This ruling did not emerge in a vacuum. It confirms and applies standards that the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights (IACHR) had systematised five years earlier, on 28 December 2021. The IACHR approved its thematic report Right to Self-Determination of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples. In that report, the Commission identified autonomy — that is, the right of peoples to govern themselves, define their own institutions and decide on their internal affairs — as one of the constituent elements of self-determination, alongside self-identification, cultural identity, collective property, political and participation rights, and the rights to free, prior, and informed consultation and consent.

Five years after that report, and with a recent case once again placing the issue on the regional agenda, it is worth examining what the Inter-American System has specifically noted about the right of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples to autonomy and self-government in its various dimensions. The purpose of the article is to examine the standards developed by the Commission and the Court, showing that the U’wa case is not an isolated event. Rather, the U’wa case serves as the most recent expression of a sustained body of institutional work spanning more than two decades, through the IACHR’s thematic and case reports and a continually evolving body of Inter-American jurisprudence.

Autonomy at the Core of Self-Determination

The self-determination of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples goes beyond the recognition of collective ownership of their lands. As the IACHR has stated, this right also entails the power to govern their territories through their own authorities, as part of the right to autonomy or self-government expressly recognised in Article XXI of the American Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (ADRIP) and Article 4 of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP). The Commission notes that the exercise of territorial governance is one of the most significant expressions of Indigenous and Tribal self-determination, as it entails the recognition of their own systems of government, which exercise control over, manage, and administer their ancestral territories.

Such control goes beyond holding title to the land. The IACHR emphasises that an essential component of Indigenous and Tribal autonomy is effective control over ancestral territories and the natural resources found within them. Ancestral territories and such natural resources constitute the material basis for the existence of these peoples as collective subjects, rather than commodities. They serve as “the basis of their economic subsistence” as well as a “source of their cultural identity and spiritual well-being”. However, the Commission notes with concern that, to date, very few States in the region have established legal or administrative mechanisms to guarantee the autonomy of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples over their natural resources and means of subsistence. On the contrary, it points out that domestic legal frameworks generally prevent these peoples from holding rights over the natural resources within their own habitats.

As early as 2001, in the case of the Mayagna (Sumo) Awas Tingni Community v. Nicaragua, the Inter-American Court recognised the close relationship between territory and the subsistence of Indigenous Peoples as organised collectives.

As early as 2001, in the case of the Mayagna (Sumo) Awas Tingni Community v. Nicaragua, the Inter-American Court recognised the close relationship between territory and the subsistence of Indigenous Peoples as organised collectives.

This difficulty is compounded by territorial fragmentation. The Commission has found that granting land titles to individual communities, rather than to entire peoples or territories, can exclude areas that are essential to their way of life and seriously hinder the exercise of autonomy. This is further compounded by the fragmentation caused by State borders themselves, which, in the case of cross-border and binational peoples — as in the Amazonian corridor between Colombia, Ecuador and Peru — restricts the exercise of rights associated with historical patterns of territorial mobility that do not recognise national boundaries.

This understanding of autonomy as territorial control is not new to the Inter-American System. As early as 2001, in the case of the Mayagna (Sumo) Awas Tingni Community v. Nicaragua, the Inter-American Court recognised the close relationship between territory and the subsistence of Indigenous Peoples as organised collectives. In doing so, it laid the foundations upon which, two decades later, the Commission would develop specific standards on autonomy and self-government.

Self-Government Within, Participation Beyond

The IACHR understands the right to autonomy or self-government as having a dual dimension. On the one hand, it entails the right of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples to have an autonomous government; on the other, it encompasses their right to participate in the broader social and political structures of which they form part, including the State itself.

The internal dimension entails the recognition and preservation of their own decision-making institutions, including the free selection of their traditional authorities without external interference. The State, in turn, has a general duty not to interfere with the functioning of these institutions. The Commission is explicit on this point: where a legal system requires a State authority to certify the election of an Indigenous authority, such certification is merely a declaratory record of the will of the people, as expressed through its respective territorial or community assembly. Under no circumstances may this replace, override, or supersede the decision taken collectively.

The Commission has documented the concrete consequences of failing to uphold this standard: both State action and inaction that foster the creation of “parallel” governments alongside those legitimately elected by Indigenous Peoples constitute violations of the right to self-government. This seriously undermines their self-determination, weakens traditional structures and can lead to social conflict within the communities themselves.

On a particularly important point, the Commission expressly rejects framing consent as a “right of veto”. It considers that such a view oversimplifies the issue and disregards the self-determination of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples.

The Commission expressly rejects framing consent as a “right of veto”. It considers that such a view oversimplifies the issue and disregards the self-determination of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples.

In its external dimension, the right to political participation requires that Indigenous and Tribal Peoples, through their own authorities and institutions, take part in State decision-making processes that may affect their rights. The Commission makes clear that such participation must be effective, rather than merely formal. It is not sufficient to entrust representation to a local or regional government authority that may not necessarily be familiar with the priorities and concerns of the people in question. In this regard, the IACHR has also noted with concern that political participation quotas do not always ensure genuine representation and that, in certain contexts, political party co-optation has resulted in a loss of political autonomy for Indigenous Peoples.

For the IACHR, the right to prior, free and informed consultation and consent is a direct manifestation of self-determination rather than a mere administrative procedure. It is the fundamental premise that enables peoples to determine how they wish to exercise the rights to which they are entitled, closely linking it to the aforementioned external dimension. On a particularly important point, the Commission expressly rejects framing consent as a “right of veto”. It considers that such a view oversimplifies the issue and disregards the self-determination of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples by wrongly assuming that the State’s decision-making process has the power to forcibly impose a particular activity.

Two Decades of Inter-American Standards

These developments by the Commission both draw on and contribute to a body of Inter-American Court jurisprudence that has evolved over more than 20 years. In the 2007 case of the Saramaka People v. Suriname, the Court established that, in the case of large-scale development or investment projects that would have a major impact on Indigenous or Tribal territory, the State has not only a duty to consult but also an obligation to obtain the people’s prior, free and informed consent, in accordance with their own customs and traditions. Five years later, in the case of the Kichwa Indigenous People of Sarayaku v. Ecuador, the Court further developed the relationship between territory, cultural identity and a people’s ability to develop and pursue their own plans for life.

In 2020, in the case of the Indigenous Communities Members of the Lhaka Honhat (Our Land) Association v. Argentina, the Court went a step further. The Court extensively linked economic, social, cultural and environmental rights to autonomy and the effective enjoyment of collective territory, recognising the interdependence of these rights. This includes the rights to a healthy environment, adequate food, water and cultural identity. These developments were systematised by the IACHR in its December 2021 report, in which it devotes a specific section to the internal and external dimensions of autonomy and their relationship with economic, social, cultural and environmental rights. The U’wa case, with which this article opens, reaffirms this same line of thought in a highly contemporary context: that of extractive projects overlapping ancestral territories, one of the situations that the IACHR itself identifies as recurring across the region.

This body of work by the Commission and the Court is underpinned by four approaches that the IACHR applies across the right to self-determination and that also provide a framework for autonomy. The first is its reparative nature: self-determination is understood as a corrective response to the historical injustices of dispossession, colonisation and denial of rights suffered by these peoples. The second is interculturality, which requires a shift from assimilation towards coexistence based on respect for different worldviews, together with a genuine sharing of decision-making power over their own development priorities. The third is its cross-cutting nature: for the Commission, self-determination should guide the way in which the State guarantees all other rights of these peoples, rather than being treated as an isolated issue. The fourth and final approach combines gender and intergenerational perspectives: the IACHR has highlighted the participation of Indigenous women in self-government and community leadership, as well as intergenerational solidarity as a means of ensuring that their own forms of organisation are sustained over time.

A Gap Yet to Be Closed

Five years after the IACHR report, the Inter-American standard on the autonomy of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples is clearly established. Autonomy is not a discretionary concession by States, but a pre-existing right which, as the Commission itself recalls, “should not be understood as a concession or something granted”. What persists, however, is the gap between this standard and its effective implementation: the Commission notes that very few States in the region currently have legal or administrative mechanisms in place to guarantee Indigenous autonomy over their territories and natural resources.

Closing this gap requires States to bring their legal and institutional frameworks into line with the standards developed by the Inter-American System, rather than treating the recognition of Indigenous autonomy as an exception or a concession. In this endeavour, both the IACHR — through its thematic and case reports and its ongoing monitoring — and the Inter-American Court — through its continually evolving jurisprudence, of which the U’wa case is but one recent expression — continue to provide a reference framework for Indigenous and Tribal Peoples throughout the Americas to exercise their right to self-government in practice.

I am grateful to Mishkila Rojas, a specialist with the IACHR Rapporteurship on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, for her valuable support in the preparation of this article.

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1. Two dates, one problem

In 2009, Bolivia remade itself as a plurinational state, on the authority of a constituent assembly in which Indigenous Peoples took part as principals and not as petitioners. Since then, eight Indigenous autonomies have been constituted. They exercise no authority over the subsoil beneath their territories and are financed on substantially the same terms as any municipality.

In 2015, the Government of India and Naga negotiators signed a Framework Agreement recording that in a democracy sovereignty lies with the people. Eleven years on, the Naga people have not been asked to exercise it.

Both of these problems arise from the same constitutional question. The issue is where that authority originates and whether it can be called upon again. The plurinational constitutions recognise many peoples as subjects of the order and one people as its author. The Naga difficulty is the reverse — an authority never conferred, and so never closed, but with no settled constitutional mechanism through which the people can exercise it. Neither arrangement secures both dimensions.

2. Terms, comparison and scope

Sovereignty is the quality of ultimate political authority, which in a democracy resides in the people and is not transferable, though its exercise may be entrusted. Self-determination is a right of peoples, with an internal dimension concerning how a people governs itself within an existing state and an external dimension concerning international status. Autonomy denotes a sphere of authority recognised by a state; self-government denotes the standing capacity of a people to constitute and direct the institutions through which it governs; self-governance denotes the continuing practice of governing through those institutions, norms and relationships.  

Bolivia and Ecuador underwent constituent processes aimed at refounding the state. The Naga case is a long bilateral negotiation between a state and a political movement. These are not the same kind of process but what is compared is a relation, namely the relation between the source of a people’s authority and the material and institutional base on which that authority can be exercised. The relation appears in both settings, despite their very different political and institutional conditions.

The Nagas are a territorial majority in their homeland, while Indigenous Peoples hold varying demographic positions in Bolivia and Ecuador. These Andean nations are rentier
states, whereas the Indian state in the Northeast operates primarily as a security state.

The Nagas constitute a territorial majority in their homeland, whereas Indigenous Peoples occupy different demographic positions in the two Andean states.

The Nagas constitute a territorial majority in their homeland, whereas Indigenous Peoples occupy different demographic positions in the two Andean states. Bolivia and Ecuador are rentier states whose legitimacy rests on redistributing resource revenue; the Indian state in the Northeast has operated substantially as a security state through exceptional legislation, which produces different incentives and different instruments of control. The relationship between Indigenous movements and political parties differs in each. These are the limits of the comparison. If the same relationship appears in such different settings, it is more likely to reflect a structural pattern than a feature of one political environment.

This article is written from a Naga vantage point and for a Naga purpose, which is to learn from what Indigenous Peoples in Bolivia and Ecuador achieved and from what they were unable to hold. The Latin American material rests on the work of scholars and movements in the region. The Latin American literature on de facto autonomy is taken up below through a single case, Chiapas, as a particularly clear instance of autonomy exercised without formal legal recognition. The internal contestation of Indigenous self-government, including the scholarship of Indigenous women, is touched on only where it bears on what peoplehood requires.

On sources, two competing versions of the text of the Framework Agreement have been published in the media but the competency proposals that followed are not in the public domain; the discussion below is therefore limited to the broad constitutional and political arrangement they indicate and does not quote the provisions directly. The claim on which the argument turns is independent of those confidential materials. It is that no constituent act appears on the public record, a claim that would be displaced by the production of such an act.

3. Bolivia: an architecture built, then narrowed

Bolivia gave constitutional standing to 36 nations and their languages, created a Plurinational Constitutional Tribunal and special Indigenous constituencies, recognised Indigenous jurisdiction as equal to the ordinary courts, and recognised Indigenous autonomy as arising from the pre-existing authority of Indigenous nations rather than as a grant from the centre. This was won over decades, at a cost that included lives.

The boundary between what the constitution recognised and what remained with the state is consistent throughout.Identity, language, custom and jurisdiction were recognised; the subsoil, the resource rent and much of the fiscal power stayed with the state. Bolivian Indigenous autonomies hold certain taxation powers attached to municipal competencies, but the available tax base is negligible and dependence on central transfers remains very high. A distinction that is often overlooked also matters. Indigenous territories hold considerably stronger rights over renewable natural resources than over the non-renewable subsoil, which remains with the state.

Equality therefore survives as a constitutional principle while the scope of the jurisdiction is narrowed by ordinary law. What a constitution grants, an ordinary statute can substantially narrow without amendment.

Equality therefore survives as a constitutional principle while the scope of the jurisdiction is narrowed by ordinary law.

