By Mathias Risse
The views expressed below are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of the Carr-Ryan Center for Human Rights or Harvard Kennedy School. These perspectives have been presented to encourage debate on important public policy challenges.
What a week to actually be in Alaska, rather than just hear about it in the news. In recent years, I have made multiple trips to places significant to Indigenous history and spirituality, as part of my work on a book tentatively titled Reckoning and Renewal: Indigenous Philosophy and Global Crisis. My visit to various places in Alaska was long planned. But then Donald Trump announced that he, too, would be coming—to meet a guest arriving from Moscow. For a moment, I worried their meeting might happen in Sitka, in southeastern Alaska, the historic center of power during the era when Tsarist Russia ruled Alaska—where I am now writing.
After some decades of loosely organized plunder, Sitka served as the launching point from which Russian traders systematically exploited and brutalized Indigenous populations stretching from the Aleutians down the coast toward present-day California. Alaska Natives were forced to collect sea otter pelts for Russian traders—pelts so prized in Chinese markets that they were known as “soft gold.” All along, European arrivals brought diseases that often killed double-digit percentages of Indigenous people. (Jean Pfaelzer’s unsettling book California, a Slave State, has two fascinating chapters on all this.) Once the sea otter was nearly extinct and Russian priorities shifted, the empire sold the territory to the United States, a process finalized in 1867, here in Sitka.
Sitka is like no other place in the United States, or for that matter, in the world. It was in 1804 that the Russians took this area in bloody battle from the Tlingit, whom you might know for their totem poles. The Battle of Sitka takes up a whole chapter in James Michener’s iconic epic Alaska. Though the Tlingit were forced to leave for a time, they eventually returned; today, Sitka is deeply shaped by their enduring history and presence. Russian Orthodoxy remains a visible force, often blending with Indigenous spiritual traditions along Alaska’s sub-Arctic coast and islands. The coexistence of Matryoshka doll gift shops and historic Russian churches offers a vivid reminder of this layered cultural heritage. One of the historical sites here is the Russian Bishop’s House. For August 15, at noon, a group called “Sitkans for Peace” organized a protest in support of Ukraine there, calling for Putin’s arrest. As the Daily Sitka Sentinel proudly reported, several Russian expats joined the protests. There were protests against Putin’s visit in all major cities in Alaska, with remarkably strong turnout. The one in Anchorage rolled out the second-largest Ukrainian flag in existence in Delaney Park, in the heart of town.
My worries about the summit turned out to be misplaced: Sitka is so small that you can easily walk from the airport into town. So no amount of historical nostalgia would make it a suitable stage for a major geopolitical event. Only Anchorage could offer such a stage, and I left Anchorage the day before the summit, as planned weeks before. By the way, if you think Anchorage is remote, then that all depends on how you look at the globe. Global warming might redirect a considerable share of container traffic this way once more of the area is ice-free—not to mention all those resources in the Arctic that would become more easily extractable then.
A reader worried that Alaska would be to the 21st century what Munich was to the 20th: a place where global leaders meet to give away other people’s land.
The world’s anxiety about this summit was very much present in Anchorage as well. On August 11, the Anchorage Daily News published a letter in which a reader worried that Alaska would be to the 21st century what Munich was to the 20th: a place where global leaders meet to give away other people’s land. Now we know it did not come to that. No “deal” about the home of the Ukrainians was reached. Since Putin does not mind using his people as cannon fodder and relishes the ever-increasing militarization of Russia, no deal was to be expected—in any event none that would also get Trump the Nobel Peace Prize.
Regardless, the ceremony in Sitka on October 18, 1867, already did just that—give away other people’s lands. So it already happened in Alaska. It was the declining Russian Empire handing over to the increasingly powerful American Empire a territory so vast that it takes the next three biggest states (Texas, California, Montana) to match its size. And it takes the whole width of the country from the Pacific to the Atlantic to fit in Alaska with its Aleutian chain that cuts across the international date line. Russia was a maritime power that had barely penetrated the Great Land (which is what “Alaska” means in Aleutian). Nevertheless, they gave all of it away. That Alaska has a south-pointing panhandle at all is a reflection of the history of the Russian incursion. That this rugged territory was controlled by Russia had already been agreed upon in negotiations with the British, who controlled everything east of it.
