Make Greenland Green Again

There’s been a lot of talk about Greenland lately, so I can’t resist the temptation to say a few things myself. I have a special bond with Greenland. I’ve been there. On official business — more on that later. And before you jump in to say one visit doesn’t entitle me to a “special bond,” remember: Greenland isn’t like Vrhnika, or Celje, or Munich — places you often pass through even if you don’t intend to. Greenland is far, and beyond it, there’s nothing. Figuratively speaking — unless you’re a flat-earther.

Before me, Greenland was visited by Erik the Red, who, over a thousand years ago, was drifting through the northern seas after legal trouble and ended up on a vast landmass covered in ice. Erik named the territory “Greenland” to attract as many settlers as possible. That trick is still used today by real estate agents worldwide. There’s no data on whether Erik’s marketing ploy fooled anyone — at least until another real estate agent with imperial ambitions, Donald the Orange, came along. Clearly, he can’t resist the allure of green spaces untouched by his golf courses. Such lands are rare. Imagine the disappointment when his son returned from a recent visit and said: “Dad, it’s actually not as green as we thought.”

Anyway, between Erik the Red’s landing and my own visit to Greenland, another notable figure lived there — my father’s friend Tarzan Mikkelsen. Why he was called Tarzan, how he and my father became friends, and why he ended up teaching in Greenland is a story for another time. But Tarzan once offered one of the most precise explanations of Danish political mentality. When my dad asked him why Denmark never had a revolution, Tarzan replied: “We came close two or three times — but then it started raining.”

I’m not mentioning Tarzan Mikkelsen just to emphasize my emotional connection to Greenland. He also provides a segue to another Tarzan — one who also didn’t wear leopard-print briefs. This story has nothing to do with Greenland, but it’s too good not to share. A few years ago, Montenegro had a Minister of Agriculture named Tarzan Milošević. Unlike his Danish namesake, this Tarzan was named by his parents, not friends at a bar. In a TV interview about Montenegro’s EU accession plans in agriculture, the journalist couldn’t resist asking if his name had ever caused him trouble. Tarzan raised his eyebrows and replied: “Why? I’m not one of those Miloševićs.”

But let’s return to Greenland — or rather, to the office of the late Lord Russell-Johnston, then President of the Parliamentary Assembly. This was 25 years ago, in the early days of the new millennium and the end of his term, during which I served as his political advisor and speechwriter. Russell was a passionate supporter of liberal democracy, postcard writing, Bordeaux, Chinese food, and travel. Behind his desk hung a large map of Europe. Every country he visited got a colored pin. He was starting to run out of both.

One day, as he stared at the map, his eyes lit up. He leaped from his chair and pointed at Greenland. “We haven’t been there. Is that Europe?” “Yes and no,” I replied with the diplomatic precision expected of seasoned political advisors. “It’s linked to Denmark but not part of the European Union.” Russell looked disappointed. I quickly added that Greenlanders still enjoy protection under the European Convention on Human Rights. Weeks later, we were on a flight from Copenhagen to Kangerlussuaq, then the only airport in Greenland capable of handling wide-body aircraft.

Planning the trip wasn’t easy — not just logistically, but diplomatically. The Danish government viewed Russell’s idea to fly in and talk to locals about human rights with considerable suspicion. Why, who knows.

Kangerlussuaq is a dot in the middle of a white void. Back then, its infrastructure was more modest than that of Portorož airport, just with a longer runway. At one end stood the terminal, at the other, some aluminum barracks left over from when the area was a U.S. military base. A local bus, Route 1, ran between the airport and the “town.” According to the schedule, we had a 90-minute layover before a connecting flight to the capital Nuuk. That stretched into a day and a half. “When you arrive in Greenland,” the airport clerk kindly advised, “you take off your watch and put on a calendar.”

While waiting, I took a ride on the bus. The driver was an older man from Denmark. He had come to Greenland as a young man and nearly went mad from boredom — but once back in Denmark, he began to long for the return. They call it Greenland fever. He’s now been driving buses in Kangerlussuaq for decades. And he’s as happy as a penguin.

Back at the airport, we were told the plane wouldn’t be flying that day. In such cases, part of the terminal serves as a small hotel. Russell was given the presidential suite; I was offered an igloo by the runway. “You mustn’t miss this opportunity,” Russell said, handing me the key to his luxurious quarters. “It’ll be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.” “If it’s so unique, I’ll let you enjoy it,” I replied with a touch of arrogance — not expected from a seasoned political advisor. Russell muttered something gruff in return — it might have been “obstinate” or “prostate.” Probably the latter, because an igloo isn’t ideal for people who can’t hold their pee till morning.

The next morning, we finally flew to Nuuk. From the plane, you could see green social housing blocks, reminiscent of Copenhagen’s working-class suburbs — an architectural symbol of Danish policy toward the Inuit: uprooting them from traditional environments to bestow upon them the blessings of the welfare state, sometimes removing children and sending them to “civilized” Denmark. All with the best of intentions, of course. To be fair, Denmark’s approach has changed, but the consequences remain — alcoholism and domestic violence are still a problem.

We heard about this during our visit to Greenland’s first prison, newly opened at the time. Until then, prisoners were sent to Denmark, which only deepened trauma and complicated reintegration. The new prison in Nuuk was modern and open. Male and female inmates shared living spaces. “It’s much more humane this way,” the warden explained. “We put great emphasis on mutual respect between the sexes. It’s key to rehabilitation. Unfortunately, capacity is already full — we had a waiting list even before opening.” “No wonder,” Russell quipped, as I discreetly elbowed him — as seasoned political advisors do.

We also met with Greenland’s government and parliament — a chance to see a new Greenland: confident and determined to claim long-denied respect and rights. That Greenland is even stronger today, as we see in its response to Donald Trump’s imperial posturing.

What will come of Trump’s territorial ambitions remains to be seen. But there’s no doubt about how Greenlanders feel about them. I doubt Greenland will go to America. But Trump could well go to Greenland — if, God forbid, he runs into legal trouble again and, like Erik the Red, needs to hide in the icy wilderness from the hand of justice. “But I’m not one of those Trumps.” And if they catch him, he’ll probably be better off in Greenlandic prison than back home — or in El Salvador.

The rehabilitation program would suit him perfectly. Maybe he’ll catch Greenland fever. Instead of ranting in the White House, he could spend the rest of his life peacefully driving Bus No. 1 in Kangerlussuaq. And we’d all be as happy as penguins.