I - Extractivism

2 Patterns of Arctic Extractivism Past and Present

Sverker Sörlin , Brigt Dale , Arn Keeling , Joan Nymand Larsen

How can we understand the “big picture” of Arctic mining? As a backdrop to what follows in the rest of the volume, this chapter provides an outline of the resource extraction history of the Arctic. We focus mainly on historical resource extraction in the European Arctic, with brief comparisons with Arctic North America and Russia. The chapter is also an attempt to reinterpret and reconfigure the extractive past and present of the Arctic using extractivism, presented in the previous chapter, as a framing concept and theoretical tool. What were the main patterns of Arctic extractive history during the industrial period and are there deeper historical patterns that can be identified in this moment of intensifying resource extraction?

We explore this question along four main themes: the extractive frame of mind in Western thought and Arctic visions; the material and social impacts of historical extractivism; the ties of extractivism to Arctic colonialism and modern “development”; and the emergence of debates around contemporary and future extractivism and its implications for Arctic territories and peoples.

Natural resource extraction has grown to global significance as the basis for industrial modernity (Sörlin, 2023, see Chapter 1). This modernity emerged with the Industrial Revolution, accelerated dramatically during the twentieth century, and is now changing rapidly because of new growth in East Asian and other economies beyond the Euro-Western world. It may be argued, as currently takes place in a growing literature in innovation and transition studies, that it is undergoing ruptures and stands at a crossroads (Kanger et al., 2022). Extractive industrial modernity produced particular kinds of societies, based on values linked to gender, ethnic, and social hierarchies and with largely unsustainable economies. This modernity is increasingly being challenged, and political and cultural tensions around extractive industries have grown far beyond those we saw in past controversies around preservation and conservation. It is in this emerging, uncertain world that we must locate Arctic extractivism. Is the latter on the crest of the wave of change or caught up in a region resistant to change, bogged down in extractivist patterns of the past?

There are multiple framing narratives of extractivism, and Arctic stories represent just some of these. In contrast to the singularizing “New North” narrative that we have often heard from policy and media since the end of the Cold War, the Arctic holds, and has always held, several distinct potential pathways with different trajectories, chronologies, and politics (Stuhl, 2016). Indeed, the fact that the future is undetermined has spawned notions of “competing Arctic futures” (Wormbs, 2018) but also, as transformational change is increasingly likely worldwide, the possibility for a plurality of “dynamic sustainabilities” (Leach, Scoones, & Stirling, 2010). Extractivism – particularly mining and oil and gas activities – has been a fraught issue for a long time and remains disputed in many of these narratives. To make things even more complicated, critics and advocates of extractivism may be located on “both sides” of the divide for or against mineral and oil and gas extraction. Extractivist advocates can be found, perhaps most usually, among settler residents and external actors (capital, extractive industries, government). But they also exist among some Indigenous groups (typically those with co-ownership to either land or infrastructure such as native corporations in Alaska), political activists, and scientists, although these groups typically would also be well represented amongst opponents to extraction that exceeds the artisanal, Indigenous, and/or small-scale.

Extractivism in the Arctic is changing, as we can start to discern the contours of a post-fossil fuel society and as the future of traditional mining is uncertain in many places of the world. That said, the transition toward a low carbon future will require tremendous investment in mineral extraction including rare earth minerals (Prior et al., 2012; Gilberthorpe & Hilson, 2014; Rossi et al., 2021; Sörlin, 2021, 2023, see Chapter 1; Lien, 2023, see Chapter 12). Extractivism itself is connected to post-fossil fuel futures: certain minerals are central to electrification, renewable energy infrastructure such as solar panels and wind turbines, and extractive elements may be detected in the seemingly post-material versions of Arctic economies, such as tourism, education, science, and culture (Sokolíčková & Eriksen, 2023; see Chapter 3). This phenomenon implies that extractivism should perhaps be seen as a socio-economic formation in deep resonance with these ongoing transformations just as much as it is a historical “hole in the ground” tied to certain waning commodities or forms of energy.

The roots of these contemporary debates around extractivism, this chapter argues, are located in the overarching dynamic of Anthropocene transformations in which diverse histories of extractivism in the modernizing Arctic are nested. The overall argument, which is based on conclusions from recent research on resource extraction in the global north, is that extractivism over a long period of time grew into the predominant framing concept in relation to the Arctic (Southcott et al., 2018). Shaped by largely Western attitudes to non-human nature as resource and property, extractive thinking propelled European expansion and colonization all through the circumpolar Arctic, though with varying historical trajectories and geopolitical consequences. Indigenous peoples, long the occupants and stewards of Arctic territories, were largely marginalized in this process, though they engaged in various forms of accommodation, co-option, and outright resistance.

The legacies of modern extractivism – as economic modality, as material practice, and as mentality – continue to shape debates and developments in the region today, as well as informing contested visions for its future.

Extractivism: A Framing Western Concept

Extraction of mineral resources has been a preoccupation of Arctic states for centuries. Antecedents of modern extractive development stretch back to the early modern period (especially in Scandinavia), and Indigenous metals technology and trade predate colonial forms by thousands of years (Knudsen, Keeling & Sandlos, 2022). Extraction has also been part of annexation and colonization policies, and worked in tandem with the formation of Arctic nation states, territorially as well as politically (Coates, 2018). Arctic Indigenous communities with considerably longer histories in the region did not engage in modern capitalist forms of mineral extraction, but some Sámi, Inuit, and others did occasionally work in mines, sometimes as forced labor. An almost universal feature of Arctic extractivism is that it took place at a distance from major urban centers usually located in the southern portion of those Arctic states. At the same time, states, through colonization, trade, and military activity, sought to bridge that distance by extending infrastructure, social services, local government and authority (Adcock, 2008), and civic rights to Indigenous peoples and frontier populations within their territory. This has its challenges since people living in cities and towns add up to the large majority of the four million people (Arctic Centre, 2021) that inhabit the Arctic, an area much larger than Europe, which for comparison has a population of 750 million.

In seeking to make sense of the Arctic and its importance during the first two decades of the twenty-first century, historians and others turned to the notion of extractivism as a framing concept for these transformations wherever they occurred. It was never meant to indicate a predetermined form or stage of development, nor is it the only way one can imagine responsible resource extraction in the future. Indeed, the “wastelanding” (Voyles, 2015) and environmental racism that has frequently been the result of mining projects in different world regions, and certainly in the Arctic (Keeling & Sandlos, 2009; Wilson & Stammler, 2016; Kuokkanen 2019), are just some of several potential results of these activities. So, while alternatives exist, why are destructive consequences of mining so hard to avoid?

Part of the reason lies in the deeper historical roots to extractivism and how it has played out in colonial contexts around the world. In the Arctic, extractivism is underlain by a particular socio-cultural orientation toward the northern environment that conceives it as a distant storehouse of resources and an extractive frontier. This perspective has roots (particularly in the European Arctic) in deeply religious and cultural attitudes toward nature in addition to the incentives provided by the global manifestations of European capitalism. Even as we are moving into an economy that has already started de-coupling wealth and economic growth from the use of traditional mineral and fossil-based resources, resource extraction in the Arctic is still caught in the extractivist paradigm following long historical lines (McCannon, 2012; Josephson, 2014; Nuttall, 2017). What we see in the Arctic is a pattern of extractivism that keeps reinventing itself in new guises, adapting to changing circumstances, and increasingly in tension with multiple actors and with demands for less intrusive, genuinely consultative, socially just, and more sustainable solutions. How and when will this prevailing Arctic extractivism transform, if not discontinue? Will new extractivist patterns emerge in industries such as tourism, energy production, strategic minerals, and marine protein farming, or are other development pathways possible?

Changing human–nature relationships requires rethinking historical, cultural, and religious definitions of Man’s superiority on Earth and the perceived human “right” to its resources. In contrast to “nature,” “resources” is a redefinition of “natural things” into objects that are somehow deemed more or less useful for humans, and which in the capitalist era can be monetized. What these objects are and what their value is, even that they constitute “resources,” objects of extraction, has changed with time and will continue to do so (De Gregori, 1987; Bridge, 2009).

Already, the Early Modern revolution of natural philosophy has legitimized the sense that Man’s destiny is to dominate and exploit a nature “out there,” a mechanized nature in which humans had no part. Man replaced God and put himself in a position beyond nature. This represented no shift from the Judeo-Christian tradition, however, as Man was seen also in biblical times as being the steward of Creation, and the benefactor of all goods that could be drawn from it (as in for instance Genesis 2:19). The combination of the Christian anthropocentric notion of the world, where Man is regarded as God’s representative on Earth, and the Athenian focus on the nature of Man and his ability to make sense of the world constructed a reality where “Christianity absorbed the anthropocentric dominance views of Platonic-Aristotelian Greek philosophy” (Sessions, 1977: 486). This, in turn, helped pave the way for the future rationalization of man’s utilization of the resources of the planet. Influential feminist thinkers (e.g., Merchant, 1980) have argued that it would be reasonable to ascribe the subsequent appropriation of the natural world to the premise that the observing and acting human subject was firmly placed – both epistemologically and morally – outside of nature. In a colonial frame of mind, “nature” thus turned into objects of value (“resources”) or “marvelous possessions” (Greenblatt, 1991) that could be controlled, owned, and exploited.

The appropriation of the Arctic by representatives of this Christian culture and mind frame stands in a long line of confrontations, literally around the world, with what colonialists perceived as pristine, untamed nature that could be appropriated and mastered in new ways. Frontier landscapes were the manifestation of God’s gift to humankind, and the solution to the ever-increasing needs of societies for natural bounty. Men of Western science also played an important role as missionaries of the Christian faith in conquering the North. As Andrew Stuhl has argued about later incarnations of these colonizers in Alaska, “ their concepts and research practices have accompanied efforts to conquer, cajole, civilize, capitalize, consume and conserve the far north since the late 1800s” (Stuhl, 2016: 2), and further back if we consider the European Arctic. Extractivism, as an extension of Man’s God-given right to utilize the planet’s resources, was deeply embedded in the rationale for a push to the north, as an expression of the century-old endeavor to “find the world’s remaining unclaimed lands” (Stuhl, 2016: 3).

