Enforced disappearance is a form of continuous torture that was used against political dissidents and guerrillas in the 1960s and 70s, both in Mexico and in other regions of Abya Yala (the Americas). From 2006 onwards, however, it became widely employed by both state and non-state armed actors as a strategy of punishment, territorial control and terror, when then-president Felipe Calderón (2006–2012) launched what became popularly known as the “war on drugs”. This strategy militarised Mexican society, increased the circulation of firearms throughout the country, and incorporated methods of torture and body-handling techniques that the armed forces had learned in the context of armed conflicts.

While right-wing governments initiated the “war on drugs”, the centre-left governments of Andrés Manuel López Obrador (2018–2024) and Claudia Sheinbaum (2024– ) have continued this strategy, granting the Mexican military even greater power and impunity. Despite rhetoric placing the fight against inequality and the rights of women, victims and Indigenous Peoples at the centre of government policy, in practice these governments have continued implementing policies that militarise public security while enabling land dispossession and human rights violations by police, military and migration authorities. This was denounced by search collectives during their mobilisations during the FIFA World Cup.

More Than 70,000 Unidentified Bodies

Among the demands of this movement is the identification of the more than 70,000 bodies currently held by the state in morgues, forensic institutions, hospitals and prosecutors’ mass graves. With 133,000 people who remain disappeared and the remains of more than 70,000 individuals in state custody, families know that many of their loved ones could simply be waiting to be identified before they can finally return home. The state’s response has been that it lacks the financial and material resources needed to carry out this task. Alejandro Encinas, then Undersecretary for Human Rights, described this reality as “Mexico’s forensic crisis.”

Yet the World Cup’s financial gain tells a different story. There may be no money to search for and identify disappeared persons, but there is enough to invest $1.323 billion in infrastructure projects to make the World Cup possible. Faced with this reality, groups of families of disappeared people took to the streets in the three World Cup host cities chanting: “Mexico, world champion in disappearances.” While the World Cup venues were filled with banners announcing the return of the ball home, the families demanded: “The ball is coming home, but when will our disappeared loved ones?”

Violence in Indigenous Territories: Dispossession and Disappearances

In the context of the FIFA World Cup, groups of families of disappeared people sought to expose another side of the so-called Fourth Transformation governments: centre-left governments that have continued policies of death and impunity, enabling the disappearance of 67,000 people in just the six years of López Obrador’s administration and the first two years of Claudia Sheinbaum’s. Although there are no precise figures indicating how many of those disappeared are Indigenous, as official data are not disaggregated by ethnic origin, we do know that extreme forms of violence tend to be concentrated in impoverished and racialised territories where Indigenous communities live.

The stories of Indigenous people who have disappeared in Sinaloa, Guerrero, Oaxaca, Michoacán, Chiapas and Chihuahua reveal a continuum of violence that includes the structural violence preceding enforced disappearance and forms part of the harm suffered by victims and their communities. Racism contributes to concentrating disappearances in the country’s poorest and most marginalised regions. Colonial structures assign certain bodies to particular territories, which receive fewer resources and less attention through public policy. In a racist and racialised society such as Mexico’s, Indigenous identity significantly increases the likelihood of experiencing violence. Reporting disappearances, searching for disappeared relatives, and accessing justice become even greater challenges for those who do not speak Spanish and have no access to interpretation services, as well as for families who lack the financial means to travel to the cities where judicial and search institutions are based.

This is the other side of World Cup Mexico that search collectives sought to reveal by taking to the streets and reminding football fans that, in the areas surrounding the stadiums, clandestine graves conceal the bodies of those who remain disappeared.

This is the other side of World Cup: in the areas surrounding the stadiums, clandestine graves conceal the bodies of those who remain disappeared.

This is why we speak of the multiple absences of disappeared Indigenous people. Beyond their physical absence from the communities to which they belonged, until recently their ethnic identity went unrecognised in official statistics on disappearances, while the issue itself remained largely absent from Indigenous mobilisations. Many of their bodies have ended up in state-run mass graves, with no forensic records that would allow their relatives to identify and recover them.

Alongside the thousands of anonymous Indigenous young people who have been forcibly recruited by organised crime and disappeared or murdered for resisting recruitment, there are documented stories of 46 Indigenous land defenders who, since 2019, have been murdered or disappearedfor defending their territories against dispossession driven by mining and other development projects. This is the other side of World Cup Mexico that search collectives sought to reveal by taking to the streets and reminding football fans that, in the areas surrounding the stadiums, clandestine graves conceal the bodies of those who remain disappeared.

Search Collectives and the World Cup

Mexico City hosted the opening ceremony and opening match of the 2026 FIFA World Cup at the Estadio Azteca, a tournament venue located in Santa Úrsula Coapa, an Indigenous community whose territory was fragmented by the construction of the stadium. For the third time in its history, the community of Santa Úrsula has had to live through a FIFA World Cup while access to its territory has been restricted and disrupted. Furthermore, as in previous World Cups, the social context of Mexico is not what the government has tried to portray to the world.

Faced with a city that has become increasingly hostile to its own residents and a FIFA under suspicion of corruption and influence peddling, those searching for their disappeared loved ones prepared a schedule of mobilisations and memorials to disrupt the green grass of the host stadium and voice their demands for justice. Even in the face of threats and repressive actions by the authorities, they found a way to become part of the World Cup atmosphere without confronting it directly. As they themselves explain, their sons and daughters, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, and friends are football fans too. That is why they took to the streets to say that there should not be another World Cup until their loved ones have finally come home.

These protests took place not only in Mexico City but also in Guadalajara and Monterrey—the three World Cup host cities in Mexico—and received widespread coverage in both the national and international press. Guadalajara attracted particular attention, not only because of the demonstrations themselves but also because search collectives documented the discovery of several clandestine graves in the vicinity of Estadio Akron.

The families’ mobilisations took many forms: a march and overnight vigil on the eve of the opening match; the demonstration held on opening day, during which some families managed to reach the vicinity of the Estadio Azteca after crossing the police cordon that had prevented them from gaining access; visual interventions inspired by World Cup imagery; posters featuring the faces of disappeared people designed in the style of Panini World Cup stickers; large-scale campaigns to paste up posters featuring disappeared persons; cascaritas—the informal football matches played between friends in Mexico—held “for memory and against forgetting”; and the creation of the Searching Axolotl, a mascot inspired by the amphibian endemic to the lakes of the Valley of Mexico and revered as a deity in Mexica culture.

Faced with this series of protests, memorial events, cultural activities and interfaith gatherings, the federal government led by Claudia Sheinbaum responded in a way that few expected. It even suggested that the search collectives had received illicit funding to organise the demonstrations. Rather than committing to investigating the disappearances themselves—many of which occurred during Sheinbaum’s administration—the government announced that it would instead investigate the alleged source of that funding, a move the families denounced as a further act of revictimisation.

The official response consisted of hostile rhetoric, police cordons and repeated attempts to restrict the protests. One particularly troubling incident occurred when Mexico City police used force against search collectives and supporters taking part in a peaceful demonstration on one of the main avenues linking the city centre to the Estadio Azteca, on the day of the Mexico–Ecuador match. Fernando Vargas, the father of Olin Hernando Vargas, who disappeared in 2024, was injured during the operation. Meanwhile, the mobilisations for memory and against forgetting continue.

“Everyone to the Stadium!”: A Chronicle of the Night March Before the Opening Match

On 10 June 2026, a march took place in Mexico City under the slogan “Light the Way for the Search.” Setting off from the Registro Federal light rail station, participants aimed to reach the Estadio Azteca. At eight o’clock that evening, we began marching, accompanied by a massive presence of national and international media. One of the family members coordinating the event took the megaphone and called out: “We ask everyone to keep their faces uncovered!” The request underscored the peaceful nature of the demonstration and sought to prevent outside actors from discrediting its genuine purpose.

A few hundred metres before reaching the boundary of the “last mile”—a restricted security perimeter around the stadium, accessible only to local residents and ticket holders—the march became more cautious. The protesters linked arms and decided to keep moving. As we covered those final metres, an unfamiliar scene began to take shape in the distance. At the top of the avenue, a line of lights appeared to block the road. At first, some of us thought they were the flashes of journalists’ cameras. But as we drew closer, the picture became clearer. At least ten rows of police officers stood across the road, blocking our way, while the streetlights reflected off their riot shields. On one side stood the police line; on the other, the families, raising their megaphones and chanting: “Why do we search for them? Because we love them!”

When we came face to face with the police lines, the families kept their spirits high. Some sang and prayed together, while others improvised an altar where they placed the candles carried during the march. Others organised cascaritas—informal football matches—right there in the middle of the road. Gradually, as the night wore on, the crowd began to disperse and the area around the stadium emptied. Yet just as the World Cup was about to begin, so too did the protests that surrounded it.

“Let’s Make It Happen!”: The Cascarita for Memory and Against Forgetting

Near the Glorieta de las y los Desaparecidos—renamed by families searching for their disappeared loved ones—the asphalt has spontaneously become the football pitch where today’s match “for memory and against forgetting” is being played. White paint marks the boundaries of the field, while a couple of backpacks serve as the goalposts. The players wear Mexico national team shirts that have been altered to raise awareness and protest the situation: some bear the names and faces of disappeared persons; others display messages denouncing the country’s disappearance crisis. The teams are not playing against one another. Instead, they play together to “score against forgetting.” Every goal scored is a goal for memory.

Among the players and spectators, banners and placards bear the names and faces of those who remain disappeared—the people for whom this cascarita is being played. Verónica, Benita and Dioni, members of the Uniendo Esperanzas search collective, play for one of the teams. Their shirts carry the names of their sons who have disappeared: Diego Maximiliano, Fernando Iván and Guillermo David. Their side is completed by Leo, Benita’s young grandson, together with a group of young women and men who stand alongside them in the search for their children. They play with skill and determination, giving everything they have on the pitch.

The cascarita for memory and against forgetting—for truth and justice—continues until every one of those who remain disappeared has been found.

The cascarita for memory and against forgetting—for truth and justice—continues until every one of those who remain disappeared has been found.

The match goes on and the scoreboard is still active. The teams take turns on the pitch. Every goal is celebrated. Every act of solidarity counts; every lack of it is ruled offside. At one tense moment in the match, Sister Pao—a volunteer referee and Catholic nun who accompanies the families searching for their disappeared loved ones—firmly brandishes a red card against injustice. She quickly puts the ball back into play, not before reminding everyone that this is a collaborative match. Among the players are people who also give everything they have in support of other just causes. Collaboration between all those on the pitch is the key to scoring goals for justice.

