On the windswept tundra of Alaska’s southwestern coast, the small Native village of Kwigillingok has long clung to the edge of the land and water, its residents weathering autumn floods, frigid winters, and the slow, relentless thaw of permafrost. But on the night of October 11, 2023, the community faced a disaster unlike any in living memory. The remnants of Typhoon Halong swept through, unleashing a torrent of water that upended lives, homes, and the very future of the village.
According to NPR, the storm’s arrival was sudden and merciless. For Noah Andrew Sr., a 74-year-old lifelong resident and Russian Orthodox priest, the night was a harrowing ordeal. "When we started floating away," Andrew recalled, "water started to come into the house … through the door. And we tried to stop it by putting towels [down], but that didn't stop it." The water rose to his ankles, and his house—like so many others—was set adrift, floating two miles inland with him inside. In the aftermath, Andrew made his feelings clear: "I don't want to come back here again. I don't want to go through what we went through again."
Kwigillingok, home to roughly 400 residents, is no stranger to the challenges of climate change. For decades, the village has contended with thawing permafrost, erosion, and flooding. But the October 2023 storm was different—its speed and severity, residents say, were unprecedented. Many houses, especially those not built on sturdy foundations, were swept away. In total, 45 homes were destroyed. The tragedy was compounded by the loss of life: one person died, and two remain missing.
In the immediate aftermath, the community scattered. As of December 15, 2025, 678 individuals—more than the village’s official population, as the storm also affected nearby communities—remain evacuated, sheltering in larger cities like Bethel and Anchorage, some 400 miles away. The Kwigillingok School, once a hub for education and local gatherings, now serves as a shelter for those still in the area, offering a temporary haven amid uncertainty.
The question on everyone’s mind is what comes next. For many in Kwigillingok, the answer is clear: relocation. Residents overwhelmingly support moving the village 27 miles northeast, to higher ground and further inland, in hopes of keeping their community together and safe from future storms. As Darrel John, a lifelong resident who works at the local school, put it, "I don't want my grandchildren to go through this again." His home, built on pilings 10 feet above ground, survived the flood, but many of his family members lost theirs. "Most of the village supports relocating," John explained, reflecting a sentiment that has only grown stronger since Typhoon Halong’s devastation.
Yet, as NPR and El-Balad both report, the path to relocation is fraught with obstacles. There is no concrete plan, no committed funding, and no clear government agency responsible for orchestrating such a massive move. The federal government originally established many Alaska Native villages like Kwigillingok around schools, with little thought to long-term climate risks. Now, as the climate warms and threats multiply, the lack of foresight has left communities dangerously exposed.
Displacement, however, brings more than logistical headaches. For the people of Kwigillingok, many of whom speak the Yup’ik language Yugtun as their first tongue, the risk is existential. Prolonged stays in urban centers threaten the survival of their language, traditions, and subsistence lifestyle—pillars of their cultural identity. Ann Fienup-Riordan, a cultural anthropologist with the nonprofit Calista Education and Culture, told NPR, "It's spoken because people use it in their communities and homes." The longer residents remain away from Kwigillingok, she warns, the harder it will be to keep the Yup’ik language alive.
This tension between safety and cultural survival is not unique to Kwigillingok. Across the U.S., climate change is forcing Indigenous communities to consider relocation. The Isle de Jean Charles band of Biloxi-Chitimacha-Choctaw Tribe in Louisiana began its own retreat inland a decade ago, a move scientists say is necessary as their island is expected to vanish by 2050. In Alaska, the village of Newtok started a nine-mile migration in the early 2000s. These efforts have been costly and complicated: Newtok’s move cost more than $150 million for just 300 people, and problems persist, from deteriorating buildings to inadequate water and sewer facilities.
Despite these cautionary tales, Kwigillingok’s residents remain resolute. They hope their experience will prompt faster, more decisive action from state and federal authorities. "I'm hoping that this storm, you know, will open their eyes [and] open their ears," said John, expressing a widely shared hope that the devastation will spur change.
Alaska Governor Mike Dunleavy, however, has signaled a more cautious approach. At a press conference in October 2025, he emphasized the complexity of relocation and the need for further study. "It's a complex question to get the answers for," Dunleavy said. "Not only what do you do to make a community prepared for the future, but where do you get the money and how do you do that?" For now, the focus remains on disaster recovery, with aid from the Federal Emergency Management Agency helping to rebuild what was lost. Dunleavy added, "On the question of relocation, that's going to be a discussion that's going to probably unfurl this winter [or] this spring and may take some time to really get resolution as to what that ends up going."
But time is a luxury Kwigillingok’s residents feel they don’t have. As winter sets in, recovery efforts have slowed, and the urgency for a long-term solution grows. The Alaska Native Tribal Health Consortium’s 2023 report found that 144 communities across the state face similar threats from climate change, with mitigation costs estimated at $4.3 billion over the next fifty years. These figures underscore the scale of the challenge—and the stakes for communities like Kwigillingok.
For now, the village waits. Some dream of returning to their ancestral land, perhaps to use it for seasonal subsistence activities, as their ancestors did before fixed settlements were established. Others look to the future, hoping for new homes on safer ground, where their children and grandchildren can thrive without fear of the next storm. The struggle to preserve culture, language, and community in the face of climate change is far from over, but Kwigillingok’s story is a stark reminder of what’s at risk—and what’s worth fighting for.
