Time to read: 20 minutes(s)

Sami. We exist. Part 1

Andrey Danilov, Deputy Chairman of the Sami Parliament of the Kola Peninsula and a Sami activist and political émigré, discusses how Russia's indigenous people are losing their land, language, and people while the authorities label their struggle for survival as separatism.

Silent resistance

Andrey's fishing rods are in the hallway: the Riska Fjord is just five minutes away, and the trout lake is ten. The mushroom and berry forest is just two minutes at a leisurely pace. The rain has just stopped, and the flowers in the garden are glistening with drops. This is southwestern Norway, in the village of Hommersok. The fjord here is quite narrow, and, protected from the winds of the Norwegian Sea, the harbor has become a "sleeping place" for boats and motorboats.

Five days a week Andrey goes to school - he studies Norwegian, so that he can then return to his apartment, which was provided to him коммуна i Sannes. The building has three floors with an elevator, and in addition to Andrey and his wife, eleven Ukrainian refugees live here (Andrey's wife is also Ukrainian). Each has a separate apartment with its own shower, toilet, furniture, television, and washing machine.

"And I also get a stipend of sorts; you can't really call it an allowance. The stipend is a salary so I can study and want for nothing. Yes, it may be small, but it helps me live a peaceful life, a way to not have to worry about tomorrow. I have all the rights, including healthcare and social services, just like a regular Norwegian citizen. If I need something, if I don't have enough money, I can turn to the state, and it will solve my problems."

Andrey Danilov is a Sami, meaning one of the indigenous peoples of Russia. He is the Deputy Chairman of the Sami Parliament of the Kola Peninsula. His life may now seem like paradise for an exhausted and nervous Russian, but it only began to improve in August 2025, when Danilov received a residence permit in Norway and personal protection due to a life-threatening situation.

Sami Navalny

That's what some journalists in the Murmansk region called Danilov. He was born in Lovozero, the center of Sami culture and life in Russia. Reindeer herding, fishing, and cloudberry picking are traditional activities here. His mother is Russian, his father is Sami.

Danilov had a choice of identity, and he chose "Sami spirit," "Sami blood." And struggle. Andrei is active on Facebook, where in the "short biography" section, he outlined his position with a very clear slogan: "Keep fighting!" A Native American told him about this motto of the indigenous people in the United States.

I don't follow in others' footsteps; I am who I am. But if someone sees traits of another person in me... well, the main thing is that they're not a bad person, not Putin, and that's good. I call myself Andrei, an activist, a fighter for the rights of my people. Yes, they also call me a notorious activist. Because the authorities, particularly the Russian ones, don't like people who have their own opinions and who defend their rights. I defended my rights, moved forward, relying on legal methods of struggle. I won in court, wrote letters, I fought. Naturally, the authorities didn't like that. They prefer compliant people, who agree, who go along with things. But I'm such a notorious person; I'm probably even glad they called me that, because it's a very mild word.

Andrey often quotes a quatrain by the Sami poet Askold Bazhanov, whose native village of Ristikent was flooded after the construction of a hydroelectric power station.

Whenever things get tough,
you feel like you can't stand the fight,
remember: you are the master of the eternal tundra,
and not the old grandfather's hut!

Today, snow in the tundra turns to slush. In the last century alone, the intact habitat of reindeer has shrunk by 70%. Due to industrial development, grazing lands are shrinking and fragmenting, reindeer migration routes are blocked, and people are losing access to sacred sites.

"Olenegorsk, for example. The Olkon plant destroyed everything there long ago. The Olenegorsk Mining and Processing Plant, Severstal. There were lakes there, and they turned them into waste pits, dumping waste there. Take Monchegorsk and Norilsk Nickel. There's the Moncha River there—Moncha in Sami—it's beautiful. But now, for 30 kilometers there's no forest, no grass, no fields. Nothing at all. It's a terrible picture. Picking mushrooms and berries is prohibited; that's how poisoned the land is. Take the village of Nikel, the town of Zapolyarny—it's all Norilsk Nickel—same story. Lithium mining is underway now: the Kolmozerskoye deposit is the largest in Russia, 86 kilometers from Lovozero." We, the indigenous people, only just emerged from the underground after the 80s, we began to live, we began to call ourselves loudly, and we were slapped again, and representatives of the indigenous peoples are being put in prison for saying: “Our lands are being destroyed.”

