Sled dogs and rare earths: Our journey through Greenland's growing pains

The Hill

24-07-2025

ILULISSAT, GREENLAND — Just after midday, we gripped the worn rope handles of a dogsled as 11 dogs surged across the frozen tundra of Western Greenland, inside the Arctic Circle. The wind lashed our faces, while the musher's sharp cries — quick bursts of 'Yip! Yip!' and a trilled 'Drrrrr!' — rose above the steady crunch of paws on snow.
Our musher, Mamarut Nielsen, moved with grace, leaping off the sled to guide it over bare patches and exposed rock, then slipping back on without breaking stride. He snapped his whip gently for direction, but the dogs hardly needed it. They knew the way.
After two hours, we stopped for a mountain view overlooking a field of icebergs. As the dogs rested, Mamarut handed us hot chocolate and described each dog — this one was the alpha, that one was rising in rank. The dogs, all male, swarmed us affectionately.
Mamarut spoke with pride. His father and grandfather had hunted seals, narwhals, even polar bears. But at age 14, Mamarut told his father he wanted a different life.
Today, Mamarut works for Diskobay Tours in Ilulissat, offering tourists (and visiting journalists) a glimpse of an Inuit tradition that's increasingly difficult to maintain. He speaks Greenlandic and fluent English — learned not from school nor from Danish instruction, but from video games and podcasts. He now translates for visiting film crews and tourists.
This is no longer about survival. It's about preserving a culture, handed down but steadily fading.
Our excursion connected us to the ancient traditions of Greenland. We landed in Greenland as President Trump's audacious suggestion to buy or annex the island was still reverberating across the Arctic.
In May, U.S. officials reportedly began exploring a Compact of Free Association with Greenland — an agreement that could give Washington greater strategic access in exchange for services like defense and visa-free travel, similar to U.S. arrangements with certain Pacific Island nations.
And in June, Trump ordered U.S. forces in Greenland to be transferred from the U.S. European Command to the U.S. Northern Command. The move tightens America's grip on Arctic defense at a time of escalating global conflict.
But beneath the geopolitics lies a more complex story of a society at a crossroads, balancing centuries-old traditions with the pressures of modern life. The tension between self-rule and colonial legacy, environmental preservation and resource extraction, is reshaping not only Greenland's economy and environment but also its sense of identity.
In Nuuk, Greenland's capital, modernity rises beside the remnants of a colonial past. Austere concrete apartment blocks from the mid-20th century stand beside new housing built for members of the Inatsisartut, Greenland's parliament. There's a sleek new international airport and a modern university specializing in Arctic research. Even the cemeteries are labeled 'old' and 'new.'
Greenland's economy has long relied on fishing, propped up by an annual block grant of about $600 million from Denmark, Greenland's former colonial ruler. Although Greenland governs its own domestic affairs, Denmark retains control over its courts, foreign policy and defense. Polls indicate that 84 percent of Greenlanders support independence from Denmark. And parties favoring independence made gains in Greenland's national elections in March.
Because Greenland's path to independence runs through economic self-sufficiency, many Greenlanders would welcome increased trade, including closer ties with the U.S. A new economy is emerging, driven by tourism and mineral wealth, but shadowed by fears of cultural loss and environmental cost.
Greenland's challenge is to bridge the old and the new — to preserve traditional livelihoods not as relics, but as living parts of a modern, sovereign economy.
Sofie Amondsen at Kittat, a museum of Greenlandic clothing in Nuuk (Bethany Williams)
In Nuuk, a young woman named Sofie showed us some of the traditional Inuit sealskin clothing she sews and teaches others to make. She sometimes hunts and skins the seals herself. After studying further north, she began working at Kittat, a museum in Nuuk that showcases traditional Greenlandic clothes.
As it has for Mamarut, language fluency has expanded Sofie's options. 'For me, because I can speak Danish and a bit English, I've been invited to Nunavut, Alaska and Norway to do sewing workshops,' she told us.
For Sofie's mother's generation, wearing traditional sealskin clothing was a sign of poverty. But that stigma is fading. Young people are becoming more curious about the traditional clothes designed for the Arctic climate. With outside interest in Inuit traditions on the rise, Sofie believes the government may finally feel pressure to invest in cultural preservation. 'I'm so excited about this airport,' she said, hoping it will draw more travelers eager to learn about Greenlandic customs and help ensure those traditions endure.
