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Yahoo
29-05-2025
- Business
- Yahoo
Coastal Alaskans see commercial fishing limits as a ‘crisis.' Lawmakers don't.
Butch Laiti is president of the Douglas Indian Association, a tribal government in Juneau. The association has purchased a fishing boat and wants to buy a commercial fishing permit for its members to share, but a state law bars it from doing so. (Nathaniel Herz/Northern Journal) This story was produced as part of the Pulitzer Center's StoryReach U.S. Fellowship and the Public Media Accountability Initiative, which supports investigative reporting at local media outlets around the country. It was reported and edited by Northern Journaland APM Reports, with support from Alaska Public Media. For decades, an economic catastrophe has been unfolding in the Indigenous villages along the Gulf of Alaska, with lost jobs and the destruction of a traditional way of life: hauling fish from the sea. That destruction is still playing out. More than 80% of people who responded to a recent survey sponsored by an economic development nonprofit said that Southeast Alaska and Kodiak Island villages are in a 'crisis of sustainability' because of lost access to fisheries. Indigenous leaders across the Gulf say it's imperative that Alaska legislators pass reforms to the state law that they blame for the mess: a landmark 1973 statute that effectively prevents many residents of those coastal villages from earning a living by fishing for salmon. New fishermen can only participate in the commercial harvest if they buy or inherit a state permit that, in some cases, can cost upward of $100,000 — putting it out of reach for young rural residents with no credit histories. 'We all have kids and grandkids that want to continue doing what their grandparents were doing a long time ago,' Joe Nelson, a top official with Southeast Alaska regional Native corporation Sealaska, said at a reception for lawmakers in Juneau last month. But just up the street from Sealaska's offices, at the Alaska Capitol, the issue barely registers. Many lawmakers in Juneau represent urban districts or regional population centers and aren't aware of the crisis playing out in the state's rural, coastal communities; instead, they're focused on state schools funding and a widening budget deficit. Those who do represent coastal areas say they have to balance the interests of village constituents with the interests of another, politically connected group: existing fishermen in hub towns and urban areas who depend on their harvests to feed their families — and who could be negatively affected by legislative change. There's also still no consensus among advocates about how, precisely, the law should be adjusted. The result is that despite growing discontent with the 1973 law, and a widening coalition of stakeholders who support changing it, the issue has gone nowhere in Juneau. Advocates hoped for a hearing on the subject during this year's legislative session, but one never materialized, and lawmakers have proposed no bills to address the problem. 'We're operating under a law that's been in place for 52 years, and it's broke — it's not meeting the demands of today,' said Robin Samuelsen, a Native leader from the salmon-rich region of Bristol Bay. The system needs to be changed, he said, or rural Alaska communities 'are not going to survive.' 'One by one, they're going to disappear,' he said. The 1973 law, known as the Limited Entry Act, was designed to make commercial fishing more profitable and sustainable by limiting the number of boats on the water. Skippers who had been operating at the time largely qualified for permits without having to buy them. But a provision called 'free transferability' meant those permits could be sold on the open market. Over the years, rural Native communities have lost hundreds to Alaska's larger population centers and other states as owners sold out or took permits with them when they moved. Earlier this year, Northern Journal sent a survey on limited entry and rural fisheries access to 16 state senators and representatives whose districts border the Gulf of Alaska; none completed it. Approached by a reporter at the Capitol, several lawmakers declined to discuss the issues; some pleaded ignorance. 'We're going to work on it, and we'll try to do all we can,' Senate President Gary Stevens said. 'But I don't see any reason I need to meet with you on this.' Stevens for 25 years has represented Kodiak Island, whose Indigenous villages were once home to proud commercial fishing fleets and a multi-generation heritage of fish-related trade. Those communities have seen some of the state's steepest permit losses since lawmakers approved limited entry more than 50 years ago. One village, Ouzinkie, has a single skipper left in its harbor. 'What's the holdup?' Butch Laiti started in the commercial fishing industry as a teenager in Juneau, where his family was part of a big Native fleet that harvested salmon from the Taku River outside of town. At 76 years old, he's watched for decades as members of his local tribe have sold off their boats and permits — making them largely bystanders as others harvest the salmon once claimed as tribal property. Today, Laiti says he's one of the few Native fishermen left in his area. And the Tlingit elder wants to pass his decades of maritime expertise and knowledge to a new generation. Laiti is the president of a local tribal government, the Douglas Indian Association, and under his leadership, the tribe acquired a parcel of waterfront property in Juneau where it hopes to one day build a communally owned fish processing plant. And, in 2022, the tribe spent $210,000 on a commercial fishing boat: a 42-foot gillnetter, which will double as a marine debris cleanup vessel. Then, Laiti went to the state agency that oversees access to Alaska's commercial fisheries to ask: Could the tribe also buy a permit to harvest salmon? That would give Laiti and other aging skippers the chance to take turns running the vessel and training aspiring young fishermen. But the answer from the agency's chairman was a hard no: The limited entry law only allows ownership by individuals, not by collectives such as companies or tribes. The lawmakers who designed the system in the 1970s wanted to keep fishing from being taken over corporate interests. If the members of Laiti's tribe want to own a permit and operate their boat collectively, they would have to change the law — a daunting proposition for an organization with no lobbyist and little muscle in Alaska's Capitol. But a broader network of advocates has also been readying an organized push for legislative reform. It includes the Indigenous-owned regional corporations for Southeast Alaska, Bristol Bay and Kodiak, along with The Nature Conservancy. Those groups haven't decided on specific legislative changes to push. But Laiti says that tribal ownership would be one straightforward fix to the limited entry law. 'This is ours. It always has been ours, and because we joined the United States of America, somehow we have lost control of everything that has belonged to us,' Laiti said. 'If we've got to buy back our heritage, then so be it.' He added a question for lawmakers: 'What's the holdup?' 'Fiercely' opposed One reason for the holdup: the thousands of commercial fishermen who already own permits entitling them to chase a share of the harvest. One group of such fishermen — a trade organization representing Southeast Alaska's fleet of salmon gillnetters — 'fiercely' opposed a previous legislative proposal to allow community trusts to own permits, according to one of its leaders. In an email, Max Worhatch, executive director of the United Southeast Alaska Gillnetters Association, rejected the idea that lawmakers should change the permit system to boost rural fishermen. Native corporations and a regional fisheries nonprofit in Bristol Bay have plenty of capital, Worhatch said, and both can 'easily afford' to support rural residents seeking state loans that are available to all Alaskans. In fact, that regional fisheries nonprofit, Bristol Bay Economic Development Corp., already has a program that subsidizes local permit ownership. But it hasn't stopped permits from leaving the region, and in fact, the losses have still accelerated in recent years, according to state data. 'We don't have enough candidates from our communities stepping forward,' said Samuelsen, who served as the nonprofit's board chair for three decades. 'A lot of them say, 'We don't have the capital or the money to get involved.'' Defenders of the current system say that the decline of the commercial fishing industry in remote villages is less about the limited supply of permits and more about the lack of demand for them. 'There are not tons of folks breaking down the doors to get into fishing,' Jerry McCune, a longtime Cordova-based fisherman and trade group lobbyist, wrote in a response to a Northern Journal survey of industry players. McCune and some other industry veterans argue that factors outside the state's control are at play: closures of processing plants in remote areas, shifts in salmon runs and reduced competition among the seafood companies vying to buy each vessel's catch. They also worry that even small changes to the permit regime risk upending the whole limited entry system — and, potentially, invite legal challenges. 