Latest news with #Yup'ik
The Advertiser
5 days ago
- Politics
- The Advertiser
Alaska conflicted over mining push, indigenous customs
Fish camps still dot the banks of the broad Kuskokwim River in southwestern Alaska. Wooden huts and tarped shelters stand beside drying racks draped with bright red strips of salmon. Alaska Native families have harvested fish for generations and preserved them for the bitter winters ahead. But the once-abundant salmon populations have declined so sharply in recent years that authorities have severely restricted subsistence fishing on Alaska's second-longest river. They've imposed even tighter restrictions on the longer Yukon River to the north. Various factors are blamed for the salmon collapse, from climate change to commercial fishing practices. What's clear is the impact is not just on food but on long-standing rituals — fish camps where elders transmit skills and stories to younger generations while bonding over a sacred connection to the land. "Our families are together for that single-minded purpose of providing for our survival," said Gloria Simeon, a Yup'ik resident of Bethel. "It's the college of fish camp." So when Alaska Natives debate proposals to drill, mine or otherwise develop the landscape of the nation's largest state, it involves more than an environmental or economic question. It's also a spiritual and cultural one. "We have a special spiritual, religious relationship to our river and our land," said Simeon, standing outside her backyard smokehouse where she uses birch-bark kindling and cottonwood logs to preserve this year's salmon catch. "Our people have been stewards of this land for millennia, and we've taken that relationship seriously." Put a pin just about anywhere on the map of Alaska, and you're likely to hit an area mulling a proposed mine, a new wilderness road, a logging site, an oil well, or a natural gas pipeline. Such debates have intensified during US President Donald Trump's second term. His administration and allies have pushed aggressively for drilling, mining and developing on Alaska's public lands. Native leaders and activists are divided about extraction projects. Supporters say they bring jobs and pay for infrastructure, while opponents say they imperil the environment and their traditions. Trump singled out Alaska as a priority for extraction projects in an executive order signed on his first day in office. "Unlocking this bounty of natural wealth will raise the prosperity of our citizens while helping to enhance our Nation's economic and national security," the order said. Increasingly, words are turning to action. Congress, in passing Trump's budget bill in July, authorised an unprecedented four new sales of oil and gas leases in the coastal plain of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, and still more in other locations. Trump cabinet officials made a high-profile visit in June to Prudhoe Bay in Alaska's far north — an aging oil field that is one of the largest in North America. They touted goals of doubling the oil coursing through Alaska's existing pipeline system and building a massive natural gas pipeline as its "big, beautiful twin". It takes years for proposed extraction projects to unfold, if they ever do. The extent of oil reserves in the Arctic refuge remains uncertain. No major oil company bid during the only two lease sales offered to date in the Arctic refuge. But the measures pushed by the new administration and Congress amount to the latest pendulum swing between Republican and Democratic presidents, between policies prioritising extraction and environmental protections. The budget bill calls for additional lease sales in the National Petroleum Reserve-Alaska, west of the Arctic refuge, and opening more areas to potential leasing than authorized under recent Democratic administrations. Alaska's political leaders generally have cheered on the push for more extraction, including its Republican congressional delegation and its governor, who has called his state "America's natural resource warehouse". So have some Native leaders, who say their communities stand to benefit from jobs and revenues. They say such projects are critical to their economic prospects and self-determination, providing jobs and helping their communities pay for schools, streets and snow removal. "We need jobs. Our people need training. To stand on our own two feet. Our kids need a future," said PJ Simon, first chief of the Allakaket Tribal Council. But Native opponents of such projects say short-term economic gains come at the risk of long-term environmental impacts that will reverberate widely. "We're kind of viewed as the last frontier, like we have unlimited resources," said Sophie Swope, executive director of the environmental advocacy group Mother Kuskokwim Tribal Coalition. She said Alaska's most renewable resources — such as salmon, deer and other migratory wildlife — are threatened both by overly aggressive ocean fishing and by extractive industries. "There's that lack of respect for our traditional subsistence lifestyles," she said. Opponents of oil drilling in the Arctic refuge fear it will permanently disrupt the long-range migration of caribou, which Native people have hunted for millennia. A massive caribou herd goes to the refuge's coastal plain to calve in the spring before fanning out across a wider area, providing a crucial food source for Native hunters in Alaska and Canada. If the herd's migration is disrupted, opponents fear an impact similar to the salmon collapse — a loss not just of food but of a focal point of culture and spirituality. Simeon said the disruption of communal hunting and fishing activities leads to a spiritual rootlessness that she believes contributes to alarming rates of addictions and suicide among Alaska Native people. "What does it do to your heart and soul when you have to look at an empty smokehouse year after year after year, and you can't provide for your family?" Simeon said. Fish camps still dot the banks of the broad Kuskokwim River in southwestern Alaska. Wooden huts and tarped shelters stand beside drying racks draped with bright red strips of salmon. Alaska Native families have harvested fish for generations and preserved them for the bitter winters ahead. But the once-abundant salmon populations have declined so sharply in recent years that authorities have severely restricted subsistence fishing on Alaska's second-longest river. They've imposed even tighter restrictions on the longer Yukon River to the north. Various factors are blamed for the salmon collapse, from climate change to commercial fishing practices. What's clear is the impact is not just on food but on long-standing rituals — fish camps where elders transmit skills and stories to younger generations while bonding over a sacred connection to the land. "Our families are together for that single-minded purpose of providing for our survival," said Gloria Simeon, a Yup'ik resident of Bethel. "It's the college of fish camp." So when Alaska Natives debate proposals to drill, mine or otherwise develop