More recent and more secular ideas about land and resources followed that underlay colonial extractivist philosophy in the broadest possible traditions of political theory: Locke on labor, property, and the ethics of resource appropriation; Marx on labor, transformation of nature, and existential freedom. The ethical and philosophical foundations of extractivism are found in the very core of Western ideas of modernity, and the Arctic is no exception. Over time, they coalesced into broad developmental narratives that became embedded in extractivist thought, in the physical domination of landscapes and its riches, and in the relations to the people who inhabited it (Bridge, 2009; Richardson & Weszkalnys, 2014).

These ideas sharpened under industrial colonialism, resting on an assumption of virtuous transformation of raw materials to goods and societal value with little harm of any kind. The unquestionable harm wrought on local communities was justified with progressivist ideologies, articulated by several thinkers and, as extraction grew, by theorists of resource-centered imperialism (Hobson, 1902) and ideas about “control of the tropics” (Kidd, 1898), which also included “control of the Arctic.” One of the key arguments in this literature was that since Indigenous populations neither would nor could exploit natural resources at this scale, it was both the right and a duty of the “civilized peoples” to do so. Civilization, as articulated by John A. Hobson, a progressive British economist and in fact a critic of imperialism, was ultimately characterized by a supreme capacity to extract and develop natural resources. According to this early version of the “gospel of efficiency” (Hays, 1959), wealth was going to spread across society, including, presumably, the far north, perceived by the most wishful visionaries as the future epitome of human civilization, justifiying continued hopes and projects to populate, promulgate, and excavate the Arctic in a noble “northward course of empire” (Stefansson, 1922).

Impacts on nature and on cultures, transforming both beyond recognition, were in the extractivist ideology considered largely favorably. “Landscape scars” (Storm, 2014) were the terraformed evidence of progress in an extractivist version of the “improvement of the world” idea that had been an ultimate legitimizing imaginary to guide British imperialism since the seventeenth century, long referring to agriculture and plantation economics, but in the nineteenth century turning decisively industrial and resource oriented (Gascoigne, 1998; Drayton, 2000). Similar ideas were advanced in French colonial thought (Rosenblum, 1988).

The Material Impacts of Extractivism

The extractivist mentality, as rendered in the previous section, provided the underlying rationale for the rapid industrial transformation of Arctic regions during the late Industrial Revolution and into the twentieth century. In a region defined – by many southern-based governments and industrial actors – in terms of remoteness, sparsity of population, and extremity of climate and landscape, mining, in particular, provided the catalyst for frontier development and colonization by modern states. Mining was a “frontiering” activity in the sense that it advanced the physical and social transformation of far away “wilderness” regions into resources for modern industry and governments, while implanting southern technologies and settlement forms into (largely) previously Indigenous territories (Knudsen et al., 2022). Indeed, extractivism materially reconfigured Arctic societies and spaces through the logic of resource extraction, whether undertaken via forms of “primitive accumulation” such as gold rushes, advanced industrial capitalist enterprises, or authoritarian, state-led development, as in the Soviet Union.

Industrializing markets, spurred by nationalist ideologies, as well as both capitalist and communist ambitions regarding the conquering of frontiers, led to a “race” for the Arctic and its resources. For instance, the large-scale iron mining complexes of northern Sweden emerged at the end of the nineteenth century after the completion of a rail line from Malmberget and Kiruna to tidewater (at Luleå and Narvik, Norway) opened the region’s rich iron resources to European markets. The logistics created by the mine, with hydroelectric power stations and power lines, built, in the early 1900s, what was then the largest single infrastructure system in northern Fennoscandia (Hansson, 2006). Other large developments followed as the Swedish Arctic rapidly industrialized and new settlements were established in this multilingual, culturally rich region, also the home of the Sámi. Although on a smaller scale, Norwegian and Finnish mining also expanded as part of concerted efforts to extend state control over Arctic territories and with similar tensions.

The Soviet Arctic, too, saw large-scale settlements develop around extractive sites, particularly in the Kola Peninsula region and, to a lesser extent, in the Russian Far East. These industrial centers, however, emerged out of authoritarian state initiatives (such as Stalin’s Five Year Plans) to develop Arctic resources and infrastructure, rather than flows of mining capital (Josephson, 2014; Wilson & Stammler, 2016). The infamous Kolyma gold mines were integrated into the brutal Gulag system of forced labor and, to some extent, forced and induced settlement was a feature of many Soviet Arctic mining communities. Today much activity in Arctic Russia is fly-in-fly-out, and the future of mining in these areas must be considered alongside phenomena such as the thawing of permafrost, which, ironically, can be exploited for a new version of Anthropocene tourism in the Pleistocene Mammoth Park in the Yamal region, Siberia (Wrigley, 2020).

In the North American Arctic and subarctic, gold rushes to Canada’s Yukon territory and the Alaskan territory acquired by the United States in 1867 were catalytic events, bringing non-Indigenous migrants and settlers, and leading to further industrial transformations of the vast, hitherto Indigenous-controlled region. Unlike the diverse economies and settlements that emerged in the Scandinavian Arctic, however, the region’s transportation and settlement geography centered on small-scale, remote, and often ephemeral and unstable extractive sites (Keeling & Sandlos, 2015). Similarly, Greenlandic mining remained a highly sporadic, yet at times influential, driver of colonial extractive activity. Mining settlements were founded around cryolite and coal deposits, promising the potential for re-orienting the hunting-based Greenlandic economy toward industrialism (and, for some Greenlanders, a path to self-determination). Nevertheless, unlike other Arctic regions during the twentieth century, Greenland remained largely at the margins of sustained mining activities due to the transportation and environmental challenges of its Arctic location, and because it was defined as a zone of strategic interest dominated by the American military rather than as a commercial development (Doel, Harper, & Heymann, 2016).

For all their diverse histories and material circumstances, the many mineral developments around the circumpolar region collectively illustrate the broad trends and processes of extractivism – with an Arctic flavor. Consider the Black Angel Mine: situated near a former marble quarry at Maarmorilik in the Uummannaq district of Greenland’s north-central west coast (Figure 2.1), the remote site attracted interest for its lead-zinc deposits during a boom in demand for these minerals in the 1960s. Through its Danish subsidiary Greenex, and with the strong backing of the Danish government, the Canadian mining giant Cominco brought its considerable experience in northern mining (including contemporaneous efforts to develop a High Arctic mine near Resolute in Canada) and sulphide ore processing technology to exploit this deposit. The mine was accessed rather dramatically some 600 meters up the side of a mountain via cable car, which also transported ore to a processing facility by the Affarlikassa Fjord. When it opened in 1973, the mine promised employment opportunities for Greenlanders, although most workers were employed on a fly-in-fly-out basis, and local Indigenous labor participation remained low. In fact, Greenlandic workers went on strike in 1977, protesting against unequal wages and the strict social controls of the company mining camp (Knudsen et al., 2022).

Figure 2.1 Location map of Greenland.

Drawn by Christian Fohringer.

The mine also proved controversial for its impacts on local environments and livelihoods: along with enduring smoke and dust from the refinery, hunters in the area blockaded an ore ship in 1975 to protest the impact of spring icebreaking on sea ice travel. It left a legacy of water pollution resulting from the disposal of tailings into the fjord, contaminating nearby waters and marine organisms, including harvestable fish, with lead and zinc for decades after the mine’s closure in 1990 (Eberling et al., 2002). As with so many remote Arctic sites, while the economic benefits of mining (and its associated infrastructure) proved ultimately fleeting, its effects on society and environment reverberated for long after closure. In particular, in spite of its short life the mine nurtured the vision of increasing self-determination by Greenlanders, a vision that has persisted in debates around uranium mining and offshore oil development (discussed later; Bjørst, Sejersen & Thisted 2023, see Chapter 7).

Of course, the Black Angel story is not that of every Arctic mine. Some mining regions flourished for decades, either from new mineral opportunities or diversified economies. Much of Arctic Fennoscandia, while embracing the industry, in fact relies very little on it for employment while benefiting from the associated investment and infrastructure, a legacy of an earlier commitment to populate mining regions and build functional communities (Malmgren et al., 2023, see Chapter 11). Towns and cities in North America with their origins in mining booms – Yellowknife, Whitehorse, and Juneau, for instance – have matured into administrative centers while continuing their role as transportation and service hubs for extractive industries (Piper, 2009). While the Arctic remains, in a global context, a resource periphery or “primary commodity supply zone,” new economic and political arrangements, most notably the growing influence of Arctic Indigenous peoples, have shifted the balance toward the capture and retention of mining’s benefits by the region’s population.

Nevertheless, the “landscape scars” (Storm, 2014) of previous rounds of largely settler-colonial forms of extractivism remain, along with “imperial debris” (Stoler, 2013) in a lingering volumetric and vertical environment (Dodds, 2021). They are frequently invoked in the disputes over modern open pit “mega-mines” and power infrastructures that disrupt surface-level reindeer herding (Röver, 2021) and other traditional lifestyles, the impact of Arctic ore shipping disrupting the solidity of sea ice, or contemporary efforts to address the toxic subterranean legacies of abandoned and un-reclaimed mine sites around the region. The toxic experiences and lessons of this extractive past are frequently invoked as Arctic communities today continue to debate the merits and pitfalls of minerals-led development for their region (Nuttall, 2017; Dale, Bay-Larsen, & Skorstad, 2018).

Extractivism and European Arctic Colonialism

While coloniality and colonialism is the evident frame for resource extraction in North America and Greenland, there has been a lot of debate about whether the relations to northern regions should be termed colonial in the European and the Russian context. In the wake of 1960s and 1970s dependency theories (e.g., Samir Amin, André Gunder Frank, Raúl Prebisch) explaining underdevelopment in the former colonial world after the Second World War (Blomström & Hettne, 1984; Munck & O’Hearn, 1999), this framing was often suggested for Arctic regions as well. Extractive industries were presented as a main contributor to the onslaught against remote areas in northern Fennoscandia, in Greenland as part of the Kingdom of Denmark, and in imperial and Soviet Russia. An argument against this claim, besides opposing its intellectual content and explanatory capacity, was that Russia, Sweden, Norway (after being part of Denmark until 1814), and Finland (after being part of Sweden until 1809 and a principality of Russia until 1917) were Arctic states in their own right, with much of their territory north of the 60th parallel. Resource extraction took place in their own northern hinterland territories and hence could not, by definition, be “colonial” or imperialist. Also, was not the building of infrastructures and the influx of capital, largely provided by states and empires, necessary for modernization?