'Limited entry is a very complicated document,' McCune said. 'Change one thing and limited entry could collapse.' Attorneys for the state have raised questions about the constitutionality of ideas like permit trusts. But Jim Brennan, a longtime Alaska attorney who provided legal support to the attempt to create those trusts a decade ago, dismissed McCune's concerns. The overall permit system, he said, has survived previous court challenges. 'I think that's kind of a scare tactic,' he said. 'It's not a house of cards.' 'Does it force the other side down?' Lawmakers say they need to approach the issue of permit access deliberately — balancing the needs of rural communities with those of existing fishermen. Kodiak Rep. Louise Stutes, who chairs the House Fisheries Committee, said in a statement that any legislative proposals would have to accommodate different constituencies. 'I certainly support reducing barriers to accessing fisheries for Alaskans and keeping permits in rural communities,' she said. 'However, I also believe that any potential change to limited entry needs to be the result of a stakeholder-driven process with existing permit holders, rural constituents, affected communities and the Department of Fish and Game.' The Alaska fishing industry's own broader economic crisis is making the policy discussion even more sensitive. Oversupply, flagging demand and growing global competition have depressed prices paid to fishermen in recent years — putting many skippers in the red. Sitka Rep. Rebecca Himschoot, who represents multiple Southeast Alaska fishing hub towns, as well as small Native communities that have seen sharp losses in permit ownership, said that the increasingly tough outlook for the industry has complicated the task for lawmakers. 'It's really hard to say we're going to come in and fix this problem that's been cooking since 1970 — when people in the fishery now can't even make their living,' she said. Nonetheless, Himschoot added, she's alarmed by permit losses in villages in her district and wants to explore ways to restore them without harming current permit owners. But she acknowledged that the issue is politically delicate. 'When we lift up one side, does it force the other side down?' she asked. Nathaniel Herz welcomes tips at natherz@ or (907) 793-0312. This article was originally published in Northern Journal, a newsletter from Herz. Subscribe at this link.
Yahoo
18-04-2025
- Health
- Yahoo
The Black Maternal Health Crisis Is Getting Worse. One Expert Details the Resources Available to Help Solve It.
This series was produced as part of the Pulitzer Center's StoryReach U.S. Fellowship. In the U.S., Black women are three times more likely to die from pregnancy-related causes than white women. April is recognized as National Minority Health Month, a national initiative to advance health equity for racial and ethnic minorities. Within the month, Black Maternal Health Week, observed April 11-17, was created by Black Mamas Matter Alliance nearly eight years ago to raise awareness about racial disparities in maternal health. As public health agencies face potential Medicaid cuts and slashes to equity-focused initiatives, organizations like Black Mamas Matter Alliance and Black Women's Health Imperative are navigating growing challenges around funding, resources and an urgent need for more advocacy. In Indiana, Black women have the highest rates of maternal mortality in the state. As maternal health resources continue to erode, these disparities risk deepening. In response, Capital B Gary has hosted 'Black Mamas Matter' events to share resources, encourage dialogue, and identify local solutions. Capital B Gary health reporter and Pulitzer Center fellow Jenae Barnes spoke with Isabel Morgan, senior advisor for maternal health at the Black Women's Health Imperative, the oldest national nonprofit dedicated solely to the wellness of Black women and girls. A trained epidemiologist and former Centers for Disease Control and Prevention contractor, Morgan emphasized the need for better data, stronger community infrastructure, and legislative advocacy. She also highlighted the crucial role of doulas and community-based care in improving outcomes. Morgan called this year's Black Maternal Health Week theme, 'Healing Legacies: Strengthening Black Maternal Health Through Collective Action and Advocacy,' a 'guiding light' for supporting further training, ensuring resources are shared, and amplifying the needs of the Black community. This interview has been lightly edited for length and clarity. So, this issue is incredibly important because it significantly impacts everything related to our lives. It has implications for our children's and our families' health and well-being. We know from data from the CDC that Black women are three to 3.5 times more likely to experience pregnancy-related deaths as compared to white women. [Among industrialized nations] the U.S. also has the highest maternal mortality rate, which tracks deaths up to 42 days postpartum. That is why Black Maternal Health Week is important to not only raise awareness about the Black maternal health crisis, but also the racial and geographic inequities we're experiencing within the U.S. We're elevating not only the crisis, but also what people are doing to address the crisis and what is needed. So, what policies are needed? What legislative advocacy is needed to get us to the place where we no longer lose anyone? We don't want to lose Black mamas surrounding pregnancy, particularly because we know that most of these deaths are preventable. I think being in a community is incredibly important and being able to corral resources. For example, if there's funding being cut from maternal and child health programs — which we know is happening — we should think about appealing to other programs that may not be experiencing the same immediate cuts. That's something that we have to do when we leverage reproductive justice as our guiding framework. It pushes us to think more broadly and creatively about who our partners can be, how to appeal to them, and how to advocate. I think people have to be very strategic about how they are collaborating and finding uncommon partners. And realistically, that means appealing to private foundations. I think most immediately, it's emotional chaos. It's an intentional deconstructing of our public health infrastructure. That is real, and it causes chaos, it causes fear, it causes tension. They want us to feel the chaos so that we are not able to mobilize. Also, taking a step back to breathe and to remember that we have to be as level-headed as possible to mobilize. So, the significant impact that we're experiencing most immediately is the lack of access to data. When you fire essentially … most of the staff in the Division of Reproductive Health at [the] CDC … we no longer are able to generate data at the national level as to how people are experiencing pregnancy and postpartum. Black Mamas Matter Alliance has collaborators like myself as an individual. They also have a list on their website who those partners are, who those collaborators are. It even has a map so you can see where these organizations are located. You can see if an organization is located within your state or within your city to get connected to them. These are local, community-based organizations providing direct services. So I would say BMMA and their partners are certainly a resource. The 'Irth App' spelled as birth without the 'b' for bias — that's how Kimberly Seals Allers talks about this. She developed the IRTH app to be able to allow pregnant people and their families to identify what experiences other Black mamas have had at specific health care centers. She calls it like the Yelp of hospitals. There's also the Birth Bill of Rights, a document that pregnant people can use when they are in the hospital or at a birth center. You can use this document as these are your rights when you're in that space, and so if you feel like you're being mistreated, if you feel like you're being discriminated against, it outlines what people basically should expect when they are within a birthing facility. There are warning signs that CDC has developed in collaboration with community-based organizations. So, people know if they're experiencing certain symptoms, they need to contact their health care provider. We call those maternal health warning signs. We know that cardiovascular conditions and hypertensive disorders are the leading causes of death for pregnancy and pregnancy-related deaths for Black women and Black people. There's also a movement to shift to make sure that partners also are equipped with this knowledge. 4Kira4Moms recently launched 4Kira4Dads. The organization is meant to make sure that partners are able to have access to specific resources to support them through their journeys. So the warning signs will be shared and available for partners of people, and it is framed for dads. The post The Black Maternal Health Crisis Is Getting Worse. One Expert Details the Resources Available to Help Solve It. appeared first on Capital B Gary.
