Alli Harvey
I moved to Alaska in 2008 from my hometown in Massachusetts, to live in this place that made me feel alive and challenged. Even though I’ve lived here for over ten years, I still feel like I’m part-outsider. I think this is actually a good thing. It keeps me on my toes -- aware of how special this place is and appreciative when I have opportunities to experience Alaska in a deeper way.
My feeling going into the first Arctic Indigenous Climate Summit was a sense of excitement, curiosity, and respect.
Gwich’yaa Zhee, or Fort Yukon, is located eight miles above the Arctic Circle. Gwich’yaa Zhee means “House on the Flats.” On a bus tour of the dusty roads of the Gwich’in Athabascan community (population roughly 600), our guide explained to us that the Gwich’in people were nomadic until the forced settlement into a specific location by white settlers, as part of the massive and violent process of colonization. Although Gwich’in communities now remain in these fixed, year-round locations, “House on the Flats” still describes the community’s relationship to the surrounding wilderness. These intact, beautiful landscapes and waterways are what sustain the Gwich’in, with Fort Yukon serving as one house within a much broader home.
Moon over the Yukon River, as seen from the shore of Fort Yukon at 10 pm on June 10, 2019.
During the Climate Summit, the 1st Chief of Venetie, Timothy Roberts -- the youngest-ever chief of the community at 22 years old -- stood and spoke. He was humble but direct as he addressed the 100 or so people gathered under the open-air wooden octagon structure with a view of the Yukon River.
He said he was there to speak about climate change, and that he had recently been out on a trail just north of Venetie when he had come across a moose that was missing its head and its side. He was stunned. It was clear that an outsider had flown in for a trophy kill. The disrespect and disregard of sanctity of life was blatant and an affront to Gwich’in tradition of respecting the animal. He harvested what he could of the meat, and found the telltale plane tracks nearby. He said it was very scary -- what was to stop this person, anyone, from doing that whenever they wanted?
Chief Roberts said, “It’s just us up there, if they see us. If they see us at all.”
His story about climate change was a story about greed, violence, and waste. It was the story of change at an unexpected and alarming pace -- an occurrence taking place in his people’s country that he hadn’t anticipated or asked for but that left an imprint that couldn’t be erased or forgotten. And his story was about invisibility -- of himself and his people -- that a person came in and acted so deeply disrespectfully. The story was about that thing happening again, at any time -- about unpredictability.
And yes, it’s a story about climate change. That’s what hit me.
When I think of climate change, I often emotionally shut down. Many people I talk to say that thinking about climate change too much causes them to despair.
But I believe that while despair is a perfectly reasonable feeling given the circumstances, we owe it to ourselves, to each other, and to this young chief and his community to act -- to not shut down. During this conference, I heard from Indigenous elders and leaders whose very way of life is at stake about the changes they see in the land and water they rely on. They talked about river ice thinning in ways that make fishing and hunting dangerous; erosion and homes falling into water; about animal migration patterns becoming more erratic and often putting sustenance at much greater distances for different villages.
In the face of all these changes, no one was assigning blame. The only thing asked of us attendees and others was for unity and action.
On the tiny 10-seater bush plane flying south from Fort Yukon, I gazed out of the window at the endless, rolling landscape dotted with ponds and framed by distant mountains. This is the Alaska that keeps me feeling alive, that sustains the Gwich’in and Alaska Native tribes across the state, and that is in danger. We are all called to act to curb the worst impacts of climate change, and defend the intact landscapes and waterways that continue to support life. I left the conference with a deep conviction that I needed to share what I’d learned and ask others to join me in this continued fight for our climate.
Destructive oil drilling in the coastal plain of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge would harm the Gwich’in way of life and contribute to climate change that is already disproportionately impacting Alaska Native communities. Stay tuned for more as we stand with the Gwich’in in the continued fight to protect this place.