ALBERTA LETTER:Founded in Austria 500 years ago, the Hutterite people would die to preserve their beliefs, writes LORRAINE MALLINDER
THE little farm stands in the middle of a vast prairie landscape, silver grain bins glinting in the sunshine. With its plastic recycling plant, pristine white buildings and high-tech tractors, it comes across as a thoroughly efficient operation.
Margaret Hofer cuts a surreally old-fashioned figure against the mechanised backdrop. Dressed in 16th-century peasant’s garb, ruddy cheeks framed by a polka dot scarf, she waddles over to meet me. Her identically attired daughters gawk from a nearby balcony. “You’re not one of the census people, are you?” she asks.
I’ve just stepped into a time warp in Canada’s wild west. A Hutterite farming colony, to be precise. Founded in Austria some 500 years ago, this pacifist sect was long persecuted before crossing the ocean to find peace. Completely cut off from the world, it has preserved its dress, customs and Tyrolean dialect.
Satisfied I’m not a government spy, Mrs Hofer leads me inside her unit. Big daddy is Jacob Hofer, a thick-set fellow with a big beard. As minister, he is top dog of the Green Acres colony. He eyes me steadily as I take in the spartan interior with its wheat-coloured floor and walls. “Nobody here owns anything. We don’t believe in possessions,” he says, as if reading my mind.
We make acquaintance over bran muffins and milk. Like the surrounding prairie landscape, life here is pretty monotonous. All colony members obey a strict regime of prayer and work. Children receive four hours of German tuition a day. I’m informed that pre-schoolers are able to recite entire verses of the scriptures in German. Three times a day, a bell summons inhabitants for meals in the communal mess. “If it’s steak, it’s steak. We all eat the same. There’s no ordering,” barks Hofer. After the evening meal, families retire to their units. “What do you do for recreation?” I ask. “More scriptures,” he replies, with alacrity.
Throughout the conversation, his daughter Julia winds a plump baby with pale blue eyes. It occurs to me that this new addition to the colony is probably genetically identical to her Tyrolean ancestors. New blood isn’t welcome here. Indeed, there are just two surnames in the colony – Hofer and Kleinsasser.
The sect is a subject of endless fascination among geneticists – according to one article published in the European Journal of Human Genetics two years ago, the 50,000 Hutterites scattered in colonies across North America can trace their ancestral maternal and paternal lines back to just 21 individuals.
The Hutterites may seem behind the times, but they are no lagsters when it comes to business. Green Acres sells its Omega 3 eggs across Canada and its barley-fed pork to China. It has survived by avoiding labour costs, diversifying production and investing in modern equipment. “You can’t drag behind with anything. You have to keep it clean with E.coli and all these diseases,” says Hofer.
Barring business matters, there are few lines to the outside world. No newspapers, no television, no internet. What about the youngsters? Don’t they get cabin fever? Occasionally, a rebel or two might run away, often to work for the lucrative oil sands industry. “But, they always come back,” says Hofer. “They discover the outside world wasn’t as good as they thought, especially when they have to pay for everything.”
At one point, Julia pulls off her polka dot scarf, undoing her chignon to show off her lustrous locks. Hutterite women never cut their hair, Im told. I notice a doughnut-shaped bald patch on her crown. A religious custom? Clearly uncomfortable, she quickly covers her head again. The subject is closed. It’s an image that stays with me on the drive back.
Later, I track down Hutterite writer Mary-Ann Kirkby. Back in the 60s, her family was forced to flee its colony after her father fell foul of a manipulative minister. I ask her about the hair and she laughs. Apparently many Hutterite women go bald as a result of permanently wearing their hair in a tight chignon to create a fashionable bump under their scarves. “It’s a must for them, so important that they will risk the bald spot,” she says.
There’s no denying the Hutterites are an oddity. Wilfully marooned in the middle of nowhere, stuck in another time, they are the butt of cruel jokes. But they don’t seem to care. Hofer tells me his people are prepared to die to preserve their beliefs, harking to the tale of two martyrs who died at Alcatraz for refusing to don a US military uniform in the first World War. “They can murder your body, but they can’t murder your soul.”
It’s time for evening service. “Read the Acts! The Acts!” he bellows, rushing me out the door. As I drive off, I chance a wave at the unit. I think I can detect the movement of a hand behind the window, but can’t be sure.