”.

Lesley looked him directly in the eyes.

“Tell us, if you want, about that story with the native masks. It was in all the newspapers and they all mentioned your name. What happened exactly ?”

[For the reader’s information, I will briefly report the events. The Canadian government decided to open a new museum in Western Canada, in the city of Calgary, where it would put on display, amongst other exhibits, a number of Indian masks, which it had “borrowed” in an “unorthodox” manner from a longhouse, as folklore artifacts. This provoked the indignation of the Iroquois, who assigned Vladimir to look into the matter, to visit the exhibition – at the expense of the government – and to give his opinion to his people, as well as to the government.]

Vladimir sat down, cross-legged, and after taking a few minutes to think, replied,

 To us, those masks are sacred.  We always keep them in the dark, and we protect them with 
 silk material.  They represent the [...] holy personage that we are in search of.  We find 
 it in silence, in darkness, where we also find the light of our soul.  Our soul is never
 displayed in exhibitions or in artificial lighting. [...] Those who organised the exhibition 
 lost every sense of what is sacred, and that is why they strive ‘gently’ to remove it from 
 our souls also. [...] We love the earth, because it knows how to keep silent and be fruitful. 
 We have learnt to love it humbly and to honour it.  It is something like Orthodoxy’s Holy
 Mother [...] since you like parallels.  But, I have said too much. [...] Let’s get up now, 
 and I will show you my village. [...]

We got into the little car, and I sat in the driver’s seat. Vladimir was the co-driver. He began to show us all the landmarks :

Here in the centre of the village you can see the Catholic church. It is dedicated to
Saint Kateri Tekakwitha, an Indian woman whom the pope proclaimed a saint. We keep her
bones, which perform miracles, in this church. This is a pilgrimage for the laity. Her
life is as beautiful as a fairytale. [...] To me, she was a fool in Christ. [...] She was
a Grace-filled fool. She would roll over in the snow, to purify her heart. [...] My fellow
villagers – who became Catholics – are not particularly fond of Catholic propaganda, but
they do show reverence to their saint ; it was their pressure on the Vatican that brought
on her beatification. [...] Next to the church, there is a small museum. In there, you
will find a map of the Confederation, that describes in detail all of the Iroquois nations,
the symbols, the numbers, the places they originated from, their historical course, their
languages. [...] Everything has become a part of the museum. [...]
Now turn right, here. [...]
This is our Cultural Centre. Above it, is the radio station where we met. [...] That is
where I broadcast from. [...]
Now, during the Triodion, and afterwards, during Lent, I play a lot of Western spiritual
music and little by little, I include some Orthodox innuendos, but only just enough as not
to be provocative. Iroquois spiritual music is not permitted over the radio. It is only
for the ‘longhouse’. The cultural centre is financially supported by the ‘white’ government.
The powers outside, of the ‘civilised’ world, want to help us, but only on paper ; in actual
fact, they want to drown us, to humiliate us, to exhaust us – not so much us, as our souls,
and whatever we carry. They want to turn us into masks for museums, clowns at parties,
research for archaeologists. [...] They haven’t taken a whiff of, nor do they suspect what
kind of tobacco we prefer.

He burst into laughter. I nearly lost control of the steering wheel. I continued to drive on, following his instructions : left [...] right [...] straight ahead [...] until, at a bend in the road, we saw a modern but very unusually shaped structure.

 This is our school, Grade School and High School.  It has a good programme, I like it.  It is 
 truly Mohawk.  Apart from the classic subjects of ‘white’ education, we have many other lessons 
 that are most probably unfamiliar to the whites.  We don’t call them ‘customs’ or ‘culture’, 
 but Iroquois ways, Iroquois paths (the sounds of the earth), Iroquois dances, Iroquois songs 
 and cries (like an ancient drama), Iroquois law, and other things.  The grounds surrounding 
 the school are sacred.  We also have a ‘dark room’, but not for photographs. [...] It is for 
 the making of the [...] mask inside us.  
 Now go straight ahead, eastward.  Continue, until you find the highway.  Two, three kilometres from there. [...]
 This here is our hospital.  It is a new building, and it is a new idea for us.  A beneficial 
 one, I hope.  It was built in 1985.  Before that, we had our own medicine men or we resorted 
 to the white man’s hospitals.  But they were difficult.  Most of their staff was unaccustomed 
 to our ways ; it was difficult for them to look after our old folk.  They have to be in our 
 shoes, in order to understand. [...] Many try.  Besides, you can tell apart those who truly 
 love and who can be discerned from the usual professionals. [...]

