NUUK, Greenland — President Donald Trump wants to buy Greenland again. Since returning to the White House, he has revived talk of purchasing or annexing the world’s largest island from Denmark and refused to rule out using force to “get it one way or the other.” He argues Greenland is vital to U.S. security.

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Greenland may feel like an icy curiosity to most Americans, but who controls it could reshape Arctic shipping, missile defense, and power in the north. For all the criticism Trump’s plan gets, the island is emerging as the next frontier in the contest with China and Russia.

The Trump administration is doing more than talking. In May, U.S. officials began exploring a Compact of Free Association with Greenland, a sweeping deal that could grant Washington expanded military access in exchange for economic aid and visa-free travel for Greenlanders. In June, the Defense Department announced that U.S. Northern Command would take over operational control of Greenland, a striking realignment Trump ordered.

These moves mark the most serious effort yet of the United States to formalize its Arctic influence. In Greenland, they’ve triggered not panic but calculation.

“We need to act,” said Kuno Fencker, a member of Greenland’s parliament, the Inatsisartut, when we met him at a cafe in Nuuk. “We need to start the negotiations [for independence from Denmark] so we won’t be annexed by another country.”

Fencker’s pro-independence Naleraq party won 25% of the vote in the elections this spring, finishing just behind Demokraatit, the center-right party now leading the governing coalition. Prime Minister Jens-Frederik Nielsen supports a slower path. “We don’t want independence tomorrow,” he said. “We want a good foundation.”

Fencker fears that timeline will have Greenland inching toward freedom at the pace of its glaciers.

To him, Trump’s provocations aren’t threats but reminders: Greenland can’t keep delaying hard choices. He’s open to partnerships with the U.S., Denmark, China, and even Russia — as long as Greenland sets the terms. “We’re the smallest player here,” he said. “But we’ve got to be quick.”

A semi-autonomous territory within the Kingdom of Denmark, Greenland has had the legal right to declare independence since 2009. But over half a billion dollars in Danish subsidies, about $10,000 per citizen, have kept that option theoretical. Fencker calls it “the fentanyl injection we get from Denmark.” Breaking free would mean weaning off it.

He knows the costs. Greenland has no military, little infrastructure, and a shrinking population. “It’s utopia to think Greenland can be fully independent,” he said. “We need partners. The only thing Greenland wants is sovereignty.”

As Greenland emerges as a strategic prize, its people find themselves pulled in conflicting directions. While much of the global focus is on Washington or Copenhagen, far less attention is being paid to what Greenlanders themselves want.

So we went to ask them.

Over nearly two weeks, we spoke with dozens of people, from politicians to polar bear hunters. We heard their thoughts on Trump’s provocations, their fraught colonial history with Denmark, and the painful trade-offs independence could demand. But what stood out most was Greenlanders’ fierce determination to make their own choices without obligation or coercion.

Old wounds and new voices

All travel in Greenland comes with a caveat: weather permitting. A sudden storm might ground a flight or freeze a harbor — both things we’d experience.

We arrived in Nuuk via propeller plane from Iceland. “Do you have any real shoes?” was our cab driver’s first question to Daniel, eyeing his cross-trainers. Navigating Nuuk’s frozen streets would be our first challenge — but at least not in darkness: The Arctic sun always lingered past midnight.

Our cab driver told us visitor numbers have surged this year. While most are welcome, he joked he’d charge us double if we’d voted for Trump.

Trump’s name sparked more mockery than anger. The next day, young Greenlandic women working at a hotel noted the tourism surge from the new airport and said the attention was mostly good, “as long as Trump doesn’t get us,” one laughed.

“No, I don’t think he will,” she added. “Most people here don’t like him.”

Others were less amused. In March, hundreds marched through Nuuk to protest a Trump takeover. Outgoing Prime Minister Mute B. Egede and Nielsen led them to the U.S. Consulate. Protesters carried Greenlandic flags and signs reading, “Make America Go Away.”

Fencker thinks that’s the wrong approach. “If I was going to meet Trump, I would learn how to play golf and maybe not beat him, you know?” he told us. “That’s how you do diplomacy. It’s certainly not by protesting here in the streets.”

Fencker attended Trump’s inauguration in Washington and caught flak for it. “People came up to me, saying, ‘What are you doing to our country?’” he recalled.

