The Arctic has become something of a geopolitical obsession in recent years, with analysts and commentators repeatedly warning of China’s inexorable advance into the frozen north. Central to this narrative is the idea that Beijing is systematically “buying up” the Arctic through its Polar Silk Road initiative, using an alleged torrent of Chinese investments—often cited as exceeding $90 billion—to cement its influence across the region.
But a new study published just days ago by Harvard University’s Belfer Center for Science and International Affairs and Trent University’s School for the Study of Canada calls that narrative sharply into question. Researchers Anders Christoffer Edstrøm, Guðbjörg Ríkey Th. Hauksdóttir, and Whitney Lackenbauer present a comprehensive survey of Chinese investment activity in the Arctic from 2007 to 2025. Their analysis includes Chinese foreign direct investment, infrastructure and energy project involvement, attempted land purchases, and the establishment of research stations.
At the heart of their findings is an interactive investment map that tracks the status of each Chinese initiative using a “traffic light” system: green for successful projects, yellow for stalled efforts, and red for failures or abandoned ventures. The resulting landscape is far less threatening than often portrayed—dominated by yellow and red markers, and punctuated by only a handful of enduring successes.
Far from presenting a coherent or effective strategy, the study concludes, Chinese Arctic investments have been repeatedly frustrated by geopolitical resistance, economic impracticalities, and mounting national security concerns across virtually every Arctic state outside Russia.
The mirage of Chinese Arctic power
The Arctic has become something of a geopolitical obsession in recent years, with analysts breathlessly warning of Beijing’s inexorable advance into the frozen north. According to the prevailing narrative, China is systematically “buying up” the Arctic through an “unconstrained” flow of investments totalling some $90 billion. Yet a closer examination of actual Chinese Arctic investments reveals a rather more prosaic reality—one characterised by spectacular failures, abandoned ambitions, and a success rate that would make even the most optimistic venture capitalist wince.
The gap between perception and reality in discussions of Chinese Arctic investments has reached almost comical proportions. While commentators paint alarming pictures of Beijing’s Arctic conquest, the actual record suggests something closer to a comedy of errors. From Iceland’s rejected land purchases to Greenland’s comprehensive mining failures, the story of Chinese Arctic investments reads less like a masterful geopolitical strategy and more like a cautionary tale about Arctic ambition.
Cold numbers: A billion-dollar illusion
The most striking aspect of debates surrounding Chinese Arctic investments lies not in what has happened, but in how dramatically the rhetoric exceeds the reality. Analysts routinely cite figures suggesting Chinese investments in the Arctic region top $90 billion, a number that sounds impressively alarming until one examines what actually constitutes this supposed investment bonanza.
The problem becomes apparent when one distinguishes between proposed investments and actual investments, between announced projects and implemented projects, between corporate press releases and economic reality. A comprehensive mapping of Chinese Arctic investments reveals that the vast majority of these supposedly threatening investments exist primarily in the realm of wishful thinking rather than actual economic activity.
Consider the visual evidence: when researchers map actual Chinese Arctic investments using a traffic light system—green for successful projects, yellow for stalled initiatives, and red for outright failures—the resulting picture is dominated by yellow and red markers. The green indicators, representing genuinely successful Chinese Arctic investments, are sufficiently rare to constitute something approaching an endangered species.
Russia’s frozen embrace: The lone outlier
If there exists a success story in the annals of Chinese Arctic investments, it resides firmly within Russian territory. The Yamal LNG project stands as perhaps the sole genuinely transformative example, representing a $27 billion initiative that actually materialised into something resembling its original ambitions.
The Yamal project, majority-owned by Russian company Novatek alongside China National Petroleum Company (20%), French company Total (20%), and the Chinese Silk Road Fund (9.9%), demonstrates what Chinese Arctic investments can achieve when geopolitical circumstances align favourably. The project ships liquefied natural gas from the Port of Sabetta to global markets, including Europe, despite ongoing economic sanctions following Russia’s invasion of Ukraine.
Yet even this flagship example reveals the limitations of Beijing’s Arctic strategy. The subsequent Arctic LNG 2 project, located on the Gydan peninsula adjacent to Yamal, has encountered significant challenges due to U.S. sanctions, culminating in a force majeure declaration in late 2023. The project, 20% owned by Chinese interests, illustrates how quickly geopolitical circumstances can transform promising investments into expensive liabilities.
Beyond LNG, Chinese involvement in Russian Arctic infrastructure tells a similarly mixed story. The Eastern Siberia–Pacific Ocean pipeline and the Power of Siberia pipeline represent substantial investments, yet negotiations over the proposed Power of Siberia II have stalled due to disagreements over pricing. China’s insistence on what Moscow considers unrealistic price levels suggests that even within the supposedly “limitless” Sino-Russian partnership, economic realities impose their own constraints.
The broader pattern reveals a landscape littered with abandoned ambitions. Russia’s attempts to attract Chinese investors to the Vankor oil fields failed entirely in 2015. The massive Vostok Oil Project, despite Russian invitations for Chinese participation following the withdrawal of Western partners, has yet to secure meaningful Chinese investment.