Suit from Mozolevskaya

Andrey Danilov can often be seen wearing traditional Sami dress, which is unusual for a city dweller—a bright blue shirt with intricate embroidery. It seems a challenge—the frail, elderly craftswomen versus the corporate jackets and ties of industrial magnates.

This Sami costume was designed by the renowned Sami custodian of our handicrafts, Anastasia Eliseevna Mozolevskaya, about twelve years ago, I think. It was a massive undertaking, including archival work. She and Larisa Pavlovna Avdeeva designed this costume specifically in accordance with Sami cultural norms, in accordance with my family tree and my ancestry. Many elements of Sami clothing were later recreated based on this traditional design. Young Sami people are making their own national costumes using these patterns. It's all thanks to this project. This isn't just a costume—it's a new lease on life for our culture.

Both Anastasia Mozolevskaya and Larisa Avdeeva are no longer alive. They lived long lives—Larisa Pavlovna celebrated her 100th birthday. But it's not just people who are passing away. It's a staggering figure: 44% of the planet's languages are at risk of extinction, and the languages of indigenous peoples top this sad list. What about the Sami language, which has 11 so-called subgroups?

"My generation, born in the 70s and early 80s, lost the Sami language because we were humiliated for being Sami. We were slapped in the mouth for pronouncing a Sami word. I won't even mention Russia, where this was commonplace. It happened in Norway too; there was even a genocide of the Sami people in Norway, Finland, and Sweden." hand i But unlike Russia, these three states have acknowledged their historical guilt. They have institutions for the study of the Sámi language. We're not just preserving the language within our own people; we have specialists and scholars who help us. And within the Sámi Parliament, there's a language committee that works on this.

Today, in the four countries where the Sami people live, there are radio stations that speak not just Sami, but various forms of the language. In Russia, in Lovozero, half the broadcasts are in Northern Sami, the other half in Russian. The station is housed in a building styled like a kuvaksa—a traditional Sami portable shelter.

Andrei himself admits that his Sami language skills are "not very good." He uses a large red book—the Sami-Russian Dictionary, edited by Rimma Kuruch and published back in 1985.

Sami in Sápmi

The Sami are a semi-nomadic, small, transborder people with an anthem and flag, but never a state of their own. Today, they live in four countries: Norway, Sweden, Finland, and Russia. Their history is one of colonization, which resulted in the Sami constantly retreating north, but they were unable to escape, for example, Alexander Nevsky. As early as 1251, Nevsky concluded a treaty with Norway, allowing Veliky Novgorod, like the Norwegian kingdom, to collect a fixed tribute from the Lapps—five squirrel pelts per hunter.

— We call ourselves Sami, but others called us Lapps, or Loppi—it's a derogatory name for the Sami people. It's like they're dirty, living on the edge. lands i .

The Sámi have no borders. We are a single people, divided by borders due to historical events. We lived on these lands before the creation of states, and we will live as a single people in our homeland, which we call Sápmi. Certainly not Lapland.

Why such a wide range of figures? It's due to the nuances of self-identification: some no longer speak Sámi, others have long been city dwellers, not hunters and fishermen. In some places, the count was conducted in reindeer herding communities, while in others, it was based on voter lists for Sámi parliaments. As for Russia, the figure of 1530 is based on the 2020 census. Andrey Danilov disagrees. Today, he estimates there are 1363 Sámi.

