Global Diary: Iqaluit, Canada
Arctic angel: Watt-Cloutier, at right, with Pearl, demands that the world take action on the climate crisis.
It's 2:30 in the afternoon, but night is already wrapping itself around the snowy landscape. I am in Iqaluit, a small seaside town on Baffin Island in the Canadian Arctic, almost on top of the world. From the shore, I can see the dark frigid waters of Frobisher Bay. This is not supposed to be: I should be staring out at solid stretches of thick ice. Although the temperature is below zero, and I struggle to shield my face from the bitter winds, it hasn't been cold enough to freeze the entire bay. My companion, Iqaluit resident Sheila Watt-Cloutier (I'll use her Inuit name, Siila), 53, is dressed in a sealskin parka and boots. Her hazel eyes survey the scene with the knowingness of someone who was raised in the wilderness. "Look at our world," she tells me, "it is melting away." Where we are standing is ground zero for global warming.
All of us have heard about the threat of global warming, but what does it really mean? Here, the warning signs are everywhere. Temperatures are rising at a faster rate than in other parts of the planet, raising sea levels, eroding the coastline and threatening species such as polar bears with extinction. The Inuit—a community of 155,000 people scattered across northern Alaska, Canada, Greenland and Russia—are also fighting for survival. Their way of life—fishing and hunting walruses and seals—depends on the ice.
To help me understand how it feels to have your world disappear, Siila introduces me to Sandra Inutiq, 33, one of her best friends and the first female lawyer in the Canadian territory of Nunavut. Sandra grew up in a remote hunting and fishing camp with her family. But recently, the camp melted away. "It's so sad," she says. "That was our home. Now it's just water."
For the past decade, Siila has demanded that the world pay attention to what's happening to her people. During the four years she spent as chair of the Inuit Circumpolar Conference (ICC), the organization that represents all Inuit, she forced global warming onto the international agenda. Her tireless advocacy was recognized in February when she was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize, along with fellow climate-change crusader Al Gore.
The Arctic is the barometer of the planet, Siila warns. "It's very simple," she says. "When the North Pole melts, other parts of the earth flood." I'm reminded of a little girl I met while reporting on the 2000 floods in Bangladesh; she wanted to know where all the water came from. "Are the gods angry at us?" she asked me. Now the "butterfly effect"—the theory that what happens to one part of the planet can directly affect everyone, everywhere—makes perfect sense to me: I traveled here, my eighth stop on a round-the-world journey for Glamour, to learn more about Siila's campaign to save the planet, and, at the same time, save her home.
When we walk back to Siila's home in the already-dark December afternoon, she suggests we sit in her living room, which has a magnificent view of the bay, without the lights on. "This is my source of warmth," she says, pointing at the snowy white immensity outside. With the grace of a cat, she curls up on the sofa, soothed by the stillness.
As a child, Siila was raised in true Inuit fashion, fishing and seal hunting with her family. She nostalgically recalls hearing the crunch of ice under the dogsled and watching crows circling overhead. "I trusted that my brothers and the dogs would lead us to the next food source," Siila says. She remembers skinning seals, cutting up the meat and drinking the blood. To her, hunting is a noble, ancient art. Hunters share their meat with others in the community and must master skills such as reading wind direction; analyzing clouds and ice and water conditions; and detecting polar bears, which also hunt seals and can kill a man with a single paw. "Hunting is at the very heart of my people's identity and survival," Siila says.
But for years, Siila has watched the Inuit way of life decline. Her region has one of the highest teen suicide rates in Canada. Domestic violence, incest and substance abuse are also rampant. "What has happened to my gentle, self-reflective and self-reliant Inuit hunter?" Siila asks. There are many possible explanations for the Inuit's troubles; one is the fact that there's less demand for seal skins, partly because of protests against hunters who club the animals just for their pelts. (Inuit hunters shoot or harpoon seals and use the whole animal, Siila says.)
By far, though, the biggest threat to the Inuit, Siila says, is global warming. "The depletion of the ice," she says, "is directly responsible for the destruction of our people." For the Inuit, ice means mobility and food—ice means life. Hunters need it to chase seals in their habitat. But warmer weather has shortened the hunting season, forcing the Inuit to pay for pricey imported foods. With hunting unreliable, the Inuit future is bleak. The only other jobs in Iqaluit are with the government, and few Inuit are qualified for them.
Siila was raised by her mother and grandmother—both women had children with non-Inuit men who subsequently left them. Siila insists that despite the hardship of being a single parent, neither woman considered herself a victim. "They were survivors," says Siila, who herself is a divorced mother of two. After age 10, Siila attended schools in Nova Scotia, Manitoba and Ontario. "My mother taught me that education provides self-reliance," she says.
Later Siila enrolled in an Inuit education course sponsored by McGill University, and also worked as a student counselor with local school boards. That experience furthered her interest in education; she went on to help write a major 1992 report on shortcomings in the school system. That's when she became intimately aware of the desperation plaguing Inuit youth—and decided it was her duty to enter politics. In 1995 she was elected to represent the Canadian Inuit at the ICC, and made saving the Arctic environment her top priority. "I took the flag and started running," Siila says. She launched a campaign against persistent organic pollutants (POP), particles released into the environment during manufacturing. In 2001 Siila persuaded world leaders to support an international ban on POPs; it was one of the most quickly ratified treaties in the history of the United Nations.
By the time she was elected international chair of the ICC in 2002, she had a reputation for fearlessly forcing governments to confront pollution. She submitted a petition to the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights in 2005, claiming that the United States government was violating Inuit human rights by refusing to cut greenhouse gas emissions. (Yet she praises the American people's efforts to fight global warming.) This past December, Siila received the highest honor her government gives to any citizen, the Order of Canada. And now she's up for the Nobel Peace Prize, which will be awarded in Oslo, Norway, in December. Although she's "humbled and thrilled" to be considered for such a prestigious honor, Siila remains focused on her mission. "For me, it's never been about awards but about getting my message out," she says.
One evening around 9 P.M., after a dinner of caribou meat (still deciding whether I like it), I walk along Iqaluit's nearly deserted streets. I am wearing so many layers of clothes that my body feels far away. Teenagers stand in front of a vacant restaurant, waiting for someone—anyone—to buy their Inuit crafts, such as bear-teeth necklaces.
A few minutes into my walk, a celestial show unfolds before my eyes. Swirling ribbons of green and red unfurl across the endless Arctic sky. They are the northern lights, which remind me of more powerful forces than my own. I feel like I'm playing a minor part in a major drama.
The next day, the whistling sound of a plane landing at the nearby airstrip brings a smile to Siila's face. Her daughter Sylvia, a 30-year-old beauty with emerald eyes, is home from one of her tours. Sylvia is an acclaimed Inuit throat singer who imitates nature's sounds, such as that of wind, seals or the ocean, using a guttural technique handed down from her elders. She's hopeful that her generation of Inuit will follow in her mother's footsteps and fight to protect their way of life; she's doing her part as an entertainer, by teaching young audiences about their traditions. "When the kids sing," Sylvia tells me at Siila's home, "they reconnect to our culture and ancient wisdom, a place of serenity for all Inuit."
Sylvia is also making sure her children learn to hunt. This past summer, her 11-year-old son, Lee, killed his first bearded seal. Siila proudly points to a photo of Lee with the animal and says, "He is my pride." As Lee rushes past us to play hockey outside with his friends, Siila turns to me. "Time is running out," she says, "but if we reverse global warming, we can still give him back his future as an Inuit."