A note from Northern Journal publisher and KYUK collaborator Nathaniel Herz:
Here’s a second piece from Jeron Joseph, a resident of the Western Alaska village of Kwigillingok who was forced to evacuate after a remnant typhoon flooded his village and destroyed some 35% of its buildings. The storm caused significant damage in more than a dozen villages in the region, and this week President Donald Trump approved a federal disaster declaration in response.
In his first piece, Jeron, whose Yup’ik name is Anguterayak, recounted his harrowing departure from his home amid rising floodwaters, and his evacuation from Kwigillingok by military helicopter to the Western Alaska regional hub town of Bethel.
In this new account, he describes his flight from Bethel to Anchorage in a military transport plane, reuniting with his friends, family, and dog, and the early stages of settling into an environment that feels deeply foreign even if it’s within the same state.
A few facts about Jeron that are worth keeping in mind as you try to grasp the new reality for him and hundreds of other evacuees: He rarely left Kwigillingok, known as Kwig. Just for things like medical appointments and getting his state-issued identification renewed. All of those trips were to Bethel; the only other place in Alaska that he’s been is a town in the southeast part of the state, where his aunt brought him to visit a relative as a teenager. And he’s never had a driver’s license, never having needed one in Kwig.
A night in Bethel
To begin with, I have been hearing many things about the first article, and I and many people from my community are so overwhelmed by the support, the love, and the messages — the well-wishes of strength and welfare that are being sent our way. We couldn't be happier for those messages.
To begin where I left off. After we were dropped off by the helicopter in Bethel, we were hosted for the night there by one of my aunt's nieces. I had a humorous exchange with her niece, where she almost tripped on one of my bags — I said to her, "It would be funny if, after all this, you were the one who got hurt."
We spent a lot of the night catching up. We talked about the things we wished we would have brought with us, including sentimental items. The following morning we were taken back to the hangar where we’d initially landed so that we could take the morning flight to Anchorage. When we got there, we had some exchanges with friends and family, and it felt like this was the first time we were truly away from home. Up to that point, it just felt like we were passing by. That moment in the hangar where we saw a lot of our community members truly felt like going away.
Getting on the transport plane
They began boarding us onto that big C-17. None of us in the village had ever seen very large planes like that, and we were enthralled by the breadth of the plane.
Walking towards the loading bay on the tarmac, I would describe it as my own version of crossing the River Styx. As much as I wanted to, I didn't look back at the hangar. I didn't look back at the hangar because I knew I was going to start crying. My thought was that this is going to be the first day of the rest of our lives.
They began loading us onto the plane. A few Elders sat in chairs along the walls, but the rest of us, they sat us down on the floor, row by row, no seats, no cushions. We all had to sit down as they strapped very long individual straps to each row of passengers that were supposed to act as seatbelts, but I'm fairly certain are for securing cargo.
We took off, and everyone who wasn't in the chairs during that ascent, a lot of us had to hold on to that strap because we were sliding back, feeling like we were going to fall. There were exclamations of surprise among the passengers.
I don't know if it was because of the exhaustion following what happened, but during the pressure changes I had to do some mental gymnastics and really try to get a hold of my focus and my breathing so I wouldn't pass out, because I was very close on a number of times during that flight.
My brother was also on the flight — I had texted him a message asking him to maintain eye contact with me so that my focus would have an anchor point, to keep me from passing out. Maybe two-thirds of the way into the flight, I had to break out a classic Barbra Streisand movie, the 60’s Technicolor gem “Funny Girl,” on my phone, because I have memories of watching that as a young adult. I couldn’t hear it because of the flight, but I was able to recite along in my mind because I listened to and watched it so much. That was able to calm me down.
Landing in Anchorage
I had gotten maybe 15 minutes into the movie when we began descending, and I could feel the pressure changes. All over again I had to re-strategize my breathing. When we landed, I felt another moment of relief, and I embraced my aunt. There was applause among the passengers, cheering the landing. I was glad that that experience was over. My aunt described is as being "crammed together like sardines."