Yahoo
18-03-2025
- Health
- Yahoo
How the War Against DEI May Kill a Breastfeeding Program in Gary
This series was produced as part of the Pulitzer Center's StoryReach U.S. Fellowship. In the empty halls of the Gary Neighborhood Services building on Grant Street once stood the Milky Way Cafe, a casual space created for breastfeeding moms to meet, share supporting resources, and consult with professionals. But the clinic, one of the few resources in the city that was customized for maternal and infant care, has been gone for over half a decade. It's one of the reasons why Erishawn Griffin — a Gary mom of three and former professional lactation counselor with the Northwest Indiana office of the federal supplemental nutrition program for women, infants and children, known as WIC — has made a reputation for herself as a go-to person for questions from curious moms. As resources for breastfeeding mothers in the area have disappeared over the years, she said, information about it has become less accessible. 'Even in the breastfeeding community, with the WIC program, a lot of the programs that were presented in Gary just didn't get a lot of advertisement,' she said, adding that people have not engaged with the resources as much as they hoped. 'Resources were trying to bud, but unfortunately, I just don't think they caught on the way that everyone was hoping for, and it just kind of faded.' Studies have shown that increasing breastfeeding rates in Black communities is an important public health strategy to address the high infant mortality rates that plague the nation. Breastfeeding is an important nutritional source for babies that strengthens their immunity to respiratory illnesses. As projects encouraging breastfeeding in Gary, like the former Milky Way Cafe, have closed, support for breastfeeding mothers has plunged in the region. Fortunately, a new program that aims to help curb breastfeeding disparities in the region is set to come to Gary — if it can withstand anti-DEI efforts by the Trump administration. Methodist Hospital, Gary's only hospital, recently initiated a partnership with CHAMPS, Communities and Hospitals Advancing Maternity Practices, a Centers for Disease Control and Prevention-funded program to help hospitals increase exclusive breastfeeding rates, improve maternity care, and decrease racial disparities in both. But the Trump administration has asked federal agencies to eliminate programs that address racial disparities in a wide array of settings, including health care. Glynis Adams, assistant director of perinatal services at Methodist Hospital, said the partnership would be good for improving the area's breastfeeding and infant mortality rates. Adams said their goal is to make the hospital more 'baby friendly,' as defined by the Baby Friendly Hospital Initiative. The hospital's goal is to increase breastfeeding rates to 80% between its Southlake and Northlake campuses, where it currently hovers at about 40%. Methodist also currently has two lactation counselors between both locations. 'They have the resources, they have the experience, they have the knowledge,' said Adams, after meeting with CHAMPS staff during their visit to Methodist Hospital. 'They hit all the hot topics that we needed to make a successful change.' Currently, topics like breastfeeding are covered as a part of the hospital's prenatal classes. Additionally, patients, especially high risk mothers, are assigned an OB navigator, a registered nurse with experience in obstetrics, to help women through their prenatal and postpartum care, provide informative resources, and community outreach. With the CHAMPS partnership, hospital staff will receive training, strategize more ways to share their resources in the community, and offer training for the public as well, Adams said. Currently, 100 hospitals nationwide are enrolled in the three-year program, which offers training focusing on equity and safety, including '10 steps to successful breastfeeding,' prenatal and postpartum care, and community support. Several studies have suggested there are many breastfeeding benefits for the mom and baby, showing fewer infections, improved quality of sleep, lower obesity rates, decreased risk of asthma, and higher IQ's in infants and children. However, the Black community isn't properly exposed to the benefits of breastfeeding because of stigma and gaps in information, Adams said. 'Back in the day, only poor folks breastfed. To remove ourselves from those stigmas, we chose to bottle-feed. But over the last, I would say, at least 20 years, that stigma has totally changed,' she said. 'I don't think education and communication about the benefits, like everything else, gets to our communities as quickly.' Black communities continue to experience the highest burden related to poor maternal and infant health outcomes, including higher rates of preterm birth, low birth weight, maternal and infant mortality, and lower breastfeeding rates. In Lake County, home to Gary, the infant mortality rate is 7.3 per 1,000 births, which is higher than the state's 6.7 infant mortality rate, and higher than the national rate of 5.4 per 1,000 births, according to the Indiana Department of Health. The 2023 report also said the state's Black infant mortality rate is even higher, 13.2 per live births. In essence, Black infants in Indiana not only die at the highest rates in the state, but at one of the highest rates in the nation. Black women's limited access to breastfeeding education and lactation counselors worsens infant health disparities, according to a 2021 breastfeeding equity study co-authored by Kimarie Bugg, CEO of the nonprofit breastfeeding equity organization Reaching Our Sisters Everywhere (ROSE). ROSE, based in Atlanta, is helping CHAMPS to launch in Gary and offers training and educational resources to reduce Black breastfeeding disparities. Overall, Indiana's breastfeeding rates have increased over the past decade, increasing from 67.8% in 2012 to 73% in 2022, according to the latest Indiana WIC breastfeeding report available. However, while breastfeeding initiation rates have increased across all racial groups, including Hispanic, Asian, and white, Black breastfeeding initiation rates remain the lowest among all racial groups, at nearly 75% Similarly, Black women on average breastfeed for shorter durations than other racial groups. Without the CHAMPS program, Gary, a city already in need of more maternity care resources, could see these disparities worsen. The CHAMPS program, funded by a CDC grant and led by Boston Medical Center's Center for Health Equity, Education, and Research (CHEER) is at risk under the Trump administration's attack on diversity equity and inclusion programs and federal funding, according to Bugg. A spokesperson for CHAMPS declined to comment on the record. As public health agencies like the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services and CDC are flagged to remove now-banned words like 'diversity,' 'science-based' and 'fetus' from their program budgets, projects like CHAMPS are increasingly vulnerable to cuts. Bugg said that the future of ROSE and other organizations like hers is uncertain. She has been instructed to change a lot of the language in ROSE's budget. 'So we are definitely navigating the current hostile environment, and we have to be very careful with that, because this is a CDC grant,' Bugg said. 'So right now, to tell you the truth, we are up in the air and looking for updates. Every day, we have been instructed to change a lot of language. We will continue, you know, to do the work that we applied to do, but right now we're just not sure if we will receive the funding.' Bugg added that the CHAMPS project depends on a year-to-year renewal process, spanning from October to September, but with changes in the administration, a renewal is not guaranteed. However, she believes in the tenacity and resilience of the Black community to weather uncertain storms. 'This is not the first time that Black people have gone through stuff like this. Our ancestors definitely had it worse,' she said. 'We are extremely resilient. We are tired of having to be so resilient, but we are.' Until then, Gary moms like Griffin are looking forward to Methodist's partnership with CHAMPS, saying that the initiative is exciting — and necessary. 'I'll be excited to see how that will affect the community, for sure, with them [Methodist] being such a huge part of the medical care here in the area,' she said. The post How the War Against DEI May Kill a Breastfeeding Program in Gary appeared first on Capital B Gary.