Two mechanisms then narrowed what recognition delivered. The first is at the point of entry. A territory or municipality seeking Indigenous autonomy had to draft a written statute, win a local referendum and pass constitutional review; Ley 1198 of 2019 later eased that route, allowing a statute to be approved in a recognised Indigenous territory through the people’s own norms and procedures, with legislative approval to follow. Conversion nonetheless remained slow, which locates the constraint in the organisational capacity needed to complete the process, not in procedure alone.

The second mechanism works after recognition has been won. The Jurisdictional Demarcation Law, passed the year after the constitution, drew the boundary of that formally equal jurisdiction narrowly, placing serious criminal matters outside it along with mining, hydrocarbons and other fields. Equality therefore survives as a constitutional principle while the scope of the jurisdiction is narrowed by ordinary law. What a constitution grants, an ordinary statute can substantially narrow without amendment. This is the process of hollowing out. The breaking points have been where recognition meets the material base — the road driven through the Isiboro Sécure territory in 2011 being the clearest instance. Where a state lives on resource rent, the redistribution that sustains its legitimacy is financed by extraction from the territories where self-government would have real force.

4. Ecuador: an architecture declared, and not built

The 2008 constitution of Ecuador established plurinationality and interculturality as principles of the state and recognised Indigenous jurisdiction and Indigenous territorial districts, but it did not produce an equivalent institutional architecture for Indigenous autonomy, and no Indigenous territorial district has been constituted. Where Bolivia built and narrowed, Ecuador declared and did not build.

The narrowing that did occur came through adjudication. In 2014, in La Cocha, the Constitutional Court held that Indigenous jurisdiction does not extend to cases involving death, narrowing by interpretation the jurisdiction that the constitution had recognised in principle. Then, a national referendum in 2023 mandated an end to drilling in Yasuní, but the result has not been fully implemented. By 2026, a major exercise of Indigenous political mobilisation had become defensive. Indigenous organisations helped defeat a referendum on a new constituent assembly, while Indigenous and environmental organisations faced restrictions on their civic activity, including the freezing of bank accounts.

5. What the two retreats share

Hollowing out by statute in one state, non-implementation and judicial restriction in the other — different routes producing a similar structural weakness. This points to something in the structure of conferred recognition rather than to the politics of one governing party. Three features are common. The material base stayed with the state in each. The difficulty of the route to autonomy was in each case read back into the people as evidence of incapacity. And because the plurinational project was constituted through constitutional law, its survival depends in significant part on courts and legislatures continuing to uphold it. Where judicial independence erodes or political institutions turn hostile, its constitutional protections become vulnerable. By 2026 the strain is visible in both, with Bolivia’s long protest wave taking place inside the constitutional order rather than directed towards a new one. What was not secured was a continuing institutional capacity for the peoples themselves to reopen the constitutional settlement. The constituent power that could author the order was exercised at the founding but not reserved to be exercised again.

6. A people that has not been asked

6.1. A regime nobody granted

The Naga homeland lies across what is now northeast India and northwest Myanmar. Before colonial rule, there was no centralised Naga state because political authority was organised at the village level. Each village was its own polity, governing through its own institutions, holding its land and settling disputes under its customary law, with authority resting on the agreement of those who lived under it. Land and its resources belonged to communities and still do. That political and territorial inheritance was not granted by a state.

British administration gradually brought Naga territories under separate colonial jurisdictions during the nineteenth century, and the transfer of power in 1947 divided the Naga homeland again between India and Burma, now Myanmar, without a settlement reached with the people who lived there. A wider Naga political consciousness grew from this experience rather than preceding it. Division imposed from outside made a common political voice a practical necessity. A plebiscite was held in 1951; armed conflict followed, then long negotiation, and a ceasefire has held since 1997.

6.2. Article 371A: a shelter, not a foundation

Article 371A of the Constitution of India, in force since 1963, provides that no Act of Parliament touching Naga religious or social practice, Naga customary law and procedure, the administration of justice under that law, or the ownership and transfer of land and its resources shall apply in Nagaland unless the state legislative assembly decides that it should. Since land and its resources are understood to belong to the communities, this protects the material base more firmly than almost anything available in Latin America.

The provision must nonetheless meet the same test applied to conferred authority elsewhere, and it does not pass it. Article 371A is part of the Indian constitutional order and operates through a state legislative assembly. What is distinctive in the Naga situation is not the provision but the customary regime of community ownership that the provision recognises — a regime that predates the Indian constitutional order and is not derived from it. Article 371A is therefore the state’s recognition of an existing Naga institution, not the source of that institution.

The consequences follow from that distinction. The protection is conditional because the constitutional exclusion operates through the decision of the state legislative assembly. It is a shelter rather than a foundation. And because the Naga political question has never been settled, there has been no constituent act through which the Naga people authorised a permanent transfer or surrender of that authority. A settlement of wider scope, negotiated without constituent authority, could concede what the people never empowered their negotiators to concede. That makes protection of the material base, rather than its creation, one of the first questions any constituent settlement would have to address.

6.3. The Framework Agreement and the question of source

The Framework Agreement of 3 August 2015 recognises the unique history and position of the Nagas; records that both parties are cognizant of the universal principle that in a democracy sovereignty lies with the people; and speaks of sharing the sovereign powers as defined in the competencies.

Its meaning is contested. The Government of India has not publicly characterised the arrangement as shared sovereignty in the same terms as the NSCN (IM) but has indicated it as an enhanced form of autonomy. The leadership of the NSCN (IM) reads the same text as recognising Naga sovereignty and a relationship of shared sovereignty between distinct entities. The question pursued here is prior to both readings and has not been joined by any of the parties.

A proposed settlement intended to establish a new political order, but which cannot be shown to the people whose constituent power it claims to exercise, is not an exercise of that power, whatever its content.

A proposed settlement that cannot be shown to the people is not an exercise of their power.

The detailed competencies since proposed take the Framework Agreement as their point of departure and proceed directly to subjects of governmental and administrative power and would have the agreement itself stand as a constitution. Competencies are therefore being prepared without any exercise of constituent authority. Where the source of the competencies is unnamed, they remain open to being read as flowing from the Constitution of India, at which point the sharing of sovereign powers between two peoples could become an arrangement of autonomy within an existing constitutional order rather than a new constitutional relationship between distinct constituent peoples.

The confidentiality of the documents bears on the same point. A proposed settlement intended to establish a new political order, but which cannot be shown to the people whose constituent power it claims to exercise, is not an exercise of that power, whatever its content. Constituent authority is not a quality a document can hold privately.

6.4. What counts as a constituent act

A claim that constituent authority has not been exercised requires a criterion made up of three elements, applied to the whole record rather than to the current negotiation alone. A constituent act is one in which a people deliberates, decides by its own procedures, and authorises the creation or fundamental reordering of its political institutions.

The memorandum submitted to the Simon Commission in 1929 was a petition, not a decision. The plebiscite of 1951 satisfies the first two elements in relation to political status but not the third, since it established no institutions and conferred no mandate to design them. The Sixteen-Point Agreement of 1960 was concluded by a body with no mandate to represent or negotiate, at a point when the Naga resistance movement had been largely suppressed and the organisation claiming a mandate from the plebiscite was in no position to contest it. The Shillong Accord of 1975 was repudiated on the ground that it had not authorised the terms agreed. The competencies now under discussion rest on mandated negotiators.

Across almost a century, the Naga political process has repeatedly produced instruments that did not clearly rest on the consent of the constituent power, which is a substantial part of why none has settled the question. In the current negotiation for settlement, that power has never been expressly invoked through a constituent procedure, and the competencies still lack a publicly named source.

6.5. Who would vote?

If a people is to adopt its own settlement and reopen it, its identity cannot remain implicit. The Naga people and their ancestral territory are substantially identifiable, and identifiability is not what the Government of India disputes. The difficulty is that this homeland no longer coincides with present administrative boundaries, and Naga communities are now situated across Nagaland, Manipur, Assam, Arunachal Pradesh and, across the international boundary, Myanmar. The questions include: Who participates in the settlement, which Naga ancestral areas fall within its scope, and what constitutional form can give effect to a people whose homeland has been divided among existing states? The territorial question therefore belongs within the constituent process rather than being left as a matter to be resolved afterwards. The Myanmar side raises a separate interstate question and cannot be carried into a constitutional settlement confined to India.

In comparison, a plurinational constitution can reserve constituent authority to an electorate whose legal boundaries are already drawn, even where that electorate contains several recognised peoples. The Naga constituent community is identifiable, but its political territory and the present representation of its members do not coincide. The problem lies in the absence of a constitutional form through which an existing peoplehood, whose homeland and political representation have been divided among state boundaries, can act collectively. The definition of the constituent subject is therefore inseparable from the reservation of constituent authority to that subject.

6.6. What an unresolved question costs

The Naga position is not a solution to the problem identified above; it is a different way of remaining outside a settled constitutional order. There is no settled territorial jurisdiction, and talks have been stalled for years over a flag and a constitution. A negotiation running for decades can become a form of government in itself. Authority accumulates in the bodies conducting it, prolonged representation displaces participation, and rival bodies each claim to carry an authority whose source remains uncertain.

A political community that has spent 70 years without a settled constitutional relationship has also had no occasion to build the deliberative and administrative practice that exercising one would require. This creates a problem that is structurally comparable to the difficulty seen in Bolivia, but the causes are different. In Bolivia, institutional capacity was tested by a state-defined procedure for obtaining autonomy. In the Naga case, the absence of a settled constitutional relationship has limited the opportunity to develop institutions through which the people could exercise their constituent authority.

7. What a material base must include

7.1. Title and control

A material base of self-government cannot be reduced to legal title, subsoil ownership or resource revenue. Zapatista self-government in Chiapas has operated for decades without state recognition and without any conventional transfer of fiscal resources. Its experience shows that self-government can persist where formal title and state-derived revenue are absent, provided that communities retain effective control over territory and develop the organisational capacity to exercise that control.

This makes effective control a necessary part of the material base. What sustains self-government day to day is not legal title or resource revenue as such, but effective control over territory together with accumulated organisational capacity. On that reading, Chiapas is not an exception to the argument but an important illustration of it. The Zapatistas have exercised substantial control and built organisational capacity in the absence of formal title and resource rents.

The distinction is therefore between the legal and the practical dimensions of authority. Effective control is what makes a right usable; recognised rights are what make control legally defensible. Neither substitutes for the other in a settled relationship with a state. A durable settlement of self-government therefore requires both recognised authority and the effective capacity to exercise it.

7.2. Scale as a condition of control

Latin American scholarship has long argued that self-government needs a territorial and political scale able to sustain an economic base, and that autonomy confined to fragmented municipal units becomes municipal administration under another name. Bolivian Indigenous autonomy was encapsulated within municipalities before it was further constrained by the state’s retention of subsoil resources, and the two limitations compound one another. A unit too small to sustain an economy cannot exercise resource rights effectively even where it formally holds them. Scale is therefore a condition of effective control.

The claim for integration arises in part because the present arrangement distributes Naga areas across administrative units, few of which are viable as the territorial basis of self-government. If integration were achieved, it would also avoid the problem of winning a majority among neighbours who want no part of the arrangement, a difficulty seen in some Bolivian cases. It carries an obligation in return. Where proposed Naga territories overlap with territories inhabited by other peoples, integration would place those peoples in the position of a minority within an autonomy constituted primarily by the Naga people. The terms on which those neighbours are included would therefore have to be settled with them, rather than assumed as part of the Naga claim. Subsurface deposits straddle these boundaries and the homeland crosses an international border, so shared resources would need a regime agreed with neighbours and the State.

7.3. Ownership without the means of exercise

The Naga evidence states the proposition in reverse. Recognised community ownership has not settled who may licence extraction. Oil was produced at Changpang from 1981 until May 1994, when the operator withdrew amid demands for payment for Naga resources, leaving wells improperly decommissioned; the constitutional question remains open, with Nagaland invoking Article 371A and the Union invoking the Union List together with the Mines and Minerals (Regulation and Development) Act 1957. More than 60 years after Article 371A came into force, recognised ownership has still not produced effective control over the resource.

Ownership recognised without the institutions through which it can be exercised — including a clear linkage between customary and statutory jurisdiction, budgetary authority at the community level, and the technical and legal capacity to negotiate rather than merely refuse — leaves the right formally intact but practically exposed. Where those institutions do not exist, the state retains much of the practical machinery through which resource decisions are made. Building an effective system of community resource governance would therefore require authority and institutional capacity to exercise ownership.

An independent material base does not democratise-government by itself. Revenue accruing to an autonomous authority can concentrate power within a territory just as readily as it can remain under external control.

8. The condition no settlement supplies for itself

The constitutional settlement cannot supply for itself the political capacity needed to sustain it. The constitutional texts of Bolivia and Ecuador did not change between 2009 and 2026; the executives did, and recognition proved vulnerable once the institutions responsible for implementing it turned against it. More broadly, Indigenous self-government is difficult to sustain where the surrounding state ceases to respect democratic institutions and recasts claims to self-government as threats to territorial unity.Across Asia, claims to self-governance have often been treated as separatism and answered with force.

