8 Inuit Identity and the Land Toward Distinctive Built Form in the Nunavik Homeland

Notwithstanding variations in natural landforms, orientation, and elevation, practically every Inuit village across the eastern Canadian Arctic resembles the others. Whether in the central Baffin Island region, along the Hudson Bay coast, or in northern Labrador, most villages feature free-standing, timber-clad dwellings called illujuaq (or ilualuk), the term for a modern house or Euro-Canadian house (Schneider 1985, 69). These are typically elevated dwellings that rest on adjustable supports designed to overcome heavy drifts of wind-blown snow and movements of the foundation caused by permafrost melt, while the space beneath the house also provides shelter for outdoor storage (Mactavish 2004, 40). The dwellings, which may be single- or two-storey, are often painted vibrant colours and are generally set out in neat rows and grids, much as in suburban housing developments in southern Canada (figure 8.3). Aside from the occasional caribou antler mounted above entranceways to celebrate a hunting excursion, few adornments or modifications are apparent.

As Leo Zrudlo (2001) discussed in the late 1990s—and this is still the case today—the standard contemporary architecture of the North does not echo the cultural context, nor does it represent Inuit identity. The region’s dwellings and community buildings are engineered to withstand harsh Arctic climates but lack features characteristic or emblematic of Inuit culture. Apart from the occasional municipal building that has been given individual treatment, there is little architectural variety apparent in the modern built form from village to village. (By “built form,” or “built environment,” we mean all forms of constructed environments in village settings, including dwellings, community buildings, shops and businesses, infrastructure, foot paths, and roads.) Housing forms are so uniform across the North that it remains difficult to distinguish villages from each other by observing the built form alone.

While contemporary architecture in Nunavik largely reflects the top-down imposition of low-cost, utilitarian styles originating in southern Canada, Inuit society has been subject to other government interventions and decisions, including the introduction of health, educational, governance, and justice systems modelled on English- and French-Canadian institutions. This ongoing incursion of southern assumptions, attitudes, and agendas was the impetus for the Nunavik-wide Parnasimautik consultation process undertaken in 2013, which sought to identify ways to both protect and strengthen Inuit identity, culture, and traditional livelihoods. The process enabled Inuit, young and old, to have their voices heard by government, while it also alerted policy makers to the need to develop decision-making practices that are more sensitive to Inuit priorities and protocols.

When we discuss architecture and other built forms in contemporary Inuit communities, it is useful to reflect on traditional architectural practices that the Inuit and the Thule, their direct ancestors, developed. This is not for comparative purposes, nor to lament the loss of architectural forms that served Inuit and their forebears in the past, but to draw attention to the sheer ingenuity and variety of styles and techniques that they developed so as to survive and thrive in a harsh climate.

Focusing on the Nunavik homeland, we learn from archaeologists that the Thule constructed and lived in “permanent winter settlements that were composed of semi-subterranean dwellings, or pit houses” (Pinard 1993, 62; see also Kativik Regional Government 2005, 105–117). Archaeological excavations suggest that these dwellings, described and illustrated in figure 8.4, began to appear in the southern portions of the Ungava region of Nunavik between 1350 and 1500 AD. These dwellings were robust and made from locally available materials:

These dwellings consist of relatively deep depressions lined with slabs [1] or boulders encircled by a raised rim [2]. The houses were covered with sod and skin roofs [3] supported by a framework [4] made of wood, upright rocks, and, in numerous instances, whale bones. Ribs and jawbones were most frequently used for this purpose. Although the dwellings vary in shape and size, most are oval and average about 4 × 5 metres in interior dimensions. The tunnels [5] are often more than 5 metres in length but rarely exceed 60 centimetres in height and width.