Others reacted with bemusement. The U.S. already enjoys near-unfettered access — militarily, economically, and diplomatically. The Pentagon has Pituffik Space Base, the U.S. has steered Chinese investment away, and Denmark funds Greenland’s budget while giving Washington influence without ownership.

Greenland has considerable autonomy. Its residents are Danish citizens, and many study or work in Denmark, as Fencker did. About 88% of the population is Inuit, and Danish Greenlanders comprise about 7%.

Fencker’s grievances reflect the legacy of being grafted onto Denmark’s family tree. “My family on my dad’s side are colonizers to this country and stayed in the highest-ranking positions,” he said. “The Danish elite control everything. I have nothing against Danish people, but I have something against the political system. The cooperation is unequal.”

Like others, Fencker recounted a scandal from the 1960s and ’70s in which Danish doctors inserted IUDs into thousands of Inuit girls and women, some without consent. He estimated Greenland’s population would be far larger today. “It’s basically genocide,” he said.

Yet for all his wariness of outside influence, Fencker sees immigration as essential to Greenland’s future. Nearly 1,000 Filipinos, its largest immigrant group, live here. Thais are also well represented.

On our second day in Nuuk, Bethany met a Filipino family while photographing icebergs. A young woman named Anabel said she’d moved to Greenland when her husband was hired there. At first, she felt like an outsider. “They tell you, ‘Go back to your country, you don’t speak Greenlandic,’” she said. She also sensed some resentment toward immigrants for working harder than locals.

But the coldness thawed as she assimilated. “I used to hate Greenlanders,” she laughed. “But because I tried to learn the culture and attitude, now I feel different. I think they are good people. Of course, this is their place.”

Greenlandic, or Kalaallisut, is more than a language: It’s a marker of sovereignty and pride.

Over coffee, Sofie Amondsen, a seamstress and tanner of traditional sealskin clothing, told Bethany she was proud her culture had endured, especially compared to other Inuit populations. “People are surprised we still speak our mother language,” she said, recalling a trip to Nunavut in northern Canada.

When talk turned to politics, Sofie didn’t pick sides. “Of course, we can take benefits from outside,” she said. “But we have to build Greenland from our own perspective.”

Trump’s Greenlandic disciple

In recent months, Greenland has been swarmed with foreign journalists. Before we arrived, we saw signs of saturation — local fixers charged steep fees, sometimes $700 per interview.

On the “Internationals in Nuuk” Facebook page, journalists from Estonia, Japan, and Italy asked for help. One local responded: “Everyone’s a bit fatigued with orange man bad talk. … Greenland needs a break from foreign media.”

Still, we pressed on without a fixer.

One of our first interviews was with Jorgen Boassen, a 51-year-old bricklayer-turned-MAGA influencer. Whatever Trump’s impact on Greenland, it’s been a clear boon for Boassen.

He asked to meet at A Hereford Beefstouw, one of Nuuk’s priciest restaurants. Over steaks and wine, Boassen argued for a clean break from Denmark and closer ties with the U.S. under Trump. He had canvassed for Trump in Pennsylvania, attended Trump’s 2025 inauguration with Fencker, and welcomed Donald Trump Jr. to Nuuk earlier this year, parlaying that loyalty into a job with American Daybreak, a MAGA-aligned group promoting U.S.-Greenland ties.

Even Boassen stopped short of calling for Greenland to become America’s 51st state. “We’ve been colonized here,” he said. “People don’t want to hear that rhetoric about controlling.”

As dessert arrived, a fixer walked in with a Japanese journalist. We exchanged pleasantries, and when they left, Boassen revealed he had changed his approach to interview requests.

“I was kinder before,” he confessed. “But when I heard about the fixers getting $700 for an interview, I changed.” Now he tries to score a free meal at least. Boassen estimated giving more than 200 interviews since October, including to Politico and the New York Times. During our meal, he took two media calls. Not all interviews happen over steak. He sometimes invites reporters to his favorite sauna.

Like Fencker, Boassen resents Danish influence. He believes Denmark has mismanaged the island and can’t defend Greenland’s interests. He said Trump’s push isn’t just bravado — it’s a reminder that Europe’s hold on the Arctic depends on U.S. power, money, and a willingness to call Denmark’s bluff.