We heard the same cautious optimism from Nuuna Papis Chemnitz, who runs Vlaajuk Pottery-Ceramics in Nuuk. Her elegant pottery incorporates salt collected from along Greenland's rugged coastline. The wood building that houses her workshop is nearly 100 years old, built by her husband's grandfather in an era when no outsiders came to Greenland. (Before 1950, Denmark's trade monopoly barred foreign visitors.)
Nuuna started pottery as a hobby while working for Greenland Air. As demand grew, she quit the airline job. The morning we visited, a line of customers had greeted her outside the shop. She too credited the airport, and the attention sparked by Trump's comments, with boosting business.
Most visitors still arrive from Denmark, but that's changing. In June, United Airlines launched a direct route from Newark — just four hours away.
With only 56,000 people spread across a landmass the size of Western Europe, Greenland is the world's largest and emptiest island. To grow its economy, Greenland needs more people — not just tourists but also immigrants.
In Ilulissat, famous for its massive icebergs, Rosé Busaco Andersen runs Ilulissat Services, an international staffing agency. Originally from the Philippines, she had never heard of Greenland when first offered a job there.
Twelve years later, she is still here, recruiting workers from across the globe to staff local businesses, including at her own restaurants and rentals. Some are helping to build the new international airport in Ilulissat, set to open next April.
She now travels abroad to recruit employees, interviewing candidates as far away as Argentina. Most who come, stay — especially Filipinos, Greenland's second-largest immigrant group after Danes. 'Twelve years ago, we were maybe 11 or 12 Filipinos here,' she said. 'Now in Nuuk, I think we are 1,800.'
Rosé drove us to the new airport under construction outside Ilulissat where Rasmus, the foreman, explained how critical foreign workers, many recruited by Rosé, who have come to help with the airport's construction. 'I'm a foreign worker too,' he smiled, making air quotes around 'foreign.'
'I'm from Denmark,' he added. 'Our relationship, it's complicated.'
Indeed, many Danes still hold top government and business posts in Greenland — a lingering reminder of colonial hierarchy. Some Greenlanders feel Denmark pushed them to modernize too quickly, disrupting traditional life and leaving deep scars. Greenland now has the world's highest suicide rate, especially among youth, which experts link to cultural dislocation.
Climate change is another concern. Everyone in Greenland seems to have a story — of warmer winters, of thinning ice, of hunting routes that are no longer safe. The Arctic is reportedly warming almost four times faster than the global average.
'If you want to experience climate change, come here in Ilulissat,' Rosé said. 'You will see. The ice is melting. I never believed climate change before I came in Greenland and witnessed it with my two own eyes. It is real.'
On our second day in Ilulissat we encountered a fisherman and hunter named Karl loading his sled and pack of dogs onto his boat for a seal hunt. Later over text message, we asked him whether he had seen any indications of climate change.
'Yes extreme yes,' he responded. He shared that, after 30 years of fishing, what he is seeing now in the melting ice is new. 'We should still [be] out and hunting in [safe] sea ice and a lot of snow, but not today. Too early that ice and snow [is] melting.'
Olennguaq Kristensen, a polar bear hunter from the far north of Greenland, with his daughter in Ilulussat. (Bethany Williams)
Mamarut's father, Ole Kristensen, echoed the concern. Sea ice arrives later and breaks up earlier, he told us, disrupting rhythms passed down through generations. The worst year was 2023, when his settlement nearly ran out of food.
Ole is featured in 'The Color of the Ice,' a documentary film that follows his life as a hunter navigating the shrinking sea ice around Qaanaaq, one of the northernmost towns on Earth. When we met, Ole had just returned from a screening in Taiwan — his first trip abroad — and said some audience members wept as they watched his story.
As Greenland's ice retreats, long-inaccessible parts of the island are opening up, exposing new shipping lanes and untapped reserves of oil, gas, and critical minerals. Climate change has turned this once-frozen frontier into a geopolitical prize, drawing interest not just from the U.S. but also from China and other global powers eager to stake claims in the resource-rich Arctic.
For Greenland, the melting presents both opportunity and risk — a chance to bolster economic independence, but also a test of how much it's willing to trade for prosperity.
When Mamarut told Ole he wanted to go to university instead of becoming a hunter, Ole didn't object. 'It's okay,' he remembered thinking. The sea ice was disappearing. Climate change was already reshaping their lives.
Ole's family's path mirrors the broader trajectory of Greenland—a society navigating the dual pressures of political self-determination and climate upheaval. As calls for independence grow louder and warming temperatures upend traditional life, it may be that Greenland keeps its heritage alive precisely by opening itself up to the world.