There is a trap in the observation. If self-government must await the state’s democratisation, the state holds a veto over it. Two considerations close the trap. Indigenous self-government is itself democratising. Plurinationality is, at its core, a claim about the character of democracy — that a political order can contain more than one legitimate source of authority and still hold together. Coexistence therefore requires more than the restraint of the state. It requires a shared political and moral horizon between peoples, built through their relationship rather than granted by one to the other.

A shared horizon is required between peoples, so that coexistence rests on something other than the balance of force. Peoplehood is therefore a precondition rather than a sentiment.

A shared horizon is required between peoples, so that coexistence rests on something other than the balance of force.

Self-determination is in this sense a practice carried on over time rather than a fixed institutional arrangement. A shared horizon is required between peoples, so that coexistence rests on something other than the balance of force. Peoplehood is therefore a precondition rather than a sentiment. Coherence sufficient to act together means the capacity to act through disagreement, not its absence, and a conception of peoplehood that treats dissent as a threat to unity produces a silenced subject rather than a constituent one, and the experience of Indigenous women in particular shows that rights are claimed within autonomy rather than against it.

The Bolivian record is telling here. The composite category through which Indigenous peoplehood entered the constitutional text held as long as the coalition behind it held, then broke along the division it had covered, between Andean peasant federations and lowland territorial organisations. By the time the order needed its authors again, they no longer existed in a form able to act. That closure was contingent and political rather than inherent in constitution-making, which places the remedy less in drafting than in the maintenance of political power.

Proposal

Since the diagnosis is that constitutional texts are insufficient without the power and capacity to sustain them, the proposals address who holds and can exercise something — authority, territory, revenue or institutional capacity — rather than what a document merely says about it. Reserved constituent power.

Sovereignty is inherent in the people and cannot be permanently transferred, even though its exercise may be entrusted to institutions.A constitution must therefore specify when and in what circumstances the founding power may be reconvened and must leave that power with the people rather than with the head of state, the institutions or the negotiators. Where the text draws no such boundary, whoever holds office will draw it.

A standard objection in constitutional theory is that once a constitution regulates how a  constituent power is exercised, what it regulates is no longer constituent power but a constituted power of amendment.No constitution creates constituent power, and none can abolish it; a reopening clause acknowledges a power the text cannot originate and specifies who may set it in motion. The alternative to specifying it is not preservation but silence, which leaves the question to whoever holds office when it arises. The objection also points to a useful distinction. If a regulated reopening procedure is merely an amendment power, then the Bolivian and Ecuadorian provisions should not be described as reservations of constituent power to Indigenous peoples. What is proposed here is narrower in scope than general constituent power but distinct from ordinary amendment, reaching only the terms of the relationship between a people and the state.

A power invocable at will would make government impossible; one never invocable is not reserved. Four specifications give it workable shape:

• Who may trigger it. The people whose authority is at stake, acting through their own institutions and procedures, and not only the national electorate. In a plurinational order each constituent people holds the trigger for the terms constituting its own relationship with the state.
• What it reaches. Not the constitution at large but the terms of the relationship; the distribution of authority between the people and the state, the territorial arrangement, the material base, and the reopening procedure itself. Ordinary legislation and ordinary amendment remain with the constituted powers.
• Under what circumstances. Material breach, where the state has failed to implement or has legislated to narrow what was agreed; fundamental change of circumstances, such as a major resource discovery or a fundamental change in the constitutional character of the state; and periodic review at intervals of a generation. Periodic review matters most in practice, because it makes reconsideration a normal constitutional possibility rather than an allegation of bad faith.
• By what procedure. Deliberation within the people according to its own norms, decision by the people concerned, negotiation with the state, ratification by both. Initiation would not be unilateral, but neither would it require the other party’s permission.

Any such clause should state expressly that it is not a right of secession and should be drafted so that it cannot be read as one. Its purpose is the renegotiation of terms within a continuing relationship.

Both plurinational constitutions do provide for reconvening the founding power. In Bolivia, total reform, or reform touching the fundamental bases, rights and guarantees, proceeds through a plenipotentiary constituent assembly activated by referendum, which may be set in motion by citizen initiative carrying at least twenty per cent of the electorate, by an absolute majority of the Plurinational Legislative Assembly, or by the President, the resulting text requiring approval at a constitutional referendum. In Ecuador, a constituent assembly may be convoked only through popular consultation, requested by the President, by two-thirds of the National Assembly, or by twelve per cent of those on the electoral register, with any new constitution approved by referendum.

The trigger and the ratification mechanisms are organised through the national electorate as a single constitutional body. Neither constitution reserves the initiative to a constituent people as such. A plurinational constitution reserving the founding power only to the national body of voters has not institutionalised plurinationality in this respect. It recognises many peoples as subjects of the order and one people as its author. The criticism is internal to the plurinational project rather than directed against it. The question is whether recognising several peoples should extend beyond recognising them as subjects of rights and autonomy to reserving to each a constituent authority over the fundamental terms of its own relationship with the state.

9. What international law supports

India has not ratified ILO Convention No. 169; Bolivia ratified it in 1991 and Ecuador in 1998. Its consultation and benefit-sharing requirements therefore bind Bolivia and Ecuador as parties to the Convention, but not India. The relevant provision is in any event conditional in form, addressing cases in which the State retains ownership of mineral or sub-surface resources, and so presupposes rather than confers that ownership, which arises under domestic law.

UNDRIP recognises, in Article 26, the right to own, use, develop and control lands, territories and resources without expressly excluding sub-surface resources; requires, in Article 32(2), free, prior and informed consent before approval of projects affecting those territories, naming mineral resources expressly; and provides redress where resources have been taken without consent. The argument here draws on this stronger conception of control and consent rather than treating consultation as the outer limit of Indigenous participation.

One foreseeable objection concerns territorial integrity. The Declaration carries a savings clause for the territorial integrity and political unity of sovereign and independent states. That clause does not itself establish an unconditional rule that existing territorial arrangements prevail over all claims of self-determination. The closely related 1970 Friendly Relations Declaration states the territorial-integrity principle in a formulation that refers to states conducting themselves in compliance with the principle of equal rights and self-determination and possessing a government representing the whole people without distinction. Territorial integrity appears there as a condition to be met, not a guarantee.

The Friendly Relations Declaration states the territorial-integrity principle in a formulation referring to States conducting themselves in compliance with the principle of equal rights and self-determination and possessing a government representing the whole people.

The Friendly Relations Declaration states the territorial-integrity principle, referring to States in compliance with the principle of equal rights and self-determination.

A second foreseeable objection concerns India’s position on self-determination. India has entered a declaration concerning Article 1 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights that limits the right of self-determination, for purposes of India’s undertaking under the Covenant, to peoples under foreign domination. France, Germany, the Netherlands and Pakistan objected to that declaration. The declaration records India’s position in the treaty framework; it does not by itself determine what India and the Nagas may agree in a negotiated settlement. No such settlement has yet been concluded.

10. What self-government is, and what a settlement must secure

Self-government is the standing capacity of a people to establish, direct and remake the institutions through which it governs itself, resting on five conditions together  —  a people coherent enough to act together, in the sense given above; authority originating in the people rather than in a grant; a material base consisting of effective control over territory and its resources, at a scale able to sustain them, together with revenue held as of right; institutions answerable to the people and capable of being remade; and the practical capacity to design those institutions and govern through them.

Stated as requirements, and drawn from what the two experiences show, this is what a settlement would need to secure:

1. Name the origin of the authority it recognises, and recognise rather than create it;
2. Be adopted by the people themselves through a constituent assembly, referendum, plebiscite or comparable process, and not by negotiators alone;
3. Set out when and how the people may reconvene to revise it, with a trigger available to the people concerned and not only to a wider electorate;
4. Secure land, subsoil and resources as of right, at a viable scale, together with authority over their alienation and transfer, and the institutions and revenue through which that holding can be exercised;
5. Reduce nothing already protected, a settlement being measured against the position it replaces;
6. Entrench competencies so that they cannot be narrowed by statute or emptied by interpretation, with disputes referred to an independent forum rather than to the administration of one party;
7. Draw the form of government from the people’s own traditions rather than an external template;
8. Answer to its own members, standards such as the equal standing of women being reached through the people’s own institutions, supported by education and resources, rather than by external mandate alone;
9. Establish a standing forum in which the parties meet as parties, and a corresponding forum with neighbouring peoples or jurisdictions where territory or resources are shared;
10. Treat the capacity to design a governing architecture, and to govern through it, as a standing programme of work rather than as something acquired after signature.

The first nine are matters to be secured through mutual agreement and reciprocal obligation; the tenth is a capacity that no settlement can confer and that the people themselves must build and exercise. Capacity of this sort — administrative, fiscal, deliberative, and sufficient to carry internal disagreement — must be built by Indigenous governments and movements themselves, and there are two reasons for treating it as urgent. Where autonomy has functioned well in Latin America, organisational depth and governing practice generally preceded the legal form, with the legal framework recognising and consolidating capacities that had already developed. And states have learned to read missing capacity as a reason to withhold authority, turning a shortfall into an argument against further authority.

The pathways through which movements enter parties and state programmes, the conditions attached to participation, and the dismantling or displacement of institutions peoples had built for themselves all shape how much organisational capacity can accumulate. In the Naga case, the raw material has not been absent. Villages have governed continuously, although protracted militarisation, institutional disruption and weaknesses within the movements themselves have eroded that inheritance. What remains missing and unfinished is the deliberate work of revitalising and connecting those surviving institutions into a wider political, fiscal and administrative capacity capable of sustaining self-government at the scale required.

11. Conclusion

None of this requires an unprecedented constitutional imagination, with States building beyond the doctrinal minimum. Denmark’s Self-Government Act recognises the people of Greenland as a people under international law with the right of self-determination and establishes a defined legal route through which the relationship may develop further. The Latin American constituent processes also went a considerable distance, but stopped short when they recognised multiple peoples as subjects of the constitutional order but did not reserve to those peoples a continuing constituent authority, and substantial control over the material base remained with the state. The Naga process has kept the question open at the cost of never securing an answer and now risks settling how government will work without first settling where its authority comes from.

The question is who constitutes whom — and whether, once answered, that question may be asked again.

The post Who Constitutes Whom? Constituent Power, the Material Base, and the Limits of Plurinational Recognition: a Naga Reading of the Latin American Experience appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

The book Mexico: Autonomies from North to South in Diverse Contexts, published by IWGIA (2026) and coordinated by the authors of this article, shows that criminal violence is more than a public security issue: organised crime operates as a mechanism of territorial control aimed at gaining control over natural resources, strategic routes, productive activities and community governance structures. The case studies show that, in many places, Indigenous autonomies have become sites of political contestation between community projects of self-determination and criminal actors seeking control over territories.

A Book Explaining the Erosion of Indigenous Autonomy

Sociologist Carlos Rafael Rea shows how, in the state of Nayarit, Indigenous communities are caught in armed confrontations between criminal organisations. This results in forced displacement, the recruitment of young people, economic control over everyday life and the erosion of their own institutions. Autonomy does not disappear immediately but is gradually eroded and weakened in the face of criminal actors capable of replacing or exerting pressure on community authorities.

In Guerrero, the case of the Regional Coordination of Community Authorities–Community Police (CRAC-PC), analysed by Evangelina Sánchez and Claudia Rangel, illustrates the complex relationship between criminality and autonomy. This experience shows how community-based systems of security and justice can become priority targets for criminal actors and external interests seeking to weaken them and fragment these forms of resistance. Violence against community leaders, co-optation and attempts to dismantle their organisations have become recurring mechanisms for undermining communities’ capacity to defend themselves.

The case studies show how criminal groups instrumentalise Indigenous organisational practices and mechanisms to gain legitimacy or access to local power, profoundly transforming community life. Enriqueta Lerma’s analysis of the Yaqui people introduces the notion of “narco-ethnocide” to explain how organised crime does not only perpetrate physical violence. It also reshapes the community’s political, symbolic and cultural structures. Along similar lines, Medardo Tapia develops the concept of the “social accumulation of violence” to explain the rise in homicides, extortion and other forms of insecurity affecting community life in Coatetelco, Xoxocotla and Hueyapan, in the state of Morelos.

Attacks on Indigenous Self-Government

The book also documents the blurred boundaries between criminal and state violence. Professor and researcher Carmen Ventura examines the struggles of Nahua and P’urhépecha communities to defend their territories and establish autonomous forms of governance in contexts of structural violence and dispossession. Ventura documents how Indigenous Peoples in Mexico face threats arising from illegal economies, large-scale extractive projects and exclusionary state policies.

Other studies highlight territorial dispossession, the capture of local governments, threats against traditional authorities, the killing of community leaders, the forced recruitment of young people and population displacement. The articles show that these mechanisms do not operate in isolation. They also form part of complex strategies aimed at gaining control over Indigenous territories and undermining autonomous forms of organisation.

Other Indigenous Peoples are experiencing the fragmentation of their community structures and the weakening of their decision-making and community protection mechanisms. They face a form of “community capture” whereby the loyalty of their authorities is bought, turning them into spokespersons for the interests of dominant economic actors and illegal economies, whether through inducements or the use of force.

