Alaska
BIA boarding schools' devastating legacy continues to echo in Alaska • Alaska Beacon
There was only one purpose for the boarding school system in Alaska. In fact, there was only one purpose for the Bureau of Indian Affairs educational program in America.
It was all about white power. White supremacy. Assimilate the savage Natives by force.
The Inupiat people of our Bering Straits region, first subjugated by the Swedish Covenant Church in Unalakleet in 1887 under a missionary named Axel Karlsson, became the norm for the Bering Straits Inupiat from that point on. Every village was dominated by the church and the BIA school system.
In tandem with the BIA objectives, the accompanying church contracts with the U.S. government system also added their layer of rules about who the masters were over our people.
The unholy remnants of that system remain to this day.
All of the villages in my region, now served by Bering Straits Native Corp., have locked themselves into a system to leave their cultural roots behind. Damage was done to the arts, the languages, the heritage of Inupiat song and dance, the storytelling as my Grandma Kipo used to do and along with that, the 10,000 years of respect for elders.
She was the last of her roots. She passed on in 1953.
The Washington Post in an August 2023 report said that life was not easy for Native students.
Forced by the federal government to attend the schools, Native American children were sexually assaulted, beaten and emotionally abused. They were stripped of their clothes and scrubbed with lye soap. Matrons cut their long hair. Speaking their tribal language could lead to a beating.Taken from their homes on reservations, Native American children — some as young as 5 — were forced to attend Indian boarding schools as part of an effort by the federal government to wipe out their languages and culture and assimilate them into white society.
As the Post reported:
“For nearly 100 years, from the late 1870s until 1969, the U.S. government, often in partnership with churches, religious orders and missionary groups, operated and supported more than 400 Indian boarding schools in 37 states.
“Government officials and experts estimate that tens of thousands of Native children attended the schools over several generations, though no one knows the exact number. Thousands are believed to have died at the schools.”
There were at least a dozen combination church-government schools in Alaska that sprang up as a result of the thousands of parents that died from the Spanish flu and along with it the push to expand the boarding programs across America.
Their charge was to completely and utterly assimilate the children.
The schools in Alaska included the Eklutna Vocational School, the Mt. Edgecumbe High School, the White Mountain U.S. Government School, Wrangell Institute, the Tanana Orphanage, the St. Mary’s Orphanage, the Holy Cross Orphanage and the Dillingham Tutorial School. Several of these schools were operated by churches under contracts with the federal government.
The number of Native students that attended all of these schools is unknown.
Each and every institution had their rules and regulations handed down from officials of the federal government. Students at Wrangell Institute for example, were not always called by their names. Instead, each was given a number. If you attended Wrangell Institute from the first grade on, you were called “number so and-so,” for the next 12 years. “None of the school staff knew our names.”
Some Alaska Native grandpas and grandmas to this day remember their numbers, like 124, “that was my name,” one said.
A system of federal, private and religious-run boarding schools over more than 150 years did its best to wipe out thousands of years of Native languages, cultures and family ties. The damage done to these children, and to the generations that followed, is immense.
Somewhere in Alaska are the remnants of more than 2,000 boarding home students who have never said a word about their experiences. The fabric is still torn. I myself was abused in Shaktoolik Day School by a BIA teacher bent on something so terroristic that I still can’t understand the inhumanity.
I was almost killed at the age of 6 for speaking Inupiat. And the teacher was making an example of me by violently washing my mouth out with a bar of Fels-Naptha soap.
One thing I cannot yet forget is the 12-year-old girl in my classroom who sobbed as she was ordered to explain in English that I was being punished because I spoke my God-given language in class.
I can’t remember the girl’s name. She cried so hard that day.
Our parents did nothing. Not a word was said. And neither did anyone from the village. Nothing was done. Why?
At that time the word of a white man was absolute law.
When the teacher was done washing my mouth out, he dropped me on the hardwood floor. I landed on my hands and knees with the bar of soap still in my mouth.