At the military base where we landed, they lined everyone from the plane up to get into a shuttle so that we could go back to the shelter at the Egan Center. I started seeing sights that I hadn't seen since I was a teenager.
Growing up in the flat, watery plain of the Kuskokwim Delta all my life, I had forgotten about how imposing the urban structures and the trees are — because the sky at home is totally open. Maybe folks here think that the sky is pretty open already in some places. But at home, it always felt like a planetarium without an edge. I remember winter nights where I would stargaze and I could see the entire sky, horizon to horizon, and just lie down there admiring the beauty.
Trees are beautiful. Mountains are beautiful. The city skyline is beautiful. I love admiring it all, but I just miss the beauty I used to see.
Being here inland, now, of course, I don't dislike it. But it just feels like I'm an ant at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, and I have imposing structures all around me: trees, buildings, and mountains, all appearing to look down on me, and that certainly takes adjusting.
After landing, I’ve been experiencing the feeling of a whole new world where convenience is king. With our subsistence lifestyle, the relationship that we have with our resources is that they've always been rare and precious, and very tasty.
I don't mean to disparage, but it feels like, here, everything's so disposable. And I notice a mental complex where you can get everything at the snap of a finger. It creates this sort of detachment with resources, and it boggles me to see people wasting food and water, because that would actually be seen as a petrifying offense in the villages. That's something that I might have to adjust to. Everybody is so nice and accommodating, but it's still an adjustment.
Another thing that bewilders me, being before these palaces of convenience, is that, despite all that people have, they still plan for more. My assumption when I thought about this was, "Maybe there’s a brand of competitiveness here that makes people feel this way." Who could’ve put that feeling there? And why?
I’d like to say that when we were in our village, it felt like that was the entire world. That kind of insularity, though it may seem ignorant to some, is something that led to another feeling. It felt like we already had the world. That feeling created a neighborliness that is nigh unmatchable.
Reuniting with friends and family
At the Egan Center, where we were dropped off, we sat in the dining area and came across several of our friends and family who had also decided to come to Anchorage. I hadn’t realized this about other people’s faces until then, but it turns out that they can act as an anchor and a port for our emotions and feelings of home. Seeing those faces certainly eased the feeling of a whole new world.
We were talking amongst ourselves. We were talking about how we all missed our home, and a lot of us had gasped and ran up to other people we knew, being so grateful for each others’ safety. One of the ones that affected me the most, though, was seeing my own mom, who had been outside the village when the storm hit.
On the helicopter ride to Bethel, she had FaceTimed me and my family members, and we had all cried then. Thinking of the first time we’d be seeing each other in a new world, while saying goodbye to the place most precious to us that was in view of the helicopter window. How we wanted our feet to touch that ground one last time. When she saw us at the Egan Center, I was overwhelmed with another wave of tears.
The structures may be gone. Our home might have been declared unlivable, but I have the greatest assurance now that the people and the voices are still here. Those people and those voices that we have been through so much with, and that will go through so much more — through strangeness, through a lack of familiarity and having to navigate a whole new concrete jungle. We’re still here.
After spending so much time talking and reuniting, my aunt and I were met by a relative who’d come to pick us up. We waited for our luggage. Then we were told it might not get there today. My aunt and I sighed, and then the relative took us to his home where we’d be staying, and he showed us around.
Getting settled
A number of things struck me as odd. The first was probably fences. I go back to how open everything feels in the tundra. Having to grasp property lines and stuff like that — of course, we want to be respectful, but it's just still another new thing for us to adjust to.
We had the nicest time being able to settle ourselves in that relative's home, but it was still hard. We could have been given the most comfortable parachute in the world, but it still wouldn't be enough to alleviate our grief.
I had another moment of my own grief when I went out onto the deck and started crying again, because everything inside the house reminded me in some way of my home. That moment was actually catalyzed by seeing a towel rack that those relatives had brought back from the village. I hadn't seen that towel rack since I was a child.