Just before the rain begins, the last goal of this day of Mexican street football is scored. The cascarita comes to an end. Players run for shelter wherever they can. But the main match is far from over. That is the match the families searching for their disappeared loved ones play every single day. The cascarita for memory and against forgetting—for truth and justice—continues until every one of those who remain disappeared has been found.

The Chance to Play One More Match

During the 39 days of the FIFA World Cup, families searching for their missing loved ones never stopped raising their voices, scoring goals for remembrance and reminding the public that Mexico remains fractured and incomplete: more than 133,000 people remain disappeared. In the face of a football-centred nationalism that often showed little empathy for the families’ pain, search collectives revealed another side of World Cup Mexico. Faced with a government and a society that continue to deny the country’s disappearance crisis, these families continue to lay bare the face of a profoundly wounded Mexico.

Indigenous territories continue to be dispossessed, occupied and transformed into football stadiums or clandestine cemeteries, while the government floods the media with Indigenous rhetoric about laws and public policies that  do not respond to the realities of dispossession, violence and impunity experienced by Mexico’s Indigenous Peoples.

While the country continues to conceal the scars left by disappearances, clandestine graves and countless human rights violations, families searching for their disappeared loved ones refuse to let the names and faces of the more than 133,000 people who remain disappeared fade from public memory. Their protests and mobilisations are acts of remembrance against forgetting. Let us hope that each of these absences will be remembered not only by the families who search every day, but also by all those who believe that everyone deserves a fair chance, a dignified remembrance, and the equal opportunity to watch—or even play—one more match with the people they love.

The post The Ball Returns to Mexico—But What About the Disappeared? appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

The rural schoolteacher from Cajamarca remained in office for only one year and 132 days, from July 28, 2021 to December 7, 2022. He was removed from office irregularly on the grounds of “permanent moral incapacity” and accused of attempting a coup d’état that never actually materialised. Since such conduct was not legally defined as a criminal offence under Peruvian law, the charge was subsequently amended to “conspiracy to commit rebellion”. Pedro Castillo’s removal enabled the so-called “mafia pact” to appoint puppet governments under its direct influence, including those led by Dina Boluarte (2022–2025), José Jerí León (2025–2026) and José María Balcázar (2026).

The Rural Vote and the Coastal Vote

Since Alberto Fujimori first took office in 1990, Peru has been experiencing a crisis of political representation marked by the collapse of the political party system. Against this backdrop, the 2026 electoral process was shaped by Fujimorism to create conditions that best served its political interests. Law No. 30995 drastically reduced party registration requirements: it went from requiring 700,000 signatures of adherents to approximately 25,000 members (0.1% of the electoral roll). This reduction was in effect from 2019 until early 2024, which allowed dozens of political organisations to begin or complete the registration process.

As a result, the Registry of Political Organisations included 43 parties authorized to participate in the 2026 elections—a historic record. Moreover, the suspension of the Open, Simultaneous and Mandatory Primary Elections (PASO) further fragmented the electoral landscape, resulting in 35 presidential candidates and an extraordinarily long ballot. In this context, Keiko Fujimori ran for the presidency for the fourth time, despite facing serious allegations of corruption and having spent three separate periods in pre-trial detention for alleged money laundering and illegal campaign contributions linked to the Odebrecht case. Between 2018 and 2020, Keiko Fujimori spent a total of 16.5 months detained. “The main charge was thrown out in 2025 by the Constitutional Court, whose members were appointed by a Congress under strong Fujimori influence,” notes political scientist Omar Coronel.

Roberto Sánchez secured a majority of the vote in rural districts, whereas Keiko Fujimori prevailed primarily in densely populated coastal regions, in addition to an advantage gained from the votes of Peruvians living abroad.

Roberto Sánchez secured a majority of the vote in rural districts.

The election results reveal a country that is divided, fragmented and— it could even be argued— polarised and distrustful of democratic institutions. In the first round, Keiko Fujimori advanced to the run-off with 17.8 percent of the valid vote, while Roberto Sánchez (Juntos por el Perú) qualified with just 12.03 percent. Together, the two candidates accounted for less than 30 percent of the valid votes cast in the first round. Most of the remaining 35 candidates received less than 10 percent of the vote, illustrating the dispersion and fragmentation of the electorate. Although Roberto Sánchez prevailed by a narrow margin nationwide in the runoff, Fujimori’s lead among Peruvians living abroad ultimately tipped the final outcome in her favour.

Juntos por el Perú won 18 of Peru’s 25 regional constituencies (comprising 24 departments and the Constitutional Province of Callao), whereas Fuerza Popular won in only seven. Furthermore, Roberto Sánchez secured a majority in rural constituencies, while Keiko Fujimori prevailed primarily in densely populated coastal regions, in addition to securing a decisive advantage from the votes of Peruvians living abroad.

The Indigenous and Environmental Agenda Adrift

Indigenous and environmental issues were largely absent from the election campaign, with no concrete proposals put forward. This reflects the deterioration of these issues over the past decade— a period of profound political instability during which Peru saw eight presidents in ten years. A major setback was the amendment of the Forestry and Wildlife Law via Law No. 31973 of 2024—known as the Anti-Forestry Law— which was enacted despite repeated warnings regarding its disastrous consequences. Public opposition was widespread, and the law was criticised even by state institutions. In March 2025, the Constitutional Court declared two articles of the law unconstitutional by a majority of five votes to two, while upholding the law’s most pernicious provision: the Sole Final Complementary Provision.

Manuel Pulgar Vidal, of the World Wide Fund for Nature (WWF), summarizes the election debate: “Over the past ten years, we have witnessed a weakening of environmental safeguards in the country. This is also an indirect consequence of significant political instability Peru has experienced over the past decade. As a result, environmental issues have virtually disappeared from media coverage. No political party has a robust environmental agenda in its platform, nor do they have a qualified official capable of outlining the basic elements of such an agenda.” Additionally, a serious concern for Indigenous Peoples and the natural environment is the rise in organised crime, particularly illegal mining. Faced with this challenge, the candidates failed to present firm proposals and instead adopted an overly lenient stance.

For her part, Isabel Calle, Executive Director of the Peruvian Society for Environmental Law (SPDA), notes: “Illegal mining has become one of the primary threats to the Amazon, governance, and national security. It is compounded by illegal logging, wildlife trafficking, land trafficking, and the unchecked expansion of activities operating outside the law. These activities are not merely environmental problems; they are manifestations of criminal networks that seize territories, corrupt institutions, incite violence and erode public trust. Combating them requires far more than isolated enforcement operations. It demands financial intelligence, an effective State presence, institutional strengthening, coordination across levels of government, and sustainable economic alternatives for local communities.”

The Peruvian Model and Structural Inequality

Observers of Peru’s macroeconomic indicators from afarare often struck by the apparent success and promise of the “Peruvian model.” During the first two decades of the twenty-first century, the country was one of the fastest-growing economies in Latin America. Between 2000 and 2019, Gross Domestic Product (GDP) nearly tripled, driven by a boom in mining exports, private investment and macroeconomic stability, resulting in a substantial increase in public spending. However, this growth has been uneven, with its benefits concentrated in Lima and the coastal regions. Many Andean and Amazonian continue to rely on low-productivity economic activities and experience a minimal state presence.

Labour informality remains a major obstacle to a more equitable income distribution. Approximately seven out of ten workers hold informal jobs, earning low wages and lacking access to social security, pensions, or unemployment protection. Another contributing factor is the inequality in access to public services. Although the national budget has increased significantly over the past two decades, the quality of education, healthcare, access to safe drinking water, sanitation and internet services remains highly unequal, even between districts within the same region.

Furthermore, Peru maintains one of the lowest tax burdens in Latin America and remains heavily dependent on extractive industries and the informal economy. This limits the State’s redistributive capacity and reduces the resources available to sustain universal, long-term public policies. Indeed, one of the country’s defining characteristics is the persistence of historical and cultural inequalities. Indigenous, Afro-Peruvian and rural populations continue to face barriers in accessing public services, markets, and opportunities. These disparities stem from long-standing processes linked to centralism, territorial exclusion, and discrimination.

Drifting towards Authoritarianism

The outlook projected by a Fujimorist government mirrors that of recent years: legislation favouring criminal activity and a legislative package granting amnesty and impunity to the Armed Forces and Police. These are creating a regime of terror. Analyst and photographer Ezio Macchione warns: “I see no reason for optimism. I see a country that is exhausted, fractured, fearful and weighed down by a backlog of unresolved problems, with a political class that has repeatedly proven itself to be wholly inadequate to the gravity of the moment. Above all, I see the danger of confusing order with authoritarianism, security with repression, stability with silence, and governability with the capture of the State.”

For his part, Omar Coronel, professor at the Pontifical Catholic University of Peru, writes: “Since 2022, the country has effectively been governed by an authoritarian coalition in which Fujimorism has played a leading role. The 2026 elections have now given that leadership electoral legitimacy. The president enjoys the backing of business associations, the Armed Forces, and a police force protected by guarantees of impunity for human rights violations. If she governs with low approval ratings and is confronted by social unrest, her track record suggests that she will resort to repression as her principal means of maintaining control, with the support of the country’s leading media outlets. Ultimately, Fujimorism represents the most organised threat to democracy in Peru, and the one with the country’s most powerful allies.”

“Peruvian democracy will first have to struggle to preserve or recover the formal institutions that minimally define it as a democracy. Beyond that, it will also have to ensure that it once again becomes representative of the nation to an acceptable degree.”

“Peruvian democracy will first have to struggle to preserve or recover the formal institutions that minimally define it as a democracy.”

In the same vein, American analyst Steven Levitsky emphasises the concentration of power: “Fujimori would control the Executive branch, wield significant influence in Congress and, as we know, exert influence over other institutions, including the Judiciary, electoral authorities, and sectors of the armed forces and security services. Additionally, she would have a friendly government in Washington under the Donald Trump administration. This would give her the opportunity to consolidate a great deal of power, and the opposition would need to organise and work much more seriously if it wants to defend basic rights and a competitive democratic system in Peru.”

Similarly, the Institute of Democracy and Human Rights at the Pontifical Catholic University of Peru warns: “Peruvian democracy will first have to struggle to preserve or recover the formal institutions that minimally define it as a democracy. Beyond that, it will also have to ensure that it once again becomes representative of the nation to an acceptable degree.” Meanwhile, social and community activist Nury García notes: “I think the challenge is to forge a new political coalition capable of connecting memory, precariousness, criminal violence, extractivism, inequality, the ecological crisis, care work, and new forms of social suffering. The challenge is to build a broad political subject without erasing the specific memories of each individual struggle.”