The floor in the front part of the house was generally paved with flagstones while the rear part contained a raised sleeping platform. In many cases, the platform was also paved with flagstones and was erected on pillars, providing storage space beneath the sleeping area [6]. Other interior features include meat and blubber storage bins constructed of vertically placed flat stones and paved kitchen areas located on both sides of the tunnel opening. Entrance tunnels were lower than the dwelling floors and usually ended in a dipper pit that trapped cold air [7]. (Pinard 1993, 62)

It is believed that “pit houses” remained in use in Nunavik up to three hundred years ago and were replaced by a dwelling known as qarmat (or qarmak), which was principally occupied during fall and spring. They were constructed from sod and stone and featured roofs made of seal-skin guts to allow light to penetrate below (Hantzsch 1932, 63). The dwellings were supported by wooden poles. Excavations of seventeen qarmat dwellings on an island near the eastern Ungava locality of Killiniq revealed that two dwellings had been constructed on top of “pit house” sites, and that there was evidence to suggest that some dwellings had been continually used until the 1930s (Pinard 1993, 64). It is likely that qarmat dwelling sites were relatively confined to favourable hunting sites across the Ungava Peninsula, for it was reported in the 1800s that the population of Inuit from the George River to Hebron (the localities that mark the triangular extent of the Ungava region and that are separated by over 350 miles of coastline) were fewer than thirteen families or seventy individuals (Turner 1894, 176). The robust construction and design consideration given to the making of qarmat dwellings suggest that Inuit of this region, and perhaps across Nunavik more broadly, remained close to their homes for a considerable portion of the year, especially where good hunting of land and marine mammals was available nearby.

The naturalist Bernard Hantzsch made observations of qarmat dwellings while based in Killiniq in 1906; he remarked that Inuit in this location had begun to transform the design of their qarmat, largely under the instruction of Moravian missionaries. This included changing the form to make them more “roomy and comfortable inside,” as well as abandoning sod walls in favour of wooden panels (Hantzsch 1932, 63). Hantzsch made special mention of this change in dwelling construction and saw this as an impractical development, especially given the lack of wood supply in Killiniq:

What is the use of a fine house, if you are cold in it! A small iron stove such as the Eskimos use occasionally, helps only if you have coal or wood, but that has become scarce even in the mission buildings. Let the old Eskimo houses be made somewhat roomier, brighter and healthier; let boards be used to sheathe them, and better ventilation be introduced, but desist from buildings which cannot be heated by oil lamps. (Hantzsch 1932, 63)

In Killiniq, as elsewhere across Nunavik (up to and during the period of first contact), with the onset of winter Inuit built and moved into snow houses variously referred to as illu (“dwelling; house, snow house or tent”; Schneider 1985, 69), iglu (“house”; Turner 1884), or igluvigak (“snow hut”; Turner 1884). In southeast Ungava, Turner (1887, 259) documented that snow house construction usually started in October, with the first snowfall. These shelters provided more security from inclement weather than stone, sod, and wooden buildings, and afforded warmth in the absence of fire (Hantzsch 1932, 63; McLean 1849, 145–146). Hantzsch noted that twenty-eight Inuit resided in a snow house “bee hive” at Killiniq, remarking that small structures could be built in under half an hour by two individuals. On the construction technique, he wrote:

These remarkable buildings, well known to all Eskimo districts, are erected from quadrangular snow blocks of perhaps forty centimeters length and fifteen centimeters thickness, which are cut from well-frozen places with long, broad snow knives and are placed in layers in a helical-shaped wall. Usually they are supplied with a tunnel-shaped entrance-way, occasionally with adjoining rooms for dogs and tools, and when the house is to be used for any length of time, with a chimney and a gut window. (Hantzsch 1932, 84)

As well as being captivated by the ingenuity of Inuit architecture, Hantzsch appreciated the ambience created by snow houses (figure 8.5): “It must be a charming sight, when the hemispherical building on a dark winter’s night reflects the rays of the dimly shining lights” (Hantzsch 1932, 84). The snow house building process and interior characteristics were also observed by John McLean at Fort Chimo (now Kuujjuaq), where he was based as the Hudson’s Bay Company postmaster from 1837 to 1843:

Blocks of snow are first cut out with some sharp instrument from the spot that is intended to form the floor of the dwelling, and raised on edge, inclining a little inward around the cavity. These blocks are generally about two feet in length, two feet in breadth, and eight inches thick, and are joined close together. In this manner the edifice is erected, contracting at each successive tier, until there only remains a small aperture at the top, which is filled by a slab of clear ice, that serves both as a keystone to the arch, and a window to light the dwelling. An embankment of snow is raised around the interior walls, and covered with skins, which answers the double purpose of beds and seats. The inside of the hut presents the figure of an arch or dome; the usual dimensions are ten or twelve feet in diameter, and about eight feet in height at the centre. Sometimes two or three families congregate under the same roof, having separate apartments communicating with the main building, that are used as bedrooms. The entrance to the igloo is effected through a winding covered passage, which stands open by day, but is closed up at night by placing slabs of ice at the angle of each bend, and thus the inmates are perfectly secured against the severest cold. (McLean 1849, 146)

A 2005 drawing by Inuit elder Johnny George Annanack describing igloo construction (figure 8.6) serves as a reminder that the knowledge and skills for building snow houses remains with Inuit today, even though snow houses are only occasionally built, such as for demonstration purposes, or for when hunters find themselves in blizzard conditions. Canvas tents are now used in lieu of snow houses during short trips on the land.