My aunt came out to the deck, and she had to console me for five minutes. I said to her, "Everything inside reminds me of home." And she said, "You're crying. I know you're hurting, but this is a whole new world for us, and you have to say goodbye and thank you to those times. We can't get them back, but we'll be able to make new ones when we can."
I got inside to the room where they set me up. I didn't have a change of clothes, other than some sweats that we had taken from the clothing drive at the Egan Center. Putting those clothes on made me realize how so many of us are so close to losing the things we've become accustomed to — the roof over your head, the clothes you wear, the food and water that are given to you. Being in that room and having no stuff gave me a whole new appreciation for the things that I used to enjoy in my little cave of a room at home.
The next day, or the day after that, we got our luggage, and we felt like we had gotten pieces of ourselves back. I know I mentioned my computer before — I got that too. I set it up, I turned it on, and I was relieved to see that it still works. When I saw that my sheet music was still playable, that brought another whole new wave of relief because I didn't want to lose all of those years’ worth of work.
Finding friends and relatives
Someone I spoke to about the kinds of things I took from home — they thought it was interesting that I’d bring a dog and a computer. I told them, "I wanted to pack the village, but the luggage fee would’ve been disastrous."
And I really wanted to. How I wanted to. But the more time we spent flying, the less we expected to see familiar faces or familiar voices in the place where we landed. Fellow Yup’iks who speak our language, know our humor.
But my aunt and I were pleasantly surprised across these days of adjustment — meetings happened at the most unexpected times. You’re doing something mundane or habitual while out doing errands when out of the blue, a face from home or from neighboring villages surprises us. I’ve lost count of the number of times we’ve said or heard, "Aaah! Oh my gosh, haven’t seen you! My name’s…’"And they’d tell us their Yup’ik names and how we’re related to them or their friends.
These exchanges validate what we’re feeling, what we miss. If you can’t picture what it feels like, imagine you’re in the most foreign, alien, nowherest nowhere you can think of, out of the States. Then you take a wrong turn, and there’s that Starbucks in the middle of nowhere. That’s how I would describe it.
A blanket for my soul
One specific meeting I experienced was just like this, though it wasn’t a surprise. My childhood best friend moved out of our village when we were in middle school. I texted him that I was in town, though I wished it was under better circumstances. He’d said something like, "Oh my gosh, where!!??" I told him, and he said he was coming as soon as he could. I waited. I waited. I kept asking where he was. He told me to hold my pantaloons. He’s coming.
I saw a newspaper dispenser on the way to meet him. The image on the newspaper was of a helicopter. You can imagine what I was thinking then and what I was feeling. I wished he was here. I wished it was now. I didn’t want to have to cry before I cried meeting him.
We met in an indoor space, and I saw his back where he was seated in a waiting area. My heart felt like it was about to jump out of my mouth and meet him before the rest of my body. I sprinted up to him. He heard me, he turned around and I embraced him. He hung on to me. I smiled so much I could feel it in my ears. Years and years of anticipation dropped when we hugged in that waiting area. He whispered a little friendly joke in my ear, "Your shoes were squishing." I chuckled, and I cried tears of joy.
For the eight or so hours after we met, we literally didn’t stop talking — about my experience, our boyhood memories, and our inside jokes with our immediate friend group. He took me to his place and he started making salmon soup. Wild caught. Here was a whole new world before me, and I was freaking out over Yup’ik soup. Homestyle, for us. Having that bowl of salmon soup was like a blanket for my soul, made from the feeling of home. I relished each spoonful, slowly, not knowing when I’d have it again.
Picking up the dog
Going back to the day when we evacuated from Kwig on the chopper — I’m still raw thinking about this. We were told that the last kennel plane was full, and that my dog, my Jack Russell terrier, had to go on the next one. The thing was, the next kennel plane was scheduled for the day after we left.
You might be able to imagine the hole in my heart that that development bore into me. Nearly in tears, I walked up to the reception area at the school that served as the village shelter and asked who I could entrust my dog to. I was pointed to an overseer who we knew we could depend on. I was given every guarantee that my dog would be okay, but be that as it may, I still wasn’t certain in my heart that she would come.