"Since the 2000s, when self-awareness has grown, no one is ashamed to be Sámi. No one has abandoned their people. So, there's been a real decline in numbers. There's no need to census us. There are very few of us; we know everyone by sight. In 2010, 1599 Sámi lived in the Murmansk region. Now there are 236 fewer. Almost 15% of the people have disappeared in a single decade. According to my information, at least seven young Sámi have died in this war with Ukraine. Even seven is a great loss for us. Starting this year, college students in Taimyr will be offered training in drone technology, oil production, and fish production... It paints a pretty picture for young people. But this is a way to lure people into military professions and, essentially, from there, simply go to war."

To reach the Taymyr Peninsula from the Kola Peninsula, home to the Russian Sami people, you have to travel 4000 kilometers overland. Taymyr is also home to indigenous peoples: the Nganasans, Nenets, Evenks, and Enets. They make up a third of the peninsula's population, which numbers only 30. The Enets are tiny—102 men and 101 women. It's hard to imagine them piloting drones.

"Regarding oil, I worked in an industrial plant myself. I think if indigenous people see the methodology, master the profession, and become top specialists, they'll be able to influence the industry from within, reduce spills and emissions, and better protect their rights. It's like a spy, a friend among strangers. But it's a double-edged sword. Because they could later be co-opted into drones and sent to war."

Riot in Kautokeino

The Sami never had an army. They preferred not to quarrel or argue, but to move on—beyond the Arctic Circle. Peaceful, quiet, good-natured, and even gentle—that's how travelers and explorers of the North characterized them.

"We used to live on a larger territory, but under pressure from other peoples, we simply retreated to the ends of the earth; there was nowhere else to go, and so we are here. But we welcomed other peoples. About 200 years ago, the Komi-Izhemtsy came to our rich lichen fields; their reindeer were infected with the infectious disease "kopytka" (hoof disease), they were dying of starvation because the herd had died, essentially threatening their existence. We took them in, and they live here now. Together, we live on the Kola Peninsula."

There is only one documented case of the Sami using violence against the authorities. It occurred in 1852, in Kautokeino, Norway. This story vividly illustrates the mechanisms of exploitation of indigenous peoples worldwide.

Mid-19th-century Kautokeino isn't just a village in northern Norway; it's an economic trap, a web of debt. At its center is the "spider"—Karl Ruth, a Swedish merchant who trades reindeer and fish for flour and alcohol. This is economically profitable. Alcohol is used as currency and weapons here. The Sami drink and become indebted. Ruth's side is Sheriff Lars Bukth, a fugitive from Sweden, who protects the business with the force of law. If you're Sami and dissatisfied, you're constantly in debt. The spark comes when the Sami teetotalers try to hold their own church service. Sobriety is a direct blow to Ruth's business. The priest beats the Sami with a cane, and they fight back. The authorities arrest 22 people. The court sentences them to a fine—the confiscation of their reindeer, which goes back to Ruth. Thus, the law becomes a form of robbery. On November 8, 1852, 35 Sami, armed with knives and guns, enter Kautokeino. They have come to kill. Ruth tries to hide in the attic, but is found and stabbed to death. Sheriff Bukta is killed on the spot. The authorities respond quickly and demonstratively. Two of the leaders are sentenced to death and beheaded. The rest are sent to prisons in southern Norway, where many die of disease and homesickness.

Before Andrey Danilov's slogan "Keep fighting!" was "Tell the truth, even when there's no hope." This is a quote from the film "Kautokeino Revolt." Filmed in 2008, it features music by the legendary Sami singer Mari Boine and stars Sami actress Anne-Kristina Juuso. Russian audiences know her well: she's the reindeer herder from Alexander Rogozhkin's film "The Cuckoo." In 2022, Anne-Kristina was appointed Secretary of the Sami Truth and Reconciliation Commission. A Sami College of Higher Education now operates in Kautokeino.

^{The film "The Kautokeino Riot" dubbed in Russian}

Sami Power

In Norway, Sweden, and Finland, Sámi parliaments have functioned as the official representative bodies of the indigenous people for several decades. They do not pass laws, but no issue related to language, culture, reindeer herding, or other traditional livelihoods is decided in these countries without their consent. They have a budget and elected members. International coordination is handled by the oldest Sámi Council, founded in 1956.