During the warmer months, Inuit lived in tents made of seal skins (figure 8.7). The technology and techniques surrounding the construction of a traditional Inuit tent, or tupik (also itsaq or nuirtaq; Schneider 1985, 106, 218), as well as their manner of use, were recorded in the journals and photographs of Smithsonian Institution naturalist Lucien Turner when he was based in Fort Chimo in the 1880s. He observed that during the summer the Inuit in the region lived in tents—sometimes housing as many as thirty individuals—with waterproof coverings made from the skins of bearded, ringed, and harp seals.

The skins are then sewed side to side to another until reaching a length necessary to enclose an area of sufficient size to accommodate the number of persons to be sheltered within. . . . The tents vary in length from eight or ten feet to thirty feet in length and a breadth of six to ten feet. The supports are always of wood and vary in length. They are arranged as follows, beginning at the rear; three, two, two, two or three. The back three are two shorter and one longer poles; the longer is thrust behind while the shorter are the side slopes, the next two pairs are of the same length as the anterior pair of the posterior three. The front pair, or three, are like the rear ones except they are slightly longer [so] as to give a gentle slope from front to rear. One or two ridge poles are also added.

It will be seen that the fully equipped tent has six sides, the two ends having two each and the two long sides. If the tent be small, the front ends with a pair of poles. The end is thus truncate or cut off. In either case the overlapping skin serves as a place of ingress and exit.

The internal arrangement of the occupants and properties depends also upon certain social customs of those people. The head man of the tent occupies the space under the three rear poles of the tent. Those next in importance occupy the space to the right or left and those dependent are placed near the entrance. The fire is made without the tent if the weather be warm, but if chilly the place of making it is near the center or toward the front of the tent. Here all the cooking or the work goes on. The bedding consisting of skins, blankets or merely the bare earth is left where each person sleeps. (Turner 1887, 219–224)

These descriptions of sod houses, snow houses, and skin tents, which were made and used by Inuit until relatively recently, highlight the resourcefulness and innovative design skills of the Inuit. Their architecture was a product of their place, a product of accumulated knowledge and understandings of micro-climate and weather systems, and it took into consideration the materials available to them and the spatial configuration necessary to maintain good family cohesion.

Insofar as Inuit villages lack architectural variety today and are largely indistinguishable on this basis, the cultural practices of each Inuit community go some way toward setting villages apart from one another. The identity of some communities is a product of forms of artwork and creative practices, hunting techniques, strength of Inuktitut language use, and/or adherence to traditional practices and knowledge.

A recognition of architecture’s potential as a vehicle for contemplating changing Inuit identities has not yet occurred in Nunavik, on either a small or large scale. Aesthetically, the contemporary architecture in the region is rather bland, and it is questionable whether it truly contributes to the celebration and enrichment of Inuit culture. Yet Indigenous nations across the world—even in urban settings—are aspiring to generate built environments that reflect their cultural contexts, heritage, values, and aspirations (Grant et al. 2018; Krinsky 1996; Malnar and Vodvarka 2013; Memmott 2007; Stuart and Thompson-Fawcett 2010; Walker, Jojola, and Natcher 2013). Why, then, does the design manual created by the Gouvernement du Québec (2017), Housing Construction in Nunavik: Guide to Good Practice, omit mention of Inuit culture? Why should the first principles in any design-orientated manual for Nunavik centre on engineering standards rather than the human condition? Despite good design intentions, must everything in the North be built so austerely and speak so little about the Inuit people themselves? Indeed, de Botton (2006) suggests in the Architecture of Happiness that architecture should also respond to individual and collective memories and identities:

We depend on our surroundings obliquely to embody the moods and ideas we respect and then to remind us of them. We look to our buildings to hold us, like a kind of psychological mould, to a helpful vision of ourselves. We arrange around us material forms which communicate to us what we need—but are at constant risk of forgetting we need—within. (de Botton 2006, 107)

Collignon (2005) argues that architecture should be responsive to and reflective of culture in Arctic contexts. Writing on the effects of building multi-roomed homes in favour of single-roomed dwellings, she observed that

dwellers are confronted with a subdivided space that separates individuals. The proximity (visual, auditory, and physical) that was crucial in the shaping of both collective and individual identity has been lost. Interior walls are not only functional dividers, but structures imbued with Western morals of spatial division and specialization. These walls provide a spatial break inside the multigenerational dwelling unit, creating a space in which traditional nonverbal modes of communication are no longer effective. (Collignon 2005, 878)

The absence of architectural variety in Nunavik today and the design configuration of interior spaces are products of colonial and paternalistic practices. As Inuit elder Taamusi Qumaq recalled on the construction of the first buildings in his village of Puvirnituq, Nunavik, in 1958, “We Inuit had no say whosoever in how development was to proceed. We did not know. It was as if we were just ‘watching’ what was being done in our community” (Qumaq 1996, 67).

Indeed, there is an historical and land-tenure legacy behind village designs and built forms. As noted earlier, prior to the formation of centralized villages in the 1950s and 1960s, most Inuit lived in small hunting bands, usually frequenting hunting and fishing grounds close to rivers and coastlines. Inuit families maintained their identity, and distinguished themselves from one another, based on ancestral connections to certain regions and places. The way of describing one’s affiliation with place also extends to the village level. Throughout the Arctic, people identify themselves by adding the suffix -miut to the name of the place that they are from or to which they belong. Thus, residents of Kuujjuaq (Big River, from kuuk, “flow” or “river,” and -juaq, “big”) would call themselves Kuujjuamiut. This naming convention cements Inuit to place and characterizes one’s sense of belonging to community, family, and heritage. This form of identifying with place is an old practice. Lucien Turner paid special interest to Inuit forms of attachment to place when recording the customs and language of the Inuit of northern Québec and Labrador in the 1880s (Turner 1884). On naming conventions, he remarked,

Locality has an important bearing on the character of an Innuit and unless those influences are carefully studied many important facts may not be clearly understood. The region of one’s birth clings to him and designates him, wherever he may journey, as one from that place. That place may be excessively restricted, even a neck of land extending into the sea, yet the local designation of that point is sufficient to stamp each Innuit as one from that locality. While there are as many names for natural objects as there are objects, they may be included as a part of tract and he who is born on any part of that tract belongs by birthright to that tract or territory. (Turner 1887, 44)

Inuit lived in skin or sod houses in summer and snow houses in winter. They would meet neighbouring bands only occasionally and usually for cultural, ceremonial, or trading purposes. The notion of congregating in one place for extended periods, as villages promote today, was a relatively foreign concept to Inuit. Indeed, some Inuit families had modified their traditional travel patterns to include spending more time at fur trading posts (figure 8.8) and mission sites when these were established from the 1800s; but, by and large, Inuit families lived away from other Inuit families for most of the year. It was not until the 1950s that the Canadian government (through what was then the Department of Indian and Northern Affairs) met with local Inuit bands to discuss the prospect of forming centralized communities (villages) along coastal fringes, predicated on the assumption that this would allow the government to provide better health and educational services and support for the sick and elderly.¹

Centralized communities were generally established by mutual agreement. In some cases, this was highly desirable for Inuit, as the land was periodically starved of large game such as caribou. Villages provided a sense of food security during hard times, and support to those suffering from tuberculous, which impacted many Inuit during this era. Some of these villages were formed near existing Hudson’s Bay Company trading posts, where some basic infrastructure had already been established and where Inuit were already used to congregating with other Inuit families, although not always permanently, in the newly formed villages.

Inuit bands moved away from their family-based hunting grounds gradually, taking up residence in villages as schools, churches, health clinics, and stores became operational, and once housing materials became available. These early forms of housing, now mostly removed, were often built by Inuit themselves out of materials supplied from the South, as well as from local materials where available. These forms of built heritage were progressively replaced during the 1980s and 1990s with standardized forms of houses that were designed and prefabricated in the South (Robson 1995). It is these extant buildings, created without the design or cultural input of Inuit, that form the basis of the comments and criticisms that follow.