Boassen’s MAGA allegiance has come at a cost. He has received death threats and was hospitalized after being punched at a bar. In past interviews, he has called Trump “daddy” and himself “Trump’s Greenlandic son.” With us, the messianic tone escalated.

“I see Trump and me just as Jesus,” he said, sipping his second glass of wine. “Jesus was a rebel. And was killed. Just like the Romans occupied Judea, the Pharisees are like the Danish here. … Sometimes, I feel I’m executed by the people.”

We thanked him and stood to leave, but he wasn’t done. On the way out, he asked if we could buy him a concert ticket. We politely declined.

The Sarfaq Ittuk

More than a third of Greenlanders live in Nuuk, so it’s the natural base for visiting journalists. But we wanted to see more. That meant boarding the Sarfaq Ittuk, a state-run ferry tracing Greenland’s southwest coast once a week.

The Ittuk connects 12 towns and settlements between Qaqortoq and Ilulissat, 350 miles north of Nuuk. For many communities, it’s a lifeline. At every port, people crowded the docks to greet or send off loved ones.

Among the 200 or so passengers, we didn’t meet any other Americans. Most were Inuit or Danish. A French film crew was also on board.

Over breakfast, we chatted with Christian, a Danish intern traveling with his partner. He had worried about tension between Danes and Greenlanders, given rising U.S. interest. But he was surprised: “If anything,” he said, “the America stuff brought us closer.”

That afternoon, we crossed the Arctic Circle and briefly docked in Sisimiut, Greenland’s second-largest town. Sisimiut was the most beautiful town we visited, ringed by jagged mountains and blanketed in snow. We saw the only tree of our trip, and scores of huskies chained to rocks, howling into the wind.

Back aboard, we learned the French film crew was shooting Banquise, a thriller about a missing woman and a passport that resurfaces in Greenland. They needed extras, so we volunteered.

That night, the ship shuddered through ice. The hull groaned as it forced a path north — the ferry’s first journey of the season. Bethany woke at 1:30 a.m. and stepped onto the deck. For the first time since arriving, she saw darkness. The lights illuminated shards of ice breaking against the bow, flakes slicing through black water.

By morning, it was time to film. We played tourists admiring icebergs calved from the Sermeq Kujalleq glacier. We nailed the scene, but the director asked us to stick around in case the perfect iceberg drifted into frame.

While waiting, we spoke with two other extras — a Danish woman visiting her daughter, who now lives in Greenland. The mother recited a litany of old wounds: the coerced IUD program, the “Little Danes” experiment that sent 22 Inuit children to live with Danish families in the 1950s, and modern-day “parenting competency” tests that critics say unfairly target Greenlandic families.

Still, she spoke warmly of the bond between the nations. Denmark would welcome Greenlandic independence, she said, but doubted Greenland could negotiate with the U.S. “I think they will be cheated,” she added, with a faint note of condescension.

As we neared Ilulissat, the director called us for a final take. We told the mother and daughter that we were American journalists reporting on Greenland’s future.

“F*** you!” the mother gasped, feigning outrage. “You’re not from Fox News, are you?”

Ilulissat: Dogs, fish, and the dissonance of independence

Ilulissat is famous for its icefjord and towering icebergs. When we arrived, the harbor looked like a nautical graveyard, frozen water trapping boats in place.

Tourism drives much of the town’s economy now, but halibut fishing remains Greenland’s top export after mining.

At the dock, a fisherman prepared lines while his colleague chopped up the morning’s catch. He asked where we were from. We told him and then asked if he’d noticed more Americans lately. He nodded.

“Is that a good thing?” we asked. He tilted his head side to side, indicating ambivalence: “Yes … and no.”

Across the harbor, a fisherman showed us a halibut. “The fish is big, but I’m small,” he grinned. “I need to sell it and buy a beer.” Then, laughing, he asked Bethany, “Will you marry me?”

He handed a smaller fish to an old man nearby. “This is my old fishing friend,” he said. Asked if they fish together, both replied, “We fish alone.”

The next morning, three fishermen let us join them at sea. Bror Madsen captained the Madsen, his namesake boat. A former builder, he had taken up fishing for the freedom it offered. He also keeps sled dogs for winter hunts.