Saint Kateri (Catherine) Tekakwitha

Vladimir Natawë was the chief of his nation ; he was their spiritual leader. It was he who recited at their funerals and their weddings – he was something like a priest for them. In the evening, he would sit cross-legged in the longhouse, listening to his people’s problems and solving them with the advice he offered. He had a judge’s role, which was one of their most powerful traditions. He was a poet and a translator, and also a philosopher. He knew their problems better than anyone else ; he also knew the strict laws that governed their nations. Those who denied their ancestral principles and became Christians were allowed to remain in the village, but were not given any office. They would have to leave the council of the wise, the elders ; they would “lose their destiny” as they described it. [...] In their own special kind of way, they would be disowned. All of this may not be of much significance for an ordinary Indian, but for a chief [...].

No-one in the village ever found out until the day he died that their chief was an Orthodox Christian. And Vladimir, who was Frank to them, lived and worked with them, for them, with the ever-present fear that they might find out. He had to be perpetually moderate, careful, flexible, otherwise his image would have been smashed inside them. He was in charge of the radio station for years, and he also worked at their Cultural Centre. He was considered an authority on subjects of tradition, and was unimaginably touched, whenever he found “parallels”, as he called them, in Orthodox tradition. He shared many of his experiences with us, because he couldn’t share them with his own people. What a heavy Cross to bear [...].

Whenever I would see him coming out of the inner sanctum of the little Church of the Sign of the Theotokos, which held services in English and French, dressed as an altar server and holding the candle in front of priests and bishops, I couldn’t help wondering what kind of heart that old Indian wolf had inside him, who persistently said “God knows”. And he would forever be prostrating himself on the ground, so that God would give him enlightenment to govern his people through tempests and ordeals, and to give him the strength to hold up the heavy load that was given to him, right to the end.

The years passed. Every friend that visited us in Montréal had to make the imperative trip to the Mohawk village, and to meet Vladimir. And many of them told me that they had recorded their own experiences there.

Repose of Vladimir, 2000

One morning, I received a phone call in Montréal, telling me that Vladimir had passed away in his village. The question that arose in my mind was : who was going to bury him, what was to become of him ? He had, however, left a specific, written instruction for all the rituals to be done in the Indian tradition in the longhouse, and for an Orthodox priest to read the prayers over him. Naturally, the Indians had no idea what he meant by “an Orthodox priest”, but he had left a few telephone numbers, too.

They did actually phone, and an Orthodox priest went and recited the funeral service before they carried Vladimir into the longhouse.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have the opportunity to attend the ritual in the longhouse, but a mutual friend, Michael, who attended the funeral, conveyed the details to me.

Two days after the funeral, Michael brought me the news, together with a package. He told me that he had attended the entire ritual. It was truly impressive. When they go to the longhouse, the Indians put on the outfits that befit their rank in the village. The ritual, which was of course in their own language, had a particular form, much like the old, Byzantine, type. At the end, the chief’s testament was read out aloud, before all the people. In his will and testament, he mentioned where he left each of his belongings.

Vladimir was 75 years old at the most. He had children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

He left something to every single member of his family.

At one point, the Indian who was reading the will found some difficulty in reading a name, a non-Indian name and, after grimacing a bit, he put on his glasses and pronounced the name, in a distorted kind of way : “Ya-nis Ha-ji-ni-ko-la-ou”. My friend Michael raised his hand and they gave him the package, which he in turn gave to me.

When I opened the package, I saw what was inside : it was a book, “The Divine Liturgy”, in Greek and in English, which I had given to Vladimir many years ago. Inside, on the first page, it said : “To Yanni”, and below that, in Greek : “Until we meet again – Vladimir Natawe”.

I took this to be a very kind gesture on his behalf ; he had in fact inserted those words before his final departure ; perhaps because he had sensed that his death was near. He had written the words “Until we meet again” in Greek.

Of course, the surprise did not end there. When I leafed through the book, I was astounded, my mouth agape. [...] Vladimir had translated the entire text of the liturgy into the Mohawk tongue, above the lines of the English text ! Of course I can’t read Mohawk, but I am holding on to the book as a memento – this Orthodox Liturgy by Vladimir in Mohawk – the entire Liturgy of Saint John Chrysostom. [...] If God bestows on me the honour, I may publish it one day. [...]

Contemporary stories like this one may sound like a fairytale, because our life seems equally fleeting. And yet, these stories are filled with a never-setting light ; they are modern-day testimonies of that blessed “lunacy”, that yeast, which leavens all of the dough, from the tiny Church atop an Aegean islet, to the distant native reserves of Canada.

“Until we meet again, Vladimir - Karamazov”.