Yahoo
05-03-2025
- Health
- Yahoo
Black Mamas Matter: Addressing Maternal Health Disparities in Gary
This series was produced as part of the Pulitzer Center's StoryReach U.S. Fellowship. 'What can we do to improve Black maternal health?'The question, from a single Gary mom, fell on the empathetic ears of nearly 20 other women at J's Breakfast Club in Gary. But the query, all too common, has reached far beyond the walls of the eatery in Northwest Indiana: It's been ringing in the minds of Black women for generations as they experience the highest maternal mortality rates not only in Indiana, but in the nation. Capital B Gary has sought to find some answers to these critical mothers in Gary have long faced challenges in maternal health care, from inadequate prenatal support to systemic disparities to environmental hazards that impact their well-being. Out of Indiana's 92 counties, Lake County, home to Gary, has the ninth-highest maternal mortality rate in the state, according to the Indiana Department of Health. At our first event, 'Black Moms and Mimosas: A Community Dialogue,' we heard directly from over 18 Black mothers who shared personal struggles and urgent questions about their care and what resources were available to them. They asked critical questions on how to navigate racism in the medical system, how to protect their mental health while raising children, and how health care providers can be held accountable for better treatment. Now, as part of our journey, Capital B Gary has worked to engage with experts, medical professionals, and advocates to help answer these pressing concerns. Coming off the heels of the newsroom's previous dialogue, residents are invited to come to our next community engagement event, 'Black Mamas Matter: A Panel Discussion,' to enjoy free food and drinks while we learn, share resources, and further the critical conversations needed to support Black moms in our community. Ahead of the next panel discussion, we're sharing key takeaways from our first event and previewing the solutions that will be explored in the upcoming discussion. At our first event, Black mothers raised powerful, deeply personal questions about their experiences and fears. These questions shaped the conversation and continue to guide the work toward solutions. After the discussion, mothers submitted additional questions through a survey. Here are some of the questions they asked — and the answers we uncovered through our reporting: Q: 'I would like more details on the cause of the maternal deaths in our area. Were there medical issues? Social issues? Were the deaths deemed preventable?' Indiana's Maternal Mortality Review Committee (MMRC) is a committee that reviews pregnancy-associated deaths (those occurring up to a year after pregnancy) and pregnancy-related deaths (those occurring during pregnancy) across the state. It identifies factors that contribute to these deaths, deems them preventable or non-preventable, and recommends actions to avoid future tragedies. According to a 2023 report from the MMRC, 77% of pregnancy-related deaths in Indiana were deemed preventable. Similarly, 71% of pregnancy-associated deaths were preventable in 2021. Substance abuse was one of the highest contributing factors to maternal mortality cases, while inadequate access to maternal health care and maternal mental health care were also significant factors. The state report also found that Black women have consistently died at higher rates than white women in both pregnancy-associated and pregnancy-related deaths, despite making up a smaller number of births. Pregnancy associated deaths occur up to a year after pregnancy, while pregnancy related deaths occur during state health data is collected at the county level, specific figures for Gary are not available. However, data from Lake County, where Gary is located, is included in the state's overall data. Q: 'What is the city of Gary doing to address these disparities?' Gary Health Commissioner Janet Seabrook, who also founded local clinic Community HealthNet, told Capital B Gary that solving Gary's multifaceted problem requires a holistic solution that considers multiple factors. 'I think that people know the reality that maternal mortality exists in higher numbers in African Americans and other minorities,' she said. 'The programs are there, we know that they're there, but there are so many other issues, those social determinants that are impacting those pregnant women,' she said. She also highlighted how financial strain, child care access, pre-existing medical conditions, and food and housing insecurity add to the burden on expecting mothers. Addressing these stressors, she said, is key to tackling Black maternal health disparities. Looking ahead, Seabrook said the city is eyeing more ways to support maternal health. In the meantime, the Gary Health Department provides some holistic solutions, including free pregnancy and STI (sexually transmitted infection) testing, and providing referrals to obstetricians at health clinics outside the Gary Health Department because the health department does not currently have an obstetrician-gynecologist. In addition, she pointed to educational and medical resources available through the Northwest Indiana Health Department Cooperative in Hammond, which offers prenatal care, postpartum depression treatment, and health education and nutrition classes. Q: 'How can I handle my mental health while being a mother and a wife?' Maternal mental health conditions affect 1 in 5 mothers in the U.S., impacting approximately 800,000 families each year, studies show. Black women are among the most under-treated groups, experiencing depression and anxiety at twice the rate of white women but receiving treatment half as often, according to a 2023 MMHLA report. Nearly 40% of Black mothers experience maternal mental health issues, the report found. These mental health conditions can stem from systemic and logistic barriers, including distrust of the health care system, over-policing by child protective services, lack of access to child care, getting time off work, and the cumulative 'weathering' effect of racism. Organizations like the Black Women's Health Imperative and Maternal Mental Health Leadership Alliance (MMHLA) offer mental health resources to show how, when it comes to taking care of their mental health, mothers are far from alone. To help remove some of these barriers, experts recommend that they don't be afraid to seek help when needed, ditching the stigma behind the 'strong Black woman.' The post-event survey revealed a strong demand from community members for more solution-focused stories that connect them to resources and support groups like this one. Capital B Gary will continue to explore these questions, seek solutions, and embed them into the community. From the conversations, several key themes emerged: Porchea McGuire, a Gary farmer and food justice advocate, pointed to widespread soil contamination as a significant environmental hazard affecting children's health in many areas.'They will tear down factories, tear down all these other places and build homes right on top of them, without remediating the soil or actually doing soil testing. And then we got kids playing at these parks, digging in the dirt. These things are going into our lungs [and] in our homes.' She stressed the need for stricter regulations and monitoring of environmental hazards from demolitions, roadwork, and new developments in Gary, including soil testing for lead. Dr. Tiffany Jamison, who works with an agricultural program in Gary, echoed these concerns. 