My husband and I had just returned to Jasper, one week after the official date of return.
At our end of town, there is no avoiding the damage caused by the inferno. We had seen the images, of course, but viewing the damage in person was overwhelming. It was sensory overload, and we knew it would take time to process. Meanwhile, sadness was in the air.
We slowly unpacked on a sunny Friday evening. Across the street, twisted piles of metal reminded us of what our neighbours were dealing with. As we greeted those who had returned, we shared private moments with them. Many of our closest friends have lost everything. We offered words and hugs. We listened.
A car, rolling slowly by, broke the silence. We noticed cameras pointing out of every window. Apparently, they had arrived: the first of several carloads of disaster tourists. Our private moment with grieving friends suddenly provided the content for someone’s social media feed. It felt like being photographed at a funeral.
As the days have passed, we’ve grown resigned to this macabre niche of the visitor economy. What allows it to persist is how ill-defined its actors are. You can’t always tell who a tourist is—and frankly, you shouldn’t have to. Tourism is built on the idea of everyone being welcome.
Right now, however, hackles are up. One of our friends was aggressively accused of being a voyeur as he was taking a few last photographs of the ruins of his home in Cabin Creek. Emotions are running high.
In other cases, those emotions can be genuine and heartfelt—from visitors, too. We spoke to a man from Edmonton who had made the solo return trip in a day just to see and feel a town he has always loved. Who are we to judge?
Curiosity about horrifying events is rooted in a few different, profoundly human instincts. People are drawn to disasters, as shown by the traffic jams caused by people rubbernecking a fender bender or the explosive popularity of true crime documentaries. For many, a gaping wound, like the one on full display in Jasper, appears to have an irresistible appeal. On top of the emotional response, the piles of rubble and charred trees are compelling subjects for amateur photographers. Disaster images get likes.
But having a scientific explanation for people’s morbid fascination doesn’t matter to Jasperites dealing with myriad emotions. We are trying to come to terms with our losses, in extremely vulnerable circumstances.
These are private moments. Of course we want—and need—visitors to come back. But going on a photo tour of the west end of Jasper is not appropriate right now.
If you love this place and you really need to come to terms with it, my advice is to do what I’ve been doing: go for a walk. Experience the devastation. Reflect on the lives of the very real people who lived in those incinerated houses—those who are right now sifting through the ashes for mementos of the homes they had to evacuate from. You don’t need your own pictures – there are plenty of them available online.
Of course this message won’t get through to everyone. So is there any good that can come of those who insist on visiting ground zero? Perhaps just the growing awareness of the very real, very relevant threat of wildfires in forested communities. This issue is not confined to small, off-the-map towns—places that you have never been inclined to visit.
Our community can attest, first hand, that without attending to the root causes—and protecting these homes from the devastating symptoms—of a warming climate, Jasper’s present could well be the future for many places in western and northern Canada.
Andrea Ziegler // andrea@ravencommunitymedia.ca