The evidence presented shows that organised crime not only causes killings, displacement and fear but also directly attacks institutions of self-government, forms of community organisation and Indigenous Peoples’ projects of self-determination. This analysis helps to reframe the debate on Indigenous autonomies, moving beyond discussions focused primarily on their legal dimension. In essence, this article also encourages to consider Indigenous autonomies from the perspective of territorial security, community defence and the resilience of Indigenous Peoples in contexts of extreme violence.

Indigenous Peoples’ Responses

Communities are reconfiguring their communal governments, creating new forums for building consensus, strengthening regional ties and forging alliances to improve their position in negotiation processes and political mobilisation. In other cases, they turn to legal action. This includes (i) filing amparo actions (constitutional protection claims) in response to violations of their right to prior consultation and the dispossession of their territories; (ii) seeking the suspension of projects; (iii) challenging the enforcement of laws that threaten their autonomous practices; (iv) denouncing the contamination of their ecosystems; (v) demanding the release of imprisoned community members; and (vi) seeking justice for those who have been disappeared or killed. Finally, they turn to human rights bodies to seek protection and demand respect for their right to self-determination.

Regional organisations such as the Regional Coordination of Community Authorities–Community Police (CRAC-PC), in the Costa-Montaña region of Guerrero, have succeeded in protecting local communities and establishing a widely recognised justice system for more than 30 years. Today, however, the CRAC-PC faces a critical situation amid pressure from mining interests, the effects of government policies aimed at institutionalising it, and repeated armed incursions by organised crime. These have led to the displacement of more than 30,000 people from their communities, dozens of killings and the imprisonment of its defenders.

In Nayarit, communities have adopted various strategies in response to the imposition of large-scale infrastructure projects and extreme violence. These include the revitalisation of the community police in the municipality of Del Nayar, an initiative that resonated across the region. However, its leaders were arrested and imprisoned on charges of criminal association, leading to the organisation’s dismantling.

Collective Alternatives for Territorial Security

The territories of Indigenous Peoples in southern and south-eastern Mexico were at the centre of government geostrategic projects during the 2018–2024 period: the Interoceanic Corridor of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, which comprises ten development hubs, and the Maya Train, with major environmental and social impacts. The State strategy combined social assistance programmes with legal measures, including a decree declaring these large-scale infrastructure projects to be matters of public interest and national security, with the aim of curbing the series of amparo actions filed against them. These measures were accompanied by coercive actions, including imprisonment, threats against defenders, and the militarisation of the region.

Other community-based experiences can be found in states such as Hidalgo, Veracruz, San Luis Potosí and Michoacán. When these communities have exercised their autonomy, they have established community guards or police forces to protect their territories. Their members are appointed and regulated by community assemblies and their own normative systems, and provide a service to the community. These services include response to crime and house burglaries, address logging and community defence against armed incursions. The experience of San Luis Potosí is particularly noteworthy: 90 of its 389 communities have decided to prohibit the sale of alcohol, while around 5,500 community police officers operate across its 22 Indigenous municipalities. These measures enable communities to exercise a degree of control over security while strengthening their autonomy.

In Michoacán, the right to exercise what is known as the “direct budget” has been recognised, whereby communities directly administer the share of municipal resources allocated to them according to their population. These resources have been significant in enabling more than 50 communities to provide basic services and establish new government institutions. Some have strengthened their communal governments, while others have been dismantled by disputes over the administration of these resources.

However, only these more than 50 communities are entitled to establish their own security forces, leaving the more than 300 remaining communities in a situation of illegality and exposing them to criminalisation. Violence is present throughout the region. Consequently, territorial dispossession driven by mining and agro-export capital, together with the presence of armed actors, is putting these processes of autonomy at risk.

A State of Permanent Emergency

In the state of Sonora, the construction of an aqueduct and a gas pipeline crossing Yaqui lands sparked widespread mobilisation. However, their organisation was infiltrated by organised crime actors, who co-opted young people and weakened traditional governments and collective strength. In Chiapas, meanwhile, the continued paramilitary presence in Indigenous territories, as part of a counter-insurgency strategy, together with local caciquismo and actors involved in illegal economies, poses new challenges to the consolidation of de facto processes of autonomy. These challenges are compounded by large-scale infrastructure projects, state-run social programmes, and the co-optation of community leaders.

In Morelos, the creation of new Indigenous municipalities as a political means of exercising power and achieving security has also encountered setbacks. These setbacks include disputes between local leaders, negotiations with government authorities and the incursion by organised crime, all of which have weakened these processes. Finally, in Baja California, the Kumiai are resisting structural forms of violence that have reduced and fragmented their “large territory”. In response, they are building alliances with Native Americans, maintaining their emotional and spatial ties, revitalising their language, protesting against the border wall, resisting the plundering of their archaeological heritage, continuing to hold ceremonies at their sacred sites and keeping alive their knowledge of the desert.

This brief overview allows us to conclude that Indigenous societies today live in a state of permanent emergency. They are not only rights-bearing subjects but also political actors with the capacity to participate actively in shaping laws that respond to their demands, with a view to building horizons of hope. The cases documented in the book Mexico: Autonomies from North to South in Diverse Contexts show that Indigenous autonomies cannot be understood solely through the lens of vulnerability. In contexts of extreme adversity, Indigenous Peoples continue to develop strategies of resistance, organisational rebuilding and the creation of political alternatives.

The book’s main contribution lies in showing that the future of Indigenous autonomies in Mexico will depend not only on new constitutional recognition or legal reforms. It will also rely on the capacity to create effective conditions for guaranteeing territorial security, protecting community authorities, ensuring access to justice and fully respecting the collective decisions of Indigenous Peoples. Rethinking autonomy in the 21st century requires recognising that the central struggle is no longer waged solely in the realm of rights but also in the defence of territories against the multiple forms of violence that seek to dismantle community projects. Despite these pressures, Indigenous Peoples continue to develop their own forms of government, memory and resistance, which constitute one of the most significant expressions of democracy and political pluralism.

The post Mexico: Autonomies under Siege amid Extreme Violence appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

Gunayala encompasses both land and sea. Through negsedi (autonomy), the Gunadule people exercise control over their land and marine territories which include the islands and the marine resources of Muubilli (Grandmother Sea). In the face of the accelerating impacts of climate change, the Guna regulate fishing, land and maritime transport, and tourism according to our own rules. The Gunayala Comarca has consolidated its autonomy through its two principal Congresses: the General Congress, which is political and administrative, and the Congress of Culture. Within this framework, essential autonomous laws have been developed, including those aimed at protecting and caring for Nabgwana (Mother Earth) and Muubilli, which lie at the heart of our economy, food and well-being.

Today, there is an urgent need to rethink health and education in order to strengthen the autonomy of the Gunadule people. Although significant progress has been made in the education of Guna professionals, these efforts have not been sufficient to achieve self-determination, as they have strengthened the state model rather than our own Guna systems. Current health and education models impose a colonial and Eurocentric vision of state control. These systems disregard Gunadule sacred medicine and ancestral knowledge. This is why our Gunadule people must come together and engage in dialogue to create our own systems of health, education and territorial governance. These must be grounded in Guna wisdom and in the spirit of the historic struggle of 1925.

Negsedi Igala and Muubilli: Territorial and Marine Autonomy

Guna autonomy is the outcome of a historical process of struggles, negotiations and peace agreements rooted in the history of the Gunadule people. It was consolidated in 1925 in defence of their identity, spirituality and the mola (the traditional dress of Guna women), in response to the Panamanian government’s policies of forced assimilation at the time. In terms of self-government, the Guna General Congresses are the highest political, administrative, cultural and spiritual authorities. They are responsible for controlling resources, regulating agriculture, planning investments, and managing land use within the comarca.

Our understanding of Muubilli (marine autonomy) is based on a holistic vision: the sea is not merely a boundary but a vital extension of Mother Earth. It is an indivisible part of the Guna identity, livelihoods and ancestral way of life. Responsibility for exercising this autonomy lies with the Maritime Transport Secretariat of the Guna General Congress, which coordinates navigation and commercial activities within the marine territory. Tourism activities, including cabins, boats and guides, likewise operate under the rules of the Guna Congress and local authorities. The same applies to community conservation rules and seasonal bans on the artisanal fishing of spiny lobster, king crab and queen conch, which are intended to prevent exploitation by external actors.

However, defending the marine territory remains one of the main challenges facing Gunadule autonomy. In 1987, the Guna General Congress proclaimed the land and marine territory the Kuna Yala Biosphere Reserve and World Heritage Site, but the Panamanian State did not recognise Muubilli in its entirety. Instead, under legislation adopted in 1994, it designated only part of the Narganá corregimiento as a Protected Wilderness Area, leaving the Gunadule people’s holistic conception of their marine territory without recognition.

Threats and Challenges to Autonomy

As in other territories across Latin America, large-scale infrastructure projects are the primary threats to the island region of Gunayala. The authorisation agreement for one of the projects, the ARCOS-1 submarine fibre-optic cable, is currently under review. While this project exclusively benefits international companies, Guna communities still lack access to the internet. At the same time, the Guna General Congress has authorised a consultation process within the communities on the Colombia–Panama Electricity Interconnection Project, which would run both by sea and over land and forms part of a binational government project. The consultation is being conducted in exercise of the right to self-determination and in accordance with the Guna people’s own rules. Its purpose is to inform the communities so that they can reach a final decision.

Two roads are also planned: one between Mordi and Sasardi Muladub, linked to the electricity interconnection project; and another from Usdub-Ogobsuggun to Wala-Nurra, promoted by several communities and which could affect the local ecosystem. Finally, a growing number of yacht and sailing-boat operators are monopolising marine tourism. All of these projects are being examined and debated by the Guna authorities, who are assessing whether they are compatible with their own rules and with the preservation of Gunayala’s territory.

A second challenge is population growth. There is currently a lack of physical space on the islands, compounded by the challenges of waste management and protecting marine reefs.

A second challenge is population growth. There is currently a lack of physical space on the islands, compounded by the challenges of waste management and protecting marine reefs.

In terms of the challenges facing autonomy, the most pressing is climate change. Rising sea levels have made it necessary to plan the unprecedented relocation of island communities to the mainland, as in the case of Gardi Sugdub. Similarly, the community of Ugguba had to be relocated to another part of the coast because of flooding and the impact of waves. In response, we have developed the Gunayala Strategic Plan (PEGY), which brings land and sea together with the aim of consolidating the Gunayala Biosphere Comarca.

A second challenge is population growth. There is currently a lack of physical space on the islands, compounded by the challenges of waste management and protecting marine reefs. The Guna people are also experiencing a steady outflow of community members to cities outside the territory due to the lack of employment and educational opportunities suited to the realities of the comarca. Finally, the Guna must prepare new generations to navigate the modern world through Intercultural Bilingual Education, without losing their roots in the Gunadule people; educate young people to defend Guna autonomy; promote the responsible use of artificial intelligence (AI); and foster agricultural production and sustainable artisanal fishing in order to achieve food sovereignty.

Strengthening the House

Indigenous autonomy remains a powerful force. In the case of the Gunadule people, it has been said that the time has come to embark on a new Bila (revolution), no longer through arms but through words, history and wisdom. As Guna elders say: “Anmar Bila Nongi Uroe” (“Our struggle will be through wisdom”). At this stage, resistance is shifting from physical confrontation towards the defence of territory through knowledge, education, community organisation and political action, while preparing new generations to preserve Gunadule autonomy.

The main challenges facing Gunayala’s autonomy today are clear: defending Muubilli, protecting ancestral knowledge and wisdom, and strengthening Negsedi. In the face of these challenges, we say that Bila Igar (the path of war) lives in the spirit of every Gunadule: it is in the body, in the blood and in the fabric that continues to guide the defence of the life, territory and autonomy of the Gunadule people.

The post The Marine and Terrestrial Autonomy of the Gunadule People in Panama appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

Camilo Niño Izquierdo (CNI): Autonomy is one of the principles and legal standards governing the rights of Indigenous Peoples, and it encompasses several spheres. For millennia, we have struggled to have our differences recognised and made legally binding on the Colombian State. To speak of autonomy is to speak of being Indigenous within our own spaces, within our territories. Autonomy is what sustains the survival and continuity of our peoples. And within those “territories of our own” lies the fundamental right of Indigenous Peoples to full recognition, which remains incomplete today. Territory is the right that underpins all other rights: without it, none of the others could be possible. It is there that our knowledge systems exist, that our spiritual and cultural practices are exercised, and that our governance, our own government, health and education exist.

LGS: The 1991 Constitution provided significant recognition of this autonomy. More than 30 years later, what is happening in practice?

CNI: Colombia made significant progress with the 1991 Constituent Assembly. Indigenous Peoples emerged as key actors, and this was reflected in the recognition of territories, the constitutional protection of resguardos, the creation of Indigenous territorial entities, political participation, and the incorporation of international standards that form part of the bloque de constitucionalidad [body of constitutional law/constitutional block]. Colombia enshrined rights to the fullest extent. But how much progress has actually been made? In territorial matters, progress had already been made before 1991, because the resguardo predates the Constitution. It was during the 1980s that the largest amount of territory was recognised under this legal framework. Since then, more resguardos have been recognised, but over smaller areas of land: more resolutions, fewer hectares. So, more rights were enshrined, but in practice titled territories are still not fully protected.