The Way Forward Is Collective

A primary practical challenge is for the congressional opposition— which champions human rights and democratic freedoms— to remain united and build active alliances with social movements and civil society. To achieve this, it will be essential to sustain persistent, active and non-violent mobilisation to avoid giving the government the pretext for repression it seeks. The Indigenous movements and civil society organisations risk being overwhelmed by authoritarian power if they remain fragmented and isolated, each pursuing its own agenda instead of building meaningful dialogue and alliances that broaden the horizons of their respective struggles.

Sectarianism, opportunism, and individualism remain burdens that divide and weaken the capacity for resistance and struggle among those defending rights and freedoms in a world increasingly plagued by denialism, authoritarian tendencies—on both the left and the right—and polarisation driven by transnational interests. Similarly, it works to the advantage of grassroots sectors that the electoral promises and illusions of Fujimorism will inevitably begin to clash with reality and public expectations. The failure to address and fulfill these expectations will erode credibility and fuel frustration.

The lacklustre presidential inauguration speech and the composition of the first cabinet reveal a lack of experienced political and technical personnel capable of governing effectively. Likewise, the sweeping request for powers to legislate by decree makes it clear that Keiko Fujimori’s government intends to make key decisions behind closed doors, away from public scrutiny and with little regard for the public.

The post Peru: The Challenge of Confronting an Authoritarian Government appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

During Gustavo Petro’s administration (2022–2026), Colombia made significant progress in recognising the ethnic, territorial and environmental governance rights of Indigenous Peoples. One of the government’s priorities was to protect and guarantee Indigenous Peoples’ territorial, cultural and environmental rights through “regulatory advances in territorial autonomy, the strengthening of Indigenous knowledge systems, and the recognition of Indigenous environmental authorities”. Over the past four years, the government also advanced land claims in Indigenous resguardos through collective reparations, the restoration of ethnic territorial rights, and land restitution. As a result, the total number of legally recognised Indigenous resguardos has reached 935.

The Politics of Racism and Stigmatisation

During the election campaign, the far-right project was marked by discriminatory rhetoric, threats, and stigmatisation. Racism opportunistically surfaced in the attacks directed at the vice presidential running mate of the left-wing candidate, Indigenous mayora (female elder) and Nasa senator Aida Quilcué. Abelardo de la Espriella claimed that the Indigenous leader was unfit to assume the office of Vice-President: “Would you feel at ease if something happened to Mr Cepeda and his running mate took over? I’ll leave that with you—think it over. That would not be responsible towards the country. That would not be responsible towards Colombia.”

These remarks were accompanied by stigmatising statements, threats, and potential restrictions on the legitimate right of Indigenous Peoples to protest and mobilise: “Under my government, they will either get organised and become real citizens, or they will find out just how hard the tiger bites. I will not tolerate this disorder from Indigenous people, nor their constant extortion and pressure. They already own 33% of Colombia’s land and still demand more, claiming there is an ancestral debt that, in their view, can never be repaid. Indigenous people should realise that blocking roads is one thing without the tiger and quite another with the tiger in power, because I am the kind of tiger that roars—and bites.”

These false claims have already fueled discrimination, hatred, and racism among his supporters, while ignoring the long-standing historical efforts to restore the collective rights of Indigenous Peoples, who have been systematically dispossessed of their rights and excluded from national political life despite their vital contributions to protecting and restoring ecosystems essential not only to their own continued existence, but also to the survival of the country’s human and non-human communities. This strategy has also served to instrumentalise and fracture Indigenous organisational and community processes by exploiting the dissatisfaction of some communities over the outgoing government’s failure to fulfil its commitments. At the same time, the campaign sought to bring Indigenous leaders into its ranks in order to build political capital and soften the image of a political project otherwise characterised by threats and racist stigmatisation.

Proposals Affecting Indigenous Peoples

The far-right government plan sets out proposals that would amount to dangerous setbacks in the guarantee and protection of the collective right to free, prior and informed consultation. In doing so, it disregards existing jurisprudence governing this right while simultaneously opening the door to extractive projects that would have a profound impact on biocultural ecosystems across the country.

In the “Economy” section, the plan portrays environmental licensing procedures and the right of communities to free, prior and informed consultation as obstacles and burdens on the private sector. It therefore proposes fast-track environmental licensing and the acceleration of consultation processes. In the “Mining and Energy Policy” section, it argues that the extractive sector has been constrained by ideological prejudice and dismisses efforts to advance a just and people-centred energy transition, a process that had already progressed under the current government administration in consultation with local communities.

The lack of mention of multiculturalism and ethnic and cultural diversity not only makes the contribution of ethnic groups to national cultural policy invisible, but could also foreshadow a possible defunding of Indigenous Peoples’ initiatives.

The lack of mention of the country’s multiculturalism and ethnic and cultural diversity makes the contributions of ethnic peoples to national cultural policy invisible.

In the rural sphere, the “The Countryside” section of the government plan claims that Colombia has undergone a “false agrarian reform”, disregarding the achievements of land restitution and land allocation processes for rural communities, particularly Indigenous resguardos. It also proposes to “expand the productive agricultural frontier,” presumably through large-scale industrial monocultures, which would severely endanger ecosystems essential for the survival and integrity of Indigenous territories and their vital resources.

Finally, the section on culture proposes “fiscal support for new cultural enterprises and major cultural and sporting events that attract foreign revenue”. In doing so, this would reduce culture to market forces. The proposal’s failure to acknowledge the country’s multiculturalism and its ethnic and cultural diversity not only overlooks the contributions of Indigenous and other ethnic groups to Colombia’s cultural life, but could also signal a reduction in public funding for Indigenous initiatives. Ultimately, a lack of resources could jeopardize the protection of Indigenous knowledge systems, the revitalisation of Indigenous languages and the continuity of ancestral practices, all of which contribute directly to the physical survival of Indigenous Peoples.

Appointments That Herald the Storm

The recent appointments to key ministries responsible for safeguarding the rights of ethnic peoples, particularly the Ministries of the Interior and the Environment, also appear to herald a series of far-right policy measures. Representing a 180-degree shift from the previous administration, these policies could be implemented at an early stage through presidential decrees during the first 90 to 100 days of the new government, which will take office on 7 August.

The incoming Minister of the Interior, Rodrigo Lara Restrepo, co-authored Statutory Bill No. 134 in 2018 while serving as a senator. The bill sought to regulate the right to prior consultation by establishing procedures, timeframes, the powers of public authorities and the legal effects of consultation, as well as mechanisms for coordination between the State and ethnic groups. During the legislative debate on the bill’s articles, criticisms were raised that several of its provisions could restrict the exercise of this right. Additionally, criticisms noted that there was a lack of provisions for broad consultations with the directly affected communities. As Minister, Lara Restrepo could therefore advance a legislative agenda aimed at restricting the right to prior consultation and other collective rights.

The incoming Minister of the Environment, Fabio Arjona Hincapié, has likewise described prior consultation as an “entirely transactional” mechanism. He has also argued that “the prior consultation process can no longer function as a mechanism for extortion”, remarks that seriously undermine the legitimacy of this right. In his view, consultation processes have hindered infrastructure development. Statements of this kind could further fuel the stigmatisation of Indigenous communities by portraying them as obstacles to a neoliberal and extractivist model of development that disregards Indigenous Peoples’ own life plans and their right to self-determination.

Warnings for the Future

In the first months of the administration, the appointment of ministers with the abovementioned profiles will likely facilitate the implementation of policies aimed at realizing the large-scale extractive model proposed in the government plan. This is precisely what Abelardo de la Espriella promised during the election campaign: “Under the Tiger government, we’re going to exploit the country’s subsoil resources to the fullest!” Such a stance not only disregards but also threatens the alternative models of development and well-being that ethnic communities have been building through territorial governance and their own ways of sustaining life.

Finally, I would like to reiterate the warning voiced by the opposition, led by Iván Cepeda, regarding the risk of increased repression and the criminalisation of social protest under the incoming government. This could translate into restrictions on the many forms of Indigenous and popular mobilisation. Colombia has a long history of emblematic Indigenous mingas that have brought thousands of people onto the country’s roads and streets to demand respect for and protection of collective ethnic and territorial rights, as well as the right of Indigenous Peoples to self-determination—rights that are essential to building peace from a territorial perspective in Colombia.

The post Narratives of Stigmatisation and Racism in Colombia: The Risk of Regression in Collective Rights appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

Another key question is whether the conflict succeeded in halting the structural reforms to the country’s economic model—which initially entailed rolling back hard-won social gains—or whether it instead served to strengthen the protesters’ demand for the president’s resignation, which became the movement’s central demand during its final phase. On this point, several leaders of social organisations and peasant communities explained that the movement envisaged the resignation of the head of state, followed by the constitutional succession of Vice-President Edman Lara and the calling of fresh elections within three months. Some even advocated for allowing former president Evo Morales to stand as a candidate, although the courts have so far ruled out that possibility.

A President No One Saw Coming

Rodrigo Paz Pereira, the son of former president Jaime Paz Zamora, came to power as a complete surprise. The son of a left-wing political family with a guerrilla past, his father served as president and led the former Revolutionary Left Movement (MIR) after forging an unlikely political alliance with the right-wing former dictator Hugo Banzer following the 1989 elections. In 2025, Paz Pereira defeated former president Jorge “Tuto” Quiroga in the presidential run-off, benefiting from the votes left politically adrift by the collapse of the Movement for Socialism (MAS). Drawn largely from popular sectors, these voters would never have supported a far-right candidate such as “Tuto”.

Once in office, Paz temporarily eased the fuel shortage through agreements with the United States and allied countries in the region. Before long, however, he began issuing decrees and resolutions aimed at dismantling what he himself described as the Estado tranca (“gridlock state”). In practice, these measures favoured the powerful economic interests of Bolivia’s eastern lowlands while alienating the electorate that had brought him to power in the Andean region. His government abolished the wealth tax and enacted Supreme Decree No. 5503, whose 121 articles introduced a fast-track procedure for approving foreign investment contracts in infrastructure and natural resource exploitation without parliamentary approval or the free, prior and informed consent of the Indigenous Peoples concerned. It also eliminated almost all subsidies on liquid fuels, doubling the price of petrol and tripling that of diesel.