As of 2016, Nunavik was home to 10,880 people, 10,775 of whom (98 percent) are Inuit (Statistics Canada 2016). The urgent appeal to construct more houses centres on a serious shortage of available homes for Inuit residents, an object of daily conversation among Inuit families, who are frustrated by the lack of building progress in line with surging village populations.² While the need for shelter is perceived as a top priority, the desire to construct culturally appropriate forms of housing is neither the only nor the most frequently cited issue. This is understandable, for Inuit themselves have indicated in community forums that the lack of housing is contributing to poor family cohesion and a rise in serious mental and physical health issues (Kativik Regional Government and Makivik Corporation 2012, 357–366).³ The housing crisis shows no signs of being rectified in the immediate future, even with hundreds of homes slated for construction across Nunavik in the coming construction seasons. According to Statistics Canada (2016), 49 percent of Nunavik Inuit live in crowded homes (defined as more than one person per room; the comparable figure for the non-Indigenous population was 7 percent), which amounts to a shortfall of approximately 1,200 homes (Kativik Regional Government and Makivik Corporation 2012, 370; Makivik Corporation et al. 2014, 102).

The housing crisis is compounded in Nunavik by a number of factors. Most Inuit do not have the means to become homeowners, so the vast majority rent from one of the 2,734 dwellings that are managed by the Kativik Regional Government (KRG), an Inuit authority that manages affairs such as health and education under the auspices of the Québec government (Gouvernement du Québec 2014, 17).⁴ Private ownership of housing in Nunavik is almost non-existent (only 130 homes are privately owned by Inuit [Makivik Corporation et al. 2014, 103]) and, even then, many of these homeowners struggle to keep up with mortgage payments. Under rental arrangements, dwellings are leased to Inuit families and maintained by the KRG. The conditions of lease, however, generally restrict any modifications to dwellings. This has meant that since 1999, when the KRG first began management of the dwelling stocks, 99 percent of the Inuit population have effectively been unable to repurpose their homes to suit their respective family and cultural requirements. This means that almost all Nunavik Inuit have lived in similar types of homes for nearly two decades, and that the cultural issues they have confronted by living in these spaces is known to and shared by the entire population. The need to modify, extend, and rectify their homes to overcome the housing situation and the lack of cultural consideration afforded in the housing configuration is apparent to all. Many of the social issues in Arctic communities may well be a reaction to the living situations that have been imposed upon Inuit residents (Dawson 2008). As lessees, they do not have the authority or freedom to mould their physical surroundings to suit their cultural context. Rapoport (1969) argues that a house should be seen as a social unit of space, and the current housing tenure arrangements in the Arctic do not serve this function. As he points out,

Once the identity and character of a culture has been grasped, and some insight gained into its values, its choices among possible dwelling responses to both physical and cultural variables become much clearer. The specific characteristics of a culture—the accepted way of doing things, the socially unacceptable ways and the implicit ideals—need to be considered since they will affect housing and settlement form; this includes the subtleties as well as the more obvious or utilitarian features. It is often what a culture makes impossible by prohibiting it either explicitly or implicitly, rather than what it makes inevitable, which is significant. (Rapoport 1969, 47)

The personalization of Inuit homes has been restricted to the use of decor; the exterior forms and internal divisions of space are not able to be modified. For too long, Inuit have had to endure living in prefabricated dwellings and tight leasehold arrangements that are not congruent with their cultural beliefs and practices. Instead, they have had to revert to outdoor spaces and outbuildings to express many of their cultural habits. Hunting shacks (figure 8.9) at the rear of homes are places where Inuit land-based identity has an opportunity to flourish. These small buildings, often made from repurposed shipping containers and surplus building supplies left behind at the end of each building season by fly-in construction companies, are places full of life. It is in these spaces that Inuit clean fish, animals, and birds. It is where sculpture-making occurs, and where mechanical repairs on boats, sleds, and snowmobiles are carried out. It is within and around these peripheral spaces of the main dwelling where children watch their parents and elders go about their traditional practices.

These small shelters support important forms of knowledge transmission. They are quiet places for contemplation and discussion, for learning and becoming part of the Inuit community. With so many family members coming and going, the principal dwelling is often just too noisy and too distracting for many forms of traditional knowledge to be passed on.

