← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
Greenlanders reject Trump's takeover plan
00:28:44
Greenlanders hit back after Donald Trump's claim that the US needs to 'own' Greenland
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- [00:00]
Paul Kenyon
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James Innes Smith
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- [01:05]
Katya Adler / Tim Whewell / Irony Wells
Hello, Today we're in Colombia where we hear from fishermen feeling the ripple effects of recent US military activity over tourism may be a hot button issue for Japan's pm. We visit one region trying to lure tourists back. And finally we're in Greece, where a landmark court case came to a close this week in which aid workers were put on trial after rescuing migrants from the Mediterranean. But first, Donald Trump's desire to take over Greenland came sharply into focus this week as delegates from Greenland, the US and Denmark met in Washington along with US Vice President JD Vance. The talk stalled due to a fundamental disagreement over plans, but Mr. Trump reiterated that control of the territory is critical for his planned missile defence system. Golden Dome Katja Adler has been in the capital Nuuk.
- [02:05]
Katya Adler
In Greenlandic there are more than 80 words for freshwater ice, glacier ice, a hole in the sea ice used by seals to surface and breathe, a hole in sea ice made by a narwhal. There's even a word for a passage in sea ice that a boat can go through. On this Arctic island of heart stopping beauty and the harshest of natural environments, knowing your ice has been key to survival over the centuries. Inuit communities first arrived here from Canada around four and a half thousand years ago. The miniature museum in the snow and fairy light covered Greenlandic capital Nuuk has a vibrant exhibition of spears, fur lined clothes and decorated kayaks to help you build up a picture of what it must have been like. What I learnt is that juxtaposed with the brutal practicalities of living here, Inuk culture is spiritual and mystical, rich in respect for the natural world, the seas, the whales and other creatures killed for survival. On the walls of the otherwise grey tenement blocks in town there's a fabulous mural of a proud and powerful looking woman, her hand resting on the head of a massive polar bear. The Inuit women of Greenland are formidable. It's one of the first things I noticed when I arrived here. Unabashedly forthright, far more so than the men, I stopped in the street to ask their opinion about Donald Trump's insistence that Greenland must belong to the us. I'd like to encourage him to use both his ears wisely to listen more and speak less. Our country is not for sale, amelie Zib told us, waving her hands for emphasis after removing her chunky mittens, known here as puaaluk, often made out of seal skin, 27 year old potter Pilou Chemnitz told me Greenlanders are extremely tired of the US president. We've always been living this quiet and peaceful life here. We just want to be left alone, she said wistfully. But Greenland's geostrategic position between the US and Canada, Russia and Europe has meant that it's rarely been left alone. The Danes colonized this island in the early 18th century, bringing Christianity and enforced Western traditions with them. And there have been many modern day abuses. In an attempt by the Danish authorities to keep Inuit numbers down in the 1960s and 70s there was a campaign of forced insertion of the contraceptive coil in around half the population of Greenlandic women of childbearing age, some as young as 12 years old. The Danish Prime Minister Mette Frederiksen only recently apologized for that scandal. A system of compensation for victims has finally been introduced. There was also the so called Little Danes experiment of the 1950s where indigenous children were taken away from their parents to grow up in Danish culture. And then the legally fatherless law where if a Danish man got an Inuk woman pregnant he bore no responsibility for the child. That was only fully repealed in the 1970s. Greenland eventually became semi autonomous from Denmark in 1979. Colonial legacies are so heavy and difficult. We're still processing the trauma and women carry a lot of it. That's part of what makes us so strong, Sara Ulsvig told me. She's the chair of the Inuit Circumpolar Council and co organiser of the first Inuit Women's Summit. She speaks with great distaste about what she describes as the attempted manipulation by Donald Trump of Greenlanders resentment towards Denmark. What broke my heart over the last year is watching the US administration try to use our pain against us to support their narrative that we'd be better off with them than with Denmark. Last year, a planeload of Trump supporting social media influencers flew out here, Sara told me. Wearing bright red Make America Great Again baseball caps, they walked the streets of Nuuk handing out hundred dollar bills, including to children. My son came home from school talking about it, Sara told me. What a disrespectful thing to do. In polls, 85% of Greenlanders say they don't want to be American. I think it's an unfair position to put our people in, icky Malik Pikilak, a young tattoo