The origins of the subsequent conflict can be traced back to these early days in office. From the outset, the president and his government adopted a position increasingly at odds with Vice-President Edman Lara, a former police officer who enjoyed broad popular support. Even before taking office, Lara accused the president on social media of reneging on their political agreements and forming a government without his participation. As the dispute escalated, the government issued a decree stripping the vice-president of his constitutional powers and depriving him of almost all public funding. While Paz portrayed Lara as unfit for office, a significant section of his own electorate interpreted the move as a betrayal of their class interests, particularly among the Andean popular sectors represented by peasants, small traders, self-employed workers, transport workers and labourers. These groups have traditionally been distrustful of the middle and upper classes of La Paz, Cochabamba and Santa Cruz, whom they largely perceive as belonging to the political right.

An Accumulation of Demands

The composition of the protest movement changed over time. In April, the president enacted Law No. 1720 without any prior consultation. The legislation sought to reclassify small-scale agricultural holdings as medium-sized properties through an administrative procedure, while introducing a moratorium on verifying whether medium-sized estates fulfilled their economic and social function. The government and agribusiness interests attempted to present the law as one that would benefit smallholder farmers, although it was evident that it was primarily intended to favour the large landowners of Bolivia’s eastern lowlands. Indeed, the region’s leading businessman and senator took the lead in publicly promoting and defending the legislation.

Against this backdrop, the first protest was led by peasant organisations from the Northern Amazon who launched a march demanding the repeal of Law No. 1720. Along the way, they were joined by Indigenous organisations from the department of Beni, which distanced themselves from the agreements reached between the government and the Confederation of Indigenous Nations and Peoples of the Bolivian East, Chaco and Amazon (CIDOB), as the authorities sought to downplay the significance of the peasant march. The mobilisation also prompted mining cooperatives and teachers’ unions to put forward their own demands. Up to that point, the government had portrayed the protests as a collection of sector-specific disputes, attributing them to the legacy of the “20 years of MAS” and to alleged attempts at destabilisation by political leaders displaced from power and aligned with former president Evo Morales.

The Bolivian Workers’ Centre presented its list of demands in El Alto on May 1, ushering the conflict into a new phase. The dispute took on a more structural character and social polarisation deepened, spilling onto the streets, into the media and across social networks.

The Bolivian Workers’ Centre presented its list of demands in El Alto on May 1, ushering the conflict into a new phase. The dispute took on a more structural character and social polarisation deepened.

Following the partial repeal of Law No. 1720 and the enactment of Supreme Decree No. 5613, which authorised the allocation of state-owned forest land to Amazonian peasant and Indigenous communities, the government declared that the protests were no longer driven by legitimate social demands but had become political in nature. This shift was underscored by growing calls for the president’s resignation—a demand from which Indigenous organisations distanced themselves following the partial repeal of Law No. 1720. At the same time, the government adopted a ministerial resolution allowing mining cooperatives to regularise contracts in protected areas and Indigenous territories without prior consultation. In doing so, the move further entrenched violations of the Indigenous rights enshrined in the Constitution, with the aim of neutralising one of the strongest sectors of the protest movement.

For its part, the Bolivian Workers’ Centre (COB) presented its list of demands in El Alto on May 1, ushering the conflict into a new phase. The dispute took on a more structural character and social polarisation deepened, spilling onto the streets, into the media and across social networks. At this stage, new actors came to the fore: coca growers from Chapare, who launched a march towards La Paz, and peasant organisations from the historic Túpac Katari federation, bringing together the so-called Ponchos Rojos, one of the country’s most militant social movements. Road blockades spread across almost the entire Andean region, while communal peasant communities joined the protests en masse within their own territories. By then, the movement had coalesced around a single overriding demand: the resignation of Rodrigo Paz over the sale of poor-quality fuels, the shortage of US dollars and rising inflation.

A Conflict That Seemed Never-Ending

Another dimension of the conflict was the impact, forged after his electoral victory, that Rodrigo Paz’s alliance with the economic elites of Bolivia’s eastern lowlands had on the Andean popular sectors. Combined with a series of neoliberal measures that rolled back the social gains enshrined in the Constitution, this alliance came to be seen by many as a betrayal of the very voters who had brought Paz to power. This perception was further reinforced by the removal of Indigenous symbols from the state’s official imagery, as well as by a shift in the language and practices through which the government engaged with the protesting sectors. With no interlocutors capable of understanding their grievances, the conflict reached an impasse and dragged on.

Throughout the crisis, the government consistently opted for dialogue while refusing to yield to demands for the president’s resignation, treating the unrest as a series of sector-specific disputes. For several weeks, however, the president’s resignation remained the only condition under which the nearly 100 roadblocks that were beginning to choke access to La Paz, the country’s seat of government, would be lifted. Xenophobic and discriminatory rhetoric directed at the protesters came to dominate social media and much of the mainstream media, which had largely aligned itself with the government. The protesters, for their part, responded with an anger born less of aggression than of frustration and a profound sense of powerlessness.

As in other conflicts led by popular organisations across the Andean region, polarisation exposed and intensified Bolivia’s longstanding fault lines, particularly those rooted in ethnic and regional divisions.

As in other conflicts led by popular organisations across the Andean region, polarisation exposed and intensified Bolivia’s longstanding fault lines, particularly those rooted in ethnic and regional divisions.

In this way, the government adopted a strategy of attrition, refraining from declaring a state of emergency in order to avoid drawing other sectors into the conflict and triggering an even greater crisis. While the absence of armed repression—of the kind witnessed under Jeanine Añez and Gonzalo Sánchez de Lozada, when crackdowns left a trail of deaths, injuries and arrests—kept the protests within manageable institutional limits, the prolonged conflict inflicted considerable political damage on the president, as growing sectors of society called for the army to be deployed.

As in other conflicts led by popular organisations across the Andean region, polarisation exposed and intensified Bolivia’s longstanding fault lines, particularly those rooted in ethnic and regional divisions.  Given its role as the main supplier of many of the goods consumed in western Bolivia, the roadblocks in Santa Cruz were widely perceived as a measure directed against the department itself. Meanwhile, Indigenous intellectuals—especially Aymara and Quechua voices based in the country’s cities—argued that the conflict had brought to the surface the racism and discrimination still faced by the Indigenous population of the Andes, which was once again being marginalised in public policy. More broadly, there was a widespread perception that the social gains enshrined in the Constitution were under threat.

Evo Morales’ Role

Among the government’s main efforts to discredit the protests was its claim that Evo Morales was behind an attempted insurrection and that he was financing the road blockades through drug trafficking, with the aim of securing his eligibility to stand in the elections that would supposedly follow the president’s resignation. In reality, apart from the mobilisation of coca growers from Chapare, the former president played a much greater role in media coverage than in the protests themselves, not least because he remained at odds with several of the sectors taking part in the mobilisation. Although his supporters shared the movement’s central demand, the broad coalition brought together by the Bolivian Workers’ Centre (COB) and peasant organisations far exceeded the mobilisation of the coca-growing sector, which marched from its historic stronghold in Chapare to the seat of government.

The most tense moments came in May, when several marches entered La Paz and the city was brought to a complete standstill by the road blockades. Protesters increasingly targeted businesses that refused to close and even ordinary citizens who opposed both the radical nature of the protest measures and the calls for the president’s resignation only six months into Rodrigo Paz’s presidency. Across the country, the blockades paralysed the economy and directly and indirectly claimed 22 lives. Ambulances were prevented from passing through blockade points, denying critically ill patients access to medical care, while shortages of essential supplies left hospitals unable to treat those in urgent need.

Urban sectors also criticised the president for his ineffective handling of the crisis, which exposed the government’s limited understanding of the groups behind the protests, particularly those mobilised around land and territorial rights. In this context, the government’s public response was led by senator and landowner Branko Marinkovic, a member of the Free Alliance party headed up by former far-right presidential candidate Jorge “Tuto” Quiroga. His prominent role became another factor fuelling the protests, as many demonstrators saw him as a white landowner of foreign descent from Bolivia’s eastern lowlands promoting a reform that clearly harmed smallholder farmers while relying on arguments that many found unconvincing.

The Truce and the Uncertainty Ahead

The conflict came to an end with the signing of an agreement on 26 June. Although it does not amount to a political programme for the popular movement, it could mark a turning point in the relationship between the state and a broad range of social actors with regard to their historic achievements: national sovereignty; respect for Indigenous Peoples; consultation and participation in decisions that may affect them; and the commitment not to authorise mining activities in protected areas and Indigenous territories. One of the agreement’s central commitments was Rodrigo Paz’s pledge not to relinquish control over the country’s natural resources—gas and lithium—or to privatise its strategic state-owned enterprises. The agreement also provided for compensation for damage caused to vehicles by poor-quality fuel, measures to protect household purchasing power, and commitments to restore wages and pensions.

Nearly a month after the agreement was signed, it is clear that many of its demands remain unresolved. Politically, President Rodrigo Paz neither resigned nor was forced to do so. Instead, he declared a state of emergency, although this was not the mechanism that brought the road blockades to an end. Fragmentation in Congress also persists, while the popular organisations have neither regrouped nor emerged stronger. Having secured agreements on a number of specific demands, they returned to their respective regions. Economically, there is still no clear development strategy. The government continues to combine ambitious rhetoric with an unavoidable reliance on international borrowing to fill the budgetary gaps left by the collapse of gas revenues.

Only time will tell who ultimately gained the upper hand in this conflict. The government is already beginning to quietly reintroduce several elements of its economic agenda: allowing the exchange rate to float in order to “correct” its value, proposing legislation to attract foreign direct investment, and easing taxes and state regulations. The proposal to reclassify small-scale agricultural holdings as medium-sized properties—the measure that originally triggered the conflict—has recently reappeared in the form of two new bills, albeit with several amendments and an explicit safeguard for the collective ownership of Indigenous territories. Whether this initiative originated with the agribusiness sector or the government itself remains unclear. If it was indeed the latter, the government would be playing with fire before the crisis unleashed by the road blockades has even fully subsided.

The post The End of Bolivia’s Great National Blockade: No Winners, No Losers? appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

Following a similar approach adopted by previous governments, the current administration has extended the constitutional state of emergency in the region. During his State of the Nation Address, President Kast stated: “Araucanía is one of Chile’s most beautiful and promising regions. Its people deserve to live in peace, work in tranquility and see their land flourish. In this region, as throughout Chile, we need increased tourism, a return on investment, and recovery of development. To achieve this, these measures will be accompanied by a coherent Indigenous policy, which we have been developing.”

In this context, it is hardly surprising that the ownership and exploitation of Indigenous lands have become the centrepiece of the government’s Indigenous policy. As Kast announced: “A reform of the Indigenous Law will grant greater freedoms and tools for development, removing restrictions on the use of Indigenous lands and allowing them to lease and mortgage on equal terms with the rest of Chilean citizens.” To this end, the consultation process for the new land system will be redesigned, while the land acquisition system will be restructured by introducing market-value appraisals and full traceability for each purchase.