the landscape of the nation's largest state, it involves more than an environmental or economic question. It's also a spiritual and cultural one. "We have a special spiritual, religious relationship to our river and our land," said Simeon, standing outside her backyard smokehouse where she uses birch-bark kindling and cottonwood logs to preserve this year's salmon catch. "Our people have been stewards of this land for millennia, and we've taken that relationship seriously." Put a pin just about anywhere on the map of Alaska, and you're likely to hit an area mulling a proposed mine, a new wilderness road, a logging site, an oil well, or a natural gas pipeline. Such debates have intensified during US President Donald Trump's second term. His administration and allies have pushed aggressively for drilling, mining and developing on Alaska's public lands. Native leaders and activists are divided about extraction projects. Supporters say they bring jobs and pay for infrastructure, while opponents say they imperil the environment and their traditions. Trump singled out Alaska as a priority for extraction projects in an executive order signed on his first day in office. "Unlocking this bounty of natural wealth will raise the prosperity of our citizens while helping to enhance our Nation's economic and national security," the order said. Increasingly, words are turning to action. Congress, in passing Trump's budget bill in July, authorised an unprecedented four new sales of oil and gas leases in the coastal plain of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, and still more in other locations. Trump cabinet officials made a high-profile visit in June to Prudhoe Bay in Alaska's far north — an aging oil field that is one of the largest in North America. They touted goals of doubling the oil coursing through Alaska's existing pipeline system and building a massive natural gas pipeline as its "big, beautiful twin". It takes years for proposed extraction projects to unfold, if they ever do. The extent of oil reserves in the Arctic refuge remains uncertain. No major oil company bid during the only two lease sales offered to date in the Arctic refuge. But the measures pushed by the new administration and Congress amount to the latest pendulum swing between Republican and Democratic presidents, between policies prioritising extraction and environmental protections. The budget bill calls for additional lease sales in the National Petroleum Reserve-Alaska, west of the Arctic refuge, and opening more areas to potential leasing than authorized under recent Democratic administrations. Alaska's political leaders generally have cheered on the push for more extraction, including its Republican congressional delegation and its governor, who has called his state "America's natural resource warehouse". So have some Native leaders, who say their communities stand to benefit from jobs and revenues. They say such projects are critical to their economic prospects and self-determination, providing jobs and helping their communities pay for schools, streets and snow removal. "We need jobs. Our people need training. To stand on our own two feet. Our kids need a future," said PJ Simon, first chief of the Allakaket Tribal Council. But Native opponents of such projects say short-term economic gains come at the risk of long-term environmental impacts that will reverberate widely. "We're kind of viewed as the last frontier, like we have unlimited resources," said Sophie Swope, executive director of the environmental advocacy group Mother Kuskokwim Tribal Coalition. She said Alaska's most renewable resources — such as salmon, deer and other migratory wildlife — are threatened both by overly aggressive ocean fishing and by extractive industries. "There's that lack of respect for our traditional subsistence lifestyles," she said. Opponents of oil drilling in the Arctic refuge fear it will permanently disrupt the long-range migration of caribou, which Native people have hunted for millennia. A massive caribou herd goes to the refuge's coastal plain to calve in the spring before fanning out across a wider area, providing a crucial food source for Native hunters in Alaska and Canada. If the herd's migration is disrupted, opponents fear an impact similar to the salmon collapse — a loss not just of food but of a focal point of culture and spirituality. Simeon said the disruption of communal hunting and fishing activities leads to a spiritual rootlessness that she believes contributes to alarming rates of addictions and suicide among Alaska Native people. "What does it do to your heart and soul when you have to look at an empty smokehouse year after year after year, and you can't provide for your family?" Simeon said. Fish camps still dot the banks of the broad Kuskokwim River in southwestern Alaska. Wooden huts and tarped shelters stand beside drying racks draped with bright red strips of salmon. Alaska Native families have harvested fish for generations and preserved them for the bitter winters ahead. But the once-abundant salmon populations have declined so sharply in recent years that authorities have severely restricted subsistence fishing on Alaska's second-longest river. They've imposed even tighter restrictions on the longer Yukon River to the north. Various factors are blamed for the salmon collapse, from climate change to commercial fishing practices. What's clear is the impact is not just on food but on long-standing rituals — fish camps where elders transmit skills and stories to younger generations while bonding over a sacred connection to the land. "Our families are together for that single-minded purpose of providing for our survival," said Gloria Simeon, a Yup'ik resident of Bethel. "It's the college of fish camp." So when Alaska Natives debate proposals to drill, mine or otherwise develop the landscape of the nation's largest state, it involves more than an environmental or economic question. It's also a spiritual and cultural one. "We have a special spiritual, religious relationship to our river and our land," said Simeon, standing outside her backyard smokehouse where she uses birch-bark kindling and cottonwood logs to preserve this year's salmon catch. "Our people have been stewards of this land for millennia, and we've taken that relationship seriously." Put a pin just about anywhere on the map of Alaska, and you're likely to hit an area mulling a proposed mine, a new wilderness road, a logging site, an oil well, or a natural gas pipeline. Such debates have intensified during US President Donald Trump's second term. His administration and allies have pushed aggressively for drilling, mining and developing on Alaska's public lands. Native leaders and activists are divided about extraction projects. Supporters say they bring jobs and pay for infrastructure, while opponents say they imperil the environment and their traditions. Trump singled out Alaska as a priority for extraction projects in an executive order signed on his first day in office. "Unlocking this bounty of natural wealth will raise the prosperity