Arctic resource exploitation was far from fair. It was based on dominant “southern” ideologies of race, civilization, and religion that put Arctic Indigenous peoples in a subordinate position. Models of extraction were disturbingly similar to those that were used in overseas European colonialism. Theorists of “internal colonialism” (Chaloult & Chaloult, 1979; Calvert, 2001; Pinderhughes, 2011; van de Grift 2015) also suggested that colonialism was deeply related to “hinterland” exploitation, and that exploitative resource extraction could just as well be part of domestic practice and politics. After all, expanding settler communities had infringed on Indigenous populations, turning them into subjects without consultation and then disregarding what has only recently been acknowledged as their rights. Extractive industries mattered in this, although in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries multi-national exploitation of maritime resources such as whale and seal was still more intense (Sörlin, 2017; Demuth, 2019).

In the long, often dark history of extractive industries in the European Arctic (Naum & Nordin, 2013), ethical and political constraints on mining were weak and mining practices often oppressive and cruel. Early examples of such impacts can be found in the Fennoscandian region (Figure 2.2) in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, such as the Swedish Nasafjäll mining case (Bromé, 1923; Awebro, 1983), or in the Torne River Valley on the current Finnish–Swedish border (Nordin & Ojala, 2015, 2020). The silver mine in Nasafjäll on the Arctic circle, close to the border with Denmark-Norway, was opened in the 1630s. It would have been an unattainable project if Sámi had not been forced to work in the open air mine and, in particular, with the long-haul transportation of the ore with reindeer and akkja (the Sámi sled) to a smelting site in Silbojokk (Sámi for silver creek) some 100 kilometers away. They were paid with flour, salt, tobacco, and liquor. Two more silver mines (Kedkevare, Alkavare) were also started, both short lived, ending in 1703 (Awebro, 1983; Abrahamsson, 2009). The harsh conditions for extraction in some of the northern mines were known to the authorities but not much debated, even after a critical report in 1908 covering the Early Modern Swedish mining experience (Sommarin, 1908). In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, Fennoscandian Arctic mining interests turned toward iron ore, but the regard for Sámi interests remained marginal. Sámi were generally avoided as mining labor because they were considered to be unreliable and too attracted by their traditional way of life, a persistent trope. By the same token, the Sámi tried to avoid work in mining (Figure 2.3).

Figure 2.2 Location map of Fennoscandia.

Drawn by Christian Fohringer.

Figure 2.3 Detail of a map from 1646 of the Nasafjäll silver mine in Swedish Lapland by mining officer Hans Fredrik Lybecker the elder. The numbers refer to pitholes, except 17, which refers to the cemetery.

Source: Bromé, J. (1923). Nasafjäll: Ett svenskt silververks historia. Stockholm: Nordiska bokhandeln

In the nineteenth century, mining gained a foothold and grew rapidly in the Norwegian north, based on investments from English and Norwegian/ Danish capital. Historian Einar-Arne Drivenes’ classic analysis of the multiple income/ subsistence economy of Northern Norway, entitled Fiskarbonde og gruveslusk [fisher-farmer and miner] (Drivenes, 1985), depicts life and industrial development in some of the many mining towns in the region. Examples include the Kåfjord mine in Finnmark county, and the Birtavarre copper mine in Troms; its ore was supposedly found by a Sámi reindeer herder in the 1890s but commercially developed by Norwegian and English capital. The Sulitjelma copper mine in Nordland was also supposedly discovered by a Sámi, Mons Petter Uren, in 1858, and again developed by Norwegian and English owners. Drivenes assessed the number of workers to number a few hundred on each site, but many worked outside of the fishing and harvesting seasons, and were thus not fully employed; the numbers varied with global demand for the metals extracted (Drivenes, 1985: 43–67).

As the twentieth century drew closer, mines in Sør-Varanger, Mo i Rana, and Svalbard were opened, meaning that the relative importance of mining activities – and jobs – grew steadily in northern Norway. Asbjørn Jaklin describes the mine in Sulitjelma as “a mining sensation,” employing more than 1,700 workers in 1907 (Jaklin, 2006: 61, our translation). These mines were part of a general trend in the region at the time where subsistence work on a farm was combined with (partial, but also for-cash) work in the fisheries and labor in the mines on and off, either in seasons or merely because mines would open and close irregularly. The mines also served to “Norwegianize” the region, as capital, the development of a labor force (with political ambitions), and urbanization (like in Mo i Rana, Kirkenes, and Fauske/Sulitjelma) increased state presence. Mining also favored Norwegian culture, competence, and economic advantage, further marginalizing Sámi culture and influence, in parallel with other state initiatives for cultural assimilation and “Norwegianization” (Minde, 2003), for instance through forced relocation and Norwegian-language education in government-run schools for children.

Similar assimilationist objectives supported and legitimized extractivism in Sweden. From the perspective of southern centers and national capitals, mining was regarded as the epitome of civilization and progress, and a necessary source of resources for the burgeoning urbanization accelerated by the industrial revolution. By the eighteenth century, it had become a state priority in the spirit of resource-oriented cameralism (Koerner, 1999), and strong central mining institutions linked to the state were organized to support the systematic discovery and use of valuable minerals and other resources. As described in the examples from Norway, capital from the national centers (all geographically far from the Arctic) also dominated and controlled the development of mining towns in the Swedish Arctic.

Extractivist ideologies underlay this appropriation of northern resources. These included mercantilism in the eighteenth century with import substitution and export income as a key goal underpinning national economies and expansionist northern strategies (Magnusson, 2015). Economic liberalism and, later, industrial socialism were equally confident in the virtues of mineral exploitation. The Fennoscandian north gradually developed a long-standing status as a “resource region,” akin to but not similar to a “resource frontier” (see Van Alstine & Davies, 2017). The north was part of the national territory where wealth and prosperity could be found: a “land of the future” (Sörlin, 1988). When such hinterland visions started to circulate in the late nineteenth century it was as a “timber frontier.” Industrial forestry began in southwestern Norway, rolled across northern Sweden from about 1850, then into northern Finland and by 1900 northwestern Russia. By the early twentieth century, most Arctic states had introduced and enforced mineral legislation, mostly to secure possessions, and presented ambitious schemes for large-scale resource extraction, terrestrial as well as marine. Regulation, including health and security, was slack, based on the assumption that the long-term positive effects of mining were overwhelming.

An unresolved issue that kept coming back was, for what purpose and whose benefit resource extraction was to occur? The interest of the state for war and wealth creation was of course central, so too were the commercial interests of investors and entrepreneurs. As industrialized extractivism and resource use spread from mining to forestry, fisheries, and energy resources (first turf, then hydroelectric power and oil and gas in the twentieth century) that were also abundant in the north, a legitimacy crisis grew. Public opinion gradually emerged suggesting that resources should benefit the region where they were extracted. This stood in contrast to repeated instances of intense but brief spurts of resource extraction (designed to address a national need or priority elsewhere) that had been the case with minerals but also with whale and seal blubber, coal and oil in Alaska, Svalbard, and North-Western Russia (Avango, Nilsson, & Roberts, 2013). These episodes were often short lived and ill-planned for the building of community. Again, it resembled the quest for colonies during high imperialism, which was a point often made in the critique of extractivism.

In retrospect, it is easy to see how this regime worked in parallel with other characteristics of industrial modernity such as a high valuation of technology, rationality, and an anthropocentric logic. It was underpinned by an emerging resource nationalism that was no less forceful in the Arctic than elsewhere (McCannon, 2012; Childs, 2016). Extractivism linked natural resources to the prowess and prosperity of the nation as a whole and the overall welfare of its citizens. Throughout most of this long period, generalized racism and ideas of Western and white supremacy were common, with little or no respect for Indigenous populations and their interests and livelihoods. This was not well articulated in previous research but has been rectified in recent years (Gaski, 1993; Fur, 2013; Fur & Hennessey, 2020). It sides with a longer history of discovery of problematic dimensions of Nordic welfare modernism, abusing minorities in public health and social care (Broberg & Roll-Hansen, 1996). A case can be made that this amounted to “resource colonialism” in the Scandinavian countries (Vikström, Högselius, & Avango, 2017; Avango, Högselius, & Nilsson, 2018). This kind of colonialism has been used to describe global forays into resource commerce and exploitation by major Swedish companies in Turkey, China, Africa, South Africa, Azerbaijan, Georgia, and elsewhere in the industrial period since the middle of the nineteenth century. But resource colonialism had started earlier, within Arctic Scandinavia, and it kept extending into the North Atlantic and Greenland.

These observations of changes in the extractive approaches can help us nuance the relation between resource extraction and colonialism in the European Arctic. Early modern extractivism was decisive, conscious, and underpinned by military and state-building interests in Europe. It started several hundred years ago to foster an instrumental state-centered interest in northern natural resources, explicitly – and perhaps even more implicitly – suggesting that their primary use was to strengthen the nation, defined as “south,” rather than the future prosperity, freedom, and independence of northern regions and their populations. It was based on a staple trade commercial frame of thought. To this should be added an important element that distinguished Fennoscandia and to some extent Russia from Greenland and North America. In Fennoscandia, extractivism was accompanied by agriculture and fishing. It was colonialism in the literal sense, a population politics that stimulated an influx of southern farmers and settlers whose job it was to secure the sovereignty of the state (Sörlin, 2019). At the time, state power was still predominantly based on territorial control and largely conceived of as legitimized through an agro-colonial regime of extractivism.

In a more recent period, gradually emerging during the twentieth century, the demographic, territorial, and agricultural missions associated with resource extraction have weakened. The decoupling of the mining site from the use of its content became more pronounced, a tendency that has only been reinforced and is now almost complete. We may think of this period from ca. 1900 as an extractive colonial regime. It rested on global markets and commodities as the default logic. It required southern investment, risk sharing between state and private capital, state intervention and support, but also a massive input of technology to save dependency of expensive, hard to find labor. This regime made its way into all Arctic countries, in Russia, North America, Fennoscandia, Svalbard, and Greenland, albeit at different pace and with different political solutions.