artist, tells me. We get this choice whether we want to be Danish or American. We're asked to choose between two oppressors. From their perspective, there's simply no option for us to be just our own people. I'd come to her studio in a brightly painted wooden cabin perched on a hill on the outskirts of Nuuk. It was very different from what I'd imagined, with a well stocked nail bar right next to her tattoo bench. She laughed at my surprise. Inuk tattoo culture is another world to Western tattoos, she observed. Traditionally, the markings connected women to their families, community and the spirit world, marking rites of passage like womanhood or motherhood and ensuring a good afterlife. Tattooed dots, for example, protected your clan against vengeful spirits, while images of plants and totems of ravens cured illnesses or ensured easy births. Often worn on hands and faces, the tattoos have been enjoying a renaissance amongst Greenlandic women over the last few years. It's almost like a wordless protest rebellion, even in the face of the Danes and the Americans spatting over who has sovereignty rights over Greenland. The defiance of getting these very visible tattoos is all the more significant when you hear how Greenlandic society works even nowadays, icky Malik tells me. The more Inuit you look or sound, the harder it is to get better paid jobs and advance. The Danes hold most of the civil service and many academic jobs, she says, and indirectly influence how parts of society are managed officially, since the 2009 Self Government act was passed, Greenlanders have a large degree of autonomy, except when it comes to foreign and security policy. Greenland also has the right to declare full independence from Denmark, though that would need approval by a referendum amongst the Greenlandic people and by the Danish Parliament. Danish Greenlandic relations have ironically been given a boost of late, with both sides uniting to reject the Trump threat to annex Greenland. The majority of Greenlanders favor independence from Denmark. The difference between them is how swiftly they want that to happen. Greenland's biggest industry is fishing, and that is insufficient to keep the economy here afloat. Greenland still relies heavily on subsidies from Denmark for its generous welfare system. For example, the Danish block grant is said to make up about 2/3 of Greenland's government budget. Pippa Luk Loonga is the co chair of Greenland's Foreign and Security Committee and an MP for the pro independence Inuit Solidarity Party, part of the governing coalition here. Her hands are covered in tattoos. She thinks social media has helped inspire young Inuit women to return to their culture. All those wonderful Inuit influencers out there, they make us realize how much we'd forgotten and that we're not alone. We're a very proud people. We've always been treated like second class citizens by the Danes, she tells me, adding that Donald Trump's attempt to buy off Greenlanders was also insulting. But she's a realist and one of the many I spoke to here who see opportunity, not just a threat, in the U.S. president. We don't want to rely on others or belong to others, but we do want to cooperate, she says. An independent Greenland would need economic and defence partners to survive. As many Greenlanders have pointed out to me, trading with Denmark Denmark, over 2,500 miles away, makes far less business sense than working with the US 300 miles away. For now, though, the US isn't offering a business deal between equals. A meeting in Washington last week between Danish and Greenlandic officials with the U.S. vice President J.D. vance fails to get President Trump's threat of a unilateral takeover of Greenland off the table. These are uncertain times for the mere 50,000 people living on this vast island. Mayor Avaduk Nolsen's municipality spreads beyond Nuuk, encompassing an area the size of France. I asked her what words of advice she had for frightened citizens. Before answering, she led me into the main meeting room in Nuuk City hall, its wood panelled circular walls adorned with a giant narwhal tusk and decorative tapestries depicting Greenlandic history. She pointed to a panel called the Last Drum Dance, showing a traditionally dressed Inuk man holding a Greenlandic drum, once frequently used as a condu storytelling and spiritual expression before being suppressed by Danish missionaries. We need to stick together as a people. I think we're very good at that, says Mayor Nolson, intimating that Greenlanders have faced and survived takeovers before. It's our country. Let's focus on what we have in Greenland because that's what we care so much about. Geographically, Greenland is in North America. Politically it's in Europe because of being tied to Denmark. But emotionally, this island is a world unto itself, impossibly proud of its red and white flag representing the sun, the ocean and the ice. But the polar ice is melting. The Arctic is becoming more accessible and increasingly contested amongst global powers hungry to dominate the lucrative new shipping routes set to emerge, and the natural resources like rare earths and minerals that Greenland is rich in. The geopolitical storm now raging over this once silent, icy giant of an island is far from over.