LGS: So where does the gap lie between constitutional recognition and effectively exercising rights with relation to such recognition?

CNI: We could speak of two major challenges that have yet to be overcome: on the one hand, institutional adaptation and, on the other, the regulatory changes needed to streamline procedures. But behind both lies political will. One example of regulatory adaptation is the amendment of Decree 2164 of 1995, which for 30 years governed the establishment, expansion and legal regularisation of resguardos through procedures that slowed the process down. We spent more than five years discussing amendments to it. The decree that replaced it, Decree 1392, was signed on 22 December 2025, but in order to implement it, the National Land Agency (Agencia Nacional de Tierras) must issue its internal guidelines. In practice, these guidelines determine what a community is required to provide. It is now August 2026 and we have still not been able to discuss them. Moreover, this is sometimes where additional requirements end up being introduced that are not provided for in the decree.

As for institutional adaptation, the National Land Agency has a Directorate for Ethnic Affairs, but no Indigenous sub-directorate. This Directorate serves both Indigenous Peoples and Afro-descendant communities in addition to being responsible for land acquisition. Given the way the requirements are currently designed, it is much easier today for a private individual to acquire a property through the Agency than it is for an Indigenous People. It seems as though an additional burden is imposed when it comes to us.

LGS: Can effective autonomy exist without legal certainty and genuine control over territory?

CNI: There can be no autonomy without territory. Legal certainty goes beyond holding title. The National Land Agency grants title to a collective territory by means of a resolution issued following the completion of an entire procedure. That resolution is registered with the Superintendency of Notaries and Registration (Superintendencia de Notariado y Registro), but this does not mean that the territory is comprehensively protected. The best-known example is that of the Nukak people, who have a territory recognised by the State and a resolution granting them rights to it, but are unable to exercise those rights because other actors are exerting influence over the territory. Similarly, in Putumayo, territory was recognised for the Inga people, but not a single Inga person lives there: they were displaced, and others now occupy the territory. This is why we insist that territories must be comprehensively protected.

LGS: Indigenous territorial entities are one of the most concrete expressions of this autonomy. Are they an end point or a tool within a broader process?

CNI: Colombia has a historical debt. The Constitution established that Indigenous territorial entities must be created and, until that happened, Transitional Article 56 was included to allow for their gradual development. Thirty-four years later, their implementation has still not been resolved. There has been progress. Decree 1953 of 2014, which emerged from a mobilisation, enables Indigenous Peoples to directly administer resources from the General System of Participations, removing them from the municipalities, which previously received the funds and entered into agreements with the resguardos. Last year, following a major national mobilisation led by Amazonian peoples, eight Indigenous territorial entities became a reality, in addition to one in La Guajira. The aim is for Indigenous Peoples to exercise their autonomy and governance and receive direct funding, subject to the same oversight as any other territorial entity. For me, this is a starting point rather than an end point. This was already set out in the Constitution 34 years ago: it is a development of the bloque de constitucionalidad [body of constitutional law], not the work of any particular government. The decrees create the territorial entities, but they do not specify when or how they will become operational. That is the challenge.

LGS: A single territory may be subject to various powers and jurisdictions, concerning the surface, the subsoil, a protected area or a mining title. What happens to autonomy when decision-making is fragmented in this way?

CNI: Recognition goes beyond the granting of title, because recognition is often given without being binding in practice. Furthermore, municipalities do not recognise the status of resguardos, because it is very difficult for a local authority to recognise another authority at the same level. And an Indigenous authority, in addition to being recognised as such under customary law, must complete the required procedure with the municipal authorities and be registered with the Ministry of the Interior. Without this, Indigenous authorities cannot be officially recognised. Then there is the issue of mining and energy concessions. The clearest example is Putumayo: it has the highest number of applications for the expansion, establishment and legal regularisation of resguardos, for the protection of ancestral territories and for land restitution, while at the same time also having the highest number of applications for mining and energy exploration and exploitation. When these interests collide, what is defined as the national interest usually prevails.

LGS: And what happens in the case of National Natural Parks?

CNI: A resguardo does not protect the subsoil; the only legal designation that protects the subsoil is that of a National Natural Park. It is as though we lived within just two metres: we can look around a little and downwards, only as far as the ground beneath our feet, but no further. And it is there, beneath our feet, that the resources over which the State grants concessions are found. We argue that there must be comprehensive protection of the airspace, the electromagnetic spectrum used for communications and the subsoil. That is why autonomy is limited: it extends only as far as others allow it to. In territories that overlap with parks, any activity undertaken by Indigenous Peoples requires certification that it does not interfere with the park’s mandate. This entails a loss of autonomy, even when we are referred to as co-managers. Some of our Indigenous brothers and sisters are critical of the National Natural Park designation, while others see it as an opportunity because it has helped to protect territories. This is the case of Yaigojé Apaporis, where the Constitutional Court upheld the park and halted the Cosigo mining project, and of the Sierra Nevada, where National Natural Park status helped to stop the dam planned at Los Besotes. The U’wa Nation, by contrast, is calling for the park to be abolished.

LGS: The new government has announced plans to reverse the establishment of Indigenous territorial entities, while public discourse has portrayed them as “federated territories” or as a threat to the country’s unity. How do you view this situation in terms of Indigenous autonomy?

CNI: There is great concern. In law, there is a principle of progressivity and non-regression. There is a lot of noise in the media and not enough effort to explain what these entities actually are. It is being said that Indigenous territorial entities will become separate governments, as though a State within the Colombian State were being created. There are actors fuelling this misinformation and pushing this narrative. The reality is that recognising these entities and bringing them into operation is an obligation of the State. It is already established in the Political Constitution; it is nothing new. To abolish this form of territorial organisation in a State with 115 Indigenous Peoples, which recognises and protects ethnic and cultural diversity, would be to violate the Constitution itself.

Meanwhile, the government is already repealing existing measures: it revoked the resolution that established a protection reserve for the La Baja micro-watershed, outside the Santurbán páramo, as well as other measures issued by the Ministry of Labour that recognised labour rights. Many measures relating to Indigenous Peoples were adopted towards the end of the previous presidential term, and this raises concerns about the protection of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, where more than 1.5 million hectares were set aside for protection from mining and hydrocarbon activities. There were also reports that the country might withdraw from International Labour Organization Convention No. 169, which enshrines the fundamental right to prior consultation.

LGS: Have you seen any willingness on the part of the current government, at least to sit down and engage in dialogue?

CNI: So far, the government has not approached us; they are only now appointing directors and deputy directors. But consulting Indigenous Peoples on the National Development Plan is an obligation of the State, and that means we have to sit down together. The National Commission for Indigenous Territories provides a forum for this dialogue, and we are ready to engage. Otherwise, we will pursue other avenues to assert our demands. We have always sought dialogue and agreement, but we have also pursued the full exercise of autonomy and mobilisation. Everything we have achieved has been the result of a historical struggle. We have survived for more than 500 years and have come to understand that governments are temporary, while the State endures. And it is worth being clear about the figures: today there are 974 Indigenous resguardos, covering more than 35 million hectares. We face four years in which we will have to defend what we have achieved. A government can repeal a measure, but it cannot erase years of struggle.

The post Camilo Niño Izquierdo: “There Can Be No Autonomy without Territory” appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

However, Indigenous Native Peasant Autonomies (AIOCs) did not just emerge with the 2009 Constitution. They are the result of a long process of territorial claims, the restoration of authorities, the rebuilding of community institutions and the pursuit of political recognition. After more than 15 years of implementation, the question is no longer whether these autonomies have succeeded in becoming institutionally established, but rather the extent to which these institutions have transformed power relations and strengthened the capacity of Indigenous Peoples to govern their territories.

From this perspective, the trajectory of Indigenous autonomies must be understood both as a political and administrative reform of the State and as a historical struggle for territorial power. The central question is whether the institutionalisation of AIOCs is enabling historical structures of self-government to be effectively oriented towards public and territorial governance, or whether there is a risk that autonomous governments may reproduce the administrative logic of state institutions.

From Territorial Claims to the Exercise of Authority

Throughout history, the Indigenous Peoples of Bolivia have developed diverse strategies of struggle, resistance and negotiation to defend and assert their rights to land and territory. This defence was not only limited to securing access to land, but was also closely linked to their own forms of organisation and authority, resource management and the reproduction of community life. Within this process, the 1990 March for Territory and Dignity marked an important milestone in bringing Indigenous demands to national attention and establishing territory as a central issue on the country’s political agenda. Demands for Indigenous territories also encompassed recognition of their own forms of organisation and their right to make decisions on matters affecting their collective life.

These demands subsequently led to collective titling processes through the recognition of Native Community Lands (Tierras Comunitarias de Origen, TCOs). Titling helped to strengthen territorial security, organisational cohesion and cultural identity, while also enabling the development of territorial management processes and plans. In this way, collective titling laid the foundation for the subsequent process towards autonomy, enabling a shift from claiming and defending territory towards a broader demand: to exercise authority, make decisions and govern their own territory. It should be noted, however, that collective ownership was not always sufficient to ensure effective control in the face of external pressures, particularly those associated with extractive activities.

The adoption of the Political Constitution of the State in 2009 opened a new phase. Indigenous Native Peasant Autonomy was recognised as a form of territorial organisation of the State and as an expression of the right of Indigenous Peoples to self-government.

That collective ownership was not always sufficient to ensure effective control in the face of external pressures, particularly those associated with extractive activities.

A second phase unfolded during the 1990s, with the process of municipalisation and the introduction of popular participation. Indigenous organisations began to seek ways to engage in local public administration and steer municipal institutions towards the demands of their communities. Participation in planning and social oversight, the creation of Indigenous municipal districts, the election of deputy mayors through their own procedures, and the incorporation of community-based mechanisms into public administration all represented important steps forward. However, the limitations of Indigenous participation within municipal structures led to the need to move towards forms of government with greater decision-making authority over their territories.

The adoption of the Political Constitution of the State in 2009 opened a new phase. Indigenous Native Peasant Autonomy was recognised as a form of territorial organisation of the State and as an expression of the right of Indigenous Peoples to self-government. The first autonomy processes (Charagua, Uru Chipaya and Raqaypampa) developed different forms of coordination between historical structures of self-government and the new autonomous governments. Territorial assemblies and other community bodies continued to play a central role in deliberation, decision-making and shaping the direction of public administration.

Building Indigenous Self-Government

The establishment of the nine autonomous governments represents significant institutional advances in the development of these forms of government. A first key element is the election of authorities according to their own rules and procedures, without the involvement of political parties. Elections take place in assemblies and cabildos, using mechanisms such as acclamation, queuing and other customary practices. In Charagua, the electoral practices of the capitanías (the territorial organisational structures of the Guaraní people) are combined with universal suffrage in urban areas, giving rise to a form of intercultural democracy. Other autonomies also incorporate principles such as rotation, or muyu; the trajectory and experience embodied in the thaki; and complementarity between men and women.

A second key element is political representation linked to territorial structures. Ayllus, capitanías, subcentrals and centrals are represented within government bodies. In Raqaypampa, legislative representation is distributed among the five subcentrals; in Challa, the Native Assembly comprises representatives of the three ayllus, while the Justice Council likewise reflects this territorial representation. Another important aspect is the recognition of the territorial assembly as a space for deliberation, decision-making and social oversight. In this way, the authorities of the autonomous government do not necessarily replace community structures but must work in coordination with them.

These experiences show that the autonomies are bringing elements and mechanisms of community structures into the State and creating new ways of exercising power at the local level.

These experiences show that the autonomies are bringing elements and mechanisms of community structures into the State and creating new ways of exercising power at the local level.

This is further reinforced by the exercise of community democracy within autonomous institutions. Practices of collective deliberation, territorial representation, rotation, election according to their own rules and procedures, and community oversight are given a formal place within autonomous government. These practices operate alongside mechanisms of representative democracy, as in Charagua. An additional advance is the recognition of Indigenous Native Peasant Jurisdiction (JIOC) as part of the exercise of self-government. The statutes provide for their own rules, procedures and authorities for resolving disputes, in coordination with territorial structures.

Taken together, these experiences show that the autonomies are bringing elements and mechanisms of community structures into the State and creating new ways of exercising power at the local level. By exercising their right to self-government, Indigenous Peoples are defining, from the local level, the terms of their participation and incorporation into the State, although numerous bureaucratic barriers, administrative requirements and regulatory obstacles remain to be overcome. In this way, they have progressively forged their own path towards implementation.

Tensions and Limits of Indigenous Autonomy

Despite these advances, significant constraints remain in translating the formal recognition of self-government into an effective capacity for territorial governance and control. A primary limitation is that public administration continues to be heavily shaped by national rules and procedures. This restricts the scope of Indigenous governments to determine how resources are allocated in accordance with their own priorities, potential and forms of governance. The administration of resources still largely follows the model of municipal government, a situation that has led Indigenous autonomy organisations to put forward a proposal for a Public Administration Law that would allow local mechanisms to be incorporated.