When it came time to take our bags and ourselves to the four-wheeler and its trailer to head to the helicopter, my heart sank. I knew what else I was going to leave behind, but to leave my dog, even temporarily? I felt guilt, shame, and sadness. That she couldn’t understand we’d get her back.
The four-wheeler started rolling toward the village airstrip, and she started whining. I started crying. I cried all the way there. When we got to the airstrip, my brother had to embrace me as I cried loudly into his ear. Every turn brought back memories of the village, my family, my friends, and my dog. And losing my dog from my sight as she disappeared further from the horizon just rendered me into pieces.
Fast forward to the evening of the reunion with my friend, we were informed that our dog made it to a cargo depot. When I heard, I felt like a little boy who's going to see his dog for the first time in weeks or months.
I could not sit still for the entire drive over. I kept talking to my aunt about some of the things my dog used to do, and also some of the things that we'd have to do, like getting nail clippers and a brush for her. And of course she's going to have to be housebroken in a whole new way and mind her manners.
There was a little confusion at the cargo depot. We spent probably 10 or 15 minutes knocking on all the doors, and we were about to leave when we got a text saying we should bang harder. But before we could bang on the gate again, it opened and we saw our dog, Maundy. I named her after a dog who had died, as it is Yup’ik tradition to name a baby after someone who has recently passed. Though Maundy’s namesake, my mother’s dog, had passed before I could remember.
I walked up to her. I was so happy. I was flooded with memories of her, and how much of a little fussy brat she is sometimes. But I still love her. And this time, when she whined when she came back to us, I felt lifted up onto cloud nine.
As we’d gotten out of the storm and were settling in at our relative’s place, it had felt like we were on a merry-go-round for days. Once we had our luggage and our dog, and got to see all the familiar faces, it finally felt like we were able to sit down and just do nothing if we wanted to — which is also a precious thing.
We have a roof, we have our things. We have the things that I now believe we ought to be grateful for, like food and water. And I know I will never not be appreciative of our next meal ever again.
An emotional church service
Some days after we settled in, we had a number of logistical things that we had to do back at the relief center. One of the things that they organized there was a church service that included Yup’ik singers who used to sing in the affected villages.
I was able to get through the opening and the prayer okay. But when they got to the Yup’ik singers and the Yup’ik songs, I was reminded of my grandmother, Lena, whose Yup’ik name was Kayungiar. She used to take me to our Protestant Moravian church at home, where they had open singing.
The church was in the south part of town, which experienced the worst flooding — I don’t know what happened to it, and in some ways that feels worse. I wish I could know now, so that I could at least have some closure for that special place.
I had managed to bring a little Bible that my mom gave me in 2010. Having that additional connection to home, combined with the singing, brought me to tears again.
Some of the members of the congregation came up to me. They wrapped their arms around my shoulders and they started saying prayers for me. I was so overwhelmed with emotion that I actually had to get out of the service for a little bit so that I could get my emotional equilibrium back.
There was a member of the Red Cross who asked me if I was okay. I explained my feelings to her and she said, "I know it's hard. You have so much you miss. But I know you can find some friendly faces here so that you can make new church memories."
Another person, in a blue vest, checked up on me as I went to go get some water; she told me she’s from an Episcopalian family on the East Coast, and couldn't imagine how she’d feel if her own childhood church had been affected. It gave me great comfort to know that there were people who could sympathize with how I was feeling.
I said to the lady from the East Coast that my home is gone, the places I love are gone. But when I look at that church service, I know that the people and the voices are still here. And as far as I know, they will always be here, even if there'd be only one person left.
That is the sort of thing that I choose to think about when I'm in this alien world. For everyone reading, you could be that one person that I talk about. You could be the one to carry our traditions in your heart. You could be the shelter of our way of life. And as long as we have the people, as long as we have our language, I know that that lifestyle and that knowledge will never drift away. Typhoon or not.