The shift was not absolute and instant, rather it was gradual. For example, government support for opening up new land for cultivation in the north of Sweden remained until the 1950s, but, in reality, it had not been very important for several decades prior to that point. The new regime was legitimized, just like the agro-colonial, by a “rhetoric of emptiness” (Stuhl, 2016; Lien, 2021), arguing for an opening for extractive industries in regions defined as “empty,” as lacking people, whereas in the past colonialism was a way to put people there to fill the dangerous void.

Debating Extractivism

In recent decades, the growing realization of the negative social, economic, and environmental effects, along with growing resistance from Arctic communities, has spurred critical debate on extractivism’s uneven benefits and consequences. Controversies have followed extractive activities in the Arctic from the very start, but they have grown in intensity and tend to shift the balance of public opinion and policy more profoundly than in the past. Against the historical backdrop of stop and start Arctic extractivism and its predominantly instrumental, interest-driven use of natural resources, is it at all possible to think of sustainable development? The kind of development that meets the needs of the present generation without compromising the wishes and interests of future generations?

What is it that needs to be fulfilled or transformed for sustainability to seem realistic or at least unsustainability to be ruled out or minimized? The very nature of the Arctic economy under capitalism makes the goal of sustainability difficult to achieve. For many local communities, visions for the future tend to center on a good quality of life, meaningful and stable employment, and opportunities for young people in situ. At a more general level, Arctic economies share a number of distinct features that challenge sustainability, such as remoteness, a narrow natural resource base, external decision-making, changes in governance structure, demographics, environment, and climate. Smaller local communities, urban centers, and industrialized cities in the North all feel the impacts of increased global connections, which have now become key forces in shaping the path of socio-economic development in the region (Larsen & Fondahl, 2014). The strength and increased importance of these connections, as manifested in the ever-growing force of globalization and the expanding economic integration across market and non-market economies, has meant a direct transmittal of global market volatility to the North, particularly in resource-based economies. Economic consequences are many and include impacts on employment and economic opportunities, distribution of income and wealth, traditional livelihoods, and environmental costs.

The net effects of regional investments in resource extraction in the Arctic may be limited when income, profits, and rents leak out of the region in cases where ownership and control over resource use are located elsewhere. The solution is to find better ways to capture and manage resource wealth and to ensure that it is invested for lasting benefits in support of local and regional and economic development (Duhaime, 2004; Bone, 2009). Extractivism is viewed by many Arctic residents as undesirable or a risky venture. The reasons are many: negative net-benefits related to sunk costs, the “resource curse” phenomenon (loss of activity in other sectors after a major growth in a single sector such as extractives), local economic leakages, the dependence on external labor and other capital, the lack of inclusion of locals, and, not least, environmental and human health impacts (Larsen & Huskey, 2020).

This skeptical attitude is corroborated by observations made in economic and social research in many parts of the Arctic. In his work on hinterland economic conditions, David Leadbeater (2009) argued that conditions have changed fundamentally and adversely since the 1970s, particularly in single-industry mining communities. This has led to a “new crisis of hinterland economic development” (Leadbeater, 2009: 90), where population shrinkage is tied to the fact that gains of productivity are being exported, and mining communities and labor are receiving diminished benefits from resource development (Lawrie, Tonts, & Plummer, 2011; Markey et al., 2019; Carson, Nilsson, & Carson, 2020). A redistribution of power toward communities and labor with community mobilization is needed to mitigate and counteract this trend, Leadbeater argued. Likewise, case studies conducted in Scandinavia, Northwest Russia, and Greenland showed considerable skepticism toward the intent behind and consequences of incentives to mine in Arctic locales by capital and political interests from elsewhere (Dale et al., 2018). A frequent suggestion to remedy this shortage of local influence on the emerging resource economy has been the implementation of legislation and governance structures, including clear principles and guidance on public consultations and social licencing (e.g., Wilson, 2016: 75), although as several chapters of this book demonstrate, it will be far from sufficient.

Using a capitals framework, Brenda Parlee (2015) investigated how the possible symptoms of a resource curse are experienced and managed by Indigenous communities in northern Alberta, Canada, with a focus on the case of the Athabasca oil sands. She found that symptoms of the resource curse are present, with many Indigenous communities suffering disproportionately from resource development, and that social capital is important to sustainable resource development (Parlee, 2015: 434). While potential benefits from resource extraction and export to foreign markets of fish, timber, or minerals may include improved utilization of existing factors of production, expanded factor endowments, and economic linkage effects, economic weaknesses from extractivism may result. This can happen when external markets grow slowly or experience downturns, when resource earnings are unstable due to price fluctuations, and when local expectations about diversification around an export base are non-existent or limited. Hence, benefits to local and regional economies may fall far short of expectations, and net-benefits may turn out to be negative when regional economic linkages and multiplier effects are weak or non-existent (Horowitz et al., 2018; Larsen & Huskey, 2020).

Similarly, investigating post-staple downturns in a frontier economy and using a case study of the Yukon economy, Andrey Petrov (2010) presented an analysis of the economic effects of mine closures and post-mine demographic shifts in Yukon Territory, Canada, during the economic crisis of the late 1990s. During this period, its staple economy sharply declined with the closing down of the Faro and Beaver Creek extraction sites (Figure 2.4), and fiscal instability and transfer dependency increased. Based on input–output and demo-economic modeling to simulate direct, indirect, and induced effects of mass mine closures and subsequent population change, the study suggests that significant employment losses were experienced in the resource and high-tech and high-salary industries. These industries were those that suffered most from the “post staple syndrome” and were the most favorable for the future of the region. At the same time, service and administrative sector employment grew, and Yukon in a sense became more “welfare dependent” (Petrov, 2010: 39–61, at 41).

Figure 2.4 Location map of North America.

Drawn by Christian Fohringer.

In contrast to these, the case of the Red Dog zinc mine in northwestern Alaska provides an example of Indigenous ownership and control in northern resource extraction, and with economic net-benefits accruing to the surrounding communities. The Red Dog mine, located above the Arctic Circle, north of Kotzebue, and by the Chukchi Sea (Figure 2.4), started operating in 1989 and is developed under agreement between a native corporation – the NANA Regional Corporation – owned by the Inupiat of Northwest Alaska, and a resource company, Teck Resources. It has been an important source of employment and income for the predominantly native local community, and a source of revenue for NANA and other Alaska Native corporations. The mine has made significant investments in the local communities, including in education and health. In his analysis of the unique relationship between the mine and the region, Bob Loeffler (2015) evaluated the Red Dog mine’s effects on eleven remote, predominantly Inupiat Native communities in terms of jobs and income, governance, education, and subsistence activities. He found that significant positive community effects can be attributed to institutional relationships between organizations within the region, and to goals, strategies, and leadership. A direct result of the high local hire rate and benefit sharing with native corporations throughout Alaska has been an increase in economic and employment opportunities locally (Loeffler, 2015: 30).

The case of the Red Dog mine is an example of positive net-benefits to locals. However, the frequent lack of real benefits to local residents from resource extraction has fueled a keen interest in finding robust and sustainable alternatives, such as other land-based trades, knowledge and the creative economy, tourism, and agriculture. While increasingly viewed as a good alternative, and in some cases an industry that may coexist with mineral extraction, the question can be raised whether tourism may itself slowly transform into another form of extractivism (Sokolíčková & Eriksen, 2023, see Chapter 3). Tourism can have significant negative impacts, as illustrated by the fast-growing tourism sector in Iceland. Smaller local communities may receive few benefits relative to costs when cruise ships arrive, and the local area is quickly flooded by large numbers of tourists. Nevertheless, in Iceland tourism has contributed to economic recovery and stabilization following the economic crisis and the financial sector collapse in 2008, although challenges remain, including effects on the housing market, prices, and the environment (e.g., Wade & Sigurgeirsdottir, 2012; Iceland Chamber of Commerce, 2017; Larsen & Huskey, 2020). Tourism has also been a successful non-resource dependent alternative in other parts of the Arctic.

The economic future of the Arctic continues to depend on the direction of economic and global change processes and the ability to mitigate the negative effect of resource supply shocks, changes in world prices, and the general economic volatility associated with the limited economic diversification that characterizes many local and regional economies (Larsen, 2004a, 2004b, 2010). The Covid-19 pandemic has also demonstrated that growing sectors such as tourism are no panacea for a stable local economy. Like a sudden change in the world price of minerals and the closure of a mine, the flow of tourists can stop at a moment’s notice. A sustainable economy, then, is based on diversification around natural resources and ecosystem services and the build-up of a mix of resources, capital, and capacities that enables an internal resilience even in the face of change.

Greenland provides a range of controversies as it grapples with the challenges and contradictions of extractive development in the context of its political economy and national aspirations (Rasmussen & Gjertsen, 2018). Becoming a self-governing part of the Danish Kingdom in 2009, the large Arctic self-governing nation of only 55,000 inhabitants has explored ways of achieving greater economic independence from Denmark, and the possibility of future sovereignty (e.g., Nielsen, 2013; Hansen et al., 2016). Large-scale resource development, especially hydrocarbon exploration, rare earth, uranium, and iron ore mining may offer greater economic independence and a more self-reliant economy (Andersen, 2015; Wilson, 2016; Bjørst, 2017; Poppel, 2018; Trump, Kadenic, & Linkov, 2018). For Greenland, as for other parts of the Arctic, the benefits of resource production for residents depend on their participation as owners of capital or as labor and the share of government revenues flowing to the region. Because Arctic resource production is often a net importer of capital, labor, and technology – as it has been for most of Arctic history – income produced locally will flow out of the region to pay for these imported factors of production (Larsen & Huskey, 2015). This is also descriptive of the relationship between Greenland and Denmark, and as Greenland remains dependent on annual transfers from Denmark (the block grant), the question remains at what cost greater independence can be achieved.