Another challenge, is the limited capacity to generate their own revenue, which restricts the ability of Indigenous governments to develop policies and actions with greater autonomy from the powers and resources provided by the central State. This is compounded by the lengthy and complex bureaucratic, administrative and legal process required to attain and implement Indigenous autonomy. Finally, internal conflicts and tensions persist in relation to political representation, the location of seats of government, recognition of different sectors, differing visions of development, overlapping forms of territorial organisation, and the presence of diverse actors and interests.

These limitations point to a fundamental tension: the institutionalisation of autonomy does not, in itself, guarantee the effective exercise of self-government. After more than 15 years of implementation, it is necessary to assess the extent to which Indigenous autonomous governments are strengthening their effective capacity to exercise power and make decisions over their territories. The autonomies have statutes, authorities, legislative and executive bodies, budgets and administrative systems, yet they continue to face constraints on their ability to intervene in strategic matters affecting their territories.

From Autonomous Government to Territorial Control

Indigenous autonomous governments are currently engaged in a process of developing and strengthening their own mechanisms of public administration, seeking to coordinate the management of financial resources with their institutional and territorial structures. These experiences include the contracting of local suppliers, community-based planning and oversight mechanisms, prior consultation protocols, and rules concerning the care and use of the commons. Together, these mechanisms reflect an effort to apply public administration progressively to the particular characteristics and priorities of each territory.

The establishment of autonomous governments has also brought about a reconfiguration of power relations within the territories. The institutionalisation of new forms of representation and decision-making has opened up spaces for participation and the redistribution of political power. Territorial assemblies play an important role in electing authorities, setting planning priorities and overseeing the management of public resources.

In Ayllu Jatun Ayllu Yura, organisations have put forward demands concerning the economic benefits derived from hydroelectric activities carried out within their territory.

In Ayllu Jatun Ayllu Yura, organisations have put forward demands concerning the economic benefits derived from hydroelectric activities carried out within their territory.

However, effective territorial control through the exercise of self-government remains at an early stage. A significant proportion of the powers vested in autonomous governments are focused on administrative management, while strategic decisions concerning certain natural resources and economic activities remain heavily regulated by, or reserved for, the central level of the State. This creates a tension between the recognition of self-government and the effective capacity of Indigenous Peoples to make decisions on processes that directly affect their territories.

Nevertheless, some recent advances point to the potential for expanding this capacity. In Charagua Iyambae, mechanisms have been developed to engage in territorial defence and in processes aimed at protecting conservation areas. In Ayllu Jatun Ayllu Yura, organisations have put forward demands concerning the economic benefits derived from hydroelectric activities carried out within their territory. In Challa, the establishment of the Justice Council opens up opportunities to strengthen the role of Indigenous authorities in resolving disputes.

From Self-Government to the Plurinational State: A Horizon Yet to Be Built

The trajectory of Indigenous autonomies in Bolivia can be understood as a process that has moved from territorial claims towards the pursuit of the power to govern their territories. First, through territorial defence, social mobilisation and the recovery of territory; second, through the restoration and strengthening of their own authorities and mechanisms; third, through participation in and the gradual assumption of roles within municipal governance; and finally, following the adoption of a new Political Constitution, through the institutionalisation of self-government by means of Indigenous autonomies.

The outcome is significant, and is reflected in the establishment of nine Indigenous governments with their own statutes, institutional structures, mechanisms of community democracy and territorial representation, as well as experiences of coordination between historical forms of self-government and public administration. Despite numerous limitations, these advances are contributing to the construction of the Plurinational State, albeit to a limited extent, and to the effective exercise of intercultural democracy. The challenge remains to move towards genuine self-government and effective territorial control.

However, the institutional recognition of Indigenous government is not synonymous with self-government. The challenge now is to consolidate these new institutions so that they effectively contribute to transforming power relations while also strengthening Indigenous territorial structures as spaces for political decision-making. Ultimately, this means moving from formal government to the effective exercise of authority over the territory and, from there, contributing to the construction of the Plurinational State.

The post From Territorial Claims to Indigenous Self-Government: Progress, Tensions and Prospects in Bolivia appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

Colonial modernity gave rise to and multiplied two great global monsters that we face today: the climate crisis and racist authoritarianism. Both have a particular impact on Indigenous Peoples and social movements because they affect their territories, ways of life and rights, but also because they are coming up against societies in movement, capable of building resistance to these threats. The expansion of extractive activities and new forms of authoritarianism are not isolated phenomena: they deepen the conditions of dispossession and inequality that have historically affected these peoples.

Rural, urban, Indigenous or social autonomies may emerge and be formally proclaimed following an assembly, congress or other collective event. Their origins are, however, often much deeper, long pre-dating the moment of proclamation. Their driving forces are usually found in major conflicts and struggles to defend rights, territories, the commons and their own ways of life. In this sense, autonomy does not therefore begin with a declaration: it is built through everyday organisation, the capacity to make collective decisions and the cumulative experience of confronting threats and defending rights.

Motivations for Autonomy

Building the legitimacy of autonomous processes through the patient unification of diverse organisations within the same people is what gives the process strength and stable roots. Legal recognition by the State remains important and is a right that must be secured; it is not, however, the priority. From this perspective, de facto autonomy must come first, paving the way for it to later become de jure autonomy. We thus base ourselves on the principle of reality, before any formal or bureaucratic considerations.

Territory is a central pillar of autonomy: it is both a physical space and an integral system that brings together life, habitat, culture, spirituality, collectivity, and the sustainability of the commons, common goods and shared uses that ‘commonise’ them through advances and setbacks. It entails social pacts or horizons that crystallise processes and leadership, such as the profound care of nature’s gifts (Mother Earth or yakumama) or a biocultural urban habitat. Territory cannot be reduced to a commodity or a source of profit for those in power: it is a prerequisite for living in peace, maintaining harmony and achieving Buen Vivir, or a full life.

Intergenerational renewal requires young people to know and keep collective memory alive, strengthen their ties to processes of resistance and contribute to recreating new spaces for self-determination.

Intergenerational renewal requires young people to know and keep collective memory alive and strengthen their ties to processes of resistance.

Autonomies need to be meaningful and necessary for their populations, not only in their political, historical, philosophical or ideological dimensions but also in ensuring a better overall quality of life in its everyday, personal, family and collective aspects. This is essential for the continuity and unity of autonomies, particularly in managing differences and avoiding polarisation and fragmentation, which are often linked to disputes over electoral spaces or positions of power within the State (two latent dangers that threaten and fracture social autonomies).

Historical resistance in defence of territory (in its material, cultural and spiritual dimensions) and the participation of women, with their strength and proposals for organised action, are also fundamental. Each generation faces the challenge of continuing to defend autonomy without becoming subordinate to the State. In contexts of crisis and violence, the collective and regulated responses of Indigenous or community guards to criminal activity thus take on a particular importance. Finally, intergenerational renewal requires young people to know and keep collective memory alive, strengthen their ties to processes of resistance and contribute to recreating new spaces for self-determination.

What Holds Autonomies Back and Disrupts Them?

It is important to identify the processes which, fuelled by external pressures, penetrate autonomies and may become normalised since, if left unresolved, they threaten to disintegrate them from within. Among these factors is the State, private or religious education system, which comes from outside the territories, captures children and young people, isolates and distances them from family and social dynamics, and disrupts the transmission of autonomous values, worldviews and structures.

Another problem is the welfare programmes run by the State, companies, non-governmental organisations, churches and political parties. Electoral campaigns, meanwhile, create scenarios of demagoguery, political deal-making and polarisation that affect organisational processes and, once the initial fervour has subsided, make it difficult to regain the momentum towards autonomy. Added to this is the penetration of religious sects, which undermine the peoples’ own spirituality, introduce conflicts into community life and divide organisations.

Finally, there is the growing violence associated with drug trafficking, legal and illegal mining, extractive activities and contract killings.

Worse still, political parties resort to manipulating or instrumentalising organisations in pursuit of their ambitions for greater political power.

Political parties, for their part, split peoples, communities, families and organisations. The trap of believing that the only way to change social reality is through the State and positions within it (mayors, members of Congress and public officials) minimises, sidelines and ultimately leads to the abandonment of territorial action, which is the true form of social and political action. Worse still, political parties resort to manipulating or instrumentalising organisations in pursuit of their ambitions for greater political power.

Finally, there is the growing violence associated with drug trafficking (production, marketing and distribution), legal and illegal mining, extractive activities (hydrocarbons, soya and palm oil) and contract killings, which have a particularly severe impact in the cities. Violence goes hand in hand with the breakdown of the State and democracy, as well as with internal corruption within organisations, which fosters complicity with criminal activity. The result is the murder or persecution of leaders and a weakening of the community fabric, an essential foundation of autonomous processes.

New Horizons of Meaning

This review suggests reopening the debates based on the experience of social movements and of society in movement (both rural and urban), focusing on their deeper dynamics. It is thus necessary to strengthen the future horizons that emerge from autonomous practices: self-government, governing by obeying, Allin Kawsay (‘Buen Vivir’ among the Quechua people), Tarimat Pujut (‘full life’ among the Amazonian Wampís and Awajún peoples) and Ñandereko (‘our way of being’ in the Guaraní language). In urban settings, these horizons include the community-based city, living biocultural habitats, urban self-management and rururbanity.

It is important to avoid constructing immutable essentialisms, to recognise the need for collective action and to act in common — that is, to ‘common’. These concepts should be approached as open questions, reconsidered with every shift in circumstances and realities. We must avoid theories or ‘closed holisms’ that regard local, national and global social totalities as fixed, static and dogmatic structures. The challenge is to maintain the holistic approaches of Indigenous Peoples, which understand the whole as a dynamic, open, flexible, interconnected and constantly evolving system.

This means going beyond the ‘mode of production’ and revealing that we are living under a global pattern of power shaped by colonial and capitalist modernity, which threatens all forms of life.

This means going beyond the ‘mode of production’ and revealing that we are living under a global pattern of power shaped by colonial and capitalist modernity, which threatens all forms of life.

Moving towards the future no longer means clinging to a particular kind of language, essentialising the categories, concepts, theories or discourse of a movement, still less reproducing the egocentrism of certain individuals. Rather, it is a matter of putting forward stimulating theoretical ideas and addressing inconsistencies, problems and key questions. While some continue to draw on discourses from the past, what is actually needed are new theories and new horizons of meaning, emerging from the momentum of societies and autonomies in movement.

This means going beyond the ‘mode of production’ and revealing that we are living under a global pattern of power shaped by colonial and capitalist modernity, which threatens all forms of life and which is entering a generalised crisis due to the climate crisis, inequality, and an escalation of racism and polarisation. It is impossible to live without the market or the State but neither is it possible to survive within them: this is why Indigenous Peoples and Communes are at a crossroads, faced with the challenge of securing their survival and their future. Social relations of reciprocity, and their expression in the communal social form, must take up the challenge of expanding, coexisting with and influencing the market and the State. There will never be a complete replacement of one type of society by another, and social change will involve transitions characterised by the interpenetration of the old and the new.

Self-Government in the Face of the Uninational State in Crisis

The historical record indicates that social change, conceived as an extraordinary act (whether seizing government by force or by means of elections, or as a ‘predestined’ rupture leading to an ideal society) has failed. Social change must inevitably be redefined as a social mutation requiring holistic transformation, the interrelationship of multiple changes and long-term processes. The coloniality of power has a colour and must be transformed: it was historically constituted through the domination of Indigenous and Afro-descendant ‘races’ (‘races’ invented to justify biological racism), marginalising the Nations and Peoples of Abya Yala.

In this sense, social change is inevitable in everyday life and requires the simultaneous decoloniality of power, knowledge and being. But coloniality must also be dismantled in diverse and heterogeneous ways in relation to sex (from patriarchy to femicide), labour (labour exploitation and modern forms of slavery), imaginaries (Eurocentrism), authority (statism) and nature (ecocide, extractivism and technolatry).

This complexity means that the State can be an important arena of struggle but it cannot be the only path. The 20^th century was marked by this strategic error, which invariably ended in false hopes and frustration. It is therefore impossible to break these mental chains through State structures alone: the State is one more arena of struggles, conflicts and challenges. In the sphere of collective authority, the task is therefore to develop structures, processes and visions grounded in the self-government of Peoples and Communes, in contrast to those based on the uninational State, which is now in crisis.

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Rather than delivering genuine emissions reductions at source, these mechanisms enable major polluters to continue their activities while purchasing carbon credits generated elsewhere, particularly in forested and biodiverse regions. Under this logic, forests, rivers and territories inhabited by Indigenous Peoples are no longer treated as spaces of life, memory and self-determination, but are instead reframed as tradable climate assets within a global market.

This process entails a renewed form of commodification of nature, whereby the carbon stored in these territories is assigned an economic value, typically determined outside the communities themselves. International studies on Ecuador warn that, alongside programmes such as Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Forest Degradation (REDD+) and results-based payment schemes, a range of mechanisms has taken shape that draws territories into systems of control, monitoring and carbon-related conditionalities, without addressing the underlying structural drivers of deforestation and the climate crisis.

