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Yahoo
4 days ago
- Yahoo
Opinion - Sled dogs and rare earths: Our journey through Greenland's growing pains
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. Daniel Allott is former opinion editor at The Hill and author of 'On the Road in Trump's America: A Journey into the Heart of a Divided Country.' Bethany Williams is a communications specialist at international nonprofit and humanitarian organizations. Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
Yahoo
06-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
Throat singing duo PIQSIQ celebrates Inuit culture at Japanese festival
Yellowknife-based throat singing duo PIQSIQ says performing for Japanese fans was a unique celebration of Inuit culture and finding similarities between Arctic and Japanese traditions. Sisters Inuksuk Mackay and Tiffany Ayalik performed in Osaka in June as part of the World Expo. "The culture is so generous and so respectful and open, and it just felt like we were able to talk about our culture and what it's like to be Inuk and living in the North, and a little bit about history in a way that was really celebrating," Ayalik said. "Sometimes when we talk about culture here, there's just like a different context in Canada, and it's always about reconciliation and it can be really heavy." The pair said that travelling to Japan is something they've dreamed of since childhood, and they got to share it with their family as well. Mackay's husband and sons travelled with PIQSIQ to perform demonstrations of Inuit games. Mackay said that some audience members had visited the Arctic or read up on Inuit culture and had lots of questions for them about life in the North. "So that was really cool to know that across the world, there were people who were really interested in culture," she said. Mackay said there were lots of commonalities between Inuit and Japanese cultures too, like respect for elders and children and the value they both place on culture itself. Beyond their performances, the sisters and their family spent time exploring a new country. They said visiting Nara, a city known in part for its temples and the deer that roam around, was one highlight. Ayalik says sharing that with family up North made her laugh. "I sent videos to other family in Nunavut and they're just like 'this food is just walking around,'" she said. The pair said the experience is one they won't soon forget. They hope one day to come back and travel to the north of Japan to collaborate with Ainu singers, a traditional Japanese music. And if it's up to her family, Mackay says that trip could happen before long. "My sons are already trying to learn Japanese on Duolingo," she said.
CBC
21-06-2025
- Entertainment
- CBC
This Inuit drum dancing group is recovering music traditions that were almost lost
Sophie Agnatok and Ashley Dicker have known each other for decades. Today, they're closer than ever — in more ways than one. "We're right in each other's faces," Agnatok said, referring to how, as throat singing partners, they perform up close to one another. "It's really intimate, and it requires so much focus and so much connection." Dicker's first memories of Agnatok go back to their childhood in Nain, Nunatsiavut, an Inuit-governed region in northern Labrador. "When I was a young girl, I would break into Sophie's bedroom with my best friend, who was her sister, and I would steal her perfume," Dicker said, laughing. Agnatok and Dicker are members of Kilautiup Songuninga, which translates to "strength of the drum." They're the first Inuit drum dancing and throat singing group to come out of St. John's. Agnatok is now the group's president. As a founding member, she has been part of the group for nineteen years. Dicker joined four years ago. "Before we even had Ashley, I'd been dying and dying for a throat singing partner. I finally got one," said Agnatok. "I'm very, very lucky to have her." Women at heart of Inuit drum dance revival 3 hours ago Duration 6:18 For the six members of Kilautiup Songuninga, community is part of its draw. "It's hard for Inuit to gather here," Dicker said. She moved to St. John's eight years ago and joining the group has helped her combat homesickness. "It's so good to be somewhere [you can be yourself], or with people you could be yourself with." Reclaiming culture Kilautiup Songuninga also helps its members recover aspects of their culture that many of them grew up without access to. "When we had started, we did not know our traditions, it wasn't brought up. We weren't taught our songs, we were taught church music," Agnatok said. Throat singing and drum-dancing were feared and banned by Moravian missionaries who saw it as devil worship. In place of traditional Inuit music, they forced the adoption of brass instruments and choral singing. Agnatok was raised by her grandmother, herself a throat singer. That legacy inspired Agnatok, though her grandmother did not teach her the practice. "I was cleaning up one day and I found this newspaper clipping, and it was my grandmother. She was here [in Newfoundland] for the Folk Festival back in 1984. And I'm like, wow," Agnatok said. Dicker's journey into traditional music was ignited by a similar passion for revitalizing her culture. She never saw her grandparents or other elders in her community practising their musical traditions. "I wanted our elders to see us … I wanted them to see us being proud and fighting to take it back — and being proud for ourselves, but especially for the people who weren't allowed to be proud of themselves." Learning process Growing up, Agnatok saw the Nain Drum Dancers reclaiming drum dancing in her hometown. She points to Nunatsiavut becoming self-governed in 2005 as an inciting moment for further reconnection to Inuit culture, including through Kilautiup Songuninga. Learning techniques and songs that were almost lost comes with its share of challenges for the group. They rely on a variety of sources, including CDs, the internet and Inuit knowledge keepers to build their repertoire. "It can be a little bit hard, trying to get the technique down and get the right music down," Agnatok said. Language, in particular, can be a hurdle. "A lot of our members … we're not full Inuit speakers like a lot of our ancestors are, or even some of our elders now," Agnatok said. "But we want to make sure we sing properly when we do sing in Inuktitut, our mother tongue." 'Inuk to the core' Over almost two decades, Kilautiup Songuninga's linuep has changed. Last December, founding member Solomon Semigak died. "He was just special," said Danny Pottle, who was invited to join the group in 2004. "Taught us with patience, with skill, and he was just an all around good guy. You just couldn't ask for a better person than Solomon. He was Inuk to the core." Agnatok remembers Semigak as a strong Inuktitut speaker, a diplomatic group president, and her once right-hand man. "We drum on. We still talk about him," Agnatok said. "I know he would be so proud of all of us, believe me. And with his niece joining the drum group, that's a big thing too." New member Sophie Semigak joined the group early this year, in memory of her uncle. "He was like a father to me," she said. "He walked me down the aisle, too, when I got married. So he's very, very special to me." Agnatok says Semigak would be proud to see his niece drumming.
