By Emiliano Rodríguez Nuesch y María Morena Vicente

A Night That No Longer Sleeps

Chile’s Atacama Desert is one of the best places on Earth to look up. Its dry air, altitude, and

near-constant clear skies have made it the world capital of astronomy. From here, scientists

have mapped distant galaxies, studied black holes, and photographed the birth of stars.

But the darkness that made all this possible is fading. Mining operations, expanding cities, and

satellite constellations are turning one of humanity’s clearest windows to the universe into a

mirror of its own activity.

“The proximity of the AES Andes industrial megaproject to Paranal poses a critical risk to the

most pristine night skies on the planet,” warned European Southern Observatory Director

General Xavier Barcons. “Dust emissions during construction, increased atmospheric

turbulence, and especially light pollution will irreparably impact the capabilities for astronomical

observation.”

Chile hosts about 70% of the world’s astronomical infrastructure: the ALMA array, the Paranal

Observatory, and soon, the Extremely Large Telescope. Yet, the same north is glowing brighter

each year. Mining and renewable energy projects are transforming the desert—and the night.

Light travels far in the thin Atacama air, scattering across hundreds of kilometers and erasing

faint stars. Astronomers warn that even small increases in brightness can disrupt decades of

research. For local communities who depend on astrotourism, the loss of darkness also means

the loss of meaning.

Astronomers argue that protecting darkness should be treated like protecting biodiversity —

both safeguard fragile ecosystems.

Without stricter light controls, this progress could undermine decades of scientific investment.

Even small increases in skyglow disrupt sensitive measurements used to study exoplanets and

deep-space objects. For local communities that depend on astrotourism, losing the stars means

losing part of their identity and economy.

“What protected us before was distance,” says Ángel Otarola, astronomer and member of the

Chilean Astronomical Society’s (SOCHIAS) light pollution committee. “Now these projects are

getting closer.”

A Guardian of the Dark

Few people represent this struggle better than Eduardo Unda-Sanzana, director of the

Astronomy Department at the University of Antofagasta.

For years, he has tracked light pollution across the desert, presented evidence to lawmakers,

and pushed for stricter lighting rules. His advocacy helped Chile establish regulations on

artificial light emissions, but those rules are now being tested by new megaprojects.

“Darkness is extremely fragile,” Unda-Sanzana said in an interview. “It’s what allows me to

see more clearly — the same way silence lets you hear a delicate sound.”

When he looks out his apartment window in Antofagasta, the glare of stadium lights spills into

his room. He knows that glow represents a growing threat to his life’s work.

“If we lose these skies,” he told The New York Times, “we don’t lose them only for

ourselves — we lose them for all humanity. There’s no replacement.”

Darkness to help us connect with the universe

When we flood the night with light, we erase our capacity to see — and to feel — what connects

us to the universe. The night once offered perspective. Protecting darkness, then, is more than

protecting stars. It’s about preserving our shared capacity for wonder; the foundation of

compassion itself.

The fight for the Atacama’s dark skies asks a larger question: if we can no longer see the

universe clearly, will we still feel part of it?

The Fight for Dark Skies in the Atacama