A sophisticated form of dispossession

Although framed as opportunities for conservation or finance, carbon credits tend to generate unequal power relations, opaque contractual arrangements, restrictions on customary territorial use and new pressures on community governance. Ecuador’s rapid opening to these markets has unfolded in a context marked by regulatory gaps, limited public debate and clear state contradictions—such as the persistence of fossil fuel subsidies alongside the promotion of climate offsetting mechanisms. This tension reveals that the aim is not to transform the model that drives territorial destruction, but rather to render it compatible with emerging “green” business opportunities.

In recent years, the Ecuadorian government has been putting in place a series of instruments to position the country within carbon market and climate offsetting frameworks. Notably, this includes the creation of the Ecuador Zero Carbon Programme (PECC) through a ministerial agreement, designed as a voluntary scheme enabling companies and institutions to measure, reduce and offset their carbon footprint. In parallel, the State maintains an official system for certifying carbon footprint reductions and has reinforced its technical framework through specific regulations governing the programme’s implementation, as well as the establishment of a Strategic Committee on Carbon Footprint.

Appropriation now extends beyond land, oil, minerals and timber to encompass the capacity of forests to absorb carbon. This represents a more sophisticated form of dispossession, in which the language of climate action and finance masks new forms of intervention in these territories.

Carbon markets do not constitute a just response to climate change, but rather an extension of the same colonial and extractive model.

This trend is further reinforced by the promotion of REDD+ mechanisms and results-based payments in forest areas, alongside regulatory steps enabling the national authority to register mitigation projects that generate carbon credits under market-based mechanisms linked to Article 6 of the Paris Agreement. From a critical standpoint, these measures suggest that the State is not only advancing climate governance policies, but also reconfiguring its institutional framework to facilitate the country’s integration into a carbon market that turns pollution, conservation and territories into objects of certification, offsetting and trade.

From this perspective, carbon markets do not constitute a just response to climate change, but rather an extension of the same colonial and extractive model. Appropriation now extends beyond land, oil, minerals and timber to encompass the capacity of forests to absorb carbon. This represents a more sophisticated form of dispossession, in which the language of climate action and finance masks new forms of intervention in these territories. For this reason, the debate on carbon must move beyond the economic benefits it promises and instead centre on its impacts on the autonomy, self-determination, collective rights and territorial sovereignty of Indigenous Peoples, who have historically safeguarded these ecosystems.

Debating carbon markets from the territory

These global dynamics take on concrete form within territories, where their impacts and tensions become increasingly visible. Although the issue features prominently in international climate forums—such as the Conferences of the Parties (COPs) and other spaces linked to the Convention on Biological Diversity (CBD)—very little, if anything, is discussed at the territorial level, particularly with the communities that mitigate greenhouse gas emissions on the front lines. In response to this gap, in February 2026 representatives of grassroots communities from the Kichwa Nation of Pastaza convened a space for critical reflection on carbon markets in the city of Puyo, Pastaza Province, in the central Ecuadorian Amazon.

This international event was convened by Pastaza Kikin Kichwa Runakuna (PAKKIRU) and the Kichwa Institute of Biotechnology Sacha Supai (IQBSS), in coordination with the International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs (IWGIA) and Paz y Solidaridad, and brought together Indigenous leaders who shared experiences from Bolivia, Guatemala, Costa Rica and Colombia. Through this exchange of knowledge among Indigenous Peoples and organisations from Mesoamerica and South America, the initiative sought to strengthen capacities to build and exercise sovereignty, while resisting alignment with colonial agendas that impose policies in contexts shaped by unequal power relations.

Carbon markets are seen as a form of contemporary extractivism that threatens forests, where more than 25,000 Kichwa inhabitants sustain an ancestral system of control and stewardship over the Amazonian lowlands.

Carbon markets are seen as a form of contemporary extractivism that threatens forests, where more than 25,000 Kichwa inhabitants sustain an ancestral system of control and stewardship over the Amazonian lowlands.

Among the key premises emerging from the meeting—which brought together more than 80 Indigenous leaders from across the territories—participants concluded that carbon markets constitute capitalist and hegemonic strategies that undermine territories and Indigenous ways of life. In the case of Ecuador, carbon markets are seen as a form of contemporary extractivism that threatens forests, where more than 25,000 Kichwa inhabitants sustain a long-standing, ancestral system of control and stewardship over the Amazonian lowlands. This perspective is politically and ideologically grounded in the philosophy of Sumak Kawsay and its four pillars: Sumak Ayllu [harmonious community life], Sumak Allpamma [balanced relationship with the land], Sumak Mirachina [collective flourishing] and Sacha Runa Yachay [forest-based knowledge].

This position brings into focus at least three central tensions: the struggle over territorial control, the imposition of market logics on Indigenous ways of life, and the persistence of power asymmetries in climate governance. Convened as a space for reflection to critically examine carbon markets and other forms of climate finance affecting territories, the meeting underscored the central role of Indigenous Peoples and organisations in strengthening and sustaining autonomous territorial agendas.

Indigenous voices

In Ecuador, agendas around carbon markets are being shaped through participatory processes grounded in ancestral knowledge and the philosophy of Sumak Kawsay. The Yanapak Kuraka (Vice-President) of the Kichwa Nation of Pastaza, Pashpanzhu Vitery, reflected at the close of the workshop: “It is essential, as our ancestors have done, to create spaces for dialogue where we can inform ourselves and listen to technical experts, in order to develop positions against these extractivist policies that seek to control and manage the resources of Indigenous territories.”

Linking current carbon market proposals to historical cycles of dispossession, and highlighting the continuity of extractive patterns in new forms, Pashpanzhu Vitery concluded: “Members of our ayllukuna [Indigenous kinship-based communities] have long heard how our grandparents had to survive, struggle and sustain resistance in the face of successive waves of plunder. I recall many stories of exploitation—from rubber to mining and oil—and we hope that carbon markets will not become a new strategy of neo-colonisation.”

“While 70 per cent of the best-preserved lands are Indigenous territories, the resources generated for climate change mitigation do not reach Indigenous Peoples”, said Leónidas Iza.

“While 70 per cent of the best-preserved lands are Indigenous territories, the resources generated for climate change mitigation do not reach Indigenous Peoples”, said Leónidas Iza.

Among the invited speakers and high-level participants was Leonidas Iza, former president of CONAIE and current president of Ecuarunari, the Andean regional branch of the Indigenous Movement representing Kichwa peoples of the highlands. “Those behind carbon markets are the very same industries responsible for pollution; it therefore becomes a closed circuit controlled by the same companies,” the leader stated, echoing the concerns raised by participants.

Throughout his intervention, Leonidas Iza underscored the contradiction between the central role of Indigenous Peoples in conserving territories and their exclusion from the economic benefits generated by climate mechanisms: “While 70 per cent of the best-preserved lands are Indigenous territories, and grassroots communities are those who best understand the care and protection of nature, the resources generated for climate change mitigation do not reach Indigenous Peoples. We are now discussing how to access financial resources and losing sight of the broader horizon of our struggles. We are no longer debating our collective rights, such as self-determination, but rather market logics imposed by capital.”

Beyond carbon: challenges for territorial autonomy

After three days of debate, a set of strategic lines emerged which, rather than forming a closed agenda, reflect evolving horizons shaped from within the territories: the need to strengthen community dialogue, political advocacy, organisational coordination, self-sustained economies and Indigenous communication.

Firstly, participants underscored the importance of sustaining spaces for dialogue rooted in community assemblies as the primary arenas for deliberation and decision-making, incorporating culturally grounded tools that ensure understanding, participation and ownership at the territorial level. At the same time, the need to reinforce alliances and coordination processes across different scales was emphasised, in order to consolidate shared positions among peoples and organisations, as well as to expand networks of collaboration beyond national borders.

The challenge lies not only in accessing the economic benefits of climate mechanisms, but in defining the conditions under which these do not undermine self-determination.

The challenge lies not only in accessing the economic benefits of climate mechanisms, but in defining the conditions under which these do not undermine self-determination.

In the sphere of political advocacy, participants emphasised the urgency of expanding Indigenous Peoples’ participation in decision-making spaces, both nationally and internationally, in order to advance their own agendas and demand compliance with collective rights recognised in international instruments. At the same time, the importance of consolidating self-sustained economies rooted in territorial practices—such as chakras (traditional Indigenous agroforestry system), community-based tourism and ancestral medicine—was reaffirmed as a foundation for self-governance and effective autonomy, independent of conditional financing schemes.

Finally, the need to strengthen Indigenous communication systems was highlighted, enabling the articulation of networks across territories, the visibility of key issues, and the continuity of processes of analysis and decision-making within Indigenous organisations themselves. In this context, the challenge lies not only in accessing the economic benefits of climate mechanisms, but in defining the conditions under which these do not undermine the autonomy, self-determination and the distinct ways of life of Indigenous Peoples.

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This essay asserts the limits of state-centred peace and invites a rehumanising approach to self-determination. The authors weave together the Indigenous experience and how it may contribute to the global peace discourse. With this in mind, self-determination must be understood more broadly as a continuous political praxis grounded in collective identity, responsibility, and dignity. Lessons from the Naga struggle call for recovering an Indigenous worldview and praxis of self-determination to unlock the path toward humanisation and JustPeace.

The Westphalian Constraint on Self-Determination

The concept of sovereignty that emerged from the Westphalian order reorganised political authority around territorially bounded states. While this framework stabilised interstate relations, it simultaneously marginalised political communities whose sovereignty traditions pre-existed and exceeded the Westphalian order. Ironically, self-determination, a right associated with all peoples, was reduced to state-determination.

In the decolonisation era, self-determination was proclaimed ‘presumptively universal in scope … to benefit all segments of humanity,’ yet, in practice, it was selectively applied. Colonial territories became independent states, but Indigenous Peoples encapsulated within those states were rarely recognised as peoples with right to self-determination.

For Indigenous Peoples, including the Nagas, decolonisation goes beyond state independence and means restoring political agency, historical voice, and moral authorship.

For Indigenous Peoples, including the Nagas, decolonisation goes beyond state independence and means restoring political agency, historical voice, and moral authorship.

From an Indigenous perspective, decolonisation remains profoundly incomplete. Postcolonial states inherited colonial territorial logic, legal hierarchies, and governance models that prioritised national homogeneity over Indigenous plurality. As a result, many Indigenous Peoples experienced decolonisation not as liberation, but as a continuation of political domination under new authority.

Decolonisation without Indigenous political recognition is merely a change of administrators rather than transforming political relationships. For Indigenous Peoples, including the Nagas, decolonisation goes beyond state independence and means restoring political agency, historical voice, and moral authorship. This understanding is reflected in broader Asian Indigenous movements that articulate self-governance not simply as legal recognition, but as a democratic and ethical practice rooted in community and collective agency.

Self-Determination as Lived History

For Nagas, self-determination has been embedded in lived political experience, customary governance, and collective memory. Prior to incorporation into the Indian state, Naga people exercised political autonomy through village republics, inter-village alliances, and customary institutions grounded in moral accountability. Its political consciousness is also influenced by historical events compounded by moral injury and political denial that wounds collective dignity. Despite its history, the Naga political identity has persisted as a narrative of continuity that consistently defended its political existence.

Truly, Naga nationalism is a question of justice and not ethnic sentiments. Its moral-political assertion refuses to accept that a people can be administratively absorbed without ethical consent that has spanned generations. This assertion has been carried across generations. Self-determination in the Naga case remains a sustained political memory—a form of historical responsibility to ancestors, community, and future generations.

State institutions, under the banner of development and peace, have intruded deeply into Naga society, while strategic cultural assimilation continues through education, administration, and economic integration.

State institutions, under the banner of development and peace, have intruded deeply into Naga society, while strategic cultural assimilation continues through education, administration, and economic integration.

The state-led Indo–Naga peace process exemplifies conflict management rather than conflict transformation. While this strategy has reduced armed confrontation, it has produced fragmentation, weakened social cohesion, expanded corruption and impunity, eroded traditional institutions, and deepened public disillusionment toward conventional state-led peace processes.

State institutions, under the banner of development and peace, have intruded deeply into Naga society, while strategic cultural assimilation continues through education, administration, and economic integration. Protracted negotiations without resolution have normalised injustice, causing negative societal affects. Sadly, the peace process has weakened Naga cooperation and eventually produces compliance rather than consent.

Rehumanising Self-Determination

To move beyond this impasse, self-determination must be rehumanised and its ethical and cultural dimensions emancipated. Indigenous Peoples remind us that self-determination is not a destination, but a struggle for the recovery of dignity, wisdom, and solidarity. In this context, Indigenous activist Kenneth Deer asserts that no one owns the definition of self-determination and explains it as relational, shared, and negotiated. Ultimately, rehumanising self-determination requires restoring its meaning, confidence, and moral agency within political communities.

In a similar vein, Gam Shimray, Secretary-General of the Asia Indigenous Peoples Pact (AIPP), argues that “recovering meaning also means rebuilding this relational foundation — reviving the practices and environments that allow meaning-making to flourish again.” Without this relational recovery, political claims remain hollow. Self-determination cannot survive as a purely juridical concept; it must live within social relationships, cultural practices, and shared responsibility.