of our citizens while helping to enhance our Nation's economic and national security," the order said. Increasingly, words are turning to action. Congress, in passing Trump's budget bill in July, authorised an unprecedented four new sales of oil and gas leases in the coastal plain of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, and still more in other locations. Trump cabinet officials made a high-profile visit in June to Prudhoe Bay in Alaska's far north — an aging oil field that is one of the largest in North America. They touted goals of doubling the oil coursing through Alaska's existing pipeline system and building a massive natural gas pipeline as its "big, beautiful twin". It takes years for proposed extraction projects to unfold, if they ever do. The extent of oil reserves in the Arctic refuge remains uncertain. No major oil company bid during the only two lease sales offered to date in the Arctic refuge. But the measures pushed by the new administration and Congress amount to the latest pendulum swing between Republican and Democratic presidents, between policies prioritising extraction and environmental protections. The budget bill calls for additional lease sales in the National Petroleum Reserve-Alaska, west of the Arctic refuge, and opening more areas to potential leasing than authorized under recent Democratic administrations. Alaska's political leaders generally have cheered on the push for more extraction, including its Republican congressional delegation and its governor, who has called his state "America's natural resource warehouse". So have some Native leaders, who say their communities stand to benefit from jobs and revenues. They say such projects are critical to their economic prospects and self-determination, providing jobs and helping their communities pay for schools, streets and snow removal. "We need jobs. Our people need training. To stand on our own two feet. Our kids need a future," said PJ Simon, first chief of the Allakaket Tribal Council. But Native opponents of such projects say short-term economic gains come at the risk of long-term environmental impacts that will reverberate widely. "We're kind of viewed as the last frontier, like we have unlimited resources," said Sophie Swope, executive director of the environmental advocacy group Mother Kuskokwim Tribal Coalition. She said Alaska's most renewable resources — such as salmon, deer and other migratory wildlife — are threatened both by overly aggressive ocean fishing and by extractive industries. "There's that lack of respect for our traditional subsistence lifestyles," she said. Opponents of oil drilling in the Arctic refuge fear it will permanently disrupt the long-range migration of caribou, which Native people have hunted for millennia. A massive caribou herd goes to the refuge's coastal plain to calve in the spring before fanning out across a wider area, providing a crucial food source for Native hunters in Alaska and Canada. If the herd's migration is disrupted, opponents fear an impact similar to the salmon collapse — a loss not just of food but of a focal point of culture and spirituality. Simeon said the disruption of communal hunting and fishing activities leads to a spiritual rootlessness that she believes contributes to alarming rates of addictions and suicide among Alaska Native people. "What does it do to your heart and soul when you have to look at an empty smokehouse year after year after year, and you can't provide for your family?" Simeon said. Fish camps still dot the banks of the broad Kuskokwim River in southwestern Alaska. Wooden huts and tarped shelters stand beside drying racks draped with bright red strips of salmon. Alaska Native families have harvested fish for generations and preserved them for the bitter winters ahead. But the once-abundant salmon populations have declined so sharply in recent years that authorities have severely restricted subsistence fishing on Alaska's second-longest river. They've imposed even tighter restrictions on the longer Yukon River to the north. Various factors are blamed for the salmon collapse, from climate change to commercial fishing practices. What's clear is the impact is not just on food but on long-standing rituals — fish camps where elders transmit skills and stories to younger generations while bonding over a sacred connection to the land. "Our families are together for that single-minded purpose of providing for our survival," said Gloria Simeon, a Yup'ik resident of Bethel. "It's the college of fish camp." So when Alaska Natives debate proposals to drill, mine or otherwise develop the landscape of the nation's largest state, it involves more than an environmental or economic question. It's also a spiritual and cultural one. "We have a special spiritual, religious relationship to our river and our land," said Simeon, standing outside her backyard smokehouse where she uses birch-bark kindling and cottonwood logs to preserve this year's salmon catch. "Our people have been stewards of this land for millennia, and we've taken that relationship seriously." Put a pin just about anywhere on the map of Alaska, and you're likely to hit an area mulling a proposed mine, a new wilderness road, a logging site, an oil well, or a natural gas pipeline. Such debates have intensified during US President Donald Trump's second term. His administration and allies have pushed aggressively for drilling, mining and developing on Alaska's public lands. Native leaders and activists are divided about extraction projects. Supporters say they bring jobs and pay for infrastructure, while opponents say they imperil the environment and their traditions. Trump singled out Alaska as a priority for extraction projects in an executive order signed on his first day in office. "Unlocking this bounty of natural wealth will raise the prosperity of our citizens while helping to enhance our Nation's economic and national security," the order said. Increasingly, words are turning to action. Congress, in passing Trump's budget bill in July, authorised an unprecedented four new sales of oil and gas leases in the coastal plain of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, and still more in other locations. Trump cabinet officials made a high-profile visit in June to Prudhoe Bay in Alaska's far north — an aging oil field that is one of the largest in North America. They touted goals of doubling the oil coursing through Alaska's existing pipeline system and building a massive natural gas pipeline as its "big, beautiful twin". It takes years for proposed extraction projects to unfold, if they ever do. The extent of oil reserves in the Arctic refuge remains uncertain. No major oil company bid during the only two lease sales offered to date in the Arctic refuge. But the measures pushed by the new administration and Congress amount to the latest pendulum swing between Republican and Democratic presidents, between policies prioritising extraction and environmental protections. The budget bill calls for additional lease sales in the National Petroleum Reserve-Alaska, west