Fragile Nature Has a Price Tag

Tourism in Svalbard is growing. More visitors. More nights. More revenue.

They call it sustainable. But is it?

I’ll say this again: Tourism in Svalbard is growing, not shrinking. They call it sustainable.

A new report shows that cruise tourism alone generated 361.5 million NOK in local revenue on Svalbard in 2024. This is apparently the price that makes it worth risking this fragile area.

Visitor numbers are increasing. 167,714 guest nights in 2024, up from 139,371 the year before. More people are coming, and they are staying longer. 67,656 guests arrived, an increase from 62,951.

Cruise tourism alone brought 29,021 expedition cruise passengers, 38,105 on conventional cruises, and yet Longyearbyen has regained its sustainable destination certification. Believe it or not. The economy benefits. But what about nature?

Who cares about nature when guest numbers are rising? Who cares about the environment as long as the season is expanding? Who cares about nature when there are jobs at stake?

In my book, sustainability is about social, economic, and environmental concerns. It seems like they "skipped" the environmental part.

More emissions straight up in the air.
More footprints in the permafrost.
More ships in fragile Arctic waters.
More disruption to an ecosystem where wildlife survives on the edge.
More humans in a place where nature was never designed to host us.

The math doesn’t add up.

If cruise ships bring millions to local businesses, does that make their emissions disappear?
If visitors stay longer, does their impact shrink, or simply stretch over more days?

Svalbard’s Masterplan for 2030 aims for “balance.”

On one hand, they say they prioritize visitors with the least footprint and the highest spending. On the other hand, they wave cruise ships in.

It promotes year-round tourism. It celebrates economic growth.

Longyearbyen’s new certification doesn’t mean it is sustainable. It means it is working towards it. It means someone collected data, filled out forms, and checked the right boxes.

We can measure revenue. We can count guest nights. We can create sustainability labels.

But where, in all these numbers, do we measure what is lost?

When the ice melts, when the wildlife retreats, when the wilderness shrinks, will we look back and say the price was worth it?

Or will we realize that some things were never meant to be sold?