'When you're thinking about a place like Gary … we're seeing the effects of the environment and the negative effects it's having on children. I think it's a lot of factors that play into the social, economic, and environmental flow here.' Many mothers shared that they had to advocate for themselves and their children, educating themselves on birthing options while navigating the 'angry Black woman' stereotype with providers. Bianca Wilson, a practicing doula, emphasized that doulas provide a valuable alternative to hospital births and stressed the importance of educating clients about all their birthing options. 'I tell women to advocate, advocate. You don't have to ask permission to give birth. That's not their place to tell you whether or not you can have a birth doula. You are letting them know. You're not asking,' she said. One mother recalled her concern when her daughter's doctor recommended an unnecessary procedure that wasn't part of her plan. The experience led her to learn more about advocating with medical providers. 'When the doctor and the birthing plan bump heads, what is that?' she asked. 'Is that just due to disrespect, or is there a clinical reason? Would you be comfortable with the provider steering you away from your birthing plan? We want you to be able to have your voice heard but want to be safe about this.' Another mother spoke about the lack of postpartum mental health support. 'When the baby is born, a lot of people focus on the child,' she said. 'They don't really focus on the mother. And after my third child, I had postpartum depression, so then it was a struggle, but nobody even noticed that I was going through it … so a lot of times, the mom is ignored and left to deal with it on their own.' The Black Mamas Matter panel on March 8 will bring together medical professionals, community advocates, and mothers to discuss solutions and create accountability in Black maternal health. The discussion will give residents an opportunity to hear from dedicated professionals, followed by a Q&A from the audience. Similar to the newsroom's previous 'Black Moms and Mimosas' community dialogue, residents are invited to come enjoy free food and drinks while we learn, share resources, and further the critical conversations needed to support the Black moms in our community. This event will highlight actionable solutions for improving Black maternal health in Gary, with panelists including: Glynis Adams, assistant director of perinatal services at Methodist HospitalAdams has been a perinatal nurse for over 40 years. Her work has focused on health care disparities and decrease in infant mortality and maternal mortality in underserved areas. Dr. Maya Dominique, OB-GYNDominique is a board-certified obstetrician and gynecologist. She spent four years at NorthShore Health Centers in Northwest Indiana, and she now serves areas across the state as an independent contractor OB/GYN. Dominique also organizes an annual women's health fair in Gary. Bianca Wilson, birthing doulaWilson, a Gary mother of five and grandmother of two, has been a certified birth doula since 2019. Through her business, Birthing with Bianca, she supports clients in having positive birth experiences and empowers them to navigate the birthing process. To date, she has assisted in more than 90 births. Join us for the next panel as we take the next step in community-oriented solutions in our city — and be part of the positive change we want to see. Interested participants can RSVP on Facebook or Eventbrite. The post Black Mamas Matter: Addressing Maternal Health Disparities in Gary appeared first on Capital B Gary.
Yahoo
06-02-2025
- General
- Yahoo
The last skipper in Ouzinkie: How Gulf of Alaska villages lost their Native fishing fleets
Nick Katelnikoff learned to fish from his father, and he says his first paycheck as a fisherman came when he turned 8 years old. Now 76, pictured aboard his boat, the MZ L, he's the last skipper running a commercial fishing vessel from his home village of Ouzinkie, on an island just north of Kodiak. (Photo by Nathaniel Herz/Northern Journal) This story was produced as part of the Pulitzer Center's StoryReach U.S. Fellowship. It was reported and edited by Northern Journal and APM Reports, with support from Alaska Public Media. KODIAK — On an early, foggy summer morning, Nick Katelnikoff steered his boat through the treacherous waters off Kodiak Island's Spruce Cape and chuckled. 'Trust a blind guy through the rock pile?' he asked. Katelnikoff, 76, is a veteran fisherman — the kind of guy who, friends say, can call his catch into his boat. He's made a career chasing the bounty of the North Pacific, building up a storehouse of knowledge about his maritime backyard that allows him, even with failing eyesight, to confidently steer his 38-foot craft away from rocks that have sunk other vessels. Katelnikoff describes his heritage as Aleut; he's one of the Indigenous people who have been pulling fish out of these waters for millenia. Their catches helped sustain trading networks long before white people arrived on Kodiak and began setting up fish traps and canneries — businesses that were supplied, in part, by the harvests of Katelnikoff's more recent ancestors. When Katelnikoff was still beginning his career in the 1970s, he was one of a dozen or so skippers in Ouzinkie — a small Indigenous village on an island just off Kodiak's coast. But today, that tradition is all but dead: Katelnikoff is the last skipper running a commercial fishing boat from Ouzinkie's harbor. A similar story has played out in villages up and down the Gulf of Alaska coast. Angoon, Nondalton, Old Harbor — each of those small Native communities is home to a fraction of the commercial salmon fishermen who were once the lifeblood of their economies. Over the last 50 years, hundreds of Alaska's most valuable salmon permits have drained out of its Indigenous coastal villages. Now, the profits flow increasingly to those who live in Alaska's population centers or in other states. 'We used to be people who fished,' an anonymous respondent wrote in a recent survey of thousands of Indigenous people with ties to the Gulf of Alaska. 