I was choking, but I knew I had to live. I fought to live. I fought hard to catch a breath. Finally, the bar of soap popped out along with a mouth full of bubbles.
That violence has never been forgotten by me. It will never leave my presence. At 81 years of age, I still take a medication for post-traumatic stress disorder once a day.
I am not the only one in my family who was victimized by federal and church policies that have caused eternal harm.
One day in July, a hot summer afternoon, I met a Tlingit man I had known for years, sitting on a bench at the former Sears Mall in Anchorage. There he told me an incredible story I never knew about.
He spoke of how he came to know my parents. He said the captain of the Alaska Bureau of Indian Affairs supply ship had dropped off four little Inupiat children on the Hoonah beach on its voyage back to Seattle sometime in the 1920s.
“They were all alone, just standing on the beach, four little ones about 4, 5, 6 years old. We saw them from our house and went down and took them home with us.”
He allowed me to know how his father and mother raised them from then on as their own.
The four were my dad’s siblings: Ann, George, Edward, and Axel Jackson. The captain said he put them on his ship in Nome, Alaska, to see if he could find them a home and family on his way south to Seattle. The captain also said he stopped at every village and town along the way. No one volunteered.
Alaska was in the midst of the Spanish flu epidemic at the time and people were dying by the thousands. Tuberculosis was also rampant. A report from that time told of people dying in every village, with at least 10 a day in the Nome area gold fields where my father’s dad, Erick Jackson, worked as a mining engineer.
Jackson was from Finland, and was one of many who trekked across the Chilkoot Pass on his way north to the Nome gold mines.
The Spanish flu and TB took many lives, with some villages entirely wiped out. The Tetpon family of Shaktoolik later adopted my father Eric Jackson Tetpon Sr. when he was 2 years old.
The other four were left in Hoonah.
Hoonah is located in Southeast Alaska and was the last stop on the supply ship’s voyage back to the Pacific Northwest. The four grew up as family members of the Mercer family in Hoonah and later, Anne, George, Edward and Axel were sent to Chemawa Indian School in Salem, Oregon.
Three of the four did well and survived the hell they experienced at Chemawa Indian School. Axel Jackson did not make it. The word is that Axel was so badly abused at the school that he was admitted to the Morningside Hospital, a psychiatric facility in Portland.
My father said he never spoke another word for about 30 years. Axel passed away there.
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From our collaborating partner “Living on Earth,” public radio’s environmental news magazine, an interview by host Steve Curwood with Alannah Hurley, executive director of the United Tribes of Bristol Bay.
In 2001, a Canadian mining company proposed a massive gold and copper mine at the headwaters of Bristol Bay, a pristine water system on the coast of the Alaska Peninsula that’s home to the largest sockeye salmon run in the world. The salmon support a thriving ecosystem and are a cultural and economic lifeblood for native Alaskans, who have stewarded the land and water for thousands of years.
As the company moved ahead with plans to build the largest open-pit mine in North America, those Indigenous communities joined together to bring it to a halt. In 2023, they secured a rare “EPA veto” of the proposed Pebble Mine, and the 2026 Goldman Environmental Prize for North America recognizes an Indigenous leader in this fight.
Alannah Hurley is the executive director of the United Tribes of Bristol Bay. Her Yup’ik name is Acaq, her great-grandmother’s name. She is the winner of the 2026 Goldman Environmental Prize for North America. This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
STEVE CURWOOD: Before we start talking about your work protecting Bristol Bay, paint us a picture of the bay. What makes this such a special place?
ALANNAH HURLEY: Bristol Bay is an extremely special place. It has all the different types of terrain in Alaska, in one place. Where I live, at the mouth of the Nushagak and Wood River, we have everything from tundra and wetlands to mountains, freshwater lakes, freshwater rivers, the muddy waters of Nushagak Bay, [and] the beautiful, crystal-clear ocean waters as you go west towards Togiak and Twin Hills. It’s really untouched, pristine beauty—all of Alaska’s majesty in one place. It’s so pristine you can still hunt and fish and pick berries and eat them straight from the land. You can drink right out of the lake and rivers. It’s paradise.