Within a few decades, Americans would not only impose practices of cultural assimilation on multi-ethnic Alaska—under leadership of the highly energetic Presbyterian missionary Sheldon Jackson, Alaska became the site where especially oppressive boarding-school practices were first implemented that were subsequently brought to the Lower 48. Today, Anchorage is known for its outsized homelessness problem. Even a casual visitor will quickly notice that it is mostly Alaska Natives who live on the streets. Not all Alaska Natives are struggling to this extent, of course. But on balance, the American take-over never took a good turn for the Indigenous population. Memory culture for instance in the marvelous Alaska Native Heritage Center in Anchorage also reflects that. (Note: “Alaska Natives” refers to the Indigenous people, while “Native Alaskans” refers to anyone born in the state—a distinction commonly used here.)
Ahead of the meeting, my HKS colleague Nicholas Burns sensibly called the Anchorage summit “the most pivotal U.S.-Russia summit in a generation.” As I argued before, Trump’s foreign policy confirms political theorist Carl Schmitt’s vision of a world shaped by rival power blocs, not global cooperation. Schmitt believed it would not be any institutional framework aspiring at global unity—if only as loosely as the Charter of the United Nations does—that would replace the world of colonial empires. Instead, it would be a constellation of Grossräume, Great Spaces, relatively homogeneous regions organized around an empire (regional hegemon) that compete with each other.
Regardless of any results this summit might have had, simply by elevating Putin in this way and bypassing all other stakeholders (including especially Ukraine itself) Trump has moved the world further in this direction. This damage is done now. The images of Trump literally applauding Putin’s arrival and driving away with his smiling visitor in the presidential limo on Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson not only contrast with the berating of Zelensky in the White House a few months ago—they will probably be included in all future annals of Trump’s foreign policy. Under the circumstances, not adding more damage was probably the best we could have reasonably hoped for from this summit.
Under the circumstances, not adding more damage was probably the best we could have reasonably hoped for from this summit.
Meanwhile, Alaska is sinking. Not the whole Great Land, of course, but Alaska is heavily affected by climate change, to such an extent that some Native villages must be relocated away from the coast because of coastal erosion. Alaska is the fastest-warming American state. In June 2025, the National Weather Service issued a heat warning for Alaska for the first time in history. Temperatures in Fairbanks reached 90°F, which is unheard-of—it is Alaska, after all. But it has long been known that the Arctic region is especially affected by climate change, and Alaska is now warming three times faster than the global average.
There are so many ways in which people here are just not prepared for these changes. Homes have typically been designed to retain heat rather than protect against it. Permafrost thaws faster than it can naturally regenerate. A recent study found that building and road losses due to permafrost thaw could cost Alaska $37B to $51B under medium and high emission scenarios, which is considerably above previous estimates. The study also points out that U.S. national risk assessments do not account for Alaskan permafrost hazards—and that was before the current government’s massive attack on climate science and any policy-making that takes it seriously (on which I have written here and here).
Melting ice cover raises river levels and heightens risks of flooding. In the days leading up to the summit, the state capital, Juneau—a city from the days of the Klondike gold rush that put an end to Sitka’s political significance—was under a flood warning as meltwater escaped a basin dammed by the Mendenhall Glacier. Anybody flying into Juneau during this week could see the massive amount of water from the air. Fortunately flood barriers protected the city this time. Higher temperatures also bring drought and fires. Wildfires have until recently been infrequent above the Arctic Circle, much as heat warnings were in Fairbanks. But the steadily rising heat and lengthening summers dry out the tundra. Invasive shrubs move north with the warmth, making the tundra a tinderbox for lightning strikes.
