Greenland’s anxiety reflects a fractured world order

I recently visited Nuuk, the largest city in Denmark-administered Greenland. During on-site reporting, I was invited to the home of Marina Klassen, an elementary school teacher I met while covering local reactions. As she described how daily life has deteriorated since U.S. President Donald Trump returned to power, she said there was something she wanted to show me and led me to her apartment.

Her home, about a 15-minute drive from central Nuuk, resembled a modest low-rise apartment typical in South Korea. Outside the window, the sea off Nuuk and the snow-covered cityscape appeared serene, almost enough to mask the region’s recent emergence as a focal point of global geopolitical tension.

That calm vanished when I noticed an emergency “escape bag” tucked in a corner of the utility room. “Trump’s words are not a joke,” Klassen said as she began unpacking the contents one by one. “We needed to prepare in case of airstrikes.”

The items inside resembled military gear. The bag was packed with emergency food, including jerky, protein powder, and powdered meals. It also contained portable cooking equipment, heavy winter clothing, a special blanket to prevent fuel burners from freezing, and hand warmers. Klassen said she had also packed a water container with a built-in purifier in case drinking water was contaminated during a biological or chemical attack, along with jewelry that could be exchanged for cash. She said she learned what to pack by watching YouTube videos posted by Ukrainians who have lived through war since 2022.

One item stood out: a metal cylindrical container holding her birth certificate, her son’s birth certificate, and documents proving their family relationship. She said she chose a metal case to protect the documents from water or impact. “If war breaks out and we become refugees, or if something happens to us,” Klassen said. “Someone has to know that we are Greenlanders.” Her words captured the depth of fear that war has instilled among Greenland’s residents.

Many observers have dismissed Trump’s stated ambition to annex Greenland as another provocative remark or negotiating tactic. Some argue it is meant to float an implausible idea to extract concessions, such as resource extraction rights, behind the scenes.

For Greenlanders, however, the remarks have not felt like political theater. On the ground, it was clear that the threat had gone beyond anger, beginning to disrupt everyday life.

That fear has at times surfaced as hostility toward outsiders. In downtown Nuuk, some elderly Inuit shouted at reporters, saying there was no difference between Americans and the media and telling them to leave. Others refused to answer questions, insisting they would not speak at all. The prevailing sentiment was a desire to be left alone, to live without interference from foreign powers. It evoked memories of late Joseon-era Korea, when the kingdom clung to isolation and drove away Westerners who arrived on the peninsula.

As a people who endured Japanese colonial rule, Greenlanders’ cries of “do not try to buy us” and “we are not for sale” resonate deeply. Yet at a time when the international order built after World War II is being fundamentally shaken, the reality facing Greenland’s roughly 56,000 residents cannot be addressed through sympathy alone.

A single remark by Trump has unsettled the trans-Atlantic alliance, with its effects reaching into daily life in the Arctic. It recalls a painful chapter in Korea’s own history, when its fate was dictated by great powers during the opening period. If Trump’s focus were to shift next to China or North Korea, the fear now gripping Greenlanders could just as easily reach us.

Watching Klassen carefully pack even her birth certificate, it was impossible not to ask: Are we truly prepared to protect ourselves?