CURWOOD: Bristol Bay has huge environmental significance, but it’s also important to many human communities. I had been told that it produces more than $2 billion of annual revenue from sockeye salmon fishing alone, it’s also an important food source and cultural site for Indigenous communities, First Alaskans. Talk to me about what the bay means to the people in the area.
HURLEY: There are three different Indigenous groups in Bristol Bay—the Yup’ik people, the Dena’ina people, and the Alutiiq people. Our homeland has been stewarded by our people for thousands and thousands of years. They’ve taken care of this place and entrusted it to us. Our lands, our water, and everything that that entails—the salmon, the moose, the caribou, the bears, us, our freshwater fish, our berries, our plants, our medicines—we very much view it as all very connected. Anything that happens to our lands and waters happens to us. It is everything to us. It is the health of our people, physically, culturally, spiritually. It sustains us. It nourishes us. We’re so blessed to be able to live in the ways that our ancestors have lived. That kind of foundation is really critical in understanding our perspective and wanting to protect our home.
CURWOOD: In 2001, the Northern Dynasty Minerals mining company proposed the development of what’s called the Pebble Mine. It would have been the largest open-pit mine on the continent, one of the biggest, I guess, in the whole world. What would have been the environmental impact of such a project?
HURLEY: The environmental impact of the Pebble project would have been devastation. If you look at a map of Bristol Bay, there are two major river systems, the Nushagak and the Kvichak. The Pebble Mine would be located at the connected headwaters of both. You literally could not have picked a poorer location, and in my opinion, it’s [the] creator’s test to the people: What are you going to choose? But you could not have picked a worse location to put a low-grade acid-generating project that would have to store tens of billions of tons of toxic waste in perpetuity.
That picture is not a question of if something will happen, but when, especially in an earthquake-prone zone, and in a very hydrologically interconnected place. They’re like the veins of the bay—all of that water is connected. Our people, very early on, came out opposed to the project, because we knew that it would mean the utter devastation of our watershed, our fishery and our people.
CURWOOD: Some say that there are literally hundreds of billions of dollars worth of copper and gold and other minerals in the area for the Pebble Mine. Sounds like a lot of money, but you didn’t see this as good news for your community if this got developed.
HURLEY: No, we did not. Early on, before we learned about what type of ore it was, where it was located, what it would mean, what the tilings would mean, people were actually excited for some type of diversification of the economy. Fisheries can be pretty volatile, and that’s how a lot of people would survive in the cash economy as commercial fishermen.
But it did not take long to learn about those things, the dangers and the threat and the risk that that would cause to our people, and very early on, the vast majority of Bristol Bay’s people said, “No way, this is not worth the risk.” You cannot put a price tag on our water and what salmon mean to us as a people. This would be an existential threat to our ability to continue to be Indigenous people in this region, and we will not stop fighting until it is stopped.
CURWOOD: My understanding of Alaskan politics is that at the state level, there wasn’t a huge amount of pushback against this Pebble Mine proposal.
HURLEY: Our people’s concerns were really falling on deaf ears at the state level. We saw the state rewrite our area management plan illegally, without proper input or public process or consultation with our tribes. We saw the governor at the time try to pave the way for a mining district, and we’re still working to rectify some of those issues in that rewritten management plan to this day. And we’re still having issues with the state government pushing a project on Bristol Bay and Alaskans that they’ve proven for the last 20 years that they just do not support.
Because our concerns were falling on deaf ears at the state level, our tribal governments saw the federal government as the place to put some energy, and that was where the petition to the EPA came from, because the state was not listening. They were doing the exact opposite, to really grease the skids for the company to move forward.
CURWOOD: How did the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency respond?
