The Weight of What’s Unseen- K. Dimitroulas

August 25, 2025

Katerina Dimitroulas, AVC 2026, travelled to Hopedale and Sheshatshiu in 2025 as one of the student participants on the Chinook Project. As part of the experience, the students craft various pieces of reflective writing.

Photo: I took this picture on June 22nd 2025, our last day in Hopedale, when the Flowers family took us on a boat tour and we spotted an iceberg in the distance. Captured in this photo is the second boat, holding half of our group, as they circled the iceberg.

It was our last day in Hopedale, Nunatsiavut, and the air already carried the weight of goodbye. Our group was split between two boats, weaving between islands before our departure that afternoon. We were laughing, sharing stories from the week, soaking in the final moments of a place that had embraced us so warmly. Then, on the horizon, we saw it: a towering iceberg, glowing with an ethereal turquoise sheen. Without hesitation, both boats veered off course.

As we drew closer, the chatter softened. The sheer scale of it demanded silence. I lifted my phone to capture the moment, and in the frame appeared the second boat, tiny, almost toy-like, set against the vast wall of ice. It struck me then how small we are in the grand scheme of things. How easily we can be dwarfed by the magnitude of nature, of the world, of time itself.

Reuben Flowers, our guide and the Traditional Knowledge Holder of Inotsiavik, reminded us that only a small portion of the iceberg is visible above the surface. “Most of it,” he said, “is hidden beneath the water.” That simple truth rippled through my mind. So much of what we do, what matters, is beneath the surface, too.

Over our short time in Hopedale, our team had offered veterinary care, shared knowledge, and received just as much in return through the warmth and stories of the community. In numbers, we were small. In time, we were brief. But the impact? Like the base of the iceberg, so much of it remains unseen: quiet, lasting, deep.

The iceberg became a symbol of that paradox for me. How we can feel so small and still create something so meaningful. How our presence, even brief, can carve something lasting.

As we turned to leave the iceberg, I looked once more at the other boat, just a dot beside something enormous, and felt gratitude swell inside me. We may have arrived as visitors, but we left with something rooted far deeper: proof that even the smallest hands can leave a lasting mark.

—Katerina Dimitroulas, AVC 2026