Originally I picked up a copy because of the cover, the slight embossing on that title and the antlers encircling it (not the cover pictured below).

But I read it because I am curious about how the Sámi people live, in what’s called Scandinavia today. Traditionally they are reindeer herders, and my first introduction to them was also through fiction (a novel by Swedish writer Kristen Ekman, several years ago).

Stolen is the first in a trilogy, a translation by Rachel Willson-Broyles: Sámi and Tornedalian writer Ann-Helén Laestadius’ first novel for adults. It opens when Elsa is nine years old, when she witnesses the aftermath of a horrifying event. (The second part takes place ten years later, the final/third part shortly afterwards.)

In and of itself, the event is heartbreaking, representing a personal loss for the sensitive young girl. But it is also the hinge upon which Elsa’s coming-of-age turns, because hereafter she understands that being Sámi doesn’t only mean snide looks and name-calling when she wears traditional clothing, but that people will take action to deliberately put her people’s ability to sustain themselves at risk.

Indeed, at nine years old, she becomes immediately and lastingly frightened, so much so that she will not speak the whole truth of what she has seen. It’s dark out, conditions are wintry, Elsa is small: she does not see much really. And she’s always been unna oabba, the little sister and the littlest, the one who doesn’t need to know everything. (Sámi words dot the text and also serve as chapter titles, which matters because chapters are one way that narrative is structured and framed.)

The point is, Elsa sees more than anyone else. She is the one with information that she holds close, out of fear for her family’s safety, for her personal safety. The novel is largely preoccupied by her growing awareness of what it means to carry this burden. Of how she learns to balance her loyalties. Because in time, she realises that her family (and their people, and the reindeer) remain unsafe, despite her ongoing silence. That she has deeper loyalties that she could not recognise when she was a child.

Her experience of childhood includes a variety of emotions and experiences, however; it’s not all struggle and strife. Her relationship with her grandmother (Áddjá) is close and loving, and her friendship with Anna-Stina, the only girl in their reindeer collective—their čearru—close to her in age, is believable—they’re not a perfect match but they understand the thrill of doing something forbidden by parents, and the importance of overheard secrets. (Elsa’s family keeps the genealogy book which explains using numbers and codes how everyone is related: Elsa has a page of her own, so does Anna-Stina.)

“The reindeer were biekka oapmi, belonging to the wind. Áddjá had explained this to her carefully when she was little. You must never brag about your reindeer herd, and you must be aware that your good fortune with them could vanish at any moment. You must take nothing for granted; a reindeer herd was never a constant.”

In some ways, Stolen moves very slowly. It’s nearly four hundred pages long and is primarily rooted in character. It’s the sort of long novel that one can imagine having in the stack, alongside another shorter and swifter sort of story-telling, when one might read two or three chapters a night. There are days that are completely ordinary, with meals being prepared, drives taken here and there, various family members’ struggles coming to the forefront and fading away.

But, in some ways, it’s a remarkably compelling story, hard to set aside, because the horrendous event that precipitates the story is not resolved. Tensions between the Indigenous and the settlers are escalating, so one could also read it mostly for the suspense and rush towards the conclusion. Some people put stickers on their bumpers to openly protest the government recognition of sovereignty and rights, and there are so many outright conflicts that, by the end of the book, nearly a hundred reports of violence have been made to the police (who routinely cite a lack of evidence as a reason for cases being closed).

The townspeople are angry, uncomfortable when public attention lands on them when tensions peak; they try to soften their consonants when they’re filmed on TV, when they suggest that the violence could have been perpetrated by the Sámi themselves, claiming that the traditional way of life isn’t sustainable so the reindeer collectives steal and lie for money.

The violence is enacted not only on the people but also on their reindeer. In fact, it’s this which Laestadius highlights. It is heart-breaking to read, and she tells the story well, so that she convinces even those of us who are keenly sensitive to violence against the helpless, that it’s more important to see whether/how this can be resolved than it is to avoid those painful scenes. (Those scenes can be avoided easily. At a certain point, she adopts the perspective of the ring-leader, and the violence is confined to those chapters.)

Furthermore, although this is a central and unforgettable facet of these characters’ lives, normal life goes on. So there is the smell of rugs freshly hung outside to air, even when there is the feel of a deep scratch into the paint of a vehicle, freshly felt with a fingertip. Elsa’s hair gets brushed, even while she is fondling something in her pocket that has come to represent both loss and love.

Punished is the second book in the trilogy which has been translated into English, and it is situated in the 1950s with attention paid to five children who were required to attend the nomad schools (an experience that Áddjá won’t speak about to Elsa). The third volume has not yet been translated (due: April 2027), so I will allow some time to pass before reading Punished.

But if we do not listen to these stories, do not recognise how certain elements of injustice have come to take root and proliferate in our society, how we can play any part in helping to shift the tide.