Coyhaique, Chile. By Patricio Segura
The post appeared on my screen unbidden—algorithm or coincidence, I can't say. But there I was, reading about the Inuit's skill in making clothing. In the Arctic, this craft has nothing to do with fashion or aesthetics. It is pure survival.
For millennia, these people of the far north have pursued warmth, usability, and durability. They reject the name Eskimo—”raw meat eaters”—given by neighboring peoples. They call themselves Inuit: “the people.”
In a culture where synthetic materials are not an option (due to technology, possibilities, resources, or tradition, the manufacture of their boots, parkas, waterproof suits, and other clothing was based on the animals at hand: caribou, seals, and bears.
Waterproofing—essential in sub-zero rain—came from mammal intestines.
In an interrelationship that lasted thousands of years, they lived in harmony with the ecosystems in Greenland, the gigantic island so often mentioned these days. And also in Siberia, Canada, and Alaska.
The post sparked debate.
Some praised locally made clothing that avoids petroleum pollution and uses the whole animal for shelter, food, and tools. Others questioned the animal sacrifice, especially when such clothing enabled whaling.
This example reveals a complex truth: environmental responsibility is contextual. What harms one ecosystem may be harmless in another—or at least cause fewer destabilizing effects.
Wood burning in Coyhaique during winter air pollution crises differs from burning in places where the air can absorb emissions. One animal carcass in a river cannot be compared to thousands of chickens dumped in the same basin.
The Inuit’s small population allowed them to make clothing and hunt whales without endangering species or ecosystem balance. In 1900, Greenland had an estimated 12,000 inhabitants—a number that sustained harmony with the environment.
With 100,000 people, the same practices would be disastrous. And replacing all the world’s Gore-Tex with seal intestine clothing? Unthinkable.
This is carrying capacity: the recognition that environmental impact transcends individual actions.
Territories like Aysén have proposed this for decades, seeking to embed it in public policy. But in the race for development-as-infinite-growth, it always finishes near last.
Land use planning and zoning sound dry to the public and remain underestimated by decision-makers—the same ones who later complain about uncontrolled fires, water shortages in rural areas, overwhelmed landfills, and air pollution that suffocates those who cannot escape.
The world is changing drastically—economically, geopolitically, culturally, technologically. Chile and Aysén are no exception.
But some things never go out of style: reflecting on how our actions affect nature—and therefore our lives and the lives of others.
That, beyond all the noise, is responsibility.
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