The irony of the current housing situation is that, less than sixty years ago, Inuit lived freely on the land wherever they chose, making camp near productive hunting and fishing sites. The land is still free to pursue, of course. Outside village life, the land and its animals remain a communal resource to Inuit. Even today, a tree can be felled without permission, and a fish net set beside any river or lake. A trail can be blazed through any terrain, and a hunting cabin (providing it is situated outside municipal boundaries) can be erected on any site without planning approval or the need to follow municipal building regulations.

A groundswell of critical concern with normative housing solutions, including that associated with design and architecture, is occurring in settler nations across the world. This is being led by Indigenous groups and their allies. In Australia, Canada, Fiji, New Zealand, and the United States, the voice of Indigenous designers has started to be heard, leading to important changes in architectural and planning practices. For the first time, Indigenous world views and design practices are now being taught at design schools in these countries. Furthermore, many non-Indigenous designers have taken heed of the importance of recognizing that Indigenous people have maintained design practices for generations, and that Indigenous ways of configuring the environment are constantly evolving in tune with shifting identities and belief systems. The transition to teaching and internalizing Indigenous design values and beliefs takes time, however, and changing deeply entrenched design paradigms does not come without challenges.

Ryan Walker, Ted Jojola, and David Natcher (2013, 5) discuss this issue with respect to Indigenous planning, noting that for this practice to be truly reclaimed, a strong level of resistance must be mounted against current design paradigms, in tandem with a commitment to political change. As they argue, “Indigenous planning isn’t just an armchair theoretical approach or a set of methods and practices, but a political strategy aimed at improving the lives and environments of Indigenous peoples. To do Indigenous planning requires a commitment to political, social, economic, and environmental change.” They go on to point out that

the central tenets of Indigenous planning are essentially community/kinship- and place-based. It is a form of planning whose roots and traditions are grounded in specific Indigenous peoples’ experiences linked to specific places, lands, and resources. . . . To do Indigenous planning requires that it be done in/at the place with the people of that place. (Walker, Jojola, and Natcher 2013, 5)

In the Nunavik context, the plea for government agencies to engage directly with Inuit as equal partners in the design and layout of villages and urban forms (among other things) rings loudly and clearly. As mentioned earlier, the Parnasimautik consultation process undertaken by the Nunivak Inuit in 2013 focused on concerns surrounding Inuit autonomy in areas such as culture, identity, food, housing, health, justice, education, and employment.⁵ A sense of urgency in reclaiming agency around various facets of Inuit life is apparent in a quotation from one Inuit participant in the consultation process: “We are a unique people. We have to preserve our culture and identity. We have to improve our way of life not just by getting more things from the south, but by doing things on our own” (Makivik Corporation et al. 2014, 21). These words suggest that Nunavik Inuit will push back more and more against any structures and systems that have been designed and developed without reference to their culture.

In an Inuit homeland (Nunavik) that will always remain as such because of land-right treaty arrangements signed in the 1970s that guarantee the preservation of their land and use of resources, it is logical that Inuit would want to determine and manage their own living environment and affairs themselves. Inuit are increasingly taking control of their own affairs, and housing and village design are a natural part of this dynamic. The housing situation in Nunavik is still very much attached to the powers and control of southern Canadian government agencies, a system that is now recognized as increasingly untenable.

The rapidly expanding construction of family hunting cabins on the outskirts of Nunavik villages (figure 8.10), particularly in those villages nearer to the treeline, where building materials can be readily sourced (such as Kuujjuarapik, Tasiujaq, Kuujjuaq, and Kangiqsualujjuaq), is an effective form of architectural resistance toward community design and the housing situation in Nunavik. While, on the surface, it might appear that these cabins are situated at random, their placement on the landscape is quite deliberate, with consideration given to maximizing views and access to trails and to community infrastructure nearby. Most importantly, these dwellings are designed and built by Inuit to suit their own purposes and circumstances. Clusters of these cabins are now part of the fabric of village life, replete with their own built character and form.

