MEANWHILE, SENTIMENTS HAVE been shifting in the vast,
open expanses of Nunavut, where opposition to uranium mining is not nearly as loud or intense as it was in 1990. In
September 2007, Nunavut Tunngavik Inc., the corporation created following the land settlement to manage Inuit-owned lands
and subsurface rights, e=ectively overturned the ban on uranium mining. Both its president, Paul Kaludjak, and >rst vice
president, James Eeetoolok—once a stanch opponent of uranium prospecting—now wholeheartedly support the idea of
opening the territory to uranium miners, as do the rest of the
directors. When land-use or economics are at issue, Nunavut
Tunngavik Inc., known to most Inuit as NTI, is arguably more
powerful than the government of Nunavut.
The allure is real and almost irresistible. An economic analysis of Areva’s Baker Lake project, prepared by NTI, shows that
revenues from “a low-pro>t mine might pay royalties of $35 to
$40 million and a high-pro>t operation would be expected to
pay royalties of up to $80 or $90 million over the life of the
mine.” To thousands of Inuit facing hard times, that kind of
money sounds good. And this is just one of what could be a
dozen or more large uranium mines operating in the region.
There are other factors contributing to the shift among the
Inuit. Urangesellschaft, the private, German-based company
that >rst sought to mine the Kiggavik-Sissons deposit, had been
a public-relations disaster. In dealing with the Baker Lake community, the company’s representatives were rude, condescending, and dismissive. The Inuit disliked them immensely. Areva,
on the other hand, is French, government-owned, and has
cordial, longstanding relationships with mining communities
in northern Saskatchewan and elsewhere around the world. In
2004 the company opened a community-relations o;ce in
Baker Lake and has made generous donations to the regional
caribou defense group, the Beverly and Qamanirjuaq Caribou
Management Board, to survey and monitor the Beverly herd. In
its literature, Areva consistently repeats the sentiment that if the
community does not support a uranium mine, it won’t happen.
And that could still be the outcome.
Today, the most outspoken opposition to uranium mining
can still be heard in the Baker Lake area, where the Caribou
Inuit continue to fear disruption of their food supply and leaders
fear that the long-term consequences of radioactive contamination are not being considered. The people with whom I spoke
seemed confused and uncertain about Areva’s assurance that
the caribou would be protected. “We feel rushed,” said Joan
Scottie, who voted against Urangesellschaft in the 1990
plebiscite and remains skeptical of Areva’s claims of newer,
worker-safe, eco-friendly mining technologies. “We’re not as
opposed to the mine as we were back then, but we don’t want
to be forced by our leadership to accept something that could
endanger the health of our caribou. If something happens to
them, we’ll have nothing left but welfare.”
For its part, NTI has gone beyond mere approval of new projects. In January 2008 it negotiated a partnership with Vancouver-based Kaminak Corporation for a uranium mine proposed at
Angilak, along the Thelon River west of Baker Lake. If U O is
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mined at Angilak—and there is an estimated 11. 6 million pounds
of high-grade ore under its claims—NTI will receive one million
shares of the mining company and its choice of either a 25 percent
interest in the mine or 7. 5 percent of the pro>ts. Either way, if that
deposit proves out and Kaminak breaks ground, NTI, which was
created to protect the land claims of the Inuit, will become a de
facto mining company, one that will suddenly be reaping millions
in royalties from the mining of uranium beneath tribal lands. Like
Areva and other companies, NTI has assured the Inuit people that
nothing will be done without their approval.
“We will support a mine only if the uranium is used for peaceful purposes, and only if it will bene>t the Inuit,” promises James
Eeetoolok. “No unacceptable impacts will be permitted,” says
Areva Project Manager Barry McCallum. And “Nunavummuit
[the Inuit people of Nunavut] will be consulted during the development of our uranium mining plan,” assures Nunavut’s
Economic and Transportation Minister David Simailak.
Despite such assurances, the Beverly and Qamanirjuaq
Caribou Management Board’s stated concerns about potential
adverse e=ects on the caribou and their calving grounds have
been ignored. In fact the management board was deliberately
left out of the loop when NTI’s revised uranium policy was
circulated for community approval. So the Caribou Inuit naturally wonder whether the corporation that represents their economic interests can also fairly represent their environmental
interests, or for that matter their very survival. Or they wonder,
as one elder whispered to me in con>dence, whether “NTI has
placed itself and the people it represents in an untenable con-
?ict of interest.”
TO GET A BETTER SENSE of what is at stake for the Inuit, I
visited Sheila Watt-Cloutier, former president of the Inuit
Circumpolar Conference and a nominee for the Nobel Peace
Prize won by Al Gore. Because she has traveled the world, she
has a unique perspective on the environmental injustice being
in?icted upon her people by the resource-hungry, energy-driven
economies south of the circumpolar region.
Her modest Iqaluit home is perched on the shoreline of
Frobisher Bay, still frozen solid in May. As we chatted about
Inuit culture and circumpolar politics, I watched hunters and
>shermen heading down the sparkling, sunlit Frobisher ice >eld