Northern freeze: How the Nordics soured on Beijing’s Arctic dreams
The Nordic countries provide perhaps the most instructive examples of how Chinese Arctic investments encounter the realities of contemporary geopolitics. Despite China’s early diplomatic successes—Iceland became the first European country to sign a free-trade agreement with China in 2013—the actual record reads like a catalogue of dashed hopes and abandoned projects.
Iceland’s experience exemplifies this pattern of initial enthusiasm followed by practical disappointment. The case of Chinese property developer Huang Nubo’s attempted land purchases in northeastern Iceland became something of a cause célèbre, generating intense debate about foreign ownership and Arctic sovereignty. Yet Huang’s bid to purchase Grímsstadir á Fjöllum was ultimately rejected by Icelandic authorities, as were his subsequent attempts to acquire property in Norway’s Lyngen region and Svalbard.
The China Iceland Arctic Research Observatory (CIAO) at Kárhóll represents another instructive example of investments that promise more than they deliver. Despite officially launching in 2012 and securing a 99-year lease arrangement, the facility remains under construction more than a decade later, plagued by disagreements over costs and construction delays. The project has generated considerable suspicion about potential dual-use applications, with Iceland’s National Police Commissioner declaring in March 2025 that the facility possesses dual-use capabilities and might serve espionage purposes.
Norwa’s experience reveals similar patterns. The Hålogaland Bridge project, constructed by Chinese company Sichuan Road and Bridge, is one of the few genuinely completed Chinese Arctic investments in the Nordic region. Yet it was marred by construction delays, material quality issues, and legal disputes that eroded confidence in Chinese infrastructure delivery.
More recently, Norwegian authorities have adopted an increasingly restrictive approach. Plans by six Chinese companies to invest in Kirkenes—including textile factories, car manufacturing, and port development—have met stiff resistance from security services. The government’s insistence on security vetting has effectively ended Norway’s brief experiment in Arctic openness to China.
Finland’s experience underscores how quickly attitudes can shift. The Arctic Connect Subsea Cable, which would have linked Finland to Asia through a 10,500-kilometre fiber optic route, was abandoned in favour of U.S. partners. Proposals for Chinese research infrastructure and an airport in Kemijärvi were similarly rejected on security grounds.
The Western wall: Why North America shut the Arctic door
If the Nordic experience can be characterised as initial enthusiasm followed by growing scepticism, the North American approach might be described as systematic rejection punctuated by occasional moments of consideration. Greenland, despite receiving intensive attention in debates about Chinese Arctic investments, provides perhaps the most comprehensive example of how such investments can fail to materialise.
Chinese companies expressed interest in multiple Greenlandic projects during the 2010s, including offshore oil and gas exploration, airport infrastructure construction, and mining operations across four separate sites. Yet virtually none of these Chinese Arctic investments survived contact with political and economic reality. Greenlandic authorities banned future offshore oil and gas exploration, effectively ending Chinese ambitions in that sector. The China Communications Construction Company withdrew its bid for airport construction contracts worth 3.6 billion Danish crowns after Greenland selected Denmark over Beijing for project financing.
The mining sector tells a similarly disappointing story. Chinese companies held interests in the Citronen, Kvanefjeld, Isua, and Wegener Halvø mines, yet each project encountered insurmountable obstacles. Greenland withdrew the license for the Isua iron mine due to operator inactivity, while the Kvanefjeld rare earth project became effectively impossible following Greenland’s 2021 decision to ban uranium mining.
Canada’s approach has been characterised by extreme selectivity, with authorities approving only those projects that pose minimal security concerns while rejecting anything that might compromise national interests. The result is a Chinese presence in the Canadian Arctic that can be described as minimal at best. Currently, Chinese companies own just one operating mine and two development projects north of the 60th parallel.
The sole successful example in Canada—the Nunavik Nickel project in northern Quebec—required a $735 million investment and began shipping minerals to China through the Northwest Passage in 2014. Yet this success story stands in stark contrast to spectacular failures, most notably the Wolverine mine in Yukon, which one judge characterised as an “irresponsible mining venture” before it was abandoned by its Chinese owners.
The United States presents perhaps the most restrictive environment, with Alaska receiving minimal Chinese investment attention despite the Trump administration’s initial efforts to encourage Chinese participation in energy projects. The announced $42 billion Chinese investment in the Alaska LNG project was abandoned during Trump’s first term, illustrating how quickly geopolitical circumstances can derail even the most ambitious plans.
Frozen ambitions: A superpower humbled
A closer look at China’s Arctic footprint reveals a far cry from the sweeping narrative of dominance. Beyond a handful of legacy successes—chiefly in Russia—Beijing’s ventures have been derailed by prohibitive costs, political resistance, and mounting scrutiny from Arctic states.
The interactive mapping speaks volumes: a sea of red and yellow flags signals failure, delay, or deadlock, while green markers—symbols of genuine success—are vanishingly rare. China’s Arctic strategy, once hailed as bold and inevitable, now looks more like a cautionary tale of overreach in one of the world’s most unforgiving frontiers.
Rather than a triumph of long-term planning, Beijing’s polar push may come to be remembered as an ambition caught in the ice—undone not by confrontation, but by the cold realities of the Arctic itself.