Ultimately, decolonisation is a rehumanising process that dignifies political relationships so that peoples are no longer treated as objects of governance but as co-creators of history. Thus, when self-determination is rehumanised, it becomes a requisite for ethical governance, peace and healing. Self-determination, therefore, remains a continuous political praxis. It is a right that people always have, not a right that derives from a single historical event.

Rethinking Sovereignty from the Naga Experience

The Naga experience compels us to rethink sovereignty itself. The dominant political discourse continues to equate sovereignty with exclusive territorial control exercised by states. Within this framework, sovereignty is treated primarily as a legal attribute of the state rather than as a people’s moral and political reality. Indigenous Peoples unsettle this assumption because sovereignty has never been understood merely as control over territory, but as political responsibility: a responsibility for collective identity, community continuity, moral order, and accountability to future generations, a relational ethic emphasised across Indigenous governance discourses.

Sovereignty, in this sense, is defined by the capacity to sustain a people as a moral and political community and not by dominating the space. It is exercised not only through formal institutions, but through memory, customary practice, and intergenerational responsibility. From this perspective, philosopher Hans Köchler observes that “it is not the state that is ‘eternal’ which enjoys ‘inalienable rights,’ but the people as a collective social and cultural reality.” When international law and political discourse centre on states rather than peoples, they produce a democratic deficit in which political legitimacy is derived from territorial inheritance rather than from the consent and continuity of political communities.

The Naga struggle demonstrates that sovereignty imposed without political consent cannot achieve moral legitimacy. Collective political will and imagination can creatively address the Naga question.  From this perspective, sovereignty must be reimagined as layered and relational. Such an understanding situates the state within a wider moral and political ecology.

Indigenous Self-Determination and the Future of Democratic Imagination

The United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples affirms that self-determination includes self-government and effective participation in decisions affecting human beings. Yet, in practice, these standards remain persistently subordinated to state sovereignty claims. Recognition without implementation has become a central technique of contemporary colonial governance.

These contradictions raise a deeper question: whether modern political systems are capable of recognising political plurality without fear, and diversity without domination. The Naga experience exemplifies this contradiction as it is often framed through a security lens. Yet its persistence reveals a deeper democratic failure: the inability of postcolonial democracy to recognise peoples as political equals rather than as administrative populations.

The Naga struggle is a mirror that reflects the unresolved tension between modern state sovereignty and Indigenous political existence.

The Naga struggle is a mirror that reflects the unresolved tension between modern state sovereignty and Indigenous political existence.

The Nagas resonate with Indigenous experiences across the world, who consistently challenge the assumption that state sovereignty by design extinguishes prior political existence. In Latin America, North America, the Pacific, and Asia, Indigenous movements have insisted that encapsulation into modern states cannot dissolve their status as political communities. If democracy is to remain essential and relevant, it must adapt to accommodate layered sovereignties, overlapping identities, and differentiated political belonging. Unity imposed without recognition produces neither stability nor justice, but compliance without legitimacy.

From this perspective, the Naga struggle is a mirror that reflects the unresolved tension between modern state sovereignty and Indigenous political existence. It exposes the limits of a democratic imagination that has not yet learned to recognise peoples as co-creators of political order. In this sense, the Naga struggle is not only about Naga destiny. It raises the questions about the future credibility of postcolonial democracy itself.

Self-Determination as Humanisation

If self-determination is ultimately a question of human dignity and not territorial management, then its meaning cannot be exhausted by constitutional formulas or administrative arrangements. It must be understood as a moral and political claim to exist as a people whose history, identity, and future cannot be suppressed and erased by institutional convenience. Indigenous advocates argue that until political recognition aligns with human dignity, peace remains administratively managed, a condition found in the Naga context as well as among Indigenous Peoples in Asia.

The Naga experience illustrates this with particular clarity. What is at stake is not only a political settlement, but the recognition of a people as legitimate co-creators of political order rather than residual populations managed within inherited territorial frameworks. In this regard, rehumanising self-determination means rehumanising sovereignty itself. When sovereignty is reduced to territorial possession, it becomes an instrument of exclusion. However, when reimagined as accountable to history, to community, and to future generations, sovereignty becomes a foundation for ethical governance. A democratic order that cannot recognise Indigenous political existence ultimately weakens its own claim to democratic credibility.

Self-determination, when rehumanised, ceases to be a problem to be solved. It becomes a relationship to be honoured which transforms coexistence from forced accommodation into ethical partnership. Ultimately, self-determination is a moral force, a social movement, a political imagination, and a human aspiration. It is the foundation upon which all other rights rest. When self-determination is integral in the search for dignity and when peoples are placed at the centre of the humanisation process, then spaces for renewal, reconciliation and healing open. 

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At the same time, it introduces a substantive transformation: mining is reconfigured as a function of sovereignty in the twenty-first century, integrated into policies of technological security, energy autonomy, and state positioning in a strained world economy. Thus, control over critical minerals becomes the capacity to define which development models are deemed legitimate and which are subordinated or discarded in the contemporary political economy, even when those resources lie in Indigenous territories with their own systems of self-determination.

The nature of this conflict goes beyond the historical extraction of minerals such as coal or gold. Although both were strategic resources, critical minerals sustain the architecture of our era: they enable digitalisation, military industries, the manufacture of batteries and semiconductors, and technological hegemony in a world marked by accelerated geopolitical tensions. Their control no longer defines wealth alone, but also a state’s capacity to impose its vision of the future, from national security to energy autonomy, from digital infrastructure to industrial competitiveness. A capacity that, frequently, finds legitimacy in the global discourse of the green transition, even when its aims respond to logics of power and security.

A Right to Be and to Will to Be

In Sweden, this priority is reflected in its adherence to the Sustainable Critical Minerals Alliance in June 2024. There,  the Government states that these resources are essential to “ensure a secure and sustainable supply of raw materials necessary for the green and digital transitions,” thereby reinforcing the security of European production chains. Meanwhile, in Colombia, through Resolution 1006 of 2023, the National Mining Agency updated the list of “strategic minerals,” linking their extraction to the energy transition, the commitments of the Paris Agreement, and reindustrialisation.

In both countries, extraction ceased to be a merely economic strategy and became a pillar of state security at a time when competition for critical minerals redefines global hierarchies and reconfigures the historical place of Indigenous territories as strategic spaces in global politics. This reconfiguration exposes a deep tension at the core of contemporary governance of natural resources and collective rights: the persistent conflict between the formal recognition of Indigenous peoples by the state and their struggle for substantive autonomy, the capacity to fully define their political status and freely exercise their economic, social, and cultural existence as peoples.

Critical minerals exacerbate the decision-making asymmetry that structures the relationship between the state and Indigenous peoples. State sovereignty over subsoil resources thus expands through emerging normative languages such as climate urgency.

Indigenous self-determination remains confined to procedural participation mechanisms, without the capacity to contest the strategic orientation of development.

This dispute reframes self-determination not as a right merely inscribed in legal systems, but as a right to be and to will to be, a living principle that confronts the limits of the state and the extractive logics that uphold it. The right to be is claimed from territory, memory, and resistance, and does not constitute a concession granted by the state. Its reclaiming compels a rethinking of self-determination not as a passive legal clause, but as an active political process to sustain life and governance, in contexts where violence takes diverse forms, from colonial dispossession to the technocratic logics of control and exclusion.

In this context, critical minerals exacerbate the decision-making asymmetry structuring the relationship between the state and Indigenous peoples. While state sovereignty over the subsoil expands through emergent normative languages, security of supply, climate urgency, and industrial competitiveness, Indigenous self-determination remains confined to procedural participation mechanisms, without binding capacity to contest the strategic orientation of development, even when their territories become central to the energy transition.

Between the Unitary State and Constitutional Pluralism

The way states manage the right to be reveals the extent to which self-determination is translated into, or diluted within, the administrative and legal frameworks regulating subsoil and territories. In Sweden and Colombia, two apparently opposed state philosophies (one rooted in European liberal administrative unity, the other in postcolonial constitutional pluralism) converge in what can be called a paradox of power in decision-making: the subsoil is conceived as a matter of national interest, allowing the recentralization of strategic decisions under the rhetoric of the public interest and collective destiny.

On the surface, these policies present a more inclusive governance model; in practice, they absorb Indigenous participation into normative frameworks that secure state supremacy over territory. Self-determination thus becomes an administered promise: a right recognised, or, in some cases, merely enunciated, but conditioned by the logics of development and the green transition, where the state again positions itself as arbiter of the possible.

Although the Constitution recognises the Sámi people, this recognition is limited to the cultural and administrative spheres, without granting territorial or jurisdictional rights. The absence of ratification of ILO Convention 169 reinforces this restriction.

Although the Constitution recognises the Sámi people, this recognition is limited to the cultural and administrative spheres, without granting territorial or jurisdictional rights.

The most recent reports of the Sámi Council, The State of Sápmi 01 and 02, show how Sweden embodies a contained version of the same paradox: a formalised Indigenous recognition within a state framework that guarantees cultural protection but denies territorial sovereignty. At its legal foundation, Sámi rights defined by the Reindeer Husbandry Act are functional rather than territorial: they allow the traditional use of land for reindeer herding but do not confer sovereignty or ownership over the subsoil. Although the Constitution recognises the Sámi people, this recognition is limited to cultural and administrative spheres, without granting territorial or jurisdictional rights. The absence of ratification of ILO Convention 169 reinforces that restriction.

Within this framework, the Sámi Consultation Act (2022) is an institutional step forward by establishing a duty for public authorities to engage with the Sámi people; however, it does not require consent and excludes private actors. For its part, the Sámi Parliament (Sametinget), subordinated to the Government, retains consultative functions without decision-making power over natural resources. In turn, the Minerals Act (1991) and the Forestry Act (1979) provide procedural participation mechanisms, but do not create a formal obligation to consult nor rest on consent, while the Environmental Code (1998) limits protection to ecological aspects, sidelining the cultural, social, and spiritual dimensions of territory. In this way, the state recognises the Sámi as a political interlocutor, yet self-determination persists within the boundaries of the state.

Colombia: a Governance Framework that Blends Coercion, Litigation, and Administration

In Colombia, this paradox takes its most exposed and disputed form. Whereas in Sweden administrative integration neutralises self-determination within a framework of cultural recognition, in Colombia legal pluralism unfolds amid institutional fragmentation and the historical weight of armed conflict. Unlike Sweden, Colombia is home to 115 Indigenous peoples officially recognised, many of which overlap with areas of extraction and environmental conservation, thereby intensifying the challenges of territorial management and the application of law, especially regarding the exercise of autonomy and special Indigenous jurisdiction.

From a normative perspective, the 1991 Constitution recognised Indigenous jurisdiction (Article 246), collective ownership (Articles 329 and 330), and the duty of prior consultation under ILO Convention 169 (Law 21 of 1991). Likewise, the Constitutional Court established that prior consent is mandatory when a project, activity or measure implies displacement, storage of toxic materials, or a threat of physical or cultural extinction (Decision SU-123 of 2018). Nevertheless, the effectiveness of this framework depends almost entirely on litigation; the tutela action (a constitutional mechanism for the protection of fundamental rights in Colombia) has become the main enforcement tool, and the Court acts as arbiter in the face of administrative inertia and weak institutional coordination.

Violence, heir to a long history of disputes over land and territorial control, operates as a mechanism of power that intertwines economic, political, and armed interests, conditioning Indigenous autonomy.

Violence operates as a mechanism of power that intertwines economic, political, and armed interests, conditioning Indigenous autonomy.

The management of mining concessions and environmental licenses reflects this fragmentation: the National Mining Agency grants and oversees mining concessions, while the National Environmental Licensing Authority and the Regional Autonomous Corporations conduct environmental evaluation without effective articulation. Although the Court, in Decision T-129 of 2011, ordered that prior consultation must begin at the planning stage, ordinary regulations usually limit it to the environmental licensing procedure, when projects are already advanced, reducing the right to an administrative requirement.

In this context, violence, heir to a long history of disputes over land and territorial control, operates as a mechanism of power intertwining economic, political, and armed interests, conditioning Indigenous autonomy. Thus, Colombian legal pluralism, though constitutionally robust, coexists with a governance regime that combines coercion, litigation, and administration, against which Indigenous peoples assert their autonomy as a persistent form of resistance.

Beyond the Decision-making Limit: Toward Reciprocal Governance

The contrast between Sweden and Colombia reveals not only two administrative models, but also two forms of relation among the state, Indigenous peoples, and territorial sovereignty. In Sweden, the institutional coherence of the state ensures its own stability, yet reduces recognition of the Sámi people to a matter managed by the administration rather than a principle of self-determination. In Colombia, the legal force of constitutional pluralism recognises substantive rights, but institutional fragmentation and the persistence of violence erode their effectiveness. Rights exist, yet their fulfilment depends on a state that operates between legal promise and political inertia.

In both contexts, the struggle over strategic resources redraws the limits of state power and places critical minerals at the centre of a persistent tension: the expansion of state sovereignty versus the containment of Indigenous self-determination. Therefore, beyond a normative debate, the central challenge lies in reconfiguring the governance of power in decision-making, so that the relationship between the state and Indigenous peoples is no longer subordinated to administration but grounded in the redistribution of sovereignty, thereby overcoming the paradox through which the discourse of recognition continues to constrain self-determination.

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