Indigenous Lands and the Institutionalisation of Dispossession

The Indigenous Peoples Law (Law No. 19,253) was enacted in 1993 under the government of Patricio Aylwin, following Chile’s restoration of democracy. While the law has received criticism for its definition of Indigenous lands, any attempt to amend the legislation has been regarded as a potential threat, particularly in a context where Indigenous Peoples lack constitutional recognition and political representation within the Chilean nation-state. This law created the National Corporation for Indigenous Development (CONADI) and established regulations for the protection, advancement, and development of Indigenous Peoples. It defines Indigenous lands as those held under land grants (títulos de merced), commissioner’s titles (títulos de comisario) and the other forms of title listed in Article 12, as well as lands recognised on the basis of historical occupation.

Against this backdrop, the proposal to amend the law to allow Indigenous lands to be leased and mortgaged is framed in the language of individual freedom and equality before the market. However, the current law already permits individually owned Indigenous lands to be leased for up to five years and allows liens to be created with CONADI’s authorisation. It also prohibits the leasing of collectively-owned Indigenous lands and protects both individual and communal lands against alienation, seizure and acquisition by third parties. History offers a clear warning. When legal restrictions on Indigenous lands were lifted in Chile, particularly between 1943 and 1947, almost one-fifth of those lands were alienated. Later, under the military dictatorship, 99-year leases deprived Indigenous families and communities of the use of their lands.

The current government seeks not only to reduce territorial demands to a market issue, but does so without considering the Commission’s 21 recommendations on territorial reparations, institutional framework, participation and development.

The current government seeks to reduce territorial demands to a market issue, without considering recommendations on territorial reparations, institutional framework, participation, and development.

To implement this reform, the Executive Branch has announced that it will reformulate the consultation process on the new land system. According to the Executive Branch, Gabriel Boric’s administration “abandoned [this reform] without producing any results”, referring to the proposals put forward by the Commission for Peace and Understanding (CPPyE). Established by Supreme Decree No. 14, the Commission’s primary mandate was “to conduct an assessment of the Mapuche people’s land demands, the lands already granted by the Chilean State, and the remaining gaps in this area, with the aim of quantifying that demand.”

To fulfil this mandate, the CPPyE carried out a comprehensive assessment of Mapuche land demands, existing gaps in this area, and the limitations of the current mechanism. The assessment found that this mechanism had been used “almost in its entirety” by Mapuche communities in the four designated regions, accounting for 99.59% of all land purchases completed up to 2024, while more than 1,100 applications remain pending. Under these circumstances, the Commission recommended moving towards a new land system that harmonizes the Indigenous Peoples Law  with ILO Convention No. 169, incorporating mechanisms for territorial reparations, prioritisation criteria, institutional reforms, and tools to strengthen relations between the State and the Mapuche people.

Because these measures would directly affect Mapuche communities and organisations, they were deemed likely to have a direct impact on Indigenous Peoples, triggering the State’s obligation to carry out a consultation process. However, the process was widely rejected by Mapuche communities and was ultimately discontinued. The current government seeks not only to reduce the issue of territorial demands to a market problem, but also to do so while disregarding the Commission’s 21 recommendations on territorial reparations, institutional arrangements, participation and development.

Indigenous Marine and Coastal Areas under Pressure

However, the policies of José Antonio Kast’s government go beyond the proposed reform to the Indigenous Peoples Law. Rather, its emphasis on land and property should be understood as part of a broader strategy aimed at limiting the rights of Indigenous Peoples and their communities’ decision-making authority over natural resources. From a neoliberal perspective, these resources should be exploited by private capital, while land ownership is linked to a security agenda. Alongside the proposed reform of the Indigenous Peoples Law, the Executive Branch has also promoted amendments to the so-called Lafkenche Law.

Law No. 20.249 (2008), known as the Lafkenche Law, created Indigenous Marine and Coastal Areas (Espacios Costeros Marinos de Pueblos Originarios, ECMPOs) to safeguard customary uses of coastal areas and entrust their management to the Indigenous communities that have ancestrally inhabited them. Although ECMPOs do not confer ownership of these territories, they must operate under a management plan designed to enable the coexistence of the different users of the coastal zone, including industrial and artisanal fisheries, tourism, and navigation. This plan must receive final approval from the Regional Commission for the Use of the Coastal Zone (CRUBC). In practice, however, Indigenous communities have faced opposition from fishing companies—particularly salmon farming companies—as well as from the State authorities responsible for approving these plans. In this regard, a narrative has emerged questioning the capacity of Indigenous communities to manage these areas, portraying their applications as excessive, accusing them of holding up investment and claiming that they seek exclusive control over the coastline.

Indigenous organisations have defended the law as a means of preserving historical memory, ensuring food sovereignty and protecting future generations.

What is at stake is how Chile chooses to relate to the sea, its territories, and its communities.

In 2024 alone, 80 percent of the applications submitted by Indigenous communities or Indigenous community associations were rejected by the Regional Coastal Zone Management Commission (CRUBC), where the state bodies represented on the Commission have been the main opponents of the creation of new Indigenous Marine and Coastal Areas (ECMPOs). As a result, these rejections have been based primarily on political grounds rather than technical considerations, since the CRUBC intervenes before communities submit their management plans. In fact, the available evidence refutes the claim that ECMPOs have brought the salmon farming industry to a standstill, as the sector has continued to expand both its production and its exports.

Indigenous organisations, such as the Network of Indigenous Women for the Defence of the Sea, have challenged this reversal of responsibility and defended the law as an instrument that preserves historical memory, ensures food sovereignty and protects future generations. They argue that it disproves the myth that community management cannot coexist with productive activities. Rather, they argue that what is at stake is how Chile chooses to relate to the sea, its territories, and its communities.

Indigenous Policy and the Market: Two Sides of the Same Coin

After just four months in office, the commodification of Indigenous lands and of the resources valued by private companies has emerged as the central focus of Indigenous policymaking. In the case of lands, collective protection must be justified against the principle of freedom of contract. In the case of marine and coastal areas, customary use must justify its extent in the face of investment. In both cases, the burden of proof falls on Indigenous Peoples to demonstrate that these are not “idle resources”. Therefore, these are not two separate policies, but two sides of the same coin.

In Chile, the market is presented as synonymous with development, while collective rights are portrayed as constraints that must be corrected. As a result, land ceases to be understood as the material basis for the historical and cultural continuity of Indigenous Peoples. At the same time, the maritorio—the Indigenous conception of the interconnected marine and coastal territory—ceases to be recognised as a space of memory, food sovereignty, and intergenerational stewardship. The issue is not whether mechanisms should be developed to improve the living conditions of Indigenous families and communities. Rather, the critical point is that these needs cannot be used to weaken collective rights or to prevent communities from making decisions about their territories under the guise of development.

Therefore, the first months of this new government not only open a legislative debate on the Indigenous Law and the Lafkenche Law, but also raise a deeper question about respect for Indigenous policy in Chile and the implementation of rights guaranteed to Indigenous Peoples under international law. If the starting point is security, investment and legal certainty for private actors, Indigenous rights are relegated to the sidelines through the lens of a colonial state. Consequently, what is at stake is not only land ownership or the coastline, but the possibility of imagining a different relationship between the State, the market and Indigenous Peoples—one in which their rights are not treated as a bargaining chip. For now, however, everything suggests that this horizon remains a distant prospect.

The post The Laws of the Market? Indigenous Policy under the Kast Government appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

Although Costa Ricans have historically favoured centrist presidential candidates, the 2026 election signaled a shift towards a conservative government administration, with proposals advocating for “tough on crime” policies in response to the country’s growing challenges. Similarly, Costa Rica’s various Indigenous communities showed a similar voting pattern to that of the wider population. In the electoral districts of Boruca (predominantly Brunka People) and Amubri (predominantly Bribri People), support for the President-elect hovered around 57%. Nationwide, an estimated 58% of voters in Indigenous territories supported Laura Fernández.

The widespread voting support among the Indigenous population for a conservative government raises several questions: what reasons led to this support, and does this new government administration represent progress or regression for the rights of Indigenous Peoples? These concerns arise because the President-elect pledged to continue the policies of the previous administration, whose rhetoric sought to delegitimise Indigenous Peoples’ land recovery processes. Furthermore, she announced her intention to revive the controversial Diquís hydroelectric project. This project was suspended in 2011 during a visit of the former United Nations Special Rapporteur on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, James Anaya, and subsequently cancelled in 2016.

The Indigenous Vote for a Conservative President

Laura Fernández enjoyed broad support in Costa Rica’s coastal and rural regions. Historically, these areas have been relegated to a secondary position in the country’s public policy and investment priorities. This contrasts sharply with the situation in Central Valley, a region of Costa Rica that concentrates more than 60% of the population and contains four of the country’s main cities, including the capital. Costa Rica’s eight Indigenous Peoples, who live across 24 legally recognised Indigenous territories, are situated far from the capital. Most of these territories are located along the Pacific coast and in the southern Caribbean, within the cantons with the country’s lowest Human Development Index scores. The populist rhetoric of both the previous and current administrations resonated with a large segment of the population that has long felt unrepresented and unheard by central government.

In recent years, Costa Rica has faced a series of mounting challenges: an education crisis described as an “education blackout”; increasing inequality, making it the most unequal member of the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD); a rising cost of living; and an unprecedented security crisis. During Rodrigo Chaves Robles’ administration and over the last three years, the country recorded the highest homicide rates in its history: 907 homicides in 2023, 880 in 2024 and 873 in 2025. Indeed, 2023 was the deadliest year on record, with a homicide rate of 17.1 per 100,000 inhabitants. The majority of these homicides were linked to territorial disputes involving organised crime and drug trafficking.

The limited presence of Indigenous people in decision-making spaces is nothing new. In over seven decades of the Second Republic, the eight Indigenous Peoples have failed to achieve proportional influence in the power structure.

The limited presence of Indigenous people in decision-making spaces is nothing new. In over seven decades of the Second Republic, the eight Indigenous Peoples have failed to achieve proportional influence in the power structure.

Indigenous Peoples are not immune to this escalating violence. Two Indigenous rights defenders were murdered while defending Indigenous lands. Bribri leader Sergio Rojas was killed in 2019 because of his leadership in efforts to recover Indigenous lands that had been illegally occupied by non-Indigenous settlers. Under similar circumstances, Brörán (Teribe) leader Jerhy Rivera was murdered in 2020. Rojas and Rivera played a pivotal role in defending Indigenous lands in Costa Rica, around 43% of which remain in the hands of non-Indigenous landholders.