'Now, we don't have access to our resources located in our backyard.' The outflow was set in motion in the early 1970s. At the time, new fishermen were flooding into the industry as salmon harvests had plummeted from historic highs, making it more difficult for each boat to turn a profit. In response, Alaska's government made a monumental change in the way it regulated those fisheries. No longer could just any commercial fisherman set out in a boat and cast their net — even Alaska Natives whose ancestors had fished for generations. The new system, approved by voters in 1972 and put into effect three years later, placed caps on the number of permits available in each fishery. The policy was known as 'limited entry' because it restricted who could enter the industry, and it created permits that have since been valued collectively at more than $1 billion. Scholars diverge on how effective the policy has been at preserving the salmon population, with critics arguing that limiting the number of fishermen on the water doesn't necessarily prevent overfishing. But one result is clear: The policy has dragged down the economies of many Indigenous villages along the Gulf of Alaska. Places that once called themselves 'fishing towns' have been hollowed out, with little-used harbors and even dilapidated boats grounded on shore. Data source: Commercial Fisheries Entry Commission Zac Bentz for Northern Journal The people who live in those Gulf communities, which are disconnected from the road system and reachable only by plane or boat, are overwhelmingly Alaska Native. They face high prices for groceries, fuel and other supplies, which have to be flown or barged in from afar. Jobs outside of fishing are scarce, and fishing jobs are increasingly sparse, too. Residents who can't afford permits have to leave their homes, families and cultures to find full-time jobs. 'If you've got young people who live in the fishing communities where the fisheries occur and they don't see that as an opportunity, that's bad public policy,' said Rachel Donkersloot, a researcher who grew up in the Bristol Bay region and has spent more than a decade studying obstacles to fisheries access. 'Being able to provide for yourself from that fishery should be a birthright.' When limited entry started in 1975, many Alaska Natives in coastal villages received permits without having to buy them, based on their long histories working in the industry. With some exceptions, the permits were permanent — entitling holders to fish until they died or retired, then pass the permit on to an heir. But a controversial provision known as 'free transferability' also meant that they could sell them to the highest bidder at any time. A total of 15 Bristol Bay salmon drift gillnet permits were issued in the Native village of Nondalton in the early years of limited entry. Today, none remain. Here's where they went. Data source: Commercial Fisheries Entry Commission Zac Bentz for Northern Journal The limited supply turned those permits into valuable assets. At their peak in the 1980s and early '90s, prices for some permits hit more than $500,000 in inflation-adjusted dollars, before the advent of farm-raised salmon began depressing their value. Still, just three years ago, some Bristol Bay permits were selling for $250,000. Those eye-popping sums created a powerful incentive for rural fishermen to cash out. And those who sold at the top of the market likely came out ahead. But the one-time windfalls severed an Indigenous tradition of commerce tied to Alaska's ocean harvests — a trade that could now require a permit to access. And the high prices put them out of reach for many rural Alaskans who lacked a credit history or who didn't have collateral for a loan. 'We should never have been allowed to sell them,' said Freddie Christiansen, a tribal member and longtime fisherman from the Kodiak Island village of Old Harbor. 'We're Indigenous people. We're from here. We take care of it. Everyone else comes and goes.' Some of the exodus can be explained by rural fishermen relocating to urban areas, bringing their permits with them. But many permits were simply bought up by city dwellers who had better access to capital — and far more experience working with western institutions like banks and government-sponsored loan programs. At the time, many of Alaska's Indigenous communities were just beginning to encounter those systems. And in some cases, sophisticated urban operators took advantage of that inexperience to buy their permits at low prices, according to people who witnessed the transactions. The state has dozens of fisheries and types of fishing gear, and the losses vary across different regions and classes of permits. But they've tended to be more acute in fisheries where more money is at stake. Each permit's sale effectively marked the loss of a small business from the rural villages. Those businesses produced cash for captains and crew to feed families and heat homes over the winter, along with extra fish to eat and share during the off-season. 'It's just terminated this ability to be self-sufficient and self-determined,' said Jonathan Kreiss-Tomkins, a former state legislator from Sitka who tried and failed to reverse the permit losses before he left office in 2023. He described spending time in struggling rural villages in his district that were once 'thriving, bustling communities 40 years ago that ran on commercial fishing.' 'That contrast was stark and depressing,' he said. Kreiss-Tomkins described limited entry as 'the opposite of a panacea': Instead of a cure-all, it turned out to be the root of countless ills. 'It was an alien construct that got dropped onto all these communities. And even if they're as good or better fishermen, or as good or harder workers, it didn't really matter,' he said. 'The structure was so foreign. And once in motion, it just got worse.' Scholars have been raising alarm about the problem since the 1980s. But Alaska's elected leaders, most of whom live in regional or urban hub communities, have largely ignored it. And many people who currently own permits are leery of change, which they fear could reduce the value of their investments. After decades of inaction, state lawmakers are reconsidering parts of the limited entry system amid a broader effort to aid the fishing industry. Alaska's seafood businesses and fishermen have faced major upheaval in the past two years, stemming from reduced demand and low-priced competition from Russian harvesters. In a draft report released in January, a legislative task force noted the 'large loss of permits held in rural and Alaska Native fishing communities.' And the new speaker of the state House, Bryce Edgmon, believes there's growing interest from legislators in addressing the issue. But he said it also faces competition from other policy problems like school funding and a shortage of the natural gas used to heat urban Alaska homes. Most lawmakers still do not see stemming permit losses in villages 'as a public policy change that's urgently needed at this point,' said Edgmon, an independent from Dillingham, a fishing town of 2,100 in Bristol Bay. Terry Gardiner still remembers fishing outside Ketchikan in the 1960s and seeing all the other boats. There were hundreds of them, nets stretching almost continuously a couple of miles out into the ocean from shore.'It was just, like, a wall,' he said. Scores of new fishermen had entered the industry in the 1950s and 1960s amid Alaska's postwar boom. Many were newcomers to the state, and fishing wasn't their main occupation. Often they were teachers or out-of-staters with office jobs who could afford to take summers off to fish. Gardiner wasn't a full-time fisherman, either. He was still in high school, just looking for a fun way to earn a few bucks. He and a buddy made perhaps a 'couple grand' in profit each summer, he said. So, at the end of one season, Gardiner was surprised when a seafood processing company told him that his boat was one of the highest earners in the fleet. 'It was like, 'Holy smokes, we're a top boat? This is a joke,'' he said. 