The proposed rare earth and uranium project (Kvanefjeldet) in Narsaq, Kujalleq municipality (Figure 2.1), now officially voted to not proceed, is a case in point. During the construction, operation, and closure phases of the proposed project, obligatory social and environmental impact assessments (SIA and EIA) were performed, and they showed that economic opportunities would include both earnings and labor directly created by the mine and indirect activities supporting the extraction (Greenland Minerals A/R, 2020). According to the impact assessments, potential benefits for Greenland would include huge capital investment, corporate taxes, royalties, and direct labor income tax as well as increased employment (direct and indirect). At the same time, the mine would run the risk of creating inequitable benefits across society, with potential risks that included concerns over the distribution of mineral revenue at a national and regional level. As a result of a shortage of skills nationally, only a proportion of local jobs were expected to be filled by Greenlandic labor. A mining project of this scale and nature also has the potential to impact the livelihoods of households which derive an income from the land as a result of a combination of the physical footprint, and environmental impacts generated. Land-based livelihoods in the local area include: farming (cattle, sheep and reindeer), gemstone collection (tugtupit) on the Kvanefjeld plateau, and tourism activities using Narsap Ilua (Greenland Minerals A/S, 2020).

In 2021 a new government was elected that opposes the Kvanefjeld mining project, and a bill was soon drafted to ban uranium mining. Public hearings were held in various locations in South Greenland in September 2021 despite these developments and the local resistance to the project. In and around the same period, the chief executive of the mining company argued that the company still held the “valid right to pursue an exploitation license for the project in compliance with Greenland laws,” and a potential lawsuit against Greenland may be filed. Concerns about such a lawsuit and how it could hurt future opportunities to attract foreign investors to the mining sector were expressed by some Greenlanders. In early November 2021 the Government of Greenland voted to ban uranium mining and exploration, thereby blocking further development of the Kvanefjeld project. In the time leading up to this ban locals had expressed their concerns over their voice losing strength in the debate, but many remained united in their stance: “We will all leave Narsaq if the mine goes ahead”; “Nobody will buy our fish, or meat of our cattle and sheep, or come as tourists” (Larsen & Ingimundarson, 2023).

In contrast to Kvanefjeldet, in the case of the Nanulaq gold mine in Nanortalik further south in the municipality of Kujalleq, and scheduled to start operating in 2022, community support has been generally positive. The mine is expected to provide a significant number of jobs to locals with steady employment in transportation services and mining. However, asked about the overall economic impact for the town of Nanortalik located about 35 kilometers from the mining site – a town that has been largely in decline and stagnation since the late 1980s – some locals, while generally positive, also point to abiding concerns. They talk, for example, about the 2009 municipality amalgamation and the subsequent reduced control over resource revenue, hence a more wait and see frame of mind (Larsen & Ingimundarson, 2023).

While mining development in Greenland represents a key source of potential income, important questions arise about ensuring that economic gains of this development accrue to the people of Greenland. Demands for more equitable distributions of income and wealth remain pertinent, as is the prospect of mining being integrated into narratives of hope and future for the fledgling nation, as it moves on to possible independence (Sejersen, 2021; Thisted, 2021). Mining activities, oil exploration, and large-scale industrial development plans have provoked political and social debates within Greenland for decades. These debates concern the nature of such development for society and environment. It is about the absence (so far) of appropriate forms of public participation and consultation, decision-making, and regulatory processes, as well as the impacts of extractive industries on hunting and fishing, the shortcomings of social and environmental impact assessments, and the possible influx of thousands of foreigners to work in the construction and operational phases of megaprojects (Nuttall, 2012, 2013).

Conclusion: Legacies and Trajectories of Extractivism

In this chapter we have claimed that extractivism has been a predominant mentality and modus operandi in the Arctic. Extractivism has deep roots in modern Western thought and has grown and consolidated into an ideology of resource extraction over centuries. In practice, extractivism has become more elaborate and technologically sophisticated, but it has not in any comprehensive way diminished, despite critique, especially in the last fifty years. We have also argued that it mutates and extends beyond traditional resources. Extractivism is an amalgamation of ideology, epistemic habit, and material practice in combination with economic, institutional, and legal arrangements. An essential part of it is the taken for granted right of way for extractive projects, regardless of whether they bring much of value to the place where the resources are extracted, their communities, and their more-than-human co-species.

Arctic extractivism has not grown in a vacuum. States, geopolitical actors, companies, and, with time, emerging local and regional interests have advocated it and helped it grow (Figure 2.5). Economic and political ideas have become part and parcel of extractivism, including modernizing development theories and, more recently, neoliberal globalization theory. The latter has helped liberalize extraction as market-based projects rather than projects of regional or national development, thus deepening the exogenous/instrumentalist character of extractivism. Exogenous control is also characteristic of the global networks of capital, technology, trade, and markets, captured by the planetary mine metaphor (Arboleda, 2020; Sörlin, 2023: see Chapter 1). These developments stand in sharp contrast to a more endogenous/sustainable approach that has been advocated by critics of extractivism.

Figure 2.5 Was the Atomic Bomb Arctic? Arctic minerals had global connections, here illustrated by uranium from the Port Radium Mine, in Canada’s Northwest Territories that supplied the Manhattan Project during the Second World War.

Photo: NWT Archives photo N-1979-052: 4877.

While this is the overall pattern of Arctic extraction, several important qualifications remain. To begin with, the pattern is not universal. There seems to be a differentiation related to the remoteness and accessibility of the mining sites and the size and numbers of existing communities, particularly where agriculture has been involved. Northern Fennoscandia, parts of northwestern Russia and Iceland in this regard tend to have experienced a comparatively less extreme version of extractivism, with more focus on community development and an integration of extractive projects with colonization and welfare state goals. The early and more comprehensive agro-colonial approach to the north in Fennoscandia is an underlying cause of the distinctly more integrated and larger communities that formed in the European north compared to other Arctic states. In the latter, significant settler communities came later, and their demographic density has remained low and with more vulnerability (showed in this book in e.g., Malmgren et al., 2023; see Chapter 11). The relatively successful population and colonization politics for the north in all three Fennoscandian countries led to strong national integration of the northern parts of Norway, Sweden, and Finland, as well as in Iceland, which in turn provided a sense of cohesion and equality of life expectations and welfare. Still today, on most social and public health indicators, Fennoscandian Arctic populations stand out with very favorable data, including Indigenous groups with social and health indicators more like the average in these countries and also more favorable than those in Greenland and Arctic North America (Larsen & Fondahl, 2014).

This prompts the question: Is extractivism so prevalent in the Arctic precisely because of its low population density, remoteness, and isolation? The fact that it seems poised to remain demographically thin, despite earlier visions (Stefansson, 1922) and despite more recent speculations of a cold “new North” serving as a refuge for an overheating planet (Emmerson, 2011; Smith, 2011, discussed in Sörlin, 2018), both by and large futile, suggests that this general situation will likely remain. Does that mean that Arctic extractivism will continue, even in a world where it becomes increasingly untenable where human settlement is more widespread, cities bigger, and alternative low-carbon futures more urgently required? We don’t know. It is certainly possible. The fossil fuel-driven world as we know it is still with us, but increasingly questioned and partly curtailed. Peak oil, a concept coined in 1947 by Marion King Hubbert (Priest, 2014; Warde, Robin & Sörlin, 2018), was passed in 2006 according to the International Energy Agency, and the IEA more recently have been vocal in their support for the switch to renewable energy sources. Although predictions are contradictory it has seemed likely for considerable time that the decline will be propelled by the global concerns over climate change rather than any absolute scarcity of fossil fuels (Deffeyes, 2005). Coal consumption and production are already taking a downturn in many parts of the world, led by global ambitions to curb climate change and reach the UN Sustainable Development Goals, although the pace of progress is deeply uncertain.

The world is at a crossroads. While Russia shows no sign of tempering its fossil fuel and mineral extraction, the prospect of, at least, slowing down extractive development in the Arctic is, finally, on the political agenda in Norway following the 2021 election, and coal extraction has all but ended in Svalbard. Expansion of extraction into the Arctic offshore has largely failed, mainly on economic and logistical terms. The extreme liberalization of the Trump administration for natural resource extraction in Alaska has been rolled back by US President Biden, although by and large resource extraction continues unabated on the North Slope, if not at the speed that was projected only a decade ago. As for rare earth elements, this development has only just started and is now propelled by decarbonization efforts. The Arctic is already figuring hugely in the race for extraction sites. Natural Resources Canada officially released the federal government’s “Critical Minerals List” during the virtual Prospectors & Developers Association of Canada’s (PDAC) 2021 Convention. Accompanied by endorsements from mining industry leaders and at least one Indigenous business development organization, this list identified thirty-one minerals with a capacity to be produced in Canada, which are considered cornerstones of the transition to a green, low-emissions economy. In formulating this list, Canada joined the EU and United States in linking mining to a green discourse framing minerals as central to global energy transitions and climate mitigation – as well as domestic economic priorities (Natural Resources Canada, 2021).

Extractivism as “business as usual” may, at the end of the day, serve as an excuse to leave the Arctic in a position to remain one of the (ever fewer) parts of the planet where the remaining dirty extraction work can take place – largely out of sight of global public scrutiny. This suggests that the Arctic – already a place with a very high density of unsustainable activities – may be even worse off. When the rest of the world transforms and grows greener during this century, hopefully responding finally to the urgent challenge of climate change and reducing carbon and environmental footprints, the Arctic may be relegated to the position of planetary dump and dirt-hole, in company with Saudi Arabia, Libya, and remote parts of authoritarian states (China, Russia) and the global South. Perhaps not too far off from the extractivist role it already played, but in comparison worse when the rest of the world moves in another direction.

Extractivism in a world of transformation may also mean – indeed already means – that seemingly non-extractive activities form growing parts of the Arctic economy and while doing so take on extractivist features. Tourism, adventure travel, events such as sports, and other “experience” oriented activities but also science and education, learning of environmental and climate change in situ, and getting close to local communities – all of these and possibly many others may play out in the Arctic in ways that they do not in more populated areas. Indeed, we might say that there has been a long history of outsiders harvesting the Arctic aesthetically, imaginatively, and visually, and this has had and continues to have ramifications for extractivist logics.

The question naturally arises whether sustainability and improvements in quality of life in the north are derived best from gearing resources toward industrial development, or alternatively, from investing in the small-scale economic development of local communities. This would involve local participation and decision-making, and benefits that accrue more directly to local stakeholders, with economic leakages to outside markets and economic interests minimized. As an alternative to extractivism there is an increasing body of literature that argues for the development of more economic diversification of local and regional economies, with non-extractive alternatives, including the implementation of legislation to help protect the interests of local communities.

Now, well into the twenty-first century, we see not so much a “new Arctic” but an Arctic that is struggling to find its way under increasing and multiple pressures and a legacy of extractivism that will certainly be a continued force to reckon with. New and alternative trajectories cannot easily be sketched without taking account of this wide-ranging and volumetric presence.