In the electoral arena, the limited Indigenous presence in decision-making positions is nothing new. Throughout more than seven decades of the Second Republic, Costa Rica’s eight Indigenous Peoples have failed to achieve proportional influence in the power structure. The country has never had an Indigenous minister or deputy minister, and only one self-identified Indigenous person has ever held a seat in the Legislative Assembly, serving during the 2022–2026 parliamentary term. This underrepresentation cannot be explained solely by demographic factors—only 1.8% of the national population identifies as belonging to a specific Indigenous People—but also reflects an electoral system that provides no dedicated mechanisms for Indigenous political participation.

A Government Manifesto That Promises Nothing New

In this context, Laura Fernández’s government plan promises to guarantee “the human dignity of our Indigenous population”, including a commitment to strengthening political participation through “efficient and effective consultation mechanisms.” Yet this commitment seems empty because it promises something that already exists in law. Since 2018, Costa Rica has had a consultation mechanism developed jointly with the country’s eight Indigenous Peoples.

The government plan also promises to “strengthen the governance model” of the National Commission on Indigenous Affairs (CONAI), an institution established in 1973 that has been the subject of criticism for decades. Following his visit to Costa Rica in 2021, the then United Nations Special Rapporteur on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, José Francisco Calí Tzay, observed that CONAI was “another institution imposed on Indigenous Peoples by the State” and that it was “ineffective”. His statement reaffirmed the position of the Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination (CERD), which had already concluded two decades earlier that the institution “had failed to fulfil its functions and responsibilities”.

The distrust and broader disillusionment with the political system were also reflected at the polls. Voter abstention in Indigenous territories reached 56%, almost double the national average.

The distrust and broader disillusionment with the political system were also reflected at the polls. Voter abstention in Indigenous territories reached 56%.

The pledge to “continue with the recovery and restitution of Indigenous lands” inherits a record of limited implementation. The plan introduced by the Ministry of Justice and Peace in 2014 has progressed slowly in the face of a fundamental issue: approximately 43 percent of the land legally recognised as Indigenous territory remains in the hands of non-Indigenous landholders. This is a critical problem. In Indigenous territories such as China Kichá (Bribri) and Altos de San Antonio (Ngöbe), Indigenous communities control only between 2% and 3% of the land to which they are legally entitled. The lack of effective mechanisms, adequate resources and political commitment has fueled conflicts that cost the lives of Indigenous leaders Sergio Rojas and Jerhy Rivera.

Given this history, Laura Fernández’s campaign promises were met with skepticism. The National Front of Indigenous Peoples (FRENAPI) accused the then-candidate of exploiting her communities’ demands for electoral gain: “We reject the practice of Laura Fernández and Fernando Zamora of using our needs and rights as campaign tools.” This mistrust, together with a broader disillusionment with the political system, was also reflected at the polls. Voter abstention in Indigenous territories reached 56%, almost double the national average of 30.92%.

A Contradiction for Indigenous Peoples

How far does the “continuity” promised by the new President extend? Laura Fernández offers an important clue. She appointed former President Rodrigo Chaves Robles (whose presidential term ended in May 2026) as both Minister of the Presidency and Minister of Finance. The appointment is an unprecedented move in Costa Rican politics: by keeping the former President at the centre of the new administration’s political and economic leadership, she signaled a clear continuation of his government. The move also allowed him to retain the immunity associated with holding ministerial office while investigations by the Public Prosecutor’s Office and the Supreme Electoral Tribunal remain ongoing.

Consequently, the political landscape emerging from this electoral cycle appears to be defined more by continuity than by change. This creates a contradiction for Costa Rica’s Indigenous Peoples. On the one hand, the new government won strong support in Indigenous territories, and its platform includes explicit commitments to widening political participation, institutional strengthening and the restitution of Indigenous lands. On the other hand, it represents the continuation of a government whose rhetoric and actions suggested little political commitment to addressing one of Indigenous Peoples’ central demands: the recovery of their ancestral territories.

The next four years will test whether this “government of continuity” will deliver meaningful progress in implementing the Indigenous consultation mechanism, reforming the CONAI, and effectively returning Indigenous lands.

The next four years will test whether this “government of continuity” will deliver meaningful progress in implementing the Indigenous consultation mechanism, reforming the CONAI, and effectively returning Indigenous lands.

In sum, the electoral support that Indigenous communities gave to Laura Fernández does not appear to reflect a strong identification with her agenda on Indigenous Peoples. Rather, it reflects broader dynamics, such as the long-standing neglect of rural and coastal regions far from the Central Valley and growing dissatisfaction with a traditional party system widely perceived as alienated from local realities.

The next four years will test whether this “government of continuity” will deliver meaningful progress in implementing the Indigenous consultation mechanism, reforming the National Commission on Indigenous Affairs (CONAI), and effectively returning Indigenous lands. Alternatively, the warnings voiced by organisations such as the National Front of Indigenous Peoples (FRENAPI) may well prove justified: that campaign promises merely instrumentalise Indigenous demands without addressing their structural causes. The high level of electoral abstention in Indigenous territories suggests that a significant proportion of the population no longer expects either outcome to emerge from the ballot box.

The post Costa Rica: Continuity Without the Promise of Change appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

Established in 1996, the Arctic Council is the leading intergovernmental forum for cooperation between the eight Arctic States and Arctic Indigenous Peoples. As the preeminent forum for cooperation and knowledge production, the Arctic Council aims to be responsive to the priorities and needs of Arctic inhabitants on issues of sustainable development and environmental protection in the Arctic. The Council’s mandate explicitly excludes military security. The Arctic Council comprises the eight Arctic States: Canada, Kingdom of Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway, Russian Federation, Sweden and United States. The Chairship of the Arctic Council rotates every two years among the Arctic States. The Chair of the Arctic Council is the Minister of Foreign Affairs of the country holding the Chairship. The Arctic Council includes Arctic Indigenous Peoples as Permanent Participants: the Aleut International Association, Arctic Athabaskan Council, Gwich’in Council International, Inuit Circumpolar Council, Russian Association of the Indigenous Peoples of the North (RAIPON), and Saami Council.

The Council’s activities are primarily conducted in six Working Groups and one standalone Expert Group that cover a broad range of subjects, from climate change to emergency response, from mental health to sustainable development. They provide a broad and scientifically-sound knowledge base upon which informed decisions can be taken. They also develop best practices and recommendations for safe and sustainable operations in the Arctic. The Arctic Council has Observers from non-Arctic States, along with intergovernmental, inter-parliamentary, global, regional and non-governmental organizations.

Unique Status of Permanent Participant

Notable in the Arctic Council structure is the model of Arctic Indigenous Peoples’ participation through the category of Permanent Participants, as recognized in the Council’s founding document, the Ottawa Declaration (1996). The Permanent Participants have full consultation rights in terms of the Council’s negotiations and decisions and make valuable contributions to its activities. The Permanent Participants participate at all levels of the Arctic Council, initiate and lead or co-lead projects, and contribute to the Arctic Council’s expert work and political proceedings. For even stronger engagement in the Working Groups, Permanent Participants are advocating for Permanent Participant Co-Chairs in the Arctic Council Working Groups.

The Ottawa Declaration also recognizes the traditional knowledge of the [I]ndigenous [P]eople[s] of the Arctic and notes their importance, and that of Arctic science and research, to the collective understanding of the circumpolar Arctic. Ever since the establishment of the Arctic Council, the Traditional Knowledge of Indigenous Peoples has held significant value in the Council. The Arctic Council was built on the foundation of the Arctic Environmental Protection Strategy and emerged as the most significant institutional recognition of Indigenous Peoples’ voices in Arctic governance. This unique structure allows Indigenous Peoples’ representatives to influence policy recommendations directly, although they do not hold formal voting rights.

The IPS has had an important role in facilitating Arctic Indigenous cooperation and that role will continue in the future.  

The IPS has had an important role in facilitating Arctic Indigenous cooperation and that role will continue in the future.  

The Arctic Council Indigenous Peoples’ Secretariat (IPS), established in 1994, is a support secretariat for the six Permanent Participants in the Arctic Council. Led by a Board with members from each of the six Permanent Participants’ organizations and three State representatives, the Indigenous Peoples’ Secretariat today lies alongside the Arctic Council Secretariat while operating under its respective mandate and serving the Council in its designated ways. The main mandate of the IPS is to facilitate active participation and full consultation of the Permanent Participants in the Arctic Council but it also has other roles. For instance, by providing administrative support, coordinating communication, assisting with meetings, and supporting initiatives related to Indigenous cultures and environmental protection.

In 1994, the IPS was established as an institution supporting the Indigenous Peoples’ Organizations under the Arctic Environmental Protection Strategy. The Ottawa Declaration mandated the IPS to continue, under the framework of the Arctic Council, to support the Indigenous Peoples’ Organizations. At that time, the Indigenous Peoples’ Organizations had, with the support of the IPS, fought hard to include Indigenous voices in the structure of the Arctic Council when it was established. As a result of this work, Indigenous Peoples became a central part of the Council. The Participants have expressed their commitment to continue working towards stronger participation of Indigenous Peoples in the Arctic Council. Over the years, PPs have also focused on ensuring that the IPS is strengthened and thrives in fulfilling its mandate to support PPs. The IPS has had an important role in facilitating Arctic Indigenous cooperation and that role will continue in the future.

The unique status of Permanent Participants

Since its establishment, the Arctic Council has set a consensus-based precedent, including full consultation of the six Indigenous Peoples’ Organizations in its decision-making structures. The unique structure of the Arctic Council thus serves as good practice for regional and international intergovernmental organizations and has inspired other international negotiations throughout its existence. Indigenous participation in the Arctic Council was not a symbolic concession by Arctic States but the outcome of sustained political struggle and negotiation. Indigenous participation in the Arctic Council is not merely symbolic but essential for ensuring that Arctic governance reflects the realities and priorities of people living in the region.

In articles published in 2025, the International Chair of the Inuit Circumpolar Council, Sara Olsvig, and the President of the Saami Council, Per Olof Nutti refer to the Arctic Council as a unique model of international governance shaped significantly by Arctic Indigenous Peoples. Both authors emphasize the historical role of Indigenous political mobilization in securing the Permanent Participant system and argue that Indigenous participation is essential to the legitimacy, effectiveness, and future development of Arctic cooperation.