'How would a family make a living?' Gardiner's experience was a symptom of what he describes, more than a half-century later, as a 'sickness' that was afflicting Alaska's fishing industry. Salmon populations had crashed in the 1950s and were starting to rebound in the 1960s just as the number of fishermen exploded. In 1972, Gardiner ran for the state House at age 22. His campaign slogan, he said, was 'too many fishermen, fishing for too few fish, at too low a price.' At the Capitol, he became one of the most vocal advocates for limiting the number of fishing boats on the water. It was an approach supported by influential natural resource economists, who argued against what they called open access to the ocean. Fisheries in the United States at the time were 'marked by obsolescence, waste, and poverty,' James Crutchfield and Giulio Pontecorvo wrote in a 1969 book about the economics of Pacific salmon harvests. When fisheries are 'common property,' they said, there are no ways to prevent 'declining yields and the disappearance of net revenues to the industry.' The economists said that far fewer boats and nets could catch the same amount of fish, allowing the industry to return to profitability. The limited entry program was not Alaska's first attempt to restrict the number of fishermen. Legislators had initially approved policies aimed at making it harder for people from other states to access its waters. The courts, however, struck down those efforts, saying, in one case, that they violated the U.S. Constitution's Equal Protection Clause. So the final limited entry legislation prioritized permits for the fishermen who were most financially dependent on the industry for their livelihoods. That meant that when the permits first rolled out, nearly half of them went to Alaska Native people, who at the time represented some 18% of the state's population. But after that, there was nothing to stop permits from leaving rural, Indigenous communities. Gardiner said that 'nobody was really a big fan' of the transferable permits. 'But it was what would work, what would be constitutional,' he said. 'And everybody was tired of passing a law, getting everyone excited, spending all this effort and then boom, it fails after a year or two.' Alaska voters approved a constitutional amendment paving the way for the limited entry system in 1972, and state lawmakers passed a bill to implement the policy the following year. Lawsuits and a statewide referendum campaign both challenged the new system. But the program held up. And in rural Alaska, the invisible hand of the market went to work. Jerry Liboff grew up in Southern California, and in his early 20s he signed up with Volunteers in Service to America, a program that has since become part of AmeriCorps. In 1969 the program dispatched Liboff to Koliganek, a Yup'ik village of 140 in the Bristol Bay region. Liboff didn't know it, but he had arrived just in time to witness an immense change to the economic and cultural fabric of his new home. At the time of Liboff's arrival, Koliganek, like many other Native villages, was barely connected to urban Alaska. Bush planes, the only way to reach the road system, arrived in the village just once or twice a week, Liboff said. Many Koliganek residents spoke no English, only their Indigenous Yup'ik language. Most finished school after eighth grade; there were just a handful of full-time jobs. Subsistence harvests of fish and game were essential to survival. There was, however, one strong link connecting Koliganek to the cash economy. Each spring, about half the village's 30 families would push their fishing boats into the water, run the 120 miles down the Nushagak River into Bristol Bay and spend the summer catching salmon that they would sell to local canneries. Their harvests would pay for the fuel and food they needed to get through the winter. Fish canning businesses in Bristol Bay, like others across the Gulf of Alaska, formed close ties with the Native skippers and would often float them with supplies on credit if they had a bad year. 'You didn't need a full-time job to survive,' Liboff said. 'People got by. I don't remember anybody being hungry.' Liboff's fluency in English and in navigating bureaucracy made him useful in the village, and he decided to stay, developing a passing facility with the Yup'ik language. He also drummed up a tax preparation business — working with residents of Koliganek and, eventually, more than a dozen surrounding villages. Many of his clients were fishermen, giving him a unique chance to observe the effects of the new permit system in the years after its approval. In Koliganek, Liboff said, residents hadn't been informed or consulted about the limited entry program beforehand, though at first, it seemed to work. All the village's boat owners initially got permits, and 'nobody really thought much about it,' he said. But after a few years, troubling signs began popping up. A man with a drinking problem in a neighboring village went on a weeks-long bender after selling his permit for $1,500 in cash and a rickety snowmachine that the buyer claimed was worth $2,500, Liboff recalled. Two brothers who had fished in an equal partnership realized that only one could pass their single permit on to their children. Liboff said he witnessed teachers and pilots — non-Natives who lived in and traveled through the villages — acting like speculators. They found local fishermen in Bristol Bay who needed money and bought their permits on the cheap, then flipped them for a profit, Liboff said. 'In villages, we had a bum season, they couldn't meet their family needs, they sold their permits,' said Robin Samuelsen, a Native leader from Bristol Bay. 'It reoccurred, reoccurred, reoccurred, reoccurred. Anything of any value, like a permit, you sold — you had to feed the family. You had to buy stove oil.' In another village, Liboff knew a Native woman who didn't speak English and had what he said was a common misunderstanding about the permit system. She thought that if her children needed to generate some cash by selling the permits they initially qualified for, they could simply earn new ones later. 'That was her very incorrect version of how the law worked: If you fished enough years, you'd get another permit,' Liboff said. Today, he added, 'there's one permit left in the family, out of eight.' Liboff spent his career as a tax preparer trying to find ways to stop the outflow of permits from the villages — as did other advocates, researchers and local and regional groups. But they were fighting the pervasive power of the market. 'There are a whole ton of different reasons why permits went. But the bottom line is they all went one way,' Liboff said. 'Whether a guy lost it because his taxes were bad. Whether a guy lost it because he bought a boat he couldn't afford. Whether a guy lost it because he didn't want to give it to one of his kids and have the rest of his kids pissed at him.' Limited entry is one of multiple ways in which 1970s-era policymakers imposed Western systems of private ownership on Alaska's natural resources and lands — systems that fundamentally changed Native people's relationships to their ancestral territory. Congress also passed legislation in 1971 that terminated Indigenous land claims in Alaska. In exchange, the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act transferred some 10% of the state to Indigenous people — but it did so through newly created, for-profit corporations. Native leaders and advocacy groups, in recent years, have increasingly questioned how well that for-profit model serves their interests and aligns with their culture. 'This Westernized model, one-size-fits-all, does not work,' said Christiansen, the tribal member and fisherman from Old Harbor, on Kodiak Island. 'We've proven it over and over and over again.' Rural Alaska residents weren't the only ones to notice permits trickling out of the villages. Within a decade of limited entry's passage, scholars and government agencies had begun to document the phenomenon. A 1980 paper by Anchorage anthropologist Steve Langdon described a 'clear and escalating trend' of diminishing rural permit ownership. 