of the Arctic refuge, and opening more areas to potential leasing than authorized under recent Democratic administrations. Alaska's political leaders generally have cheered on the push for more extraction, including its Republican congressional delegation and its governor, who has called his state "America's natural resource warehouse". So have some Native leaders, who say their communities stand to benefit from jobs and revenues. They say such projects are critical to their economic prospects and self-determination, providing jobs and helping their communities pay for schools, streets and snow removal. "We need jobs. Our people need training. To stand on our own two feet. Our kids need a future," said PJ Simon, first chief of the Allakaket Tribal Council. But Native opponents of such projects say short-term economic gains come at the risk of long-term environmental impacts that will reverberate widely. "We're kind of viewed as the last frontier, like we have unlimited resources," said Sophie Swope, executive director of the environmental advocacy group Mother Kuskokwim Tribal Coalition. She said Alaska's most renewable resources — such as salmon, deer and other migratory wildlife — are threatened both by overly aggressive ocean fishing and by extractive industries. "There's that lack of respect for our traditional subsistence lifestyles," she said. Opponents of oil drilling in the Arctic refuge fear it will permanently disrupt the long-range migration of caribou, which Native people have hunted for millennia. A massive caribou herd goes to the refuge's coastal plain to calve in the spring before fanning out across a wider area, providing a crucial food source for Native hunters in Alaska and Canada. If the herd's migration is disrupted, opponents fear an impact similar to the salmon collapse — a loss not just of food but of a focal point of culture and spirituality. Simeon said the disruption of communal hunting and fishing activities leads to a spiritual rootlessness that she believes contributes to alarming rates of addictions and suicide among Alaska Native people. "What does it do to your heart and soul when you have to look at an empty smokehouse year after year after year, and you can't provide for your family?" Simeon said.
West Australian
5 days ago
- Politics
- West Australian
Alaska conflicted over mining push, indigenous customs
Fish camps still dot the banks of the broad Kuskokwim River in southwestern Alaska. Wooden huts and tarped shelters stand beside drying racks draped with bright red strips of salmon. Alaska Native families have harvested fish for generations and preserved them for the bitter winters ahead. But the once-abundant salmon populations have declined so sharply in recent years that authorities have severely restricted subsistence fishing on Alaska's second-longest river. They've imposed even tighter restrictions on the longer Yukon River to the north. Various factors are blamed for the salmon collapse, from climate change to commercial fishing practices. What's clear is the impact is not just on food but on long-standing rituals — fish camps where elders transmit skills and stories to younger generations while bonding over a sacred connection to the land. "Our families are together for that single-minded purpose of providing for our survival," said Gloria Simeon, a Yup'ik resident of Bethel. "It's the college of fish camp." So when Alaska Natives debate proposals to drill, mine or otherwise develop the landscape of the nation's largest state, it involves more than an environmental or economic question. It's also a spiritual and cultural one. "We have a special spiritual, religious relationship to our river and our land," said Simeon, standing outside her backyard smokehouse where she uses birch-bark kindling and cottonwood logs to preserve this year's salmon catch. "Our people have been stewards of this land for millennia, and we've taken that relationship seriously." Put a pin just about anywhere on the map of Alaska, and you're likely to hit an area mulling a proposed mine, a new wilderness road, a logging site, an oil well, or a natural gas pipeline. Such debates have intensified during US President Donald Trump's second term. His administration and allies have pushed aggressively for drilling, mining and developing on Alaska's public lands. Native leaders and activists are divided about extraction projects. Supporters say they bring jobs and pay for infrastructure, while opponents say they imperil the environment and their traditions. Trump singled out Alaska as a priority for extraction projects in an executive order signed on his first day in office. "Unlocking this bounty of natural wealth will raise the prosperity of our citizens while helping to enhance our Nation's economic and national security," the order said. Increasingly, words are turning to action. Congress, in passing Trump's budget bill in July, authorised an unprecedented four new sales of oil and gas leases in the coastal plain of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, and still more in other locations. Trump cabinet officials made a high-profile visit in June to Prudhoe Bay in Alaska's far north — an aging oil field that is one of the largest in North America. They touted goals of doubling the oil coursing through Alaska's existing pipeline system and building a massive natural gas pipeline as its "big, beautiful twin". It takes years for proposed extraction projects to unfold, if they ever do. The extent of oil reserves in the Arctic refuge remains uncertain. No major oil company bid during the only two lease sales offered to date in the Arctic refuge. But the measures pushed by the new administration and Congress amount to the latest pendulum swing between Republican and Democratic presidents, between policies prioritising extraction and environmental protections. The budget bill calls for additional lease sales in the National Petroleum Reserve-Alaska, west of the Arctic refuge, and opening more areas to potential leasing than authorized under recent Democratic administrations. Alaska's political leaders generally have cheered on the push for more extraction, including its Republican congressional delegation and its governor, who has called his state "America's natural resource warehouse". So have some Native leaders, who say their communities stand to benefit from jobs and revenues. They say such projects are critical to their economic prospects and self-determination, providing jobs and helping their communities pay for schools, streets and snow removal. "We need jobs. Our people need training. To stand on our own two feet. Our kids need a future," said PJ Simon, first chief of the Allakaket Tribal Council. But Native opponents of such projects say short-term economic gains come at the risk of long-term environmental impacts that will reverberate widely. "We're kind of viewed as the last frontier, like we have unlimited resources," said Sophie Swope, executive director of the environmental advocacy group Mother Kuskokwim Tribal Coalition. She said Alaska's most