- [11:38]
Katya Adler / Tim Whewell / Irony Wells
Katya Adler Next to Colombia, which has also been on the receiving end of Mr. Trump's ire following the recent US operation in Venezuela, this schism is out of step with decades of US foreign policy, as Colombia had been regarded as a close ally of Washington. The US has provided arms and training to help Bogota in its fight against armed groups and in turn received intelligence on drug trafficking networks. But an ongoing war of words between Colombia's president Gustavo Petro and the US president on issues from migration to US strikes on fishing boats in the Caribbean has put a strain on the relationship. Irony Wells is in Bogota.
- [12:27]
Irony Wells
From a vantage point on the surrounding lush green mountains, the Colombian fishing village of Taganga looks like a postcard. The turquoise Caribbean Sea glitters in the sun, sprinkled with colorful wooden fishing boats, a gentle hum of laughter and music, a woman floating on her back in the shallow water holding a beer while a group of friends sing Happy Birthday. That was back in November. It felt hard to imagine that beyond that picturesque horizon there were thousands of U.S. navy troops aboard warships, military planes and helicopters preparing for Washington's biggest military intervention in South America in decades. This town had already felt their presence. At dawn that morning, I went out on the boat of 81 year old fisherman Juana Sistejeda. His skin was tanned and leathered from seven decades fishing under Colombia's blistering sun, often near the Venezuelan border. It was tuna season and normally he'd venture more than 90 kilometres out to sea. But not anymore. He told me he'd started seeing drones overhead, especially at night. By then, the US had already carried out more than 20 strikes on alleged drug trafficking vessels in the Caribbean and Pacific, killing dozens of people. Experts have suggested the strikes could be illegal under international law, but the US government has said the strikes were necessary to eradicate narco terrorists and protect Americans from deadly drugs. Some fishermen did sometimes transport small quantities of drugs for money or under threat from cartels, Juan told me, and that's what frightened him. He worried he could be mistaken for one of those boats. Weeks earlier, another Fisherman Alejandro Carranza had left home before dawn. According to his cousin, he set off from La Guajira, near the Venezuelan border, and never returned. Colombia's president Gustavo Petro, later alleged Alejandro was among those killed in a US strike. When I met his niece, Lizbeth Perez, she recalled their last phone call in September. He was always a cheerful man, she told me. We don't know it was him. We don't have proof, only what we saw on the news, she said. Worried for his five children, this strike further soured relations between President Trump and Colombia's President Petro, the country's first left wing leader in recent history. Petro accused the US of killing Colombians. Trump accused Petro of encouraging cocaine production. Both deny it. Then this month came the US strikes on Venezuela and the seizure of Nicolas Maduro, confirming what many in the region had long that the military build up here was not only about drugs, but about wanting to oust Mr. Maduro and, in Donald Trump's own words, Venezuela's oil. If tackling drug trafficking was the only motive, Colombia's role in the international drug trade far eclipses Venezuela's. Less than a week after the US operation in Caracas, I sat down in President Petro's ornate presidential residence in Bogota to speak with him. He arrived late from meetings, visibly exhausted. Days earlier, Donald Trump had renewed his accusations Petro was a drug trafficker without giving any evidence and said military action in Colombia sounds good, a threat Petro told me he was taking seriously. But when I asked about Trump telling him to cuida sue espalda, watch your back, he laughed. He didn't say that, he quipped, referencing Trump's cruder choice of language. Despite a seemingly congenial phone call between the two leaders, Petro showed little sign relations had improved. He accused the US of behaving like an empire and its immigration agents of acting like Nazis. He was quick to go on the attack, but also to defend his record. When I asked about Colombia's cocaine production hitting record highs, he refused to accept responsibility, pointing instead to efforts to encourage farmers to replace coca crops and to military operations against some armed groups. A former rebel himself, Petro has pursued a policy of total peace, prioritising