Of the 574 federally recognized Indigenous tribes in the U.S., roughly 40% are in Alaska. We should not be surprised that there is an enormous diversity of nations up here: after all, this is the first place in the Americas ever inhabited by humans, for all we know. By the way, none of these groups call themselves “Eskimos.” To be sure, we are talking about a total population of about 160,000 people including both those who identify as Alaska Natives and those with partial heritage, in a state with a total population of only five times that much. Some Indigenous nations in the Lower 48 have more than twice as many enrolled citizens. Unlike most of the Lower 48, Alaska Natives have no history of treaty-making with the government. Recall that it was the Russians who handed them over to the Americans—so there was no need for treaties, which came from an era when engagement with Indigenous peoples was a matter of foreign policy (of sorts). Instead, the main legal framework regarding Native land and rights is the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act (ANCSA) of 1971— a federal law, not a treaty.
Unlike most of the Lower 48, Alaska Natives have no history of treaty-making with the government. Recall that it was the Russians who handed them over to the Americans—so there was no need for treaties, which came from an era when engagement with Indigenous peoples was a matter of foreign policy (of sorts).
As part of the ANCSA arrangements dozens and dozens of Alaskan villages or groups of hamlets also came to be federally recognized as tribes, to fit into the framework imported from the Lower 48 at least to this extent. But the governance of the lands ANCSA left to Alaska Natives as part of a hurried political settlement to open up Alaskan oil for extraction is rather different from how it is in the Lower 48: much of this governance is done by for-profit entities, with mixed results for the Indigenous across the state.
Rural communities—and predominantly these Native tribes—are at the forefront of climate change impacts and climate justice concerns in America. In 2019, a statewide threat assessment report in Alaska noted that 29 communities were experiencing significant climate change-related erosion. Further, 38 communities faced significant flooding, and 35 had major problems with thawing permafrost. Some of these communities have explored and by now in fact undertaken relocation. However, federal law—again, since before Trump came back into office—does not recognize gradual environmental impacts like thawing permafrost and coastal erosion as disasters. Therefore, such communities are ineligible for disaster funding. “Disasters,” after all, are events that hit you with full force seemingly out of the blue. Climate change engenders plenty of disasters of that “ordinary” sort—and the political tragedy of climate change precisely is that it operates this way.
One location that has received a good deal of attention is the village of Newtok in western Alaska, in the Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta region, inhabited by Yupik people. Nearly 300 people from Newtok have moved 9 miles across the Ninglick River to a new village called Mertarvik—but much of the infrastructure there is already failing. (Also see here.) It turns out that relocation of a whole village ecosystem of people who were closely tied to the place they have inhabited for generations and that was integral to their whole being creates enormous challenges.
For urban dwellers, it is hard to grasp just how different this is from simply moving between cities; the loss of ancestral land utterly transforms a community’s identity, culture, and future. The term “climate refugees” has been applied to this and related scenarios for more than a decade. So, yes, some Americans have already become climate refugees. Neither the state of Alaska nor the federal government takes the kind of interest here that this situation deserves. Relocations of this sort will become much more common as climate change progresses. Newtok and other places in Alaska offer great opportunities to study the challenges involved in such efforts—or in any event, they would do so if the people in charge bothered to pay attention.
Neither the state of Alaska nor the federal government takes the kind of interest here that this situation deserves.
There is an increasingly obvious link between human rights and climate change. If climate change disrupts human living arrangements, it affects the enjoyment of all human rights. At the same time, human rights are needed for individuals to stand up to economic and political interests that do not care about protecting the environment. Activism from the Arctic region has played an important role in establishing the connection between human rights and climate change. In 2005, Sheila Watt-Cloutier launched what appears to be the world's first international legal action linking human rights and climate change. Watt-Cloutier is an Inuk activist and politician from Nunavik, Canada, the vast Arctic territory constituting Quebec's northern third. In 2015 she published The Right to Be Cold. The book tells her story and makes her case for bringing the human rights framework to bear on environmental issues. It also made Watt-Cloutier a celebrity among people who care about the environment.
For Watt-Cloutier, the Arctic constitutes the planet's cooling system, whose destruction not only removes this very system but causes worldwide problems through melting waters. In other words, as far as the Artic is concerned, one does not even have to take a global perspective on human rights. Enlightened self-interest should tell leaders around the world that, at least for any country with a coastline, it is good for them to prevent Arctic warming. This point made it much easier for activists like Watt-Cloutier to be heard around the world than it has been for representatives of small islands and countries with low-lying coasts. And yet the plight of Alaska’s climate refugees is barely known in their own country. How is this possible?