Family units, once separated in villages because the housing situation forced them to rent wherever a house was available, are now returning to build cabins close to each other. Inuit talk about the sense of peace and pride they derive from living in these cabins, and of how living outside of villages allows them to escape some of the social challenges and noise associated with village life. They are enjoying porches as part of their living quarters for the first time, as well as the luxury of living in spaces with high ceilings. Cabin living approximates to some extent what being on the land means to Inuit. This Inuit-based, home-grown design of cabins, and their deliberate siting in the landscape by Inuit, suggests that the houses and housing layouts in Nunavik from which Inuit have escaped do not fully or even adequately meet their cultural needs and desires. Locked into rental situations, they are unable to express themselves and their identity through built form. Cabin construction provides some relief, a way of returning to the land without actually being on it. The cabins are stamps of contemporary Inuit identity, providing Inuit the freedom to be Inuit.

The cabins (one- and two-storey buildings) we have visited are innovative, original, and ingeniously designed. They make use of locally sourced materials in resourceful and sustainable ways, and they highlight the enormous range of skills that Inuit have developed in engineering and constructing robust structures in a formidable climate. They are generally self-powered and self-heated, making use of solar aspect to draw as much light as possible into the cabin spaces. Below the treeline, the cabin builders have explained to us that they are deliberately situating their buildings within the woods, where it is possible to seek shelter from the wind (thereby saving electricity and heating) and as a way to be connected to mammals and birds. The builders have remarked on the prospect of hunting a ptarmigan from their window or observing an inquisitive black bear or rabbit. The point here is that cabin life is about being close to the land, somewhat the opposite of village living.

The cabins stand as reminders that Inuit villages would likely look very different than they do now, should there be an opportunity for them to have more autonomy in the planning and design of the built environment in the future. And while not everyone in villages agrees with the sprawl of cabins on the outskirts of town, it is important that future village planning take into consideration the meaning and intent of these cabins. They are marks of resistance and an affirmation of Inuit values such as living close to nature and supporting family units. They are a product of Inuit design values and innovation. They are constructed by and for Inuit in places where they want to build them. They are loved and make for healthy living spaces.⁶ In many respects, they are also expressions of Inuit forms of art. In Art as Experience, Dewey (1934, 230) writes that “buildings, among all art objects, come the nearest to expressing the stability and endurance of existence. They are to mountains what music is to the sea. Because of its inherent power to endure, architecture records and celebrates more than any other art the generic features of our common human life.” These statements would hardly describe the rental homes that most Inuit inhabit within existing Northern villages.

In supporting Inuit visions to generate new urban forms and dwellings that are based on their cultural practices and values, it is important to recognize, review, and understand the heritage value of residential building forms that have been built since Northern villages were developed. This means exploring ways to preserve buildings that were not necessarily culturally or climatically appropriate for Nunavik (figure 8.11). These buildings would stand as reference points on a pathway toward a renewal of Indigenous autonomy in design and planning that might represent the dynamic social, economic, political, and environmental changes that have occurred in the Arctic within the past sixty years. Remember that early villages changed from tents to clusters of buildings and then to urban sprawl in only a very few years.

Currently, there is virtually no form of management of the built form in Nunavik that pays specific attention to the issue of cultural heritage, although the Plan Nunavik document prepared by Inuit in 2012 did highlight the urgent need for a heritage program. The document proposed that historical buildings, including churches, be preserved for future generations, and that processes be developed to identify, document, present, and interpret Nunavik’s natural, man-made, and cultural landscapes (Makivik Corporation et al. 2014, 23). The preservation of some buildings that mark different ways of thinking, being, and knowing in the Arctic context might serve to support the argument for constructing new Arctic villages and homes that are oriented toward Inuit cultural traditions and ways of being in the landscape.

So what might new forms of Inuit villages and dwellings look like in generations to come as Inuit resistance to southern planning and design systems increases? Taking into account the arguments presented earlier in this chapter with regard to buildings serving as forms that embody cultural identity and cultural values, we suggest that new dwellings and their collective patterns be based on the principles of participative, flexible, and sustainable planning and design. While these three principles are not exhaustive, they are, we believe, essential to achieving Inuit identity reflected in the built form of Northern communities and their dwellings throughout Nunavik.

PARTICIPATIVE PLANNING AND DESIGN

There is an urgent need for those most affected by their dwelling environments to be involved in their planning and design. There is ample evidence that, throughout Nunavik, the village environment will remain the locus of most social, economic, and political activity in the North when Inuit are not on the land, an activity that, while still cherished, occupies far less time than it has in the past. The form of the village and the form of the house is thus the principal container for community life, and as such must respond to the challenges discussed above.

