What
Climate Change Does to Our Minds
Surprising
insights from studies on the experience of Canada's Inuit.
By
Geoff Dembicki
9
December, 2013
Sometimes
the smell of Skidoo exhaust makes Melva Williams yearn for the
winters of her childhood, when cross-country journeys began in the
darkness of early morning, layers and layers of clothing kept the
intense cold out, and the ice was so thick people rarely worried
about plunging through it. A few years ago, Williams and her husband
found themselves unable to traverse Labrador's frozen wilderness
after an unusually warm winter left the ice too thin to support their
snowmobile.
Now
she wonders whether "there may be a time when the weather
conditions change so drastically that we cannot safely travel on the
ice" at all. Each mild winter Williams experiences -- and lately
there have been a lot of them -- brings her closer to that
"heartbreaking" reality. "To be a part of a culture
and a people that has a necessary connection to nature and the
outdoors and is used to living in a certain way -- to see that
slipping away is scary," she lamented in a video posted to
YouTube.
Her
fears may seem anachronistic in a highly modern Western culture
that's never felt so detached from the physical world. Our generation
venerates the self-inventing tech entrepreneurs building a "new
economy" unbound by traditional notions of place or time. We
spawned a transglobal class of plutocrats that calls no country home.
Yet an emerging body of mental health research suggests we may share
more in common with people like Williams than most of us imagine.
"We've
totally misunderstood our connection to the natural world," said
Ashlee Cunsolo Willox, a Canada Research Chair at Cape Breton
University who's helping lead first ever studies that measure how
rising global temperatures affect the mental well-being of Canada's
Inuit. One of her biggest takeaways: that human identity is
inextricably tied to the natural world. As climate change alters that
world in profound and unexpected ways, she told The Tyee, "very
few people are going to be untouched."
'A
caged in animal'
Few
people know more about life on a warmer planet than the Inuit of
Canada's Nunatsiavut region, a vast Arctic wilderness in northern
Labrador. The five Inuit communities nestled into the region's
coastal inlets can be reached only by snowmobile or floatplane during
the winter. They're still far enough below tree line to be fringed by
black spruce forest. "In many ways, they have also experienced
warming and changes at a faster rate than Inuit communities higher in
Canada's North," Cunsolo Willox said.
Four
years ago, she joined a team of researchers working with the town of
Rigolet, and first visited during the mildest winter any of its 310
residents could remember. The annual sea ice freeze-up came two
months later than usual, and left about two months early. Even while
it lasted, the sharp and choppy conditions made snowmobile travel
riskier. "In the back of my mind I'm thinking 'I hope the ice is
safe, I hope we're okay,'" one woman explained. "Which is
something we never ever had to think about before."
Unable
to hunt, fish, trap and forage, Rigolet's residents spent months
indoors. They felt bored. Many became restless and depressed. "When
I don't get out on the land," one resident explained to the
researchers, "I'm like a caged in animal. I really can't relax
properly." Cunsolo Willox's team had come to Rigolet to study
how warmer weather affected the community's overall health.
Researchers soon realized the biggest impacts were occurring inside
people's heads. "I can't imagine how life would be if I couldn't
travel in the winter," Williams lamented.
Others
described the milder weather of recent years as "devastating,"
"depressing," "frustrating," "sad,"
"scary," "worrisome," and "extremely
stressful," according to a summary of Cunsolo Willox's research
published this fall. For some of Rigolet's seniors and elders, the
mental impact was existential. "The place has changed so much
around them," Cunsolo Willox said, "that they no longer
feel at home."
A
new type of sadness
Halfway
across the planet, a similar type of mental anguish had been observed
among people living in the drought-stricken Upper Hunter region of
eastern Australia. For decades they had seen their landscape
transformed by open-pit coal mines, power plant pollution and a
drier, less predictable climate. Some suffered "from a form of
chronic distress," wrote Glenn Albrecht, a researcher who
studied the region. "Their relationship to their home
environment had turned bad."
Albrecht
coined an influential new term to describe the particular type of
sadness he witnessed in the Upper Hunter: "solastalgia."
"The homesickness you have when you are still at home," is
how he defined it. Researchers have since documented solastalgia
among the older indigenous women known as "Aunties" on
Australia's Erub Island, and most recently in the cold and isolated
Nunatsiavut towns of northern Canada. "[Albrecht's] concept is
very, very relevant," Cunsolo Willox said.
Her
team found that solastalgia seemed to affect Rigolet's oldest
residents most. Like Inuit all across Canada's north, they'd lived
through six decades of traumatic change. They'd been forced off their
traditional lands, sent away to residential boarding schools and
assimilated into a Western culture bearing little resemblance to
their own. Now they couldn't depend on an annual sea ice freeze-up to
provide structure to their lives. "And that's almost worse,"
Cunsolo Willox said.
Denied
the opportunity to hunt for caribou, to visit winter cabins in the
woods, to leave town on Skidoos in the pitch black of early morning,
Rigolet residents young and old found it harder to deal with
traumatic events from the past. "When people are unable to spend
time on the land," one local health worker explained to
researchers, "they have more time to dwell on the negative, to
remember things like residential schools experiences when they felt
really trapped and unable to leave."
'It
makes you, you'
Being
trapped indoors made some people feel cut off from themselves and
their identities. "It's like taking part of your arm away,"
one man said. "There is just really something missing."
Cunsolo Willox's team heard variations of this statement over and
over again: that people physically identified with the natural world
surrounding them. They didn't so much consider themselves as being
from Nunatsiavut, as literally of it.
Despite
the changes brought by a warming climate, more than two-thirds of
those interviewed for the studies said they still loved the land
they'd grown up in, and would not choose to leave it. "The
land... defines who we are," one young mother told researchers.
"It makes you, you."
That
feeling may be hard for many North Americans to relate to. "In a
world of cheap airfares, laptops, and the Internet, we proudly regard
mobility as a sign of how advanced we are," tech writer Clive
Thompson has argued. "Only losers get attached to their
hometowns." In many ways, any sense that our identities might be
"directly related to the ground we stand on," Cunsolo
Willox said, "that we can feel our ancestors and our history
through it, has been lost in many urban settings."
But
just because we don't feel that connection doesn't mean it's gone.
Our psyches may in fact remain deeply vulnerable to environmental
change. After Hurricane Katrina, for instance, Harvard researchers
found the rate of "serious mental illness" among survivors
to be double that of the general population. Still, the mental impact
of a warmer climate will likely be felt gradually. Look to Australia,
where 25 per cent of kids "honestly believe [the world] will
come to an end before they get older," one survey suggests.
These
are glimpses into a disorienting future. "Although they cannot
be described with certainty," the American Psychological
Association predicts, global warming's effects on our emotional
well-being "are likely to be profound." No need to explain
that to Rigolet's Melva Williams, though, for whom Skidoo exhaust
triggers memories of a simpler childhood. "Whenever the cold is
just right, the wind is just right, I happen to smell that smell
again, it brings me right back to those happy times," she said.
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