renewable resources — such as salmon, deer and other migratory wildlife — are threatened both by overly aggressive ocean fishing and by extractive industries. "There's that lack of respect for our traditional subsistence lifestyles," she said. Opponents of oil drilling in the Arctic refuge fear it will permanently disrupt the long-range migration of caribou, which Native people have hunted for millennia. A massive caribou herd goes to the refuge's coastal plain to calve in the spring before fanning out across a wider area, providing a crucial food source for Native hunters in Alaska and Canada. If the herd's migration is disrupted, opponents fear an impact similar to the salmon collapse — a loss not just of food but of a focal point of culture and spirituality. Simeon said the disruption of communal hunting and fishing activities leads to a spiritual rootlessness that she believes contributes to alarming rates of addictions and suicide among Alaska Native people. "What does it do to your heart and soul when you have to look at an empty smokehouse year after year after year, and you can't provide for your family?" Simeon said.
Perth Now
5 days ago
- Politics
- Perth Now
Alaska conflicted over mining push, indigenous customs
Fish camps still dot the banks of the broad Kuskokwim River in southwestern Alaska. Wooden huts and tarped shelters stand beside drying racks draped with bright red strips of salmon. Alaska Native families have harvested fish for generations and preserved them for the bitter winters ahead. But the once-abundant salmon populations have declined so sharply in recent years that authorities have severely restricted subsistence fishing on Alaska's second-longest river. They've imposed even tighter restrictions on the longer Yukon River to the north. Various factors are blamed for the salmon collapse, from climate change to commercial fishing practices. What's clear is the impact is not just on food but on long-standing rituals — fish camps where elders transmit skills and stories to younger generations while bonding over a sacred connection to the land. "Our families are together for that single-minded purpose of providing for our survival," said Gloria Simeon, a Yup'ik resident of Bethel. "It's the college of fish camp." So when Alaska Natives debate proposals to drill, mine or otherwise develop the landscape of the nation's largest state, it involves more than an environmental or economic question. It's also a spiritual and cultural one. "We have a special spiritual, religious relationship to our river and our land," said Simeon, standing outside her backyard smokehouse where she uses birch-bark kindling and cottonwood logs to preserve this year's salmon catch. "Our people have been stewards of this land for millennia, and we've taken that relationship seriously." Put a pin just about anywhere on the map of Alaska, and you're likely to hit an area mulling a proposed mine, a new wilderness road, a logging site, an oil well, or a natural gas pipeline. Such debates have intensified during US President Donald Trump's second term. His administration and allies have pushed aggressively for drilling, mining and developing on Alaska's public lands. Native leaders and activists are divided about extraction projects. Supporters say they bring jobs and pay for infrastructure, while opponents say they imperil the environment and their traditions. Trump singled out Alaska as a priority for extraction projects in an executive order signed on his first day in office. "Unlocking this bounty of natural wealth will raise the prosperity of our citizens while helping to enhance our Nation's economic and national security," the order said. Increasingly, words are turning to action. Congress, in passing Trump's budget bill in July, authorised an unprecedented four new sales of oil and gas leases in the coastal plain of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, and still more in other locations. Trump cabinet officials made a high-profile visit in June to Prudhoe Bay in Alaska's far north — an aging oil field that is one of the largest in North America. They touted goals of doubling the oil coursing through Alaska's existing pipeline system and building a massive natural gas pipeline as its "big, beautiful twin". It takes years for proposed extraction projects to unfold, if they ever do. The extent of oil reserves in the Arctic refuge remains uncertain. No major oil company bid during the only two lease sales offered to date in the Arctic refuge. But the measures pushed by the new administration and Congress amount to the latest pendulum swing between Republican and Democratic presidents, between policies prioritising extraction and environmental protections. The budget bill calls for additional lease sales in the National Petroleum Reserve-Alaska, west of the Arctic refuge, and opening more areas to potential leasing than authorized under recent Democratic administrations. Alaska's political leaders generally have cheered on the push for more extraction, including its Republican congressional delegation and its governor, who has called his state "America's natural resource warehouse". So have some Native leaders, who say their communities stand to benefit from jobs and revenues. They say such projects are critical to their economic prospects and self-determination, providing jobs and helping their communities pay for schools, streets and snow removal. "We need jobs. Our people need training. To stand on our own two feet. Our kids need a future," said PJ Simon, first chief of the Allakaket Tribal Council. But Native opponents of such projects say short-term economic gains come at the risk of long-term environmental impacts that will reverberate widely. "We're kind of viewed as the last frontier, like we have unlimited resources," said Sophie Swope, executive director of the environmental advocacy group Mother Kuskokwim Tribal Coalition. She said Alaska's most renewable resources — such as salmon, deer and other migratory wildlife — are threatened both by overly aggressive ocean fishing and by extractive industries. "There's that lack of respect for our traditional subsistence lifestyles," she said. Opponents of oil drilling in the Arctic refuge fear it will permanently disrupt the long-range migration of caribou, which Native people have hunted for millennia. A massive caribou herd goes to the refuge's coastal plain to calve in the spring before fanning out across a wider area, providing a crucial food source for Native hunters in Alaska and Canada. If the herd's migration is disrupted, opponents fear an impact similar to the salmon collapse — a loss not just of food but of a focal point of culture and spirituality. Simeon said the disruption of communal hunting and fishing activities leads to a spiritual rootlessness that she believes contributes to alarming rates of addictions and suicide among Alaska Native people. "What does it do to your heart and soul when you have to look at an empty smokehouse year after year after year, and you can't provide for your family?" Simeon said.