HURLEY: The tribes petitioned in 2010 to prohibit all mines like Pebble within the Bristol Bay watershed. The EPA came back and said, “We’re not going to act on a prohibition immediately under our authority under the Clean Water Act, but we are going to study Bristol Bay. We want to do an assessment. And we want to ask, is this place really unique, and what does this fishery mean to the state and people? If this type of development, large-scale hard rock mining, were to move forward, what kind of impact could that have on the waters and people?”
They took three years to do a bunch of studies. They were in a lot of different communities. There was a lot of peer review to answer those questions, and after that very long, drawn-out assessment, they determined what our people had been saying all along: that this type of development would devastate the water and everyone who was sustained by that water, and so that was really the basis for their action that came later.
CURWOOD: At the end of the day, how did things turn out with the EPA?
HURLEY: It was a bit of a roller coaster between the different administrations, but it’s really a testament to the dedication of our people and our region that regardless of the administration, regardless of winning and losing court cases, they did not give up. And so the EPA, in January 2023, finalized protections to stop the project.
CURWOOD: What’s the risk that the Trump administration number two could reverse all of that?
HURLEY: There is very much still a risk that that could happen. The company,Northern Dynasty, the state of Alaska and a few others have challenged the EPA protections in court, which we anticipated they would.
So far, the Trump administration has continued to defend [the] EPA’s action in court, but that is ongoing litigation, and we’re not putting all of our eggs in that basket with how unpredictable this administration has been in other arenas. We’re definitely remaining extremely vigilant. And we’re continuing to defend the protections in court, and we also are working on legislation that would address the other 20 active mining claims throughout the watershed.
While we’ve made great progress, unfortunately, Pebble isn’t the only mining claim in the region, and so we’re working really hard to put this type of development to bed for good, so that our kids aren’t destined to fight project by project, now into eternity.
CURWOOD: As executive director of the United Tribes of Bristol Bay, how important would you say tribal cooperation has been during this fight?
HURLEY: Tribal unity and cooperation has been absolutely critical. I think in any instance where a coalition is working to protect a place, having Indigenous people leading and center of the effort is absolutely critical. Local people need to be at the forefront of these fights, and without that unity in the bay, there’s no way we would be where we’re at today.
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CURWOOD: You were involved in building that coalition, including Native Alaskans, but also other political constituencies, the commercial fisherpeople and such. What was it like to build a coalition like that?
HURLEY: In the case of United Tribes of Bristol Bay, it was really about centering and amplifying the tribal voice and holding the government accountable for government-to-government consultation. There was real unity in that.
I think anytime you’re building a coalition, it can be challenging. I mean, it’s hard to get five people to agree to where you’re going to go to dinner, let alone 15 tribal governments from different cultural backgrounds who historically didn’t always get along, coming together to fight a common enemy for our continued existence as Indigenous people. That threat really brought us all together in ways that we had never seen before, and that also translated out to non-native groups, commercial fishermen, the conservation community. These aren’t people who usually get along. We’re used to fighting over fish, not working together to protect them, and so anytime you bring different groups together, there’s going to be bumps in the road.
At the end of the day, the connections between people, the relationships and the commitment to work [got us] through hard moments—and there were a lot of hard moments. A commitment, especially by non-native folks, to be in a respectful relationship with native people and us having that requirement that if we are going to be partners, this is how we expect to engage, helped lay the groundwork for a successful coalition. That’s never easy, it’s never pretty, but it was really the people-to-people relationships, those connections, that held us together even in the hard times.
CURWOOD: You’ve spoken about your grandmother’s influence and the values that propelled you through this journey. What lessons have you learned that have motivated you to keep going?
HURLEY: My grandmother was Mancuaq; I was raised with her in Clark’s Point in Bristol Bay. And it’s hard for me not to get emotional talking about her, because even now, even in all the different experiences in my life, everything important, the most important things that have helped me navigate life in a way that has been good and, you know, really grounded in love and respect and kindness came from her. Also the ability to persevere when things are tough. She passed away in 2019.
I obviously still miss her a lot. She provided me with the foundation of values, of how to move forward and live in this world in a good way. Our people have had those teachings for centuries—timeless, timeless teachings of what it means to be a good, real human being on the planet. And that foundation has helped me in life in invaluable and countless ways, and it continues to do so every day.
CURWOOD: What do you see for the future of Bristol Bay?
HURLEY: The future of Bristol Bay is beautiful. We are still struggling with the impacts of colonization, but we have only begun our healing, our reclamation, our revitalization of who we are as Indigenous people.
We have been so lucky that even through all of those challenges, our people have been able to remember and retain and still pass on our values and way of life. I feel like the potential to be a model of sustainability for the world led by Indigenous communities in modern society is boundless, and I’m really excited and hopeful that our region can shift from having to put our energy in defense of our homelands, to now help build something beautiful and tackle some of the tough issues that we’re facing.
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We are reviving Curious Alaska, a popular feature launched by the Anchorage Daily News in 2021.
The idea is simple: You have questions. Our reporters find answers. We share them with readers.
Maybe you’re curious about a landmark (like the Parks Highway Igloo, pictured below), or a tradition, a news event or a public figure from the past. Maybe you have a practical question about everyday life in Alaska.
On our initial run, we tackled more than 30 topics that readers inquired about.
Some examples of reader questions we’ve looked into so far include why we don’t have a Trader Joe’s here, whether there are snakes in Alaska, why sand dunes exist in Kincaid Park and the story behind cattle herds on remote islands in the state.
No topic is too offbeat for you to pitch. We’ll choose a question at a time and try our best to answer it. Send in yours using the form below. (Having trouble seeing the form? Try here.)
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- A megatsunami is an incredibly large wave of about 100 meters (328 ft) or more. These huge waves are often triggered by events such as landslides.
- In August 2025, a megatsunami in Alaska happened when a landslide entered a fjord next to South Sawyer Glacier. The event generated a wave 1,580 feet (481 meters) high.
- Scientists believe a warning system could help alert any people in the area. It would be based on seismic activity in the area.
By Michael E. West, University of Alaska Fairbanks and Ezgi Karasözen, University of Alaska Fairbanks
2025 Alaska megatsunami shows need for warning system
On the evening of August 9, 2025, passengers on the Hanse Explorer yacht finished taking selfies and videos of Alaska’s South Sawyer Glacier, and the ship headed back down the fjord. Twelve hours later, a landslide from the adjacent mountain unexpectedly collapsed into the fjord, initiating the second-highest tsunami in recorded history.
We conduct research on earthquakes and tsunamis at the Alaska Earthquake Center. And one of us serves as Alaska state seismologist. In a new study with colleagues, we detail how that landslide sent water and debris 1,580 feet (481 meters) up the other side of the fjord. That’s higher than the top floor of the Taipei 101 skyscraper. And then the tsunami continued down Tracy Arm. The force of the water stripped the fjord’s walls down to bare rock.
The 2025 Alaska megatsunami
It was just after 5 o’clock in the morning on a dreary day. And fortunately, no ships were nearby. In the months after, some cruise lines started avoiding Tracy Arm. However, the conditions that led to this event are not at all unique to this fjord.
Landslides are common in the coastal mountains of Alaska. In these areas, rapid uplift – caused by tectonic forces and long-term ice loss – converges with the erosive forces of precipitation and moving glaciers. But a curious pattern has emerged in recent years: Multiple major landslides have occurred precisely at the terminus (end point) of a retreating glacier.
Though the mechanics are still poorly understood, these mountains appear to become unstable when the ice disappears. When the landslide hits the water, the momentum of millions of tons of rock is transferred into tsunami waves.
This same phenomenon is playing out from Alaska to Greenland and Norway, sometimes with deadly consequences. Across the Arctic, countries are trying to come to terms with this growing hazard. The options are not attractive: avoid vast swaths of coastline, or live with a poorly understood risk. We believe there is an obvious role for alert systems. But only if scientists have a better understanding of where and when landslides are likely to occur.
Signs that a landslide might be coming
The Tracy Arm landslide is a powerful example.
The landslide occurred in August, when warm ocean waters and heavier precipitation favor both glacier retreat and slope failure. The glacier below the landslide area had experienced rapid calving: large chunks of ice breaking off and falling into the water. And it had retreated more than a third of a mile in the two months prior. Heavy rain had been falling. Rain enters fractures in the mountain and pushes them closer to failure by increasing the water pressure in cracks.
Most provocative are the thousands of small seismic tremors that emanated from the area of the slide in the days prior to the mountainside collapsing.
We believe that this combination of signs would have been sufficient to issue progressive alerts to any ships in the vicinity and homes and businesses that could have been harmed by a tsunami at least a day prior to the failure … had a monitoring program existed.
Escalating alerts are used for everything from terrorism and nuclear plant safety to avalanches and volcanic unrest. They don’t remove the risk. But they do make it easier for people to safely coexist with hazards.
For example, though people are still killed in avalanches, alert systems have played an essential role in making winter backcountry travel safer for more people. The collapse at Tracy Arm demonstrates what could be possible for landslides.
What an alert system could look like
We believe that the combination of weather and rapid glacier retreat in early August 2025 was likely sufficient to issue an alert notifying people that the hazard may be temporarily elevated in a general area. On a yellow-orange-red scale, this would be a yellow alert.
In the hours prior to the landslide, the exponential increase in seismic events and telltale transition to what is known as seismic tremor – a continuous “hum” of seismic energy – were sufficient to communicate a time-sensitive warning for a specific region.
These observations, recorded as a byproduct of regional earthquake monitoring, warranted an “orange” alert noting immediate concern. The signs were arguably sufficient to recommend keeping boats and ships out of the fjord.
Alerts are possible
Our research over the past few years has demonstrated that once a large landslide has started, it is possible to detect and measure the event within a couple of minutes. In this amount of time, seismic waves in the surrounding area can indicate the rough size of the landslide and whether it occurred near open water.
A monitoring program that could quickly communicate this would be able to issue a red alert, signaling an event in progress.
The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s tsunami warning program has spent decades fine-tuning rapid message dissemination. A warning system would have offered little help for ships in the immediate vicinity, but it could have provided perhaps 10 minutes of warning for those who rode out the harrowing tsunami farther away.
There is no landslide monitoring system operating yet at this scale in the U.S. Building one will require cooperation across state and federal agencies, and strengthened monitoring and communication networks. Even then, it will not be fail-proof.
Understanding risk, not removing it
Alert systems do not remove the risk entirely, but they are a better option than no warning at all. Over time, they also build awareness as communities and visitors get used to thinking about these hazards.
Many of the most alluring places on Earth come with significant hazards. Arctic fjords are among them. The same processes that create this hazard – glacier retreat, steep terrain, dynamic geology – are also what make these landscapes so compelling. The mix of glaciers, ice-choked waters and steep mountains is exactly what draws people to these places. People will continue to visit and experience them.
The question is not whether these places should be avoided altogether, but how to help people make more informed decisions. We believe that stronger geophysical and meteorological monitoring, coupled with new research and communication channels, is the first step.
On August 9, visitors unknowingly passed through a landscape on the cusp of failure. An alert system might have given tour companies and people in the area the information they needed to make more informed choices and avoid being caught by surprise.
Michael E. West, Director of the Alaska Earthquake Center and State Seismologist, University of Alaska Fairbanks and Ezgi Karasözen, Research Seismologist, Alaska Earthquake Center, University of Alaska Fairbanks
This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.
Bottom line: A 2025 Alaska megatsunami sent a 1,580-foot wave of water up the Tracy Arm fjord. It revealed the need for a landslide-triggered tsunami warning system.
Read more: Landslide-triggered tsunamis becoming more common
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