3 Extraction Cultures in Svalbard From Mining Coal to Mining Knowledge and Memories¹

Zdenka Sokolíčková , Thomas Hylland Eriksen

Extractive Cultures

The extraction of raw materials has always been a human activity, and even mining of fossil fuels goes back several thousand years. Coalmining may have started in China as early as 3,500 BCE. At the same time, certain periods are more intense than others. The contemporary world of an overheated modernity, characterized by an acceleration of acceleration (Eriksen, 2016; McNeill & Engelke, 2016), finds itself in the middle of such a period, with “resource booms” and “busts” taking place in all continents. New extraction sites are developed, closed mines are being re-opened, foreign investors compete for leases, millions of people are engaged in artisanal small-scale mining from Congo to Peru (Pijpers & Eriksen, 2018), and the global trade in resources such as coal, copper, and iron ore has grown enormously since the turn of the millennium, not least due to China’s industrial development and its quest for resources (see, e.g., Brautigam, 2009). In the case of Africa, Bryceson et al. (2014: 3–5) even identify the current “era of mineralisation” as one of the continent’s three major mining eras of the twentieth and early twenty-first century, following an era of “apartheid mining in Southern Africa” and of “conflict mineral mining” in diamond-rich countries such as Democratic Republic of Congo, Sierra Leone, and Liberia. As a matter of fact, human extraction and consumption of mineral resources has increased steadily since the European industrial revolution, but never as fast as in the early decades of the present century.

To extract means to draw, take, or copy something out – something one has not produced oneself. Originating in late Latin and gaining its current meaning in the sixteenth and seventeenth century, the term “extraction” describes activities performed at that time just as it does those taking place in the twenty-first century in Svalbard. Recently, critical scholarship has widened the definition of extractivism to “an analytical and also political concept that enables the examination and articulation of deeper underlying logics of exploitation and subjectification that are central to the present conjuncture of capitalist globalization and neoliberalism” (Junka-Aikio & Cortes-Severino, 2017: 177). Yet in academic literature where resource extraction is discussed together with the booming industry of tourism (Blanco, 2011; Ruiz-Frau et al., 2015; Sisneros-Kidd et al., 2019), there is often an undisputed distinction made between extractive and non-extractive practices. Following Büscher and Davidov (2016), Byström (2019), Saville (2019b), Stoddart et al. (2020), and Herva, Varnajot, and Pashkevich (2020), we argue for revisiting the issue, and will critically interrogate ideas that view tourism and science as being non-extractive.

Seen in the context of the current expansion of the extractive sector, questions related to unequal economic growth, the local distribution of benefits, development, global commodity chains, taxation, sustainability, livelihood issues, local resistance, and climate change, among others, are becoming more and more pertinent for an understanding of resource extraction’s multiple effects. After all, the extractive sector (involving both large-scale industrial as well as small-scale artisanal operations) has the allure, capital, and power to trigger changes across societal domains. It attracts large numbers of people, either searching for employment in industrial operations or engaging in artisanal mining; it requires shifts and generates capital; it may contribute to local economic development through spill-over effects; it brings together a variety of stakeholders with different and sometimes opposing interests; it turns over soil and impacts upon global as well as local socio-economic, political, and ecological systems in sometimes very dramatic ways (see Jacka, 2018; Golub, 2019 for overviews). Due to this characteristic of the extractive sector, the kinds of accelerated change it triggers can often be characterized as balancing acts between bringing about positive development by creating jobs, improving infrastructure or providing national income through taxation, and prompting crisis through land acquisitions and privatization, displacement, exploitation, or environmental destruction (see Kirsch, 2006 for the latter).

In this chapter, we ask some key questions about extractivism. Do mining communities have important characteristics in common? What are the patterns of resource extraction in the Arctic? What is special about the situation in Svalbard? And, finally, to what extent can the concept of extractivism usefully be applied to immaterial activities such as tourism and research? We thus discuss the ambivalent nature and nexus of extractive activities and explore whether it can be said to go beyond oil drilling, coal mining, or the extraction of minerals. Two years of ethnographic fieldwork (2019–2021) in Longyearbyen, Svalbard undertaken by Sokolíčková (in prep.) underpin the hypothesis about an ultimately misleading differentiation between extractive and non-extractive industries.

The Extractive Boomtown

Mining communities often have an ephemeral existence, created out of nought and flourishing only for as long as the mine is viable, illustrating the most obvious and significant contrast, between extraction and production. They may quickly become ghost towns when the ore is exhausted, since the locality depended on one resource for its viability. Some former mining towns, notably in Australia and the United States, try to reinvent themselves as tourist attractions, some may shift to other sources of livelihood such as farming or manufacturing, while others are just abandoned. Given the demographic composition of many mining communities, which are often dominated by single men or fragile families, the latter option is often chosen, and remote parts of the American West as well as the interior of Australia are strewn with the dilapidated remnants of old mining settlements.

Mining communities are “boomtowns,” often only patchily connected to surrounding societies. Even in established cities, such as Gladstone, Queensland (Eriksen, 2018), the influx of more than 5,000 temporary fly-in-fly-out (FIFO) workers in the early 2010s, owing to a major infrastructural project, was unsettling and controversial locally, and their lives had few overlaps with those of settled Gladstonites.

Boomtowns are volatile and socially fragile. In a study carried out at the beginning of the shale oil boom in the Marcellus Shale region in the Appalachians, Jacquet (2009) discusses some of the typical problems experienced by earlier boomtowns. Referring, in particular, to studies carried out in the 1970s and early 1980s of energy resource booms in the western United States, Jacquet mentions some typical disadvantages experienced by boomtowns:

Some of these disadvantages include a lack of information, growth volatility, lack of jurisdiction, conflict between long-term residents and new residents, resistance to new government policy or planning strategies, shortage of staff or expertise, and a lack of or lag in sufficient revenue.

(Jacquet, 2009: 2)

Ironically, Jacquet remarks, many rural communities have been waiting for growth and prosperity for decades, and when development finally comes, there is too much of it, and it comes too fast – almost like the Australian farmer waiting for rain, only to see his fields flooded and his crops destroyed when it finally arrives in copious amounts.

The most famous article about the boomtown syndrome in the United States is probably Eldean Kohrs’ controversial report from Gillette, Wyoming (Kohrs, 1974). This article by a psychologist vividly describes a society where the pace of change is uneven, making it impossible for services, infrastructure, housing, and routine family life to keep up with the rapid influx of settlers. Kohrs’s article introduced the term “The Gillette Syndrome” in boomtown studies, which has come to refer to social problems ranging from divorce and alcoholism to poor schooling and crime.

A more systematic approach was represented by John Gilmore (1976), who argued that the inadequacy of services and recreational opportunities along with the high cost of living in the boomtown makes it difficult to attract a permanent population, especially in sectors such as education, health, and shop keeping, which are not themselves part of the boom. This general point is relevant for Longyearbyen, about which more later.

Naturally, it is because of their reliance on a limited resource that many mining boomtowns have a short lifespan. Exceptions include iron mining communities such as Karratha in Western Australia or coal towns such as the cluster of mining towns in Silesia (Allen, 2021), which are nevertheless faced with the new challenge of climate concerns and the drive toward renewables. In the Arctic, to which we turn in the next section, there are several mining communities of considerable longevity, which are demographically less volatile and transient than others, the most famous and economically important being Kiruna in Sweden, where iron ore mining has taken place since around 1900² (see Malmgren et al., 2023, see Chapter 11). Others are Kirkenes in Norway, with a similar longevity, while Fermont and Schefferville in northern Quebec have operated since the 1950s/1960s.

The philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre (1977 [1960]: 154) spoke poetically about coal as capital “bequeathed to mankind by other living beings,” a gift from plants that had gone extinct many millions of years ago. In principle, this resource is renewable, but one will have to wait at least sixty million years. It is therefore safe to say that humanity is now, in the space of just a few generations, burning off a valuable gift that it has taken the planet a very long time to produce. The extractive logic of one-sided exploitation is starkly and acutely visible in the fragile Arctic biotopes.

Extractivism in the Arctic

An important distinction applies between resources that are slowly but surely being depleted and renewable resources. In the latter case, the relationship is reciprocal, in the former parasitical. In practice, the distinction has not always been useful in the high Arctic, where marine mammals and fish were often the main economic resource before mining. Although fish, seals, and whales reproduce and can be seen as a renewable and thus sustainable resource, they cannot always keep up with harvesting efforts. In the Arctic, whaling booms have in recent history led whale species close to extinction, and worldwide, fish stocks considered sustainable by the Food and Agriculture Organization have decreased from over 90 percent in 1974 to 65 percent in 2017 (FAO, 2018). Unlike the industrial newcomers to the Arctic region, its Indigenous peoples, for example, Inuit groups, maintained societies based on sustainable harvesting for millennia, but at a cost: Their societies were different from those enabling professional and institutional differentiation. Life expectancy was rather short, and population sizes were on levels the environment could sustain.

The modern era, especially the decades following the “great acceleration” since 1945 (McNeill & Engelke, 2016), has seen the incursion of extractive industries in Inuit heartlands. As early as the 1980s, the biologist and travel writer Barry Lopez warned about the ecological destruction wrought by oil exploration in Alaska. In the early 2020s, the main political controversy in Greenland concerns a mining concession at Kvanefjeld near the southern tip of the island (Figure 2.1). Characteristically, the disagreement over the Kvanefjeld mine reveals a dilemma: Greenlanders wish to be fully independent of their former colonial power Denmark, which continues to support the country to the tune of 3.9 billion Danish kroner a year (a substantial sum, considering that the total population of the island is 55,000), and the mine would contribute to economic self-sufficiency.

The proposed mine, owned by the Australian company Greenland Minerals (a major issue is made of the fact that a Chinese company owns 11 percent of the shares), will not contribute to climate change. On the contrary, the rare earths deposited in the Kvanefjeld mountain are essential ingredients in non-fossil technology, such as batteries. There is also some uranium, which – while controversial because of the radiation risk – may represent a carbon-neutral alternative to fossil fuels. Moreover, as the shrimp factory in the nearby town Narsaq closed in 2010, creating mass unemployment in the small community, the jobs offered by the mine are attractive.