Winnipeg Free Press
6 days ago
- Politics
- Winnipeg Free Press
Trump's push for drilling, mining sharpens debate for Alaska Natives about land they view as sacred
BETHEL, Alaska (AP) — Fish camps still dot the banks of the broad Kuskokwim River in southwestern Alaska. Wooden huts and tarped shelters stand beside drying racks draped with bright red strips of salmon, which Alaska Native families have harvested for generations and preserved for the bitter winters ahead. But the once-abundant salmon populations have declined so sharply in recent years that authorities have severely restricted subsistence fishing on Alaska's second-longest river. They've imposed even tighter restrictions on the longer Yukon River to the north. Various factors are blamed for the salmon collapse, from climate change to commercial fishing practices. What's clear is the impact is not just on food but on long-standing rituals — fish camps where elders transmit skills and stories to younger generations while bonding over a sacred connection to the land. 'Our families are together for that single-minded purpose of providing for our survival,' said Gloria Simeon, a Yup'ik resident of Bethel. 'It's the college of fish camp.' So when Alaska Natives debate proposals to drill, mine or otherwise develop the landscape of the nation's largest state, it involves more than an environmental or economic question. It's also a spiritual and cultural one. 'We have a special spiritual, religious relationship to our river and our land,' said Simeon, standing outside her backyard smokehouse where she uses birch-bark kindling and cottonwood logs to preserve this year's salmon catch. 'Our people have been stewards of this land for millennia, and we've taken that relationship seriously.' Trump policies intensify the debates Such debates are simmering across the state's vast tundra, broad rivers, sprawling wetlands and towering mountain ranges. Put a pin just about anywhere on the map of Alaska, and you're likely to hit an area debating a proposed mine, a new wilderness road, a logging site, an oil well, a natural gas pipeline. Such debates have intensified during President Donald Trump's second term. His administration and allies have pushed aggressively for drilling, mining and developing on Alaska's public lands. More than 1 in 5 Alaskans identify as Alaska Native or American Indian alone or in combination with another racial group, the highest ratio of any state, according to 2020 U.S. Census figures. Alaska Natives include Aleut, Athabascan, Iñupiat, Tlingit, Yup'ik and other groups. For all their diversity, they share a history in the region dating back thousands of years, as well as cultural and spiritual traditions, including those closely associated with subsistence hunting and gathering. Native leaders and activists are divided about extraction projects. Supporters say they bring jobs and pay for infrastructure. Opponents say they imperil the environment and their traditions. Tribal members sometimes even find themselves on opposite sides of the same proposal. Native-run corporations — formed to benefit Alaska Native shareholders — are supporting a mine in southwestern Alaska that a regional tribal coalition opposes, a scenario similar to an oil exploration project underway in Interior Alaska. Trump singled out Alaska as a priority for extraction projects in an executive order signed on his first day in office. 'Unlocking this bounty of natural wealth will raise the prosperity of our citizens while helping to enhance our Nation's economic and national security,' the order said. Increasingly, words are turning to action. Congress, in passing Trump's budget bill in July, authorized an unprecedented four new sales of oil and gas leases in the coastal plain of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, and still more in other locations. Trump cabinet officials made a high-profile visit in June to Prudhoe Bay in Alaska's far north — an aging oil field that is one of the largest in North America. They touted goals of doubling the oil coursing through Alaska's existing pipeline system and building a massive natural gas pipeline as its 'big, beautiful twin.' Trump's policy shifts came even as he removed one of the most prominent Alaska Native names from the official map. He returned the federal name of 'Mount McKinley' to the largest mountain in Alaska and North America. For all their disputes over extraction, Native and Alaska political leaders were largely united in wanting to keep its traditional Athabascan name of Denali, which translates to 'the high one.' 'We need jobs … to stand on our own two feet' It takes years for proposed extraction projects to unfold, if they ever do. The extent of oil reserves in the Arctic refuge remains uncertain. Limited infrastructure and harsh weather raise costs. No major oil company bid during the only two lease sales offered to date in the Arctic refuge. But the measures pushed by the new administration and Congress amount to the latest pendulum swing between Republican and Democratic presidents, between policies prioritizing extraction and environmental protections. The budget bill calls for additional lease sales in the National Petroleum Reserve-Alaska, west of the Arctic refuge, and opening more areas to potential leasing than authorized under recent Democratic administrations. Alaska's political leaders generally have cheered on the push for more extraction, including its Republican congressional delegation and its governor, who has called his state 'America's natural resource warehouse.' So have some Native leaders, who say their communities stand to benefit from jobs and revenues. They say such projects are critical to their economic prospects and self-determination, providing jobs and helping their communities pay for schools, streets and snow removal. They've accused the previous administration of President Joe Biden of ignoring their voices. 