Communication was limited — our Greenlandic was nonexistent — but the crew welcomed us warmly, offering coffee (declined) and whiskey (also declined, but with a laugh).

In high season, they spend many days at sea catching halibut with gillnets. That day’s haul was modest: a few dozen fish and hours spent untangling their net from another boat’s.

Madsen waved off talk of a Trump takeover. He trusted Denmark to keep Greenland safe and saw no need to choose between allies.

“My mom and dad and sister are in Denmark now,” he said, underscoring the familial bond. “We have family there.” Why not work with both Denmark and the U.S., he wondered.

But not everyone we met shared that optimism.

We dined with Ole Kristiansen, a seasoned hunter of seals, narwhals, and polar bears from near Qaanaaq, one of the world’s northernmost towns.

He began hunting at 13. Polar bears aren’t dangerous, he said — not if your dogs are trained to circle the bear and give you a clean shot.

Kristiansen supported independence and dismissed Trump’s taunts. “The Greenland-Denmark relationship is strong,” he said, “from Ilulissat to the south.”

He didn’t explain what happens north of that line. But when your days are spent driving dogs across sea ice and sharing polar bear meat with neighbors, Danish politics may feel like someone else’s business.

Delayed departures and sovereign dreams

We flew back to Nuuk to catch our departing flights. A storm canceled Daniel’s flight home, letting him join Bethany for a local ritual: Nuuk’s polar plunge. Each week, a few dozen mostly Danish professionals gather on the capital’s southern shore to submerge themselves in icy water — an invigorating, near-spiritual rite.

As we arrived, a man slipped into the sea, crouching between ice chunks in a pose like lotus prayer. Others followed, some fully naked, submerging for minutes. We lasted about 30 seconds before scrambling to shore.

Afterward, everyone trudged to a nearby cafe, where one of the plungers, a middle-aged Danish woman, asked Daniel where he was from. He told her and said Americans would probably like Greenland. “Just don’t take us over,” she smiled.

Most of the plungers were on short-term contracts, such as at the Greenlandic parliament, the European Union’s Nuuk office, or the Danish Joint Arctic Command. Some were visiting children. They spoke warmly of Greenland, but one woman, Charlotte, voiced the old Danish trope that Greenlanders spend their paychecks recklessly and lack discipline.

All the polar plungers seemed to agree Trump’s provocations had inadvertently spurred something positive: renewed Danish attention to Greenland’s needs.

In January, Copenhagen abruptly scrapped its “parental competency” tests on Greenlandic families. King Frederik X was set to visit Nuuk the day after our departure, which one of the women said was “because of Trump.”

Then, more snow.

Bethany’s flight was canceled and then rescheduled for two hours later. She packed quickly and rushed to the airport, joining a terminal full of anxious travelers. When a Copenhagen-bound plane landed, the room erupted in applause.

“If you get too hopeful, you’re gonna jinx it!” a Danish teenager muttered.

Then came another announcement: canceled. A Danish family had reached their limit. It was their first trip to Greenland. Asked if they would return, the father hesitated. “Probably not,” he said. His son jumped in: “No.”

It took Daniel two more days to reach the U.S. Bethany, heading to Europe, returned to the airport the next morning to find the same weary faces. The snow was still falling. Everyone was subdued, perhaps feeling chatter would only hurt their chances of escape.

Eventually, passengers walked across the tarmac, hair caked in snow. The cabin doors sealed, and the plane lifted off.

TRUMP MOVES GREENLAND INTO NORTHERN COMMAND RESPONSIBILITY 

As it made its way to Denmark, the pilot pointed out the Faroe Islands drifting by on the right. Landing in Copenhagen, Bethany spotted trees outside the window, and the ice-bound world in which they barely exist melted away.

In the end, Greenland’s path to sovereignty may stay as unpredictable as its weather. But one thing feels certain: For all the mockery Trump’s Greenland dream gets, it reveals a simple truth — the Arctic is emerging as the next frontier in the contest with China and Russia. And Europe’s last colonial hold is more fragile than it looks.

Daniel Allott is former chief opinion editor at the Hill and the author of On the Road in Trump’s America: A Journey into the Heart of a Divided Country. Bethany Williams is a communications specialist at international nonprofit and humanitarian organizations.