dialogue with criminal organisations. But under his watch, the drug trade has continued to grow and violence flared last year between armed groups, particularly near the Venezuelan border. That leaves Colombia exposed if the US turns its focus back to a renewed war on drugs. Colombians are aware of this, while people, for now, are going about their ordinary lives. In the days after the US operation in Venezuela, thousands of people demonstrated in towns and cities around Colombia in the name of sovereignty and democracy, encouraged by President Petro, who addressed the crowd in Bogota. There are important differences between Petro and the ousted Nicolas Maduro, too. Petro's 2022 election win is not disputed. Unlike Maduro, he faces no US federal charges despite Trump's claims, and the CIA operates in Colombia with Bogota's consent to combat trafficking. Mr. Petro has less than a year left in office and is due to visit the White House next month. Whether this meeting marks a chance for reconciliation or a warning of further pressure if Colombia does not deliver results remains an open question. When I questioned Petro on how Colombia would defend itself in the event of any US attack, he was clear Colombia's army was not a match for the US's, but said we rely on the masses, our mountains and our jungles, as we always have.
- [17:34]
Katya Adler / Tim Whewell / Irony Wells
Irony Wells.
- [17:37]
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- [18:55]
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- [19:28]
Katya Adler / Tim Whewell / Irony Wells
Japanese Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi called a snap election this week in a bid to convert her high approval ratings into a parliamentary majority. Part of her campaign before she first took office involved taking aim at foreign tourists, which have quadrupled since 2010 to around 40 million visitors a year. As PM, she has hiked the tourist tax in a move to combat over tourism, but it's not a problem felt across the country. James Innes Smith travelled to one part of Japan where repeated efforts to attract tourists back have fallen flat.
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James Innes Smith
Rising over 8,000ft above Lake Chuzetsu's northern shore, Mount Nantai casts a perfect Mount Fuji shaped shadow across the tranquil waters. At sunset, the southern face of the volcano turns a glorious vivid pink. It's taken me a day to hike to the top and back, but I haven't encountered another soul. I'm in Toshigi Prefecture's Nikko national park, at the foot of three sacred peaks known collectively as Nikko Sanzan. The village of Okuniko remains eerily quiet as I sip a cup of sweet scented tea outside one of several rustic cafes overlooking the lake. I'm only two and a half hours from downtown Tokyo, yet remarkably, I have the place to myself. That calming sense of isolation certainly wouldn't have been the case had I been sipping tea beneath the actual Mount Fuji, where the problem of too many visitors has forced the Japan Tourism Ministry to enact its Over Tourism Prevention plan. The scheme is designed to woo visitors away from tourist hotspots such as Kyoto, Osaka and Mount Fuji to lesser known rural areas. The reason large parts of Toshigi have so far managed to escape the worst of the crowds is largely due to the foresight of the Shinto and Buddhist monks who own much of Nikko National Park. They consider the land to be sacred and have brought in strict building regulations limiting the size and number of hotels. While restrictions have helped maintain that sense of being off the beaten track, the region is struggling economically, so it is hoped the government's latest initiative might bring inward investment to the area. Sadly, the town of Kinugawa, once a rural enclave 20 minutes from the national park, has shown little of Okuniku's caution when it comes to attracting tourists. During Japan's economic boom years of the 1970s and 80s, wealthy Tokyo business types flocked to Kinugawa's dramatic ravine to luxuriate in the volcanic hot springs, or onsens, first discovered back in the late 1600s, gleeful planners took full advantage of the sudden influx by allowing a frenzy of hotel construction with little regard for building regulations or aesthetic appeal. When the economic recession of the 1990s eventually hit, Kinigawa suffered more than most. A large section of the once beautiful Kinugawa river has come to resemble an open grave lined with the giant rusting remains of once lively resort hotels. Authorities are at a loss as to know what to do with the crumbling, asbestos lined eyesores. The owners