Against this view, detractors argue that the influx of foreign workers would change the community beyond recognition, that the mine would affect the sheep pastures adversely, in addition to the health risks and environmental degradation entailed in the open pit mine. In the 2021 elections, the anti-mining Community of the People party (Inuit Ataqatigiit) narrowly won, and this will for the time being put the mining project on hold. A proposed iron mine further north (the Isua mine), whose concession is owned by London Mining, does not seem to have led to similar controversy. Located 150 kilometers north of the capital Nuuk, this mine would not interfere with community life as the area is uninhabited; on the other hand, the potential climate impact of iron mining is considerable, unlike rare earth mining.

The situation in Alaska is different. Since its opening in 1977, the Prudhoe Bay oil field on its north coast is by far the largest and most productive in North America. There are small Indigenous settlements nearby, but the 3,000 workers employed by oil companies and contractors are FIFOs. Like in Greenland and Svalbard, the environment is ecologically fragile and incapable of supporting large populations by way of production. Mines are social bubbles, in this case (as often elsewhere) furnished with an independent electricity supply and recreational facilities for the workers, ranging from gyms to seriously discounted fast-food outlets, usually inaccessible to outsiders.

Mining in the Russian north, which includes major operations, displays several similarities, notably transience and low biodiversity. Yet, Nikel in the Russian north-west, appropriately named for the mineral so generously deposited in the rock nearby, comes across as a town rather than a camp. Like other Russian mining towns, it has settled residents rather than FIFOs, and families instead of single men. Its population peaked at 22,000 inhabitants in 1989, having since declined following the post-Soviet deregulation of the economy.

It is not obvious that mining in the far north should be qualitatively different from mining elsewhere. In the oilfields of the Ecuadorian Amazon, workers are migrants, and the oil production is independent of, and represents a different societal form to, the surrounding Indigenous communities (which are nevertheless adversely affected by the pollution and disruption caused by the oil company; Guzmán-Gallegos, 2019). In much of Australia, a mineral-rich continent and country that obtains much of its foreign revenue through mining, many mining towns are located in otherwise barren and thinly populated areas. Miners are typically FIFOs or DIDOs (drive-in-drive-out) and live in compounds comparable to those found in Alaska, with rosters similar to those of oil workers on North Sea platforms, typically two weeks on and one week off. If much of Western Australia is a hot desert, originally thinly populated by Aboriginal Australians, then much of the Inuit homeland is similarly a cold desert, ecologically incapable of supporting a substantial human population and with a climate most newcomers consider inhospitable.

The kind of complexity introduced by, and integrated with, mining is rarely fully integrated with pre-existing social life, although it should be noted that local people often find employment with the mining companies or offer auxiliary services, for example, in the domains of hospitality and transport. In the Arctic, the gulf between Indigenous ways of living and the societal formation of which mining forms a part can thus be overcome but only patchily and partially. Also, the transience of mining boomtowns in general, and the lack of other sources of economic activity in the Arctic, suggests abandonment when resources are exhausted.

Although not supporting high population densities, many Arctic societies have become part of the modern, globalized world and its networks of exchange and communication. Svalbard was built on coal from the early twentieth century, and mines were opened not only by Norwegians but also by Swedes, Russians, Americans, English, and Scottish (Kruse, 2013). Mining is currently (2021) coming to an end, at least in the Norwegian-controlled areas, and some of the settlements (such as the Russian mining community Pyramiden and the Norwegian – despite its name – Sveagruva) have been abandoned. Yet, the main town Longyearbyen will probably remain settled after the end of coal extraction, largely owing to its geopolitical significance for Norway and NATO. Tourism is being touted as the new coal, and Norway has also established a small college (folkehøyskole) and a large research center in Longyearbyen as well as a research station in the smaller settlement of Ny-Ålesund further north. On the basis of the foregoing discussion of mining towns, the boom-and-bust cycle, and the special characteristics of the Arctic region, we now move to a discussion of the implications of the transition from mining to tourism and research and development (R&D) for Svalbard in general and Longyearbyen in particular, arguing why we see the new industries as kin to coal mining (Figure 3.1).

Figure 3.1 Location map of Svalbard.

Drawn by Christian Fohringer

Extractive Cultures in Svalbard Softening

Svalbard embodies the essence of extraction culture. In other parts of the world, including the Arctic, extraction cultures have developed alongside or in opposition to Indigenous lifeways, which often conceptualize the place of humans in nature differently than in “the modern constitution” (Latour, 1993), where there is a crisp and clear boundary separating culture from nature. Svalbard has always been exploited by outsiders (Sörlin et al., 2023, see Chapter 2), taking out resources without giving anything back. As long as the boundaries of the moral universe were those of the human species, this was unproblematic since there was no Indigenous population. Now that the Anthropocene challenges are reshaping intellectual life by decentering humanity even in the human sciences, this practice is becoming increasingly debatable and, in the eyes of many, unacceptable.

During a community dialogue in May 2020, an important figure in local cultural life, a former waitress in the miner’s canteen who came to Svalbard in the early 1970s and has lived through the accelerated development of the archipelago, remembered a meeting of representatives for local and central authorities. It was mentioned that “it is a blessing for the Norwegian government that there is no Indigenous population in Svalbard.” The perceived blessing lies in the unobstructed ability to rule a vast and strategic territory in the High Arctic where nobody is entitled to claim the right to co-decide on how the place will develop.

Since the end of the sixteenth century, when it was first documented by the Dutch explorer Willem Barents, the formerly distant and unwelcoming archipelago has turned into a warming and easily accessible one owing to fast and comfortable modes of transportation. The hard extractive industry of coal mining is a powerful component of the identity of places such as Longyearbyen, founded in 1906 and currently developing fast both as a science and technology hub, and as a tourist destination, while coal mining is being phased out. Having a tradition spread throughout the last 100 years, the settlement with a transient population had major parts of its short history closely linked to extraction of high-quality black coal, appropriate for use in advanced metallurgical industry but also a convenient local energy source³. Some 60 million years ago, when the islands, now known for their barren plains, were damp and forested, large deposits of coal began to form (Dallmann, 2015). In the early twentieth century, it was just to start “emptying the bank,” as one of our participants put it.

The point of coal mines in Svalbard was not at times exclusively economic and not always profitable. However, after the Second World War, both the Soviet Union and Norway deliberately invested heavily in the industry, providing them with coal and strengthening their foothold on the territory. Heavily unionized Norwegian coal miners eventually fought for their rights while Norway grew richer thanks to the developing oil industry,⁴ and were eventually offered more comfortable housing, better boarding, a wider range of services, and competitive salaries.

In the 1990s, the trend changed in a direction inspired by the new order, in a suddenly unipolar world where Russia was, unlike the Soviet Union, no longer perceived as a major threat, and globalization accelerated. There were fewer operating mines, leading to a decreasing Russian population, unlike in Longyearbyen, which started to grow fast and became more diverse and international. The standard of living among the Norwegians went up quickly and so did energy and goods consumption, resulting in increasing amounts of waste and pressure on infrastructure. Air travel has become a simple, cheap, and to many, mundane activity, contributing to speeding up the volume of traffic both by plane and by cruise. After the turn of the millennium, information technologies and social media made the virtual image of Svalbard widely accessible and tempting. People settling in Svalbard could enter without a visa and were allowed to live there while staying connected to family, friends, or employers scattered worldwide, and Longyearbyen grew bigger, denser, and more complex. Following a thread to be found already in a governmental White Paper from the 1970s (Justis- og politidepartementet, 1974–1975), tourism was chosen by the Norwegian government as the new economic backbone of Longyearbyen.

As part of the attempt to make Norway more sustainable, and in line with one of the main goals of the Svalbard Treaty granting Norway sovereignty over the archipelago that environmental protection weighs most (Ulfstein, 1995), coal mining slowly decreased as tourism quickly increased. The two were until recently depicted as two “legs to stand on,” in addition to research and education growing steadily (Norwegian Ministry of Justice and Public Security, 2015–2016). Now coal mining has disappeared from the trio (Figure 3.2), and research and education has been split into two separate tools to foster Norwegian national policy for Svalbard (Hovelsrud, Kaltenborn, & Olsen, 2020).

Figure 3.2 Road ahead? The last Norwegian coal mine (Gruve 7) in Adventdalen, closing in 2023.

Photo by Jakub Žárský

Tourism is thus being discussed as something to “replace” coal mining, together with R&D in the sphere of renewable energy and technological innovations saleable elsewhere in the Arctic. People are aware that mobility (be it for leisure, for work, or both) is not a new phenomenon on the archipelago (Viken, 2020) and has a longer history than mining coal; with a peculiar mixture of bitterness and fatalism, some local residents comment on the touristic nature of anybody’s stay here. What is interesting in the case of Svalbard is the fact that the narrative about the shift from coal mining to tourism and science presents this change as though the ontological premises on which the industries are built were profoundly different. We argue that there is a continuity from mining to tourism and research.

From a certain perspective, tourism and science are sometimes strikingly commensurable, as Revelin (2013) shows in the case of Swedish Lapland. Her findings about the mining boom appearing almost simultaneously with “pioneer tourism” stimulated by romanticized scientific fascination are well applicable to Svalbard. Byström (2019) shows in another case study from northern Sweden how interrelated resource extraction and tourism are, for example, in terms of labor market processes, or how the infrastructure built to accommodate mining needs also produces access to “pristine wilderness.” Büscher and Davidov (2016: 161, 166) even speak about “environmental industries,” showing “how the seemingly opposing activities, discourses and political economies of ecological tourism and resource extraction are more intricately entwined than often assumed.”

There is a difference between, on the one hand, heavy machinery and determined miners (mostly men) brutally altering the landscape, the seabed, or the inner guts of the mountains, and, on the other hand, a group of tourists carefully landing with a small boat in a mining cultural heritage site to learn about the past and the present from a well-informed guide. The figure of the scientist contemplating in the tundra while counting reindeer, drilling holes in ice to take samples, or interviewing participants also seems distant from the colonial mining engineer. Yet extractivism could continue to be the red thread here, newly directed toward mining knowledge, experience, and memories in an ecosystem where production for human benefit is on the verge of impossible.