Both Sara Olsvig and Per Olof Nutti present the Arctic Council as a distinctive model of international governance in which Arctic Indigenous Peoples hold an institutionalized and influential role that extends beyond symbolic participation: they are not simply stakeholders within Arctic politics but political actors and diplomatic agents in their own right who have actively shaped the development of Arctic cooperation. Both authors trace this influence back to the international Indigenous mobilization that began in the 1970s when Indigenous organizations began building transnational political cooperation across the circumpolar North and later successfully demanded a formal role within emerging Arctic governance structures.

The Important Role of Indigenous Peoples in the Arctic Council

A central theme is the significance of the “unusually strong and influential position” of Permanent Participant status, which allows Indigenous Peoples to participate directly and continuously in decision-making processes alongside the eight Arctic States. Olsvig highlights that this engagement model is internationally unique and distinct and emerged through sustained Indigenous advocacy that insisted that Arctic governance could not be legitimate without Indigenous representation. Similarly, Nutti argues that Indigenous participation is essential for ensuring that Arctic governance reflects the realities, priorities, and knowledge systems of Arctic communities. The articles highlight the face that Indigenous knowledge, priorities, and perspectives have consequently become deeply integrated into the Council’s scientific work, environmental governance, and policy development.

At the same time, Nutti introduces a more critical perspective regarding the limitations of the current governance structure given that Permanent Participant participation in the consensus is not fully formalized on paper, while acknowledging the considerable informal influence acquired by them. The article therefore advocates discussion on reforms that would further strengthen Indigenous authority within Arctic governance institutions.

Together, Olsvig and Nutti argue that the legitimacy, effectiveness, and future resilience of the Arctic Council depend on maintaining and strengthening Indigenous participation. They position the Council as a rare example of inclusive international cooperation in which Indigenous Peoples have achieved meaningful institutional influence and where their knowledge, rights, and political agency are embedded within governance structures, while also emphasizing that the future of Arctic cooperation will depend on continuing to strengthen this inclusive and collaborative model while remaining focused on the needs, rights, and resilience of Arctic communities.

The Arctic Council political-level meetings have currently been on hold since 2022, while scientific and Working Group-level meetings have resumed virtually. Notably, following the announcement of the pause, none of the eight Arctic member states have altered their membership or rejected any of their participation in the cooperation, as happened in other international fora. All eight states have maintained a political will to engage in the Arctic Council, and, together with Permanent Participants, they have negotiated methods for decision-making and gradually resumed work in the Arctic Council Working Groups.

For more information, see the chapters on the Arctic Council in The Indigenous World 2025

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Contemporary Sámi political organization is structured into two main layers. The first consists of State-established representative institutions, above all the Sámi parliaments in Norway, Sweden and Finland. The second consists of Sámi civil society, including the Saami Council, national associations, reindeer herding organizations, cultural institutions, youth organizations, media and academic institutions.

Norway, Sweden and Finland have each recognized the Sámi in constitutional or quasi-constitutional terms. In Norway, the Constitution (Article 108) requires the State authorities to create conditions enabling the Sámi, as an Indigenous People, to preserve and develop their language, culture and way of life. In Finland, the Constitution protects the right of the Sámi, as an Indigenous People, to maintain and develop their own language and culture, and provides for linguistic and cultural self-government within their homeland. In Sweden, the Instrument of Government states that opportunities shall be promoted for the Sámi people and for ethnic, linguistic and religious minorities to preserve and develop a cultural and social life of their own.

These provisions confirm that Sámi language, culture and society are connected to the States’ legal obligations. In this way, the Sámi right to self-determination is implicitly embedded in the constitutional provision as its realization necessarily depends on the active participation and agency of the Sámi themselves. At the same time, constitutional recognition does not, in and of itself, imply full decision-making authority. The practical/central question lies in determining how far recognition is translated into legislation, budgets and administrative practice.

The Sámi Parliament in Norway

The Sámi Parliament in Norway was opened in Kárášjohka in 1989 after a long political process, strongly influenced by the Alta conflict and by the work of the Sámi Rights Committee. The legal basis lies in the Sámi Act of 1987, which established the Sámi Parliament as a body democratically-elected by the Sámi in Norway. The Parliament has 39 representatives elected from seven constituencies every fourth year, at the same time as Norwegian parliamentary elections. The plenary assembly is the supreme body, and the executive branch is the Governing Council, led by the President of the Sámi Parliament. In Norway, elections include both Sámi parties and Sámi lists from the country’s parties.

The Norwegian Sámi Parliament manages grant schemes and administrative tasks in areas such as language, culture, education and heritage. It also influences policy through consultations with State authorities. It is not a legislature in the same sense as the Norwegian Parliament; its power combines democratic legitimacy, delegated responsibility, budgetary influence and consultation rights.

The Sámi Parliament in Sweden

The Sámi Parliament in Sweden was established in 1993 under the Sámi Parliament Act and has its main headquarters in Giron. It has 31 members elected every four years through a separate/independent Sámi election. The plenary is the elected political body, while a Board, led by the President, functions as the executive leadership. The Swedish elections are organized through Sámi parties and electoral lists rather than through the national party system.

A defining feature of the Swedish model is the Parliament’s dual role. It is both a popularly elected Sámi body and a State administrative authority under the Swedish government. This means that it represents Sámi political interests while also carrying out State administrative tasks related to culture, language and reindeer husbandry. This dual role gives the Parliament a formal place within the State administration but it also limits institutional independence because its budget, mandate and administrative framework are controlled by the State.

The Sámi Parliament in Finland

In Finland, the current legal form of the Sámi Parliament dates from 1996, replacing a Sámi representative body established in the 1970s. It is based in Anár, within the Sajos Sámi Cultural Centre. The Parliament has 21 members and four deputy members, elected every four years. Its plenum is the supreme body and this normally meets several times a year. The plenum elects an Executive Board, led by the President. The Finnish system is less party based than the Norwegian and Swedish systems. Candidates are elected as individuals, and local networks, language communities, livelihood interests tend to matter more than formal party affiliation. The Sámi Parliament Act links the institution to constitutional provisions on Sámi linguistic and cultural self-government in their homeland.

In 2025, Finland adopted a long-awaited reform of the Sámi Parliament Act, replacing the 1995 Act, which had become outdated and was giving rise to disputes over interpretation. The reform entered into force on 1 August 2025 with the aim of strengthening the realization of Sámi self-determination and improving the conditions for linguistic and cultural autonomy and for the work of the Finnish Sámi Parliament. Among its key amendments are revised rules on the electoral roll, the establishment of an autonomous and independent review board for electoral roll matters, and a clarified obligation for public authorities to negotiate with the Sámi Parliament. The Finnish Sámi Parliament therefore has a legally important role in negotiations with public authorities. The Act requires authorities to cooperate and negotiate with the Sámi Parliament in matters that may be of specific significance to the Sámi people.

Consultation Procedures and the Role of Civil Society

Across all three states, the Sámi parliaments are democratically elected and institutionally recognized, yet their authority remains limited. They do not control the main legislative frameworks for land use, energy, mining, infrastructure, fisheries, taxation or welfare. This creates a structural gap between recognition and power. Consultation mechanisms are therefore central. Norway, Sweden and Finland all have consultation procedures for matters affecting the Sámi ,although these procedures, while important, do not fully implement Free, Prior and Informed Consent. In practice, their strength depends on timing, information, resources, the inclusion of affected Sámi communities and whether the State is prepared to alter or stop planned measures.

Sámi civil society is an essential part of Sámi governance. The Saami Council, founded in 1956, is a voluntary non-governmental organization with member organizations in Finland, Norway, Sweden and Russia. Before the establishment of the Nordic Sámi parliaments, the Saami Council was the main cross-border representative Sámi body. Today, it continues to work internationally from a pan-Sámi civil society perspective. Reindeer herding organizations, duodji (Sámi traditional handicraft) organizations, cultural institutions, youth bodies and language organizations all contribute to policy development and public debate. Sámi media also play an important role in political and cultural life.

This broader civil society landscape contributes to the overall balance and diversity of Sámi political representation. The Sámi parliaments have electoral legitimacy and formal channels of dialogue with State authorities, while civil society organizations complement this role by contributing additional voices, expertise and forms of representation. Although they do not hold the same formal mandate, these organizations can play an important role in mobilizing communities, offering constructive criticism, articulating concerns from different parts of Sámi society and raising issues in Nordic and international arenas.

Truth and reconciliation processes

Norway, Sweden and Finland have all established truth or truth and reconciliation processes concerning State policies towards the Sámi although they differ in scope and timing. In Norway, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission was appointed by the Storting in 2018 to investigate Norwegianization policy and injustices against the Sámi, Kvens/Norwegian Finns and Forest Finns. It delivered its report on 1 June 2023. In November 2024, the Storting followed up with a formal apology and decisions intended to begin addressing the Commission’s findings.

In Sweden, the government decided to establish a Truth Commission for the Sámi People in 2021, and its members were appointed in 2022. The Commission is tasked with mapping and examining State policy towards the Sámi from an historical perspective and its consequences for this community. Its final report was originally expected in 2025 but the mandate has been extended and it is now due by 1 October 2026.

In Finland, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission Concerning the Sámi People was appointed in 2021 following negotiations between the State, the Sámi Parliament and the Skolt Sámi Siida Council. It submitted its final report on 4 December 2025 after consultations with almost 400 Sámi people and the commissioning of 25 studies.

These processes show that the Nordic states are increasingly acknowledging that assimilation policies were not isolated historical mistakes. Their effects are ongoing in terms of language, education, health, identity, livelihoods, public attitudes and institutional trust. Truth-telling, however, is only the beginning. Reconciliation depends on implementation: legal reforms, resources, language revitalization, land-use governance, repatriation and education.

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Although much of the Ayoreo people have already been settled in missions and confined to small territorial enclaves, various groups have maintained their independence and autonomy from the colonising world thanks to the vastness of the forests. The silvícolas (“forest dwellers”), the “uncontacted”, the “isolated”, the “naked”, the pyta jovái, or simply the “wild Moros”, had not yet been affected by the transformations that would intensify in the decades to come. However, the conditions that enabled these groups to remain outside the dominant global system have been steadily eroded over the past twenty-five years.

Beyond protected wilderness areas, the Chaco has undergone rapid transformation under pressure from agribusiness, the hydrocarbon industry, mining and, more recently, the expansion of modern transport infrastructure. In 2000, the northern Chaco still retained 87 per cent of its native forests, savannahs and grasslands. Today, only 52 per cent remains: 42 per cent in the form of highly fragmented forests, much of which have largely lost their ecological function, and just 10 per cent within protected wilderness areas as more extensive forest remnants. It is no exaggeration to say that the northern Paraguayan Chaco is now little more than a scattered mosaic of what, only twenty-five years ago, constituted an invaluable natural heritage.

