The Kigluaik Mountains in western Alaska stand as a testament to the region’s natural history, with their rocky ridges and lush valleys that hold stories of fire, glaciers, and the resilient Inupiaq people who have long inhabited the area. As the Fall sun casts its glow on the talus slopes, an important ecological ecosystem is under potential threat from mining activities proposed by Canadian company Graphite One.
Deep beneath the tranquil valleys lies one of the world’s largest known graphite deposits, formed over millions of years through the immense heat and pressure on carbon deep within the Earth. This graphite is highly sought after for its uses in batteries and other strategic minerals, which has attracted Graphite One’s interest despite strong opposition from local residents.
Critics argue that the mining project’s development process has been expedited without proper consultation with tribal communities, which include Teller, Brevig Mission, and Mary’s Igloo. Lucy Oquilluk, president of Mary’s Igloo Traditional Council, has emphasized the importance of community input on matters that significantly impact their ways of life. Her community, along with others, feels marginalized in the decision-making process regarding the proposed mine and its environmental implications.
In March 2023, President Donald Trump invoked emergency powers allowing for the rapid production of critical minerals, which led to the fast-tracking of the mine’s permitting process. Among the local tribes, three have expressed vehement opposition to the project, arguing that the public review period has been unduly shortened. The Nome Eskimo Community is the only local tribe that has not joined this opposition.
This year, Graphite One made headlines by becoming the first Alaskan mine to qualify for FAST-41, a federal process that accelerates the approval of critical infrastructure projects. This has, thus far, reduced environmental review periods to as short as 30 days and streamlined the myriad necessary permits from federal agencies such as the Army Corps of Engineers and the Bureau of Land Management.
Graphite One’s plans for the Kigluaik Mountains involve building significant infrastructure to access and transport the graphite. The company intends to lay 17 miles of new road, which would cut through critical salmon streams and archaeological sites before trucking the mined ore to a temporary facility in Nome. Thereafter, this ore would be shipped to a processing site in Ohio.
The significance of graphite has surged in recent years, driven by its importance in the battery industry and national defense. The company’s CEO, Anthony Huston, has projected that the project will foster a fully domestic supply chain to reduce reliance on foreign sources, specifically highlighting their ties to a Chinese manufacturer for parts of the operation—a fact that raises questions about the so-called domestic nature of the operation.
In fiscal terms, Graphite One’s promises of economic benefits have sparked interest from various government entities. In 2019, the project was classified as a high-priority infrastructure by Alaskan Governor Mike Dunleavy, streamlining its permitting process even further. Significant funding assistance has been received from the U.S. Department of Defense under the Defense Production Act, emphasizing the project as a measure of national security.
While the federal focus on advancing domestic mineral supply chains has gained momentum, it has seemingly overlooked proper engagement with the tribes affected by such projects. In September 2023, tribal leaders sent letters to the U.S. Department of Defense expressing their concerns about being left out of consultations that are legally required for projects impacting their lands. Only after intervention from the White House did the department respond, but many tribal representatives claim they are still waiting for promised meeting notes and follow-up actions.
The feasibility study, funded by federal grants, has reportedly attempted to exclude tribes from being recognized as “cooperating agencies,” which would limit their input on project planning. Critics argue this undermines their ability to advocate for meaningful participation in decisions affecting their territory.
Compounding these frustrations is the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, which initially estimated a lengthy environmental review process. Following a Supreme Court ruling regarding the jurisdiction over U.S. waters, the Corps expedited its review, raising concerns among local tribes, who have insisted they be consulted beforehand.
While the Corps has indicated willingness to engage, the timeline and methods being employed may diminish genuine consultation efforts into mere formalities, potentially sidelining important tribal perspectives that could influence project assessments and environmental evaluations.
The legal and ethical responsibilities for consultation stem from various federal laws that mandate engagement with Indigenous groups for projects affecting their lands. This pattern of neglect isn’t isolated to Alaska; similar situations have emerged across the country, with critical mineral projects advancing with minimal input from Indigenous communities—often flouting regulations intended to protect their rights.
In Canada, Indigenous rights are being increasingly recognized, setting a precedent that raises further questions over the handling of similar situations in the U.S. The establishment of policies ensuring meaningful consultations under UNDRIP in Canadian law exemplifies a growing acknowledgment of Indigenous rights that many feel is lacking in the U.S.
Amid these discussions, residents and tribal leaders from the Kigluaik Mountains have gathered to oppose the Graphite One project. They voice concerns over environmental degradation, the disruption to their cultural and spiritual connection to the land, and potential social issues that come with an influx of outside labor.
The Bering Straits Native Corporation’s investment in the mine has further complicated community relations, as local voices feel their treaty rights for government-to-government consultations are undermined by corporate priorities. This investment decision was made without a shareholder vote, stirring further discontent in the community.
As ongoing developments unfold, residents remain deeply concerned about environmental risks, with the mine’s potential to pollute Imuruk Basin—a critical resource for local fish and water supply—being a primary fear. Graphite dust, alongside risks of acid drainage from disturbed sulfides, raises alarms among community members who rely on these resources for their sustenance and cultural practices.
Looking to history, advocates underscore the need for careful reflection on the lessons learned from previous expedited mining projects, emphasizing the dangers of cutting corners in oversight. Local activists, including Addy Ahmasuk, argue this is a moment for collective action—not just to halt the mine but to reignite and share their creation stories as a means of cultural and ecological revitalization.
Ahmasuk has initiated a grassroots organization called Sacred Kigluait, aimed at preserving and promoting the stories that are the foundation of her tribe’s identity. She advocates that merely stopping a mining operation does not encapsulate the broader struggle for Indigenous rights and recognition. Instead, the focus should be on the ongoing relationship the community has with its land, traditions, and stories.
In the wake of the social, environmental, and legal implications posed by the Graphite One mining project, the sentiment among many tribal members reflects a deep-seated worry for their lands, traditions, and future generations. As discussions continue and decisions are made, the voices of those most affected remain crucial in shaping the narrative of this unfolding situation.
image source from：grist