CBC
12-06-2025
- CBC
What it's like to go ice fishing in the Arctic
Students from Helen Kalvak Elihakvik, a school in Ulukhaktok, N.W.T., went on an ice fishing field trip on April 2. See what it's like to fish with an aulattit, a traditional Inuit tool.
CBC
01-06-2025
- General
- CBC
Kativik Regional Government requests audit of Nunavik police
The Kativik Regional Government (KRG) has passed a resolution requesting an audit of the Nunavik Police Service. The resolution, passed Thursday, calls for a review of police operations and ways to make policing better reflect Inuit culture. The audit request follows two fatal police shootings in seven months — in Salluit in November, and Kangiqsualujjuaq earlier this month — the latter being the 16th police-related death in Nunavik since 2017. Police chief Jean-Pierre Larose said he is in full support of a review. "We are transparent and maybe [we need] somebody who thinks outside the box … to help us find solutions and improvements," he said. KRG is asking the Makivvik Corporation to help it find an auditor, who would report back to the council by fall 2025. Mylène Jaccoud, a professor of criminology at Université de Montréal, was in charge of Indigenous policing issues in the Viens Commission inquiry. That was launched in 2016 by the former provincial Liberal government after allegations of police misconduct against Indigenous women. She said the audit is a good step, though it should look at structural transformation of the policing model in Nunavik, rather than just the operations. She said the problems with the Nunavik Police Service are well-known and don't need further study. "We know that there is a problem of underfunding. We know that we are still waiting for the recognition of [Indigenous] police as an essential service," she said. "If we want to address this problem of the absence of Inuit police officers, it's absolutely necessary to change the policing model … a police [model] which is not oriented toward repression, but seen as a police who is very close to the communities that they share." The police chief however, doesn't believe the police model needs reform, and reiterated his pledge to implement every recommendation from investigations into the shooting in Salluit, once those final reports are presented. "Certainly we can improve it or adjust it, but right now we have positive results," Larose said. Community policing model Jaccoud said she doesn't believe the Nunavik Police Service is a truly autonomous Inuit police service — rather, that it's a southern-style team that happens to have oversight from KRG, the regional authority in Nunavik. "The majority of police officers are police officers from down south and I think that the change of governance should go to work on a real autonomous Inuit police service," she said. During the Viens Commission inquiry, she pitched — unsuccessfully — for a specific police school or training program for Indigenous police officers. Larose said the Nunavik Police Service is restarting a cadet program in a bid to recruit more Inuit, though he recognizes the challenges of Inuit policing Inuit communities. "They know everybody. They have relatives, cousins, parents and it's hard for them … and I understand they're kind of isolated from their community being a police officer. So we have to work on that," he said. In terms of solutions to how policing works in Nunavik, Jaccoud looks to other provinces for inspiration. Ontario has an inspector general of policing, who's tasked with ensuring policing regulations are followed, as well as a complaints agency. In several western provinces, there's the Hub model, which was pioneered in Prince Albert, Sask., in 2011. It's a multi-agency intervention that mobilizes social services for those in need before harm is done. "They just share information, they work together, they meet weekly, they plan together, action plans and appropriate intervention. That kind of model of policing is more oriented toward prevention than repression," she said. More funding in tripartite agreement Last month, the Nunavik Police Service received a five-fold increase in funding through a tripartite agreement between the KRG, Quebec and federal governments. The renewal of the agreement, from 2024 to 2029, is worth $562 million. Larose has previously spoken out about the lack of resources for the Nunavik Police Service. He said this new funding can help them bring on more officers and investigators, offer higher salaries to address staff retention, and provide more cultural awareness training. "I would like my police officers to get involved in the community, and families, at least two days per year to work with them, to go on the land, to do some activities with them, to better understand their lifestyle and their culture," he said. Another priority for him, he said, is expanding the mobile intervention model, currently in place in Puvirnituq, Que., which pairs police officers with social workers.