In support of this perspective, Saville (2019b: 574) suggests that “[t]he new industries of tourism and research and education represent the ‘softer’ version of extracting value from Svalbard’s natural resources.” Stoddart et al. (2020: 8) introduce the terms “attractive development” and “experience economy” related to tourism and claim that “the rapid and dramatic impacts of climate change on the Arctic underlie the emergence of a global Arctic as an object of scientific and political concern [and] subject to global scientific inquiry and political debate.” Graham (2020) shows how ecologically oriented and publicly funded R&D in Canada relies on the carbon extractive industry and represents “a means of creating and sustaining narratives and a shared outlook in favor of greening the fossil fuel sector as a ‘solution’ to climate change (as opposed to transitioning away from fossil fuels).” Graham also mentions that “components of ecological science such as conservation and restoration ecology and climatic and atmospheric science, which have grown in the context of the deepening climate crisis, are now also harnessed into carbon extractive development.” His “fossil knowledge networks” (Graham, 2020) add substance to the argument about extractivist science. Siri Kalvig, board member of the University Center in Svalbard and administrative director of the state-owned Nysnø Klimainvesteringer AS, published a manifesto for a science of extractivism, painted green and using exclamations such as: “Now a new energy landscape is to be conquered!,” “Longyearbyen is conceptualized as a miniature Norway. A simple community consisting of hardworking pioneers of coal mining and knowledgeable researchers,” or “Perhaps there is a sort of kinship among the coal miner in the north and oil worker in the west?” (Kalvig, 2021). This recent turn in Svalbard’s R&D confirms Stoddart’s (2020: 18) findings about “industrial orders of worth – emphasizing scientific and technical innovation and efficiency – [that] are more strongly associated with oil development.”

As Midgley (2012) shows in a comparison between mining in Svalbard and Nanisivik, Canada, the extractivist paradigm imposed on the Arctic is entangled with what he calls “geopolitical economy,” in the logic of which capital and the state are co-produced simultaneously (Midgley, 2012: 55). Extraction here goes beyond production of “economically valuable commodities but also produces nature, landscapes, states and the like” (Midgley, 2012: 168), as well as – in this case – geopolitical presence (Figure 3.3). Production of scientific knowledge is a further step in the continuum of resource exploitation in the Arctic. In Svalbard, both science and tourism are arenas increasingly controlled by Norwegian authorities. Tighter regulation and a heavier bureaucratic apparatus controlling both tourism and scientific activities is the trend, with clear signals and leadership “from the outside” or “from the south,” as laypeople comment. A place where people often feel that their lives serve some larger aims of an economic and geopolitical nature, which is well beyond their control, has constructed its modern history around extractivism.

Figure 3.3 Geopolitics: Science brings an international vibe to Svalbard, but it also marks Norwegian presence.

Photo by Jakub Žárský

As Junka-Aikio and Cortes-Severino (2017: 180) note,

there is nothing natural or self-evident about what kinds of substances, elements, objects, or pieces of knowledge become understood and seen as resources available for extractive operations: the discursive construction of something as a “resource” always entails the employment of a wide set of knowledges, practices and power relations which regulate how the relationship between nature and the society is imagined and enacted at different points in time and space.

It is not just Svalbard’s natural resources that are at stake. There are also other traces of extractivism in the new industries. Tourism extracts in a soft and apparently clean way, compared to the hard and dirty power that engages with the environment following the logic of “let’s take what is out there before somebody else does it,” be it oil, gas, coal, or other minerals. But the driving force of “do it now before it’s too late” is present here, too (Figure 3.4). Overtourism (Saville, 2019a), mass tourism (Andersen, 2022), last-chance tourism (Johnston, Viken & Dawson, 2012) – academics and stakeholders are still arguing whether it is correct to use such terms in the case of Svalbard where tourists, guides, and workers in the hospitality industry have seen the sector grow year by year. Tourism stakeholders in Svalbard take the case of tourism peak in Iceland in the 2010s (Sæþórsdóttir, Hall, & Wendt, 2020), unable to accommodate the interest of international visitors, as a lesson learned. During another community dialogue held in November 2020, this time looking at the issue of use of nature, the question of volume and consumption was brought up. How do we manage tourism in an exclusive and unique destination when the more special the place is, the more people desire to visit it?

Figure 3.4 Tourism: Last chance to see a retreating glacier?

Photo by Zdenka Sokolíčková

While the notion of the extractivist potential of tourism regarding natural resources is known and has been long discussed (Kaltenborn, Østreng, & Hovelsrud, 2020), little attention is paid to exploitation of the so-called human resources. Guides, and cleaning and catering personnel, the vast majority of them non-Norwegian, bear the increasing burden of precarity, not least during the current pandemic. They are necessary for the tourist industry but inappropriate as tools for the state policy where the non-Norwegian population is seen as a security issue (Pedersen, 2017), and they fail to fit into the postcard image of what Svalbard should look like. Without a population that disposes of mechanisms needed to create a sense of community and place attachment strong enough to become politically relevant (Sokolíčková, in press), it is hard to say with what kind of “local added value” tourism could contribute. There are many barriers of communitification in Longyearbyen, and people here lack “a strategic tool in the negotiation of rights and ownership and an instrument in their quests towards certain desired futures” (Jørgensen, 2019: 1). Tourism certainly generates profit, jobs, makes stores, and dining facilities in town economically viable, and pushes for better, faster, and cheaper flight connections. The question does not so much concern what tourism gives back, but to whom, and what the broader consequences are for the ecosystem both locally and globally, and for the community and its cohesion.

The softness of scientific extractivism is even more delicate. While tourism is dependent on a certain volume, science relies on different financial mechanisms and operates in a different mode. Saville (2019b) has shown how blurred the border lines between tourist and researcher identities are, yet the question of “giving back” still leads to another path in the case of science. As the volume of scientific activities – despite the recent increase (Norwegian Ministry of Education and Research, 2018) – is much less comprehensive than the volume of tourism (except during the pandemic), the environmental pressure is minimal. What is more, scientists are typically environmentally conscious people, and care both rationally and emotionally about having the least possible impact in the field. Scientific practices in Svalbard are regulated by the Svalbard Environmental Protection Act, in addition to strict ethical and environmental codes valid for specific research projects. Compared to jobs in the tourist sector, positions offered to researchers are less precarious, even though short-term contracts have become the norm also in this sphere.

One point about the extractivism of science touches on the FIFO character of the scientific enterprise in Svalbard. Scientists fly in, extract measurements and samples, and return to their laboratories on the mainland for analysis and interpretation. Again, in other regions in the Arctic, for example, in Canada or Greenland, local communities are increasingly becoming aware of the extractivism of science, both natural and social, and act in order to protect their resources and knowledge from being exploited with the assumption that “knowing means owing” (Bocking, 2017: 24). Disciplinary spaces (Bocking, 2007) created by scientifically produced systems of knowledge have impacted “the North” throughout the history of scientific endeavors in the region, and they have contributed both to protection and exploitation (Figure 3.5). Svalbard is no exception here. In Australia, Indigenous groups have opposed a tendency among anthropologists to extract their knowledge and cultural worlds without giving anything in return. As a result, contemporary Australian research on Indigenous groups is often coupled with forms of advocacy and commitment to the people whose life-worlds are being extracted for the sake of academic careers. Lacking an Indigenous population, it could likewise be argued that scientists extract data from Svalbard’s environment without giving anything back.

Figure 3.5 Ny-Ålesund: A former company town reinvented as a research hub.

Photo by Jakub Žárský

In Svalbard, the call for non-extractive science (inclusive, participatory, transparent, co-productive, humble, and reciprocal in the sense of giving something back) is recently gaining attention, promoting a “public science” contributing more to the “social life of the community” (Bravo, 2006: 237). The discussion about “sustainable tourism” is also very high on the agenda. The key issue concerns returning something to the local region, whether in a social or ecological sense.

Conclusion

In national economic statistics, a distinction is sometimes made between primary, secondary, and tertiary sectors; extraction and agriculture, manufacturing, and services. In the case of Svalbard, the shift has been from extraction and harvesting to the tertiary sector of services as well as the quaternary sector of research and knowledge production. We suggest talking about hard and soft extractive industries, paralleling the contrast between hard (military) and soft (cultural) power. Oil drilling or mining of coal and minerals would then be seen as hard, harvesting practices such as whaling and fishing as ambiguous, and tourism and science as soft extractive businesses. Hardness and softness can also be complementary in practice, such as construction of infrastructure needed for tourism and research,⁵ or the visible wear and tear in the tourist landscape. We do not see the distinction between hard and soft extractivism as a binary but rather as a continuum, or as a neoliberal nexus where tourism and extraction are “sequential, planned regimes of commodifying nature” (Davidov, 2012: 81), and where scientific research also bears traces of extractivist kinship.

It remains an open question whether tourism and scientific research will contribute to addressing the issues facing the high Arctic, or whether they will merely inscribe themselves into the long history of extractivism – beginning with hunting, trapping, and whaling from the seventeenth century, via mining in the twentieth century, to the present era with its gaze fixated on consumption, with science and tourism being easily incorporated into this ontological framework. Only time can tell if Svalbard and the Arctic will be able to liberate themselves from the straitjacket of destructive consumerism.

To sum up, the main objective of this chapter has been to discuss and eventually defend the relevance of the term “extractivism” in a broader sense than that which is common, including tourism and science. The concept refers to activities that remove something deemed valuable without allowing it to replenish and without giving anything back. In Svalbard, both extractive and reciprocal activities exist, but the former still predominates. We have also highlighted some of the similarities and differences between Svalbard (Longyearbyen) and other mining communities, emphasizing the ecological fragility and climatic barrenness of the archipelago, which simultaneously renders it vulnerable to the destabilizing effects of extractive activities and makes it technically uninhabitable without a constant supply of food, energy, and other resources. One possible conclusion could be that Svalbard ought to be abandoned by humans for reasons of climate and environmental concerns. Yet this would also mean abandoning a rich and unique history, which would lead to a loss of exactly the kind of cultural memory that needs to be salvaged. In addition, the attachment to and identification with Svalbard in the local community should also not be underestimated. The more attractive alternative would therefore be to empower communities in Svalbard politically, enabling them to decide on a future aiming to honor the continuity with a variegated, colorful, but ultimately obsolete past, for the sake of enabling value co-creation instead of extraction.