On the Kola Peninsula, the Sami Parliament remains unrecognized by the authorities, and attempts to establish dialogue with the state have been fruitless. Over the past 21 years, three Sami representative bodies have been established, and each new structure has become increasingly subservient to the state.

In fact, no one dissolved the Sami Parliament; it was simply replaced by a new organization, and Andrei Danilov still continues to call himself the deputy speaker of the parliament.

"They created the Sami Assembly of the Murmansk Region, essentially duplicating our name entirely. Closer to the start of the war, the authorities turned against us. Yes, our congresses were held, but under complete government control—from the organization to the formation of the delegate list, to the conditions for the delegates' promotion. And in 2022, they simply closed the Sami Assembly, having first assembled their tame representatives, who voted as required. 'The Assembly has fulfilled its function, well done! We are closing it.'"

Of course, we are now at a crossroads, in exile. I can't speak for other people, many of whom remained in Russia, but Valentina Sovkina, the chair of the Sami Parliament, has left; she's also in Norway. I am confident that Russia will be free, and in one form or another, we will return to a parliament elected by the Sami people, not by those controlled by the authorities. In this sense, I consider myself the deputy chair of the Sami Parliament of the Kola Peninsula; no one has re-elected him. We are not active, but we work as activists and experts in protecting the rights of our people.

We exist

Danilov is considering writing a book about the complex, provocative, and sometimes treacherous history of the Sami mission. Now he has time for it. The decision to leave Russia had to be made quickly.

I was traveling from Russia to Kirkenes, Norway, for an event of the International Saami Council. And right on the way—I was in Moscow at the time—on the morning of February 24, 2022, I realized that if something like this started, a war, then all norms of international law would be trampled upon. Inside, no one would have any rights, and I would never be left in peace. The masks would be dropped, and total destruction would begin. Well, we all saw it later. On February 26, I made a decision, and on March 2, I flew from Kirkenes to Oslo and requested political asylum in Norway. It was a very painful decision—to leave my people on the other side. But I understood that if I lived, I could continue the fight. That was my main motivation.

Half of Danilov's modest luggage was filled with 120 pages of evidence of threats against him. And also evidence of one incident, widely publicized by Murmansk regional media. Andrei was detained at the entrance to a Viking festival in Monchegorsk, allegedly with a knife and alcohol. Festival-goers from Moscow and St. Petersburg would have laughed—you simply leave it all on the table near the frames and move on.

"I was given five days for resisting police officers. There was no resistance and there was no video. But the police said I resisted. I don't know—why the knife? I always have Sami artifacts in my backpack, a mini-exhibition, because people ask, 'Who are the Sami?' There were also two bottles of beer. If I had been drunk, or even slightly intoxicated, they would have tested me, of course, but they refused."

In 2022, Roskomnadzor blocked Danilov's personal VKontakte account, and in late May 2026, it blocked a community of residents of the Lovozero District of the Murmansk Region that Danilov moderated. The community had three thousand subscribers.

On May 27, the author of another Telegram channel, "Free Lapland," Rafael Mamedov, a 23-year-old student at Murmansk Arctic University, was sentenced to 15 years in prison on charges of treason and participation in a terrorist organization. Rafael, an ethnic Azerbaijani, published posts on his channel about the history of the Kola Peninsula and the region's decolonization. The channel had approximately 300 subscribers. Indigenous people speak of preserving their ancestral lands, trades, and culture, while the authorities increasingly resort to the term "separatism."

"Separatism is nonsense. I repeat: we are a peace-loving people. We have lived for thousands of years and will live for thousands more, because we have developed our own strategy. To preserve our rights, we have our own methodology; we use the laws of the country in which we live. Even if the laws and the countries themselves change. Modern Norway only emerged in 1905, and we lived here, didn't separate, didn't fight, defended our rights and land. Perhaps because of this, we have survived despite our small numbers here in the north. Perhaps this is our special methodology. But it works. That's a fact. We exist."