having long since fled after land prices plummeted, a few of the hotels have managed to cling on, but the lack of visitors suggests their days may also be numbered. The young migrant worker at one such behemoth informs me that of the hundred or so rooms available, only nine are currently occupied. At another towering riverside casualty, I wait at reception only to discover that the place has long since been abandoned. The owners had simply forgotten to lock up. Even the dining tables have been laid for a meal that was never eaten. Making my way along the rugged river path, I pass several more hotel remains looming out of the undergrowth. Over recent years, Kinugawa's faded brutalism has become an attraction in itself, and I find the desolation almost charmingly at odds with the beauty of the surrounding area. Once I've hiked through the scarred remains of the resort itself, I'm soon greeted by vast vistas of monkey inhabited mountains, gushing waterfalls and acres of pink cherry blossom. I even encounter a bear scavenging for food along the river path, global warming having forced many of them down from their natural habitat high in the mountains. Once back in Okuniko, I speak to some locals to find out what they think of the government's plan to attract more tourists to Toshigi. An American expat and his Japanese wife tell me of their concerns about plans to build a shiny new hotel on the shores of Lake Chuzetsu. We love how tranquil it is round here and worry that this sacred place will be ruined if mass tourism is allowed to run riot. So while the government is understandably keen to spread tourism's heavy load, locals worry that unless the huge rise in tourist numbers coming to Japan falls, the blight of over tourism will simply spread to unspoilt gems such as Tashigi, James Innes, Smith.
- [24:35]
Katya Adler / Tim Whewell / Irony Wells
And finally, we're in Greece, where the trial of a group of aid workers who carried out rescues of migrants off the coast of Lesbos came to a close this week. The 24 former volunteers were arrested seven years ago and faced a range of charges including human trafficking, money laundering and facilitating the illegal entry of foreigners into Greece. They were cleared of some charges in 2023, and this week a judge acquitted the group of the remaining charges, saying the defendant's aim was not to commit criminal acts, but to provide humanitarian aid. Tim Whewell has been following the story and travelled to Lesbos, where he discovered how the migrant crisis of 2015 has shaped an entire community.
- [25:25]
Paul Kenyon
In winter, for most of the day, the cats have the tiny harbour of Skawa Sikamia to themselves. They stalk along the breakwater, thin but proud. There are no tourists and it's too cold for the women in black to sit around the tree. In the square, the fishermen are mainly indoors, plumper than the cats, but no less proud. In his living room, Thanos Marmarinos shows me a framed photo. It's him getting a prize in faraway Spain for rescuing migrants from overcrowded dinghies in the tumultuous summer of 2015. That's when this island, Lesbos, was the entry point for at least 60% of all the 800,000 asylum seekers from Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria and elsewhere who sought refuge in Europe via Greece. But Thanos, who must have saved hundreds of lives, isn't even the most celebrated of the heroes of this village, of perhaps 150 souls. Another fisherman was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize for his rescue work, along with one of the famous grannies of Sikamia. For years, they chatted in their widow's black under the tree. Then, when the torrent of desperate foreign humanity scrambled onto the breakwater, the rocks, the beaches, they fed them, reclothed them, nursed the babies. The solidarity movement started here. Thanos says. I'm surprised how often he uses that rather grand word, solidarity. But he says Lesbos was historically a red island. The communists were the main party here. And that's not all these islanders could easily think themselves into the drenched, shivering skin of refugees half sinking in the narrow straits between here and Turkey because their own grandparents, or great grandparents, made the same scary passage a century ago. Those twinkling Turkish lights across the water were once a Greek town, Ayvali. Many of its citizens fled here in 1923, at the end of a war between Greece and Turkey. But you don't need to be a communist or the grandchild of refugees to believe in solidarity. And soon, thousands of volunteers, Greeks and foreigners, came to Lesbos to help with the rescue efforts. I'd do