By Don Terry & Ben Emos | Thursday January 22, 2026 | 5 min read
Something feels fundamentally off about where Trump’s anger and energy are being aimed. Greenland has once again been swept into an overheated political narrative, recast as a symbol of power, security, and national ambition. The idea is being sold as a strategic necessity. But as attention drifts north toward ice, maps, and military posturing, it conveniently pulls focus away from a far more unsettling chapter of American history to the south—one that remains unresolved, uncomfortable, and largely shielded from accountability.
In 1917, Denmark sold the Danish West Indies to the United States for $25 million in gold. The deal was driven by wartime fears and strategic calculations. The islands—now known as the U.S. Virgin Islands—were seen as important to protecting shipping lanes and preventing German influence in the Caribbean during World War I. It was a straightforward transaction by the standards of empire, but it came with strings attached.
As part of the agreement, the United States pledged it would not challenge Denmark’s control of Greenland. That assurance, formalized in what became known as the Lansing Declaration, was meant to settle Arctic questions once and for all. Greenland would remain Danish. The Caribbean islands would become American. The matter, at least on paper, was closed.
History, however, has a way of reopening old files.
More than a century later, one of those very same Caribbean islands—Little St. James, better known to the world as “Epstein Island”—would gain global notoriety for all the wrong reasons. It became synonymous with one of the most chilling scandals in modern American history, centered on Jeffrey Epstein, a figure who circulated easily among the powerful, including Donald Trump. What happened there had nothing to do with national security or geopolitical strategy. It was a story of power abused, of vulnerable people exploited, and of a system that failed time and again to hold influential figures fully to account—leaving those most in need of protection grievously exposed.
Little St. James did not become notorious because of foreign adversaries or geopolitical rivals. It became notorious because of what was allowed to happen on American soil, under American jurisdiction, for years. And even now, the full truth of how such abuses were enabled—and who looked the other way—remains frustratingly incomplete.
That is why the renewed fixation on Greenland feels like a distraction at best, and misdirection at worst.
Greenland did not ask to be pulled back into the spotlight. Its people have been clear: they are not for sale. Denmark has been clear: it does not have the authority to sell Greenland even if it wanted to. International law is clear. Congress is clear. And history, through the Lansing Declaration, is clear as well.
Yet Greenland is once again being treated as a symbol—a projection screen for American anxieties about decline, competition, and relevance in a changing world. It is easier to talk about ice, minerals, and military positioning than to confront uncomfortable truths closer to home.
Trump’s rhetoric taps into a familiar instinct: equate dominance with ownership, security with control. But the United States does not need to own Greenland to protect its interests in the Arctic. It already enjoys extensive military access there through longstanding agreements. What it does need is moral clarity about its own failures.
If national security is truly the concern, then accountability should matter too. The stain left by Little St. James is not a footnote—it is a warning. It shows what happens when power operates without scrutiny, when institutions prioritize influence over responsibility, and when outrage is selectively deployed.
The contrast is striking. Greenland, a place where the United States already has cooperation, treaties, and access, is portrayed as a looming necessity. Little St. James, where systemic failures allowed horrific abuses, is quietly folded into the past, treated as an embarrassment rather than a reckoning.
Misplaced outrage has consequences. It distorts priorities and erodes trust. It turns complex geopolitical relationships into soundbites while leaving deeper wounds unaddressed.
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More than a century ago, the United States promised it would respect Denmark’s control of Greenland. That promise still stands. What demands far more urgent attention is how America handles its own legacy—especially the parts that expose uncomfortable truths about power, privilege, and accountability.
Greenland is not the problem. Little St. James stands instead as a stark reminder of where the real failures lie—and of the unanswered questions that still surround the Epstein case. For many critics, it symbolizes a justice system that appeared unwilling, or unable, to fully expose what happened or to pursue everyone involved with equal force. Under Trump’s Justice Department, key facts remained sealed, investigations ended abruptly, and a sense lingered that powerful interests were protected while the full truth was left buried. Whether by design or by neglect, the result was the same: accountability felt incomplete, and public trust took another hit.