Signal to remain silent

Today, Andrey Danilov writes extensively about Daria Egereva and Natalia Leonhardt. They are under arrest and face up to 20 years in prison for participating in a "terrorist organization." The group in question is the Aborigen Forum, an informal expert network on indigenous peoples of the North, Siberia, and the Far East. No machine guns, no bombs, no underground cells, no balaclavas to conceal their faces. Egereva is a representative of the Selkup people and an expert on indigenous rights and climate policy. Leonhardt has dedicated 20 years to advocating for and supporting indigenous peoples.

More than 100 international organizations are demanding the immediate and unconditional release of the women. Danilov knows them personally.

"Their arrest was a shock to me. These people always worked within international norms and sought dialogue with states. Their approach was not confrontational, but rather focused on finding solutions to existing problems. And that's precisely why it's particularly difficult to understand why they ended up behind bars. Natalia Leonhardt and Daria Egereva were never people you would call radical or provocative. In fact, Natalia and I disagreed and argued on many issues. But the right to an opinion and debate is a normal part of public life. Therefore, I believe this isn't just about two specific activists. For many indigenous peoples, these arrests are a signal to the entire community: it's better to remain silent. This is precisely what's most troubling. My attitude toward many things has changed since these events. And we're seeing the entire world rise up against these arrests."

On the day of the arrest of Daria Egereva and Natalia Leonhardt—December 17, 2025—searches were simultaneously conducted at the homes of 17 indigenous activists in eight regions of Russia: the Murmansk, Tomsk, and Kemerovo regions, the Altai and Krasnoyarsk territories, the Altai and Sakha republics, Moscow, and St. Petersburg.

The Magic Garden

Right now, outside Andrey Danilov's window in Hommersok, there's a garden bursting with color that's hard not to admire. Andrey comes out here to chat with the owner—not just to practice his Norwegian, but for a heartfelt conversation. He can have a barbecue, or he can take a trip to neighboring Stavanger. It's Norway's oil capital: big money and unique nature all rolled into one. There are oil and canned goods museums, ancient streets, Norway's oldest cathedral, and nearby, the famous Preikestolen cliff, where you can take a selfie: here I am, here a boulder wedged between the rocks, with the abyss and the sea below. It's a real thrill.

Danilov's nerves and resilience were tested for almost three years in a muttak—a refugee shelter. This was in the village of Melbu, which, like his native Lovozero, is located above the Arctic Circle. There was loneliness, uncertainty, and sometimes malnutrition.

— Sometimes it was sad, depressing. You'd go out and strangers would come by, seeing you for the first time. They'd come up and say hello. That helped. Well, of course, it was very difficult. I won't hide the fact that the hardest part wasn't the living conditions. They don't have that much of an impact. What did have an impact was the thought: I've come to my homeland, Sápmi. The homeland of my ancestors. And I have to ask another country for permission to be on this land. Although the Sámi in Norway accepted me, they fought for me to be granted asylum. And they were surprised that it was taking so long to consider the matter specifically for the Sámi. I think this was a first in the history of indigenous peoples. This is our land, after all. Maybe some kind of law should be passed so that the Sámi could move freely throughout their historical homeland of Sápmi, divided by borders, and choose where to live where we feel best.

Many people today talk about the "beautiful Russia of the future." Perhaps they're just imagining it in their heads. It seems Andrei has already seen it. Perhaps he could add some snow, which he misses.

"I sometimes think that Hommersok, where I live now, and Lovozero are somewhat similar. Although Lovozero is in the Arctic, and Hommersok is further south. The people here are the same as in Lovozero: friendly and willing to help. The same nature. Small houses. But rather, this is the future of Lovozero, where people are confident in their future. They never think about what to buy or sell, or what will happen there in 10 years. They are confident in themselves, in this country, confident in the care they receive, and confident in the education their children will receive. This is the future I dreamed of, and I have seen it."

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