A participative planning and design approach is likely to result in achieving an environment where Inuit feel more at home, forging identities and love and pride of place that arise from, and are connected to, the built form. A new built environment, envisaged by Inuit for Inuit, will ultimately form new ways of belonging to place. Ideally, the village form should be a product of the needs and desires of the people and would be based on design processes that are meaningful to Inuit. Adherence to such processes may lead to a transformation in the way that villages are conceived—resulting in villages built upon radically different processes than those used by designers and planners from the South. This should be embraced rather than resisted, even if it means that village forms are nested more within the landscape than being set out in formal arrangements. Rather than being regarded as separate to the broader landscape, villages may once again be regarded as part of the landscape, part of nature. The implementation of participatory planning and design practices is an important step toward decolonizing design practice, and the recognition that Inuit have a right to determine their own living conditions. The design process is just as important as other aspects of Inuit life that are now largely determined by Inuit, such as hunting and fishing quotas, which are now based on cultural needs.

Achieving equitable and sustainable built forms responsive to the needs and values of Inuit throughout Nunavik is a challenge that can no longer be avoided. The strategies that are required must include the active participation, financial commitment, and cultural input of the Inuit population. Existing models of housing and other components of Northern villages lack the flexibility and creativity required to properly reflect the lifestyles and environment of the North, as do the sources of energy, materials, and the infrastructure required to provide water and remove waste. All require new and creative management strategies. The adoption of new design and planning processes—to initiate new Inuit ways of living and connections to place—effectively require the removal of decades of non-Inuit design thinking and practice. Indeed, design can shape, celebrate, and connect Inuit with their land more than ever before.

The cabin belts that may soon encircle the wooded Inuit villages of Nunavik are an arresting indication of new architectural developments. Inuit decide how they want to live, while, incidentally, paying no municipal or land tax. These cabins are marks on the landscape that highlight the lengths that Inuit will go to achieving a housing environment that reflects their values and identity.

With the shackles of current design practices removed, and imagining new building forms in Nunavik, it is likely that new forms of Inuit identity will emerge that are just as much associated with village life as with the land. Nunavik is on the cusp of a new planning and architectural regime, and all should lend their hand in support as Inuit forge ahead to create built environments that future generations will see as a natural extension of the land.

We thank our Inuit colleagues and friends for passing on their knowledge of the land to us and for welcoming us into their homes. Thank you to Rhonda Nichols for her research assistance on this project and to Christine Heyes LaBond for her comments. Thank you also to the anonymous reviewers for providing constructive feedback and comments in the preparation of this chapter.

1. 1 The Housing Construction in Nunavik report (Gouvernement du Québec 2017, 11) states that the first housing trial in Nunavik occurred in the village of Puvirnituq, which resulted in seven private homes being constructed. It was soon realized that future homes would need to be larger and that better insulation materials were required. Inuit elder Taamusi Qumaq, reflecting on his time in Purvirnituq in an interview for Tumivut magazine (1996, 67), recalls that ten houses were first erected in Puvirnituq and that the families built them themselves. He noted that families insulated the sheet-metal-clad buildings with sod and grass to make them more liveable.
2. 2 For a complete discussion of the ramifications of the housing crisis in Nunavik, see Makivik Corporation et al. (2014) and Gouvernement du Québec (2017).
3. 3 The health issues related to overcrowding in the neighbouring region of Nunavut are discussed in Lauster and Tester (2010).
4. 4 A few hundred additional units exist in Nunavik and are owned by various government and regional departments and agencies to house their employees; and there are slightly less than a hundred owner-occupied homes (Gouvernement du Québec 2014, 17).
5. 5 The results of the consultation process were presented in a report the following year: see Makivik Corporation et al. (2014). The Parnasimautik consulations built on Plan Nunavik, an earlier policy statement outlining the Inuit vision for the future development of the region, with an emphasis on both cultural and environmental sustainability (Kativik Regional Government and Makivik Corporation 2012). Plan Nunavik was the Inuit response to Plan Nord, the Québec government’s own vision of the Nunavik future.
6. 6 We do not wish to suggest here that rental homes are not cherished by Inuit families. We recognize that families have been raised in these settings and memories have been built. Rather, we suggest that buildings designed and built by Inuit themselves are likely to afford a different type of connection to the built form. For a detailed study of the impact of Inuit housing on health, see Young and Mullins (1996).

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