“Why did you do it?”
The scorpion simply replies, “I couldn’t help it. It’s who I am.”
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
There’s a word in the Inuit language—aklash—that means being trustworthy even when alone, the quality of being true to yourself and others whether seen or unseen. I find this idea quietly profound, especially in a world that seems to prize appearances over substance. Aklash is about an integrity that runs deep, a kind of character that isn’t dependent on who’s watching or what might be gained.
For me, this quality is essential in any real relationship, because I’ve learned over time that trustworthiness is about more than words or promises—it’s about consistency. And without aklash, that quiet backbone of integrity, trust can too easily fracture. I tend not to keep company with those who lack it. Maybe that’s because, over time, I’ve come to notice how quickly relationships can unravel when someone is one way in private and another in public. People who only act with integrity when others are watching may be charming, even magnetic, but I can’t open up to them, knowing that they’re fundamentally unreliable.
The fable of the frog and the scorpion captures this perfectly. In the story, a scorpion approaches a frog by the river and asks for a ride across. The frog, cautious, points out that the scorpion might sting him mid-river, dooming them both. But the scorpion argues, "Why would I go and do a thing like that? If I sting you, we’ll both drown." Swayed by this logic, the frog agrees and lets the scorpion climb onto his back. Yet halfway across the river, the scorpion stings the frog, and as they begin to sink, the frog, bewildered, asks, “Why did you do it?” The scorpion simply replies, “I couldn’t help it. It’s who I am.”
This story has stayed with me for its brutal simplicity. It’s a stark reminder that some people, like the scorpion, cannot be counted on to act outside their nature, even if it means mutual harm. In relationships, I avoid people whose character lacks that depth of trustworthiness. Like the scorpion, they might promise trustworthiness, but when pushed, they’ll sting. Aklash is the opposite of this; it’s a steady integrity that goes beyond the surface. It’s not just about what people say they’ll do—it’s about who they are, through and through.
This quality matters in friendship most of all. True friends, the kind who embody aklash, don’t just look reliable on the surface; they’re trustworthy when it counts, even if no one’s there to see it. They’re the ones you can rely on not to break a confidence or turn on you when things get tough. These friendships aren’t about constant validation or praise. They’re about a quiet understanding, the knowledge that you can trust them even in your absence. I can think of only a handful of people I’d place in this category, friends I don’t have to second-guess or worry about because they don’t need to be watched to be genuine.
Family is where aklash might be tested most. With family, the bonds run deep, but so do the chances for friction and misunderstanding. Yet, when family members have this quality of aklash, their reliability becomes a source of comfort and stability. I’ve been blessed with a few family members who embody this quiet constancy. When things get tense, I know they’ll stay true, without needing constant reminders or incentives. There’s something profoundly reassuring about family members who don’t shift their values based on convenience or ease. They’re like anchors in a storm, steady and trustworthy, even when tempers flare or opinions clash.
Akash also speaks to something deeply personal—our private lives, where no one else can see or judge us. To me, this is where aklash is most fully revealed. How do we act when the audience disappears? What do we hold to when there’s no one to impress or appease? The scorpion in the fable couldn’t help but reveal his nature in the end, and I think that in our private moments, we all reveal our true selves. I’m not interested in projecting an image or doing the “right thing” just to appear honourable. For me, aklash is about staying true to my commitments and values, whether or not anyone else knows. It’s about looking in the mirror and knowing that my private self-aligns with the person I present to the world.
And yet,this quality doesn’t come without a cost. Integrity doesn’t always pay off immediately; in fact, there are times when it would be easier to act against it. We live in a culture that often rewards visibility and expedience, so maintaining integrity in private can feel like swimming upstream. But aklash brings with it a sense of self-respect and peace that’s difficult to find otherwise. Living with it means I can trust myself, and that’s perhaps the most vital relationship of all.
"Search me, O God, and know my heart;
test me and know my concerns." Psalm 139:23, BSB.
I think about David in the Bible, a man who asked God to search his innermost parts, to know him completely. He wasn’t perfect—far from it—but his transparency and honesty before God reveal something pure-hearted, a willingness to be seen fully, flaws and all. David’s story is a reminder to me that aklash isn’t about perfection; it’s about integrity. It’s about being who you say you are, not just for others but for yourself, even when it’s hard.
In the end, aklash is what makes life feel true and genuine. It’s the assurance that I’m the same person in private as in public, and that those I hold close are people I can trust, people who won’t betray a confidence or act against their word. It’s a kind of trustworthiness that doesn’t depend on appearances, but on character. And in a world full of scorpions, aklash is what allows me to feel safe, connected, and at peace.
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