[This essay was published in Icelandic in Morgunblaðið on March 30, 2026. See screenshot below.]
Years ago I met an elderly farmer in the countryside beneath Hekla. As I stood taking in the land, he said: “My father was too poor to admire this beauty. Now my sons have too much to admire this beauty.”
It is a common human failing. We disregard the gifts at our doorstep and chase delight in distant realms. In Iceland’s case, the irony cuts deep.
Those born on this tiny patch of rock in this age won the luck of the draw. Karma placed you here in this cycle of existence. Your ancestors waged a ceaseless battle merely to sustain life. You, by contrast, dwell in an age of abundance and technological ease unimaginable to them. Yours is the blessed generation.
Let us turn to Iceland’s landscape.
Nothing else resembles it. Its visual essence is not merely distinct but utterly irreplaceable. The moment treeless expanses, volcanic strata, braided glacial streams, moss-draped lava fields, sulphur-stained soils and a pervasive austerity come into view, the recognition is immediate. The terrain proclaims itself, its signature unmistakable.
It stands in a class of one.
Comparisons to New Zealand arise often, but the analogy fails. New Zealand is undeniably lovely, but its allure fits a known genre. Forested peaks, fjords, alpine lakes and undulating hills place it within a broader landscape family that includes Alaska, Patagonia, and swaths of the European Alps.
A vista from New Zealand might pass for elsewhere. An image of Iceland could not.
Our world harbours expanses of staggering beauty. My native India boasts landscapes of extraordinary scale and variety: jungles, deserts, fertile plains, endless shores, and the colossal rampart of the Himalayas. Its wildlife ranges from elephants and tigers to birds and reptiles in astonishing richness. India dazzles through sheer magnitude and plenitude, a vast spectacle.
Iceland operates differently. Its beauty is subtle, spare, almost vulnerable.
Elsewhere on Earth, geology hides beneath canopies of forest, layers of soil or human cultivation. Iceland stays wild, its bones visible.
The scarcity of trees proves pivotal. Trees homogenise landscapes, obscure geology, and soften the land’s contours. In Iceland the landscape unfolds in primal splendour, uncamouflaged. Herðubreið would lose its essence if it were clothed in woodland. Here the orography of a mountain manifests in elemental purity.
While the Highlands evoke an alien enigma, the Vestfirðir withdraw from human scale. The ground feels ancient beyond settlement. Many cultures would instinctively recognise such places as hallowed ground.
Through its settled history Iceland’s terrain endured largely untouched by human hands. Until around fifteen years ago, when the scourge of mass tourism descended, initiating what I can only call the prostitution of this sacred earth.
In my photographic exploration, I have surveyed Iceland extensively by helicopter. In recent years the wounds upon the land have deepened alarmingly. Those advocating this harm cloak it in the hollow phrase “sustainable tourism.” It is a deceitful label wielded by profiteers who ferry crowds through Iceland, reducing the country to a commodity. Proposals to curb tourism ignite opposition from its beneficiaries, including politicians. We are told change is inevitable, that Iceland cannot be frozen in time. But decay too is change. Healthy societies evolve organically; they are not rushed.
My homeland offers a caution. Goa was once paradise; mass tourism has remade it beyond recognition. The damage extends beyond nature: the spirit of the place shifts, and so do its people.
A similar tale unfolds in Iceland.
Not long ago, a wanderer in the countryside might spark curiosity and conversation. No more. Many farmers, wearied by tourism’s intrusions, greet strangers with reserve, if not aversion.
Today one can circle the island, tour the famed sites, and meet scarcely any Icelanders. Former family farms, acquired by Reykjavík capital, have been turned into tourist ventures staffed by transient overseas workers. Outsiders unbound to this soil purchase prime land near storied peaks, eyeing tourism development. The pattern mirrors Switzerland: vistas laced with facilities, tailored for endless crowds.
In essence, Iceland’s Disneyfication.
Alongside the debasement of the land itself, Iceland has suffered a more profound wound in the last decade: its demographic destiny. Projections warn that, without swift remedy, Icelanders may soon be outnumbered in their ancestral home.
And now EU accession is being fast-tracked, with sovereignty and control over borders the price.
The folly of Iceland’s leaders defies measure.
This was the planet’s final haven where a peerless, pristine landscape was wedded to a tiny but vital civilisation. That inheritance now hangs by a thread.
A truth from the Buddha, arising in my motherland India, comes to mind:
“To every man is granted the key to the gates of heaven; the same key opens the gates to hell.”