'We need jobs. Our people need training, to stand on our own two feet. Our kids need a future,' said PJ Simon, first chief of the Allakaket Tribal Council. He said communities can maintain their traditions while benefiting from economic development — but that it's crucial that public officials and businesses include them in the planning. 'Native people want to be heard, not pushed aside,' Simon said. Mayor Nathan Gordon Jr. of Kaktovik, the only community within the Arctic refuge, applauded the budget bill. It enables Kaktovik 'to strengthen our community, preserve our cultural traditions, and ensure that we can remain in our homelands for years to come,' he said in a statement issued by Voice of the Arctic Iñupiat, a group advocating for oil exploration. A 'lack of respect' for Native subsistence traditions But Native opponents of such projects say short-term economic gains come at the risk of long-term environmental impacts that will reverberate widely. 'We're kind of viewed as the last frontier, like we have unlimited resources,' said Sophie Swope, executive director of the environmental advocacy group Mother Kuskokwim Tribal Coalition. She said Alaska's most renewable resources — such as salmon, deer and other migratory wildlife — are threatened both by overly aggressive ocean fishing and by extractive industries. 'There's that lack of respect for our traditional subsistence lifestyles,' she said. Opponents of oil drilling in the Arctic refuge fear it will permanently disrupt the long-range migration of caribou, which Native people have hunted for millennia. The Tanana Chiefs Conference, a coalition representing dozens of tribes in Alaska's interior south of the refuge, has long opposed the drilling. A massive caribou herd goes to the refuge's coastal plain to calve in the spring before fanning out across a wider area, providing a crucial food source for Native hunters in Alaska and Canada. If the herd's migration is disrupted, opponents fear an impact similar to the salmon collapse — a loss not just of food but of a focal point of culture and spirituality. While the source of the salmon crisis is uncertain, researchers say possible causes include the impacts of commercial fishing, disease, warming waters, other environmental changes and competition between wild and hatchery-reared fish. In a June policy brief, Indigenous leaders, scientists and policy experts called for further study and for easing the disproportionate impact of the crisis on subsistence fishermen. But if the salmon collapse's cause isn't clear, its impact is. It has meant 'no fish camps, no traditional knowledge that's been passed down to our younger generation,' said Kristen Moreland, executive director of the Fairbanks-based advocacy group Gwich'in Steering Committee. Moreland said she regularly takes her children to her home village in the north to reconnect with traditional festivals and activities, including those centered around the caribou hunt: 'They learn all our traditional knowledge that way. What if the caribou doesn't migrate up there anymore?' The yearslong battle over the refuge takes its toll, she said. 'How long do we have to advocate for our land and our people?' Chief Brian Ridley of the Tanana Chiefs Conference said he sympathizes with those tribal leaders supporting development, given the shortage of well-paying jobs in many villages. But concern over potential long-term environmental damage has prompted the conference to oppose projects such as oil drilling in the Arctic refuge and the nearer Yukon Flats, as well as construction of the so-called Ambler Road, which could open access to mining in more remote areas. Ridley said he recently attended a national conference with other tribal leaders who echoed a common theme — opposing 'development projects on our land or near our land that come in and promise jobs and whatnot, and they come and go and then we get stuck with the long-term negative aspects of cleanup and restoration.' Empty smokehouses, broken spirits In southwestern Alaska, a proposed major mine, the Donlin Gold project, has long been debated. The project, planned by private investors in cooperation with Native corporations owning the land and mineral rights, would require a massive dam to hold back millions of tons of mineral and chemical waste in a valley. Project proponents say the dam will involve state-of-the-art design, with its wide base anchored to bedrock and the surrounding mountain walls incorporated into containing the debris. Proponents tout benefits including jobs, shareholder payments and funds for such things as village services and education. 'This kind of project, since it's on our lands, is different than most other resource projects,' said Thomas Leonard, vice president of corporate affairs for Calista Corp., a regional Alaska Native corporation involved. 'We literally have a seat at the table, have a voice in the project.' But opponents, such as Mother Kuskokwim and some area tribes, aren't convinced and say the risk of a failure on the Kuskokwim watershed is too great. Wednesdays What's next in arts, life and pop culture. 'Protecting the river and the land and the Earth is part of the partnership and the relationship that we have as caregivers,' Simeon said. That relationship isn't abstract, Simeon said. She said the disruption of communal hunting and fishing activities leads to a spiritual rootlessness that she believes contributes to alarming rates of addictions and suicide among Alaska Native people. 'What does it do to your heart and soul when you have to look at an empty smokehouse year after year after year, and you can't provide for your family?' Simeon said. ___ Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP's collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
Herald Malaysia
28-07-2025
- Health
- Herald Malaysia
‘Miracle woman' inspires Native youth through faith and survival story