[About the author : Professor John Hadjinicolaou, PhD, is a multi-faceted and multitalented academic, something that is reflected in his personality and his academic specialisation in various fields such as Environmental Engineering and Theology.

He teaches at the Universities of McGill, Concordia, and Sherbrooke. He is a member of the United Nations International Council of the Protection of the Environment, and of the Council of the Archdiocese of Canada, The Orthodox Church in America.]

Reflections

This presentation of the life of Vladimir Natawë cannot follow the usual format of the other biographies for several reasons. It is fitting that this be so, since his life stands apart as an Indigenous Orthodox Christian. In some ways, one may see parallels with the life of Matushka Olga Michael of Alaska.

When the several Orthodox Christians of Montréal, Québec, came to know Vladimir, their encounters can make a parallel with the experiences of Saint Innocent (Veniaminov) of Alaska, and of Saint Herman of Alaska (and others) in Alaska, and in the Russian Far East. There are indications in these reports that the natural evangelical ways of such holy people are the ways of Orthodox Christians in Canada : of those who listen to their hearts, and who love and serve in Christ.

Vladimir Natawë is not at all the only Indigenous, First-Nations Orthodox Christian in Canada, but his story may help us to understand why the Indigenous Peoples live quietly amongst us, rather than being vocally and visibly noticeable. They are truly one of us, and we are simply one family in Christ. The average Orthodox Christian parish in Canada is multi-national and multi-ethnic in its constituency.

A 1988 newspaper article

On 6 October, 1988, there was an article in “Gazette” of Montréal, in its “South Shore” section (p. G-5), written by Peter Kuitenbrouwer. The title was “Peanuts Rival Smokes in Kahnawake Store”. The article concerns the activities of Frank Natawë, who, with others, was leading the selling of peanuts in various discount shops in order to raise money for the “Kidney Foundation of Canada”. The executives of the foundation reported that in the 8 years that this project had been active, no-one in Québec sold more peanuts faster than did the Indigenous peoples.

At the time of that report, the Indigenous of the Salaberry region had already sold 100 cases (each containing 24 bags of 18 snack-size packages of peanuts). In the rest of the region, including Chateauguay, they expected to sell only 30 cases. When the chairman of the peanut campaign for Québec commented “I wish our culture would learn from that one”, Frank Natawë quipped in return, “Well, you've had 500 years to study it”. He further commented that the Indigenous had not helped with such campaigns sooner because no-one had asked them.

One of the concerns expressed in the support for the Kidney Foundation was the need to bring newer treatments to Canada. More advanced treatments are sometimes available in the USA, often in Boston, but the cost is prohibitive for Canadians in particular. When a representative from the Akwesasne Reserve (which has territory on both sides of the international border, as well as in Québec and Ontario) asked to be able to sell peanuts there also, Frank Natawë's sense of humour was heard again. He joked : “Perhaps they need more peanuts, especially on the US side ; do you think that the Valleyfield branch could run contraband across the border ?” His humour elicited hearty laughter.

References

The obituary for Frank Natawë was published in the “Montréal Gazette” on Saturday, 27 May, 2000, p. 60.

‘Our Elders in the Faith’ in the “Canadian Orthodox Messenger” (Autumn, 2002), pp. 11-12.

‘A First Nation Chief’s “Secret Path” to Orthodoxy’ in “Canadian Journal of Orthodox Christianity” (Winter, 2009), pp. 29-46.

Additional information :

Hadjinicolaou, John, “A First Nation Chief’s ‘Secret Path’ to Orthodoxy” (same work as in References, but at a different site and in a different format)

Natawë (Curotte), Frank (translator), “Prayer Service of Thanksgiving” (Mohawk document with English translation)

Saints Peter and Paul Russian Orthodox Sobor, Montréal, Québec

Archdiocese of Canada listing for Saints Peter and Paul Russian Orthodox Sobor, Montréal, Québec

Sign of the Theotokos Orthodox Church, Montréal, Québec

Archdiocese of Canada listing for Sign of the Theotokos Orthodox Church, Montréal, Québec

Orthodoxwiki article about the Archdiocese of Canada (OCA)

Orthodox Church in America (OCA) listing for Saints Peter and Paul Russian Orthodox Sobor, Montréal, Québec

Orthodox Church in America (OCA) listing for Sign of the Theotokos Orthodox Church, Montréal, Québec

Orthodoxwiki article about The Orthodox Church in America

Saint Herman of Alaska

Saint Juvenaly (Hovorukhin) of Alaska

Saint Peter (Cungagnac) the Aleut of Alaska