For generations, the people of Elim, a village in northwest Alaska, have lived in close reliance on the forests and the sea. They hunt caribou and bearded seals in the late winter, gather seabird eggs and wild greens from the tundra in the early spring, and follow the runs of salmon for bountiful catches in the late summer.

This Inupiat community of about 350 people, nestled on Norton Sound, a waterway of the Bering Sea, calls one of Alaska’s most productive and biodiverse fisheries home. They refer to their land as “Munaaquestevut,” meaning “the one who takes care of us.”

“We depend on the land to feed ourselves and to keep our tribe healthy,” said Emily Murray, a resident of Elim and the vice president of the Norton Bay Watershed Council, a local nonprofit dedicated to water quality. “We have some cash economy, but we’re very much a subsistence economy. It’s the way we’ve lived for generations.”

But the community fears their land, their fisheries, and their way of life are under threat from a confluence of intensifying global competition for critical minerals and the priorities of a new administration.

This summer, a Canadian mining company, Panther Minerals, is slated to begin uranium exploration upstream of the Tubuktulik River, which runs adjacent to Elim’s lands. David Haderlie-Smith, a consultant for Panther and the owner of the mining claims, has asserted the area could become “the center of the U.S. uranium industry.”

The residents of Elim have opposed the mine since Panther Minerals signaled its intent to apply for an exploration permit last May. In interviews, they cited health concerns, pointing to cancer clusters and environmental contamination that followed uranium mining on Navajo Nation lands in the 1960s and 70s.

“If the river gets polluted, it’s going to affect the whole Bering Sea. I believe that,” said Johnny Jemewouk, a resident of Elim.

Last summer, the people of Elim successfully pressured the Bureau of Land Management, which oversees some of the mining claims, to deny Panther Minerals’ application for an exploration permit. In December, a regional Native corporation passed a resolution “adamantly” opposing the mine.

But the Alaska Department of Natural Resources (DNR), which manages most of the land, has so far refused to consult with the people of Elim and has disregarded over 100 comments from the community against the mining plans. In October, the DNR approved a four-year exploration permit for Panther Minerals, allowing the company to drill test holes and extract uranium core samples beginning in June.

The people of Elim have appealed the permit, but with time running short, they have turned to a tool with greater international reach to protest the mine: the Iditarod, Alaska’s grueling annual sled dog race that runs through their village on its way to Nome.

As musher Mercie Jessen Holmes approached the Elim checkpoint, 1,008 miles into the race, over 70 students and residents waited for her in the Arctic night, holding signs that read “Protect our future” and “Keep the uranium in the ground.”

It was a chance to show the world how much their way of life means to them.

“I want to protect our future,” said Page Keyes, an eighth-grade student in Elim. “If they go through with this, it’s going to affect our animals and our water. I want to try to stop it.”

‘A race for resources’

As global competition for critical minerals intensifies, the Trump administration has set its sights on Alaska.

On his first day in office, President Trump signed an executive order calling for the U.S. to “maximize the utilization of Alaska’s vast land and resource potential.” The order was welcomed by the state’s mining industry.

The executive order rolled back Biden-era protections on Alaska lands, opening up the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge to oil and gas drilling and lifting restrictions on logging.

Some of these policy shifts have put the administration’s goals at odds with Native communities that rely on Alaska’s lands to sustain themselves. One policy change, for example, cleared the way for a proposed mining access road in Alaska’s Brooks Range that one tribal network has called one of the “largest and most destructive” projects in the state’s history.

“We’re in a green transition, and they’re looking for other forms of energy. And with the new administration, there’s a push to promote domestic mineral extraction,” said Jasmine Jemewouk, an activist in Elim. “It’s a race for resources, and they’re looking at Alaska.”

Over the next few years, the conflict between Alaska’s powerful mining industry and Native communities is likely to continue, especially as the U.S. seeks to onshore its critical mineral supply chains. While Panther Minerals’ exploration permit was granted by the state of Alaska, not the federal government, advocates and locals worry the Trump administration could embolden the Alaska DNR to further disregard the concerns of the people of Elim. Alaska Gov. Mike Dunleavy welcomed Trump’s executive order, saying “Happy days are here again.”

“The current administration in Alaska is very much extractive industry-oriented,” said Hal Shepherd, an attorney and water advocate based in Homer, Alaska. “Trump and Dunleavy are basically partners in developing Alaska.”

Robert Keith, the tribal chief of Elim, said, “Our current governor is like any typical Republican. If it’s not nailed down, they’ll sell it.”

The Alaska DNR did not respond to multiple requests for comment.

Lack of consultation

In an interview with local media, Haderlie-Smith, the project consultant, asserted that the people of Elim are “misinformed and spreading misinformation” about the dangers of the uranium mine.

Robert Birmingham, the president of Panther Minerals, did not respond to questions about the health concerns of the people of Elim and said the company could not comment because it has not yet finalized its mining plans.

“We are positive about the uranium development opportunities in Alaska, and this area is underexplored,” he said, adding that the company would “continue dialogue and communication with the Elim community” once its plans are finalized.

Haderlie-Smith also said the company wants to have a “good relationship” with the people of Elim if it moves forward with the mine. But while Birmingham said the company attempted to contact Elim in early 2024, Keith, the tribal chief of Elim, countered that Panther Minerals has not visited the village or attempted to contact the community since applying for the permit.

For the people of Elim, the mining plans dredge up a history of state and federal failures to protect Native communities from the harms of resource extraction. In 2008, the people of Elim successfully fought off another Canadian company, Triex Minerals, which began uranium exploration near the village. While organizing the opposition, Elim students researched the impacts of uranium mining in other parts of the U.S.

They educated the community about the case of the Navajo Nation and the elevated cancer risks and health problems that followed the arrival of uranium mines on their lands.

If a mine is built in Elim, Panther Minerals has indicated it would likely use in-situ leaching, a method of uranium extraction that is considered less destructive than conventional mining. But Shepherd, the attorney, and local residents point out that the proposed use of groundwater poses a risk of contaminating the fisheries and the ecosystem.

Keith, the tribal chief, said the community has reason to be wary of government assurances. As a nearby example, he pointed to Moses Point, a fishing village next to Elim that was the site of a military airfield during World War II. He said the military buried or abandoned many materials in the area, including thousands of drums of high-octane fuel.

“Most of the people in that area where the drums were concentrated, including my mother, either survived cancer or died from it,” he said. “So we’re very sensitive to that issue.”

“What they don’t realize is that the burden falls on the community,” added Jasmine Jemewouk, the activist. “What they leave behind, what gets contaminated in the process … we’re not being consulted at all.”

Her grandfather, Johnny Jemewouk, agreed. He said it’s time to act now.

“I don’t think people here realize what’s coming in the future once people start getting sick. If you get sick, or you have food you can’t eat, or water you can’t play in … once that starts happening, you’re going to want to say, ‘Let’s do something.’ But it’s going to be too late.”