For Yup'ik woman Danielle Beaver, 33, sharing her Catholic faith is not just a mission but the reason why she's alive today. Jul 28, 2025 The Diocese of Fairbanks' Ukveryaramta Tungiinun team members Danielle Beaver and Jesuit Father Gregg Wood in Chefornak. | Credit: Danielle Beaver By Kristina Millare For Yup'ik woman Danielle Beaver, 33, sharing her Catholic faith is not just a mission but the reason why she's alive today. After joining the Native American ministry of the Diocese of Fairbanks, Alaska, in January, Beaver told CNA in an interview that it is her hope to bring younger generations to the Church that saved her life more than once. The birth of her first child in 2010 was an awakening for Beaver — a descendent of Nora Guinn, the first woman and first Alaskan Native to be a district court judge — who, at that time, was in an abusive relationship with a man and trying to navigate her first year of college studies. 'A week after my son was born I had decided this little boy needed me,' she said. 'He needed me to live and I needed to be there for him.' 'So I left that relationship and I believe God had given me him so that I can live,' she continued. 'If I continued with that relationship, I don't think I would be here.' Beaver said 'it took a village' to raise her son. Her grandparents, mother, brothers, the local Catholic community, including members of the Jesuit Volunteer Corps, were the family who supported her in those challenging years of her early adulthood. While grateful for the love and fervent prayers of the community of Immaculate Conception Parish in Bethel, Alaska, particularly of its parish administrator Susan Murphy — who is also her grandmother — Beaver said going to church was not a priority until 2015. That year, the young mother suffered a brain aneurysm and was diagnosed with Moyamoya disease, a rare blood vessel condition, while 26 weeks pregnant with her second child. 'My head was 80% filled with blood,' she told CNA. 'Both she and I had a 20% chance of making it.' She was transported to Seattle for lifesaving surgery but doctors were not convinced she or her daughter would return home to Bethel alive. With the odds against their survival, family members turned to the Blessed Virgin Mary and trusted in the power of prayer to save them. 'My grandma was praying the rosary every night, every morning, every day,' she shared with CNA. 'I had so many people praying for me around the world.' '[Grandma] told me there'd be people in Europe praying for me, there'd be people down in South America praying for me, there'd be people around the U.S. praying for me,' she said. As the blood in her brain began to dissolve, Beaver no longer needed to have an emergency cesarean section and managed to carry her unborn daughter to full term. After giving birth to her baby girl, she then underwent a successful double craniotomy and STA-MCA bypass surgery to help improve blood flow to her brain. Some doctors who cared for her during her monthslong hospital stay began to call Beaver the 'miracle woman with the baby,' telling her that they never met a 'survivor of an aneurysm' before. Looking back on her life so far, the mother of two said she believes sharing one's personal story and faith journey is a simple but effective way of helping people discover their need for God and the Church in their own lives. 'I don't know how many people I do reach when I tell them about my life story or what I've been through because I never realize that I am ministering to them,' she told CNA. 'I just feel as though I am connecting to people in some way or feel as if it is something they want or need to hear,' she said. Boardwalk encounters According to the young lay evangelist, Bethel's tundra conditions are not a hindrance for her work with Native Americans in the the geographically largest Catholic diocese of the U.S., spanning approximately 410,000 square miles. Traveling to villages and cities by boat or snow machine, Beaver makes an effort to walk the boardwalks or streets of the new places she visits and to meet people in spaces beyond the parish walls. She told CNA most people stop to greet and welcome the 'new face' in town and speak to her in their own native languages. 'Conversation starts from there,' she said. 'Just in Chefornak alone, I was able to connect with an individual and we talked for a good 45 minutes, and I told her I'll be at the church the next day.' 'On Sunday, after church, we talked again for another 30 minutes,' she said. Still new to her role with the Fairbanks Diocese, Beaver said she has spent the last few months getting to know her colleagues better, learning, and reading books on evangelization. 'The most rewarding part of working with the Native American communities and families is knowing that I am helping my people,' she told CNA. 'I have been told by several individuals how happy or proud they are to see me, someone young, working in this position, helping with the Church,' she said. 'It makes me happy.' Connecting with the younger generations of Alaska Natives For many Catholics living in the Diocese of Fairbanks' Yukon-Kuskokwim Region, the opportunity to see a priest or attend Mass may be once every one to three months. As a member of the diocese's Ukveryaramta Tungiunun team, led by Sister Kathy Radich, OSF, Beaver said her team is doing a lot of good in the Yukon-Kuskokwim Region by assisting permanent deacons and providing formation programs, including retreats and workshops, for people. 'Deacons do speak the languages [spoken] in the villages, which helps a lot especially with the elders,' she said. 'I think the main thing that is a problem though is that we don't have a lot of young adults that attend church.' 'What I'm hoping to do with my job is to bring in the younger generations to church or back to the Church,' she shared. Relying more on prayer than her own efforts to bring people closer to God, Beaver said she has been encouraged by some young people who have told her of their desire to go back to church. 'All I tell them is, I'll pray for you,' she told CNA. 'I don't say 'you should' because I don't want to tell them what to do, I just say I'll pray for you.'--CNA