In 2022, the United Nations recognized a human right to a clean, healthy, and sustainable environment. This recognition arose from the tireless efforts of Wake Forest Law Professor John Knox, who was appointed as Special Rapporteur in this domain. In his final report, Knox submitted "framework principles" as a way of understanding and implementing such a right. These sixteen principles are preceded by three preambular statements. The first one reads as follows:
Human beings are part of nature, and our human rights are intertwined with the environment in which we live. Environmental harm interferes with the enjoyment of human rights, and the exercise of human rights helps to protect the environment and to promote sustainable development.
The second sentence captures the interdependence between human rights and environmental protection. The first sentence goes as far as possible within the human rights framework to approximate an understanding of human embeddedness in nature that is strikingly common among Indigenous people around the world. A wonderful discussion of the philosophical aspects of this embeddedness in the context of the Arctic is Yupik philosopher Angayuqaq Oscar Kawagley’s A Yupiaq Worldview: A Pathway to Ecology and Spirit. Moreover, in Alaska, the human rights connections of climate change have been stressed by the Alaska Institute for Justice, co-founded and directed until recently by Robin Bronen. (See e.g., here.) In 2025, Bronen was elected one of USA TODAY’s Women of the Year for this work.
So not only will Alaskans (especially the hard-hit Natives) receive no support from their government to adapt to climate change—they must look on as resources on their lands are used to exacerbate the problem.
During the Biden administration some federal assistance came to Alaska Natives to deal with these matters (see e.g., here and here). But under Trump the Natives will be on their own. Furthermore, Trump has already moved to open Arctic reserves to oil and gas drilling. (For background, also see here.) So not only will Alaskans (especially the hard-hit Natives) receive no support from their government to adapt to climate change—they must look on as resources on their lands are used to exacerbate the problem.
As for Alaska’s two senators, Senior Senator Lisa Murkowski has long advocated for better climate-change responses and has been one of the most visible Republican politicians to do so. Climate change plays a significant role in Murkowski’s recently published memoir. Still, Murkowski supported Trump’s recent mega-bill with all its measures to make the fight against climate change harder. Apparently, she did so after the White House gave assurances that wind and solar projects in Alaska would receive some out-of-the-ordinary protection. But days later Trump signed an executive order that undermined these assurances. Alaska’s junior senator, Dan Sullivan, seems to be genuinely unable to find a principled stance on climate. He was, however, eager to go on record for interpreting Putin’s visit in Anchorage as an expression of American power, as if Putin had come to pay homage.
It is unfortunate that all the limelight on Alaska in the last couple of weeks has not drawn more attention to the plight of its climate refugees. Climate change will not go away because the Trump administration ignores it. Chances are that we will hear more about Alaska in the future because its economic role in the world might change once more ice has melted. But ipso facto this will wreak havoc on Alaska in many ways, not only but especially on its Indigenous people.
But let us end on a more upbeat note. Alaska has brought about some strong leaders, and might do so again. One of these leaders is Elizabeth Peratrovich, a Tlingit woman and trailblazing Alaska Native civil rights leader. When a landmark anti-discrimination bill was debated in Alaska in the 1940s, State Senator Allen Shattuck rejected its premise, infamously asking: “Who are these people, barely out of savagery, who want to associate with us whites with 5,000 years of recorded civilization behind us?” In response, Peratrovich noted that elimination of discrimination surely counted as part of that civilization. Her spirited reply on that day ultimately carried the day, and this episode is recognized as a milestone in American anti-discrimination legislation. And it is just one of the many ways in which she left her mark. (For a documentary on her life, see here.)
Sitka has dedicated a bench in the harbor area to Elizabeth Peratrovich. That bench features a quote from her: “Asking you to give me equal rights implies that they are yours to give. Instead, I must demand that you stop trying to deny me the rights all people deserve.” Some (and arguably too many) who call themselves leaders are mostly wielders of power and leave the world worse off than they found it. People like Elizabeth Peratrovich make the world a better place. We badly need more leaders like her—also and especially to advocate for the nexus between human rights and climate change.