'The outflow of permits that has occurred and that potentially can occur must be regarded as (a) significant threat to the rural Alaskan economic base and the well-being of rural Alaskans,' Langdon wrote. Four years later, the state agency that oversees commercial fishing permits said that Indigenous ownership of Bristol Bay salmon permits had fallen 21% since the new system went into effect — a dynamic that called for 'serious attention,' according to the agency's commissioners. One driving force that appeared to be behind the trend, according to Langdon: The permits were worth more money to fishermen who could catch bigger hauls with them. Urban and out-of-state fishermen were more likely to own cutting-edge boats and gear that allowed them to catch more fish and reap bigger profits. As a result, they were willing to pay more for a permit than fishermen without those advantages. Courtney Carothers speaks at a community meeting in Ouzinkie in July. (Photo by Nathaniel Herz/Northern Journal)[/caption] 'The economic rationale of why you want to privatize the rights to fish is all about efficiency. It's eliminating inefficient users,' said Courtney Carothers, a University of Alaska Fairbanks anthropologist whose scholarship has focused on Native fishing communities on Kodiak Island. 'The ideology is that those who don't fish efficiently could better serve society by getting other jobs.' Carothers said that logic may make sense in an urban environment where there are lots of employment opportunities. But, she added, it breaks down in intensely isolated rural areas like the coastal villages. 'Their lives are from the sea, and if you've displaced people from sea-based livelihoods, there's not a whole lot to pick up.' There were a few efforts in the early years of limited entry to keep more permits in Alaska Native hands — one, started in 1980, was a short-lived loan program targeted at residents of rural communities. But it was shut down a few years later, after a state agency said it had the unintended effect of driving up the cost of permits. Langdon's research concluded that an earlier state loan program had actually contributed to the losses from rural areas, because it was used mainly by urban residents. Langdon has suggested that the state allow tribes to own permits, so they can stay in Indigenous hands. But those and other ideas got little traction. Most legislators, Langdon said in an interview, live in more urban areas where their constituents are buying up permits — not selling them. 'They're the ones benefiting,' he said. There were 73 Kodiak salmon purse seine permits initially issued in the island's six Native villages. Ten remain, along with roughly a dozen more that have come into the villages from other communities. Here's where the rest of the initial-issue permits are now. Data source: Commercial Fisheries Entry Commission Zac Bentz for Northern Journal Kreiss-Tomkins, the former Sitka legislator, is the only lawmaker who's made a major push to tackle the problem in recent years. He said he and his aides put thousands of hours into developing and pushing legislation that would have allowed local trusts or regional organizations to buy and own permits, then lease them to new fishermen. But the bill never got to the House floor for a vote. Kreiss-Tomkins said he thought the proposal 'bewildered' some of the legislators from urban communities who weren't familiar with the limited entry system. There was also a wariness from fishing industry stakeholders who represented existing permit holders, he said. 'I think, to some extent, the idea was written off at the outset because of political cues from opponents in the commercial fishing world,' he said. 'There was never a rich, policy-based conversation or understanding.' Gardiner, the legislator who promoted the limited entry bill in the 1970s, put it more bluntly: 'There's not a whole lot of votes in all those small, coastal communities.' The sale of permits isn't the only factor driving the losses in rural Alaska. Migration — when a rural resident moves with their permit to urban Alaska or out of the state — has also been responsible for the loss of hundreds of rural permits statewide. Experts say the closure of many remote processing plants in coastal villages also makes it harder for rural fishermen to turn a profit. But residents across coastal Alaska say that permit costs remain a significant barrier for people seeking to enter the industry. In the Kodiak island villages, there are 'a bunch of young guys' who would love to be a skipper and the owner of a boat, Christiansen said. But the cost of a modern vessel, combined with a seine permit and gear, is out of reach, he added. 'They love fishing. But they don't have the opportunity,' Christiansen said. 'How are you going to be able to come up with half a million dollars to get in?' Christiansen is one of many Alaska Native people and groups — including Kodiak's and Southeast Alaska's regional Native corporations — that are increasingly agitating for reforms to the limited entry system. Those two Native corporations, working with nonprofit organizations and scholars, released the January survey of Indigenous people with ties to the Gulf of Alaska. Some 80% agreed that villages are in 'crisis' because of loss of access to fisheries. 'We're ready to go to work' on policy reforms, said Joe Nelson, interim president of Sealaska, the Southeast Alaska Native corporation. 'We're working all together.' In the meantime, communities like Ouzinkie — the home of Katelnikoff, the aging skipper with the failing eyesight — face existential questions. At a community meeting last summer, as Katelnikoff was finishing up a trip, residents described how the village is steadily shrinking. A few decades ago, there were more than 200 people there, with dozens working in commercial fishing. The population is now down to just 100. The community, through a federal program, has purchased rights to a small halibut harvest that it wants to make available to residents to fish. But many of the young people that old-timers hope would get into fishing have moved out of Ouzinkie, making them ineligible to participate. 'Our younger generation can't afford to buy a skiff, or the equipment, or the permits,' said Sandra Muller, who once fished commercially with her husband and young children. 'It is a big crisis for our young people. I feel for them.' The village's sole remaining commercial fishing boat, meanwhile, motors on. Katelnikoff has renewed his state permits for 2025. More than six decades after he began fishing, he says he's still 'too young' to retire. But when he does, he'll likely pass his operation on to a daughter, who was onboard for his summer trips. Other Ouzinkie old-timers say it's too late to resurrect the village's commercial fishing culture, that the loss of collective knowledge and experience is too great to overcome. But Katelnikoff isn't so sure. He pointed out that permit prices have fallen in recent years — making it, he said, a good time for aspiring fishermen to buy in. 'Things could happen where it could come back,' he said. Brian Venua contributed reporting, and Zoë Scott contributed research and reporting. Do you have a story about the loss of a permit from your family or village, or do you have feedback on this piece? Take Northern Journal's brief survey that will inform future reporting on fisheries access in Alaska. Nathaniel Herz welcomes tips at natherz@ or (907) 793-0312. This article was originally published in Northern Journal, a newsletter from Herz. Subscribe at this link. SUBSCRIBE: GET THE MORNING HEADLINES DELIVERED TO YOUR INBOX