it all again, thanos says, but I think you couldn't. You'd be arrested. This was last month when 24 of those volunteer rescuers were starting a long delayed trial on Lesbos, charged with facilitating the entry of third country nationals into Greece. Solidarity will never be a crime, said a banner held by campaigners as the defendants entered the grand marble columned courthouse high above the island capital Mytilene. But inside, I wasn't so sure. Where exactly is the line between rescuing and facilitating a passage? In his three hours on the witness stand, a police commander described a secret messaging system the defendants used to share the location of migrant boats. He said they had information the police had been denied. And outside the courtroom, as I wandered around the island, I felt solidarity was no longer in fashion. Anyway. The prosecution of the volunteers has had a chewing effect on aid organisations. They haven't just stopped rescue work. They even avoid offering food or medical care to new arrivals on beaches to avoid any suspicion of facilitating entry, waiting instead till the migrants have stumbled further inland. Volunteers still run kitchens to feed refugees, but the heroism of 2015 is a distant memory for many. The grannies of Se Camia are dead now, and in any case, there are far fewer migrants, partly because of the tougher border policies of the right wing party New Democracy, which triumphed in 2019 here on Red Lesbos, as all over Greece. In court, there was a rapid, extraordinary mood change. As cross examination began, the tall, brash police chief was steadily humiliated by defence lawyers and got no support, even from the prosecutor. That secret encrypted messaging system, it turned out to be WhatsApp. Yes, the commander conceded painfully, he was in some WhatsApp groups himself. And even if the volunteers hadn't kept him in their loop, they certainly cooperated fully with the official Greek coast guard. After that, their acquittal was almost a foregone conclusion. When it came late in the evening, the hardier defendants raced down the steep hill from the courthouse and plunged in Celebr into the cold water of the Aegean Sea. After seven years of limbo, they can move on with their lives. And Lesbos? Many locals must have been mystified by that nocturnal splash fest. I talked to the mayor of Mytilene, who wasn't following the trial in his smallish town that's been reported around the world. Yes, he said, we're proud of the help we gave all those years ago, the solidarity. But asylum seekers overwhelmed our local services. Now tourism, which we need is picking up again. Lesbos can move on just like the rescuers, but in a different direction.
- [30:42]
Katya Adler / Tim Whewell / Irony Wells
Tim Whewell and that's all for today. But you can hear more dispatches from around the world on BBC Sounds. We'll be back again next Saturday morning to join us.
- [30:54]
Paul Kenyon
I'm Paul Kenyon and for Radio 4 and the History Podcast. This is two Nottingham lads.
- [31:01]
James Innes Smith
When the invasion happened, it was completely hell on earth with the Sounds. The sad thing about war is people lose their empathy in their humanity.
- [31:09]
Paul Kenyon
I want to know how two men from Nottingham ended up on opposite sides in the war in Ukraine and what became of them after a chilling encounter in a prison in Donetsk.
- [31:21]
James Innes Smith
Out of all the places in the world where I meet someone from Nottingham, it's in captivity on Two sides of the conflict.
- [31:27]
Paul Kenyon
It's a story about how and why you pick a side in a war that's not your own. You can listen to Two Nottingham Lads first on BBC Sounds.
- [31:44]
Grainger Advertiser
If you're the purchasing manager at a manufacturing plant, you know having a trusted partner makes all the difference. That's why, hands down, you count on Grainger for auto reordering with on time restocks. Your team will have the cut resistant gloves they need at the start of their shift and you can end your day knowing they've got safety well in hand. Call 1-800-GRAINGER Click grainger.com or just stop by Grainger for the ones who get it done.
- [32:14]
If you're an H vac technician and a call comes in, Grainger knows that you need a partner that helps you find the right product fast and hassle free. And you know that when the first problem of the day is a clanking blower motor, there's no need to break a sweat. With Grainger's easy to use website and product details, you're confident you'll soon have everything humming right along. Call 1-800-GRAINGER Click grainger.com or just stop by Grainger for the ones who get it done.