The Ayoreo People and the Last Transformation

Like other peoples of the Chaco, the Ayoreo understand the passage of time through profound transformations that are preserved in oral histories, ancestral memory and collective memory. What is taking place today may well be understood as “the last transformation”: a process through which the known world collapses and a new one emerges, becoming the point of departure from which the stories of the present begin to be told. Each transformation has entailed both the collapse of an existing world and the emergence of a new way of life. The memory of these catastrophic events strengthens the Ayoreo people’s capacity to adapt to new realities, overcome the trauma of upheaval and continue to exist as a people, transcending the pain and terror experienced by individuals during each transformation.

By tracking the movements of groups living in voluntary isolation, we can observe an ongoing process of adaptation to the changes affecting the forest and its conversion into vast cattle pastures. This does not necessarily imply acceptance of the new reality. Rather, it reflects forms of resistance and adjustment in the ways life and territory are lived and understood, while the territory itself has not yet lost its meaning as a being with whom humans interact. This latest transformation is still unfolding and the risk that it may become a final and irreversible stage is increasingly imminent.

Pressure from neighbouring landowners and new occupants is constant, forcing communities to sell their natural assets—converted into economic resources—or lease portions of their territories in order to survive.

Pressure from neighbouring landowners and new occupants is constant, forcing communities to sell their natural assets or lease portions of their territories in order to survive.

What’s more, a sequential analysis of the Land Use Plans submitted by landowners and companies to obtain environmental licences for their projects indicates that, if implemented, they will trigger an accelerated process of fragmentation over the next five years, far more severe than anything witnessed to date. The outlook towards 2030 is therefore deeply concerning for the individuals and groups of the Ayoreo people who continue to live apart from modern society. Nor does it offer much hope for those communities confined to small tracts of land owned either by themselves or by the Paraguayan Indigenous Institute (INDI).

Pressure from neighbouring landowners and new occupants is constant, forcing communities to sell their natural assets—converted into economic resources—or lease portions of their territories in order to survive. Far from providing a solution, this strategy often becomes a catalyst for internal conflict, social fragmentation and violence. The process of adapting to the world that has confined them has not yet fundamentally transformed their internal political organisation, which remains rooted in the family as the basic unit of survival and in forms of leadership shaped by the ability to engage with and navigate the Western world.

The Deepening of Extractivism

Over the past eight years, these transformations have intensified markedly as national extractivist policies have deepened and efforts have increased to identify new resources for export, attract investment and reposition Paraguay within the global economy. Successive governments—and particularly the administration of President Santiago Peña—have promoted an ambiguous agenda: while reinforcing international commitments to environmental protection and the reduction of greenhouse gas emissions, they have simultaneously expanded the exploration of mineral and hydrocarbon resources and sought to establish Paraguay among the world’s leading exporters of grain and beef.

These developments have profound consequences for the daily lives of both settled Ayoreo communities and groups living in voluntary isolation. As extractive activities continue to advance, they are left with ever fewer opportunities to shape their own future and define their own path in the face of this latest transformation.

Yet even today, vast areas of the Paraguayan Chaco remain under concession, sustained by the enduring promise of hydrocarbons in a world that is increasingly seeking to move beyond fossil fuels and transform its energy systems.

Yet even today, vast areas of the Paraguayan Chaco remain under concession, sustained by the enduring promise of hydrocarbons in a world that is increasingly seeking to move beyond fossil fuels and transform its energy systems.

A dozen rare earth and lithium exploration projects have spread across the Chaco, with little regard for the territorial rights of Indigenous Peoples and even less for the groups that continue to live in voluntary isolation. Approved by regulatory authorities, these projects are being carried out by four major companies belonging to the same corporate group, which dominates the exploration and extraction of rare minerals across the lowlands of the Americas. This wave of extractive activity also threatens the integrity of one of the region’s most fragile protected areas: Médanos del Chaco National Park.

Hydrocarbons have long served as a powerful driving development myth in the Paraguayan Chaco. Following Paraguay’s victory in the Chaco War in the 1930s—a conflict that claimed more than 90,000 lives—successive concessions were granted to foreign companies for exploration projects that ultimately proved unsuccessful. At best, these efforts led to the discovery of oil and gas reserves in quantities too small to justify the investments required for their extraction and transport. Yet even today, vast areas of the Paraguayan Chaco remain under concession, sustained by the enduring promise of hydrocarbons in a world that is increasingly seeking to move beyond fossil fuels and transform its energy systems.

The Road-Building Boom

The coup de grâce for the world of the Ayoreo groups living in voluntary isolation—and for the collapse of a millennia-old cultural landscape shaped by the many Indigenous Peoples of the Chaco, of whom these Ayoreo groups are the last to remain free and in resistance—is the current boom in road construction and transport infrastructure. The Capricorn Bioceanic Corridor is now being rapidly developed across the Paraguayan Chaco from east to west, with the aim of linking the major production centres of Mato Grosso do Sul and São Paulo to ports on the Pacific coast of Chile, facilitating trade with Asian markets.

This corridor directly affects the southern portion of Ayoreo territory and indirectly impacts the territory as a whole. From this main transport axis, a network of transversal roads has already been planned to connect agricultural and livestock production areas throughout the northern Chaco to the Pacific route. At the same time, road projects planned in Bolivia and western Brazil seek to connect the Brazilian state of Rondônia to the Pacific coast. These routes would run from north to south through some of the last remaining intangible territories set aside by the Charagua Indigenous Government of the Guaraní People in the Bolivian Chaco for Ayoreo groups living in voluntary isolation, beyond the boundaries of protected areas.

After more than three decades of advances in the recognition of Indigenous Peoples’ rights, Paraguay still has not formally recognised the presence of groups living in voluntary isolation within its territory who must be protected

After more than three decades of advances in the recognition of Indigenous Peoples’ rights, Paraguay still has not formally recognised the presence of groups living in voluntary isolation.

This road-building boom is not merely about more paved roads and increased vehicle traffic; it is also transforming the production model, with a strong trend in the northern Chaco towards a shift from extensive cattle ranching to intensive agriculture. For groups living in voluntary isolation, the consequences are drastic: water sources contaminated by agrochemicals, a decline in wildlife populations (a fundamental source of protein for the Ayoreo people), and air pollution in the remaining forest areas (the fragments that remain as refuges for life).

At the same time, these transformations are also reflected in the sphere of rights. After more than three decades of advances in the recognition of Indigenous Peoples’ rights, Paraguay still has not formally recognised the presence of groups living in voluntary isolation within its territory who must be protected and for whom conditions must be guaranteed so that they can continue living in accordance with their own self-determination. Nor has there been any improvement in the implementation of legislation relating to the rights of Indigenous Peoples who have already been colonised. The right to land and to access the territories necessary for sustaining their lives remains subordinated to the property rights of settlers and, increasingly, of agro-export companies that shape political priorities and decision-making in the northern Paraguayan Chaco.

The Ayoreo Worldview and the Ideologisation of Progress

Finally, it is worth noting that this great transformation, which is set to intensify in the coming years, is driven by the discourse of economic growth and so-called “progress”, which questions and ridicules the belief systems of the peoples of the Chaco and, especially, of the groups that continue to live in voluntary isolation. According to this belief system, everything in the world—living and non-living alike—is a person and must be treated with respect. For this reason, relationships and dialogue must be established in order to access the benefits that these beings may provide to human beings and to make use of them within a framework of respect, harmony and moderation.

In contrast to the accumulation that underpins an individualistic and self-interested liberal logic, this worldview promotes the principle of sharing in order to maintain a just and balanced social order. This ideologisation of “progress” fuels the voracious drive of the West to consume without restraint everything that exists on Earth and mocks Indigenous beliefs through the discourse of economic growth and the (false) needs created by the market. On the contrary, this belief system may offer humanity a way to avoid the destruction of the world—that is, the final stage of this last transformation.

Meanwhile, a quarter of a century into the third millennium, small groups of the Ayoreo people continue to resist and avoid contact with the agents of change that are pushing their world towards collapse and ruin. This steadfast resistance, shared by all groups living in voluntary isolation, emerges as the only hope to which they cling so that the forest does not close in and fall silent, and so that this transformation does not become definitive and final.

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Located in north-western Argentina, Jujuy has undergone a profound transformation in recent years. It is no longer simply a question of the historical mining of lead and zinc: in the era of electric vehicles and the so-called “energy transition”, the lithium rush in the salt flats and the search for rare earth minerals now coexist with an emerging wine industry and a tourism sector that places increasing pressure on local landscapes. These processes, driven by private investors and supported by reforms tailored to the interests of capital, are directly affecting Indigenous territories and peasant lands, where legal security of tenure is already fragile.

Against this backdrop, representatives of Indigenous and peasant organisations were invited to participate in the workshop “Policies and Strategies for the Defence of Indigenous Territories in Jujuy”, organised together with the Anthropology of Development and Territorial Policies Team at the Institute of Anthropological Sciences of the University of Buenos Aires (UBA). During the meeting, participants reflected on the socio-environmental conflicts affecting these territories, focusing on the tensions, contradictions and setbacks in national and provincial policies, as well as environmental issues and actions undertaken in defence of the land.

Law 26,160 in the Face of Market Expansion and State Neglect

Indigenous territories are increasingly coming under pressure from economic re-primarisation and extractivism. Decree 749/2024 regulates the Incentive Regime for Large Investments (RIGI), granting tax benefits and legal stability for 30 years to large-scale mining, hydrocarbon and energy projects. Between November 2006 and December 2024, Law No. 26,160 on Territorial Emergency acted as a legal truce in Argentina, suspending evictions and mandating the survey of Indigenous territories. However, in Jujuy, this policy has become a labyrinth of incomplete files and delays that leave territories in an extremely vulnerable position.

For David, from the Rodero community, the survey process has functioned for almost 20 years as a shield against a State that threatens dispossession whenever “there is no official document”. Faced with the perception that the law has lost its force, David stresses that resistance is rooted in identity and in the inhabitants’ historical attachment to the land: “Communities need to secure their territorial organisation and then obtain title deeds. If you do not have a document, they can take the land away from you.” This state debt is far from an isolated case.

In 2023, the Red Puna network denounced the fact that the legal-cadastral survey had never been completed. These delays tend to deepen in territories where land is becoming increasingly valuable to private interests. In Chucalezna, Florencia recounts how a neighbour’s attempt to expand vineyards and tourism projects onto a family house dating back to the nineteenth century ultimately blocked the delivery of their technical file: “That is why