Christoffer Åhlén

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In Sweden, Indigenous Sámi artists are fighting to protect their ancestral lands from mining, development, and climate change.

Kiruna is the northernmost town in Sweden, hovering just above the Arctic Circle. The town is situated on the collective land that is part of the region known as Sápmi—home to the Indigenous Sámi people—which covers much of the northern parts of Norway, Sweden, Finland and the Russian Kola Peninsula. This corner of Sweden is not just famous for its wilderness, midnight sun and bone-chilling winters, but also for its natural resources.

It’s a place that’s breathtakingly beautiful. And in deep trouble.

Just beneath Kiruna, you’ll find the world’s largest iron ore mine, which has caused such deep cracks in the land that an entire city has had to be relocated, house by house, to avoid being swallowed. The problem? It’s situated in Sámi territory.

I’ve come to meet three Sámi artists who, in their unique ways, use their designs to protest against the exploitation of their Indigenous land.

I arrive in Kiruna, and drive ninety minutes north, to Övre Soppero to meet the renowned artist Britta Marakatt Labba. The road takes me through one of the country’s last untouched forests filled with fir, pine and birch trees growing next to picturesque lakes. It’s autumnal and remote. I’ve never been this far up north, but still, I get a sense of “coming home.” As soon as I arrive, Labba greets me and asks, “Are you a vegetarian?” 

“No,” I respond.

“Good, because I made you reindeer lasagna. You must be starving after such a long drive.”
She smiles, and I get the feeling that she’s a bit like me, straight to the point.

Labba’s work has gained international acclaim for her unique stories about the Sámi people’s mythology, their relationship with nature, political struggles, and resistance, all expressed through beautiful embroidery. Her breakthrough came with a 24-meter-long tapestry, “Historjá,” exhibited at Documenta in Kassel, Germany, and the Venice Biennale. This success eventually led to an award-winning documentary and recognition in Sweden, four decades into her career. Through her embroidered figures and landscapes, she aims to convey what she has carried within her throughout her life and to raise awareness about the happenings in Sápmi. “Embroidery is often seen as something cute, but when my work is being studied, it reveals a political tone, a resistance.”

As we enjoy our meal, Labba explains how colonial efforts portrayed Sápmi as an empty and untouched land, allowing leaders and settlers to extract minerals and wood. The truth is that the Sámi people have lived in and cared for the European Arctic for thousands of years. Their unique culture and traditions are closely tied to the land, with reindeer herding and fishing essential to their way of life. For generations, they have maintained a deep spiritual connection to the land, and their culture revolves around preserving the delicate balance of nature, particularly the reindeer.

“If the reindeer disappear, then duodji, a Sámi art form that uses materials from the reindeer, will vanish, along with our language and culture,” Labba explains. “Everything is deeply interconnected.”

A significant portion of the Sámi people are reindeer herders, including Labba’s family, so new mines and wind farms threaten the reindeer habitat. This, combined with climate change, poses significant threats to Sápmi’s existence.

Labba describes a depletion of nature as a house of cards falling apart. If you remove one piece, another will eventually collapse, leading to disastrous consequences. There’s a saying in duodji: There’s no point in repairing an old fur. If you fix one part, another will break, and eventually, it will disintegrate until nothing remains. This is precisely what’s happening in Kiruna.

It’s time to leave. With my ‘70s playlist blasting, I drive for an hour, and there’s no sign of another car. With endless wilderness, it feels mystical, and it’s easy to understand the spiritual connection in Sámi culture. As the night is about to fall, all I can see are the snow-capped peaks in the very far distance. Without warning, flocks of birds fly in front of my windshield. I stop the car to take a moment and check if any bird got hurt. When stepping out, the silence is almost overwhelming—a reminder that I’m only here as a visitor. No bird hurt, I get back behind the wheel and continue driving.

The next day, I meet Lena Viltok and Lise Tapio Pittja just outside Kvikkjokk, not far from Sarek National Park. They are talented and dedicated designers deeply connected to duodji and traditional clothing, such as the gákti. Both have created numerous gákti designs, a burst of colors with meticulous craftsmanship. The gákti is worn on various occasions, including weddings, funerals, and ceremonies, and it even speaks a silent language, Lise explains. “The gákti not only indicates what village you’re from, but also different family traditions. It tells your story, whether you’re married or unmarried. You don’t need to ask where someone is from; you can just look and instantly know,” she says with a laugh.

They emphasize how traditional Sámi design has evolved through time, deeply connected with nature, reindeer, and their way of life around these elements. This connection has given rise to beautiful and practical clothing. “It will never cease to amaze me—everything is so well thought out,” Viltok says. “It’s like a window into the past, showing how our ancestors did the same things.”

Viltok once experimented with rebellious elements in her Sámi designs, incorporating studs, leather, and latex as a form of protest against land exploitation and new mines. However, as threats to the Sámi way of life intensified, she returned to more traditional designs to preserve this art form for future generations. “Going back to traditional design was never intended as a protest, but now I feel that every new design is a way to fight back,” Viltok says. “It’s a necessity of keeping our culture and history alive.”

Our conversation delves into the broader impact of land exploitation on Sámi individuals, families and the environment. Viltok expresses concern about the narrow focus on financial gain and the need to recognize the importance of preserving untouched nature. They stress that the Sámi way of life cannot easily fit into a modern, profit-driven, fast-paced society.

“We just want to enjoy our lives, but there’s always a looming anxiety and uncertainty because we can’t trust decision-makers,” Pittja says. “Sámi youth struggle with their mental health as they are unsure about their future. The truth is, we don’t know if we can sustain this way of life, and if no one lives it, there’s nothing left to fight for.”

Both Pittja and Viltok’s families are reindeer herders as well. Hearing these women’s stories, it’s apparent that all three share their hope that their art—which has garnered international attention, like the Sámi Pavilion in Venice—will continue to raise awareness about Sápmi and garner support for their hopes of protecting it from further development. They believe that with greater understanding, the world can appreciate the significance of preserving Sámi traditions and culture. And preserving Sápmi.

And through their art, they will continue to share their stories. “It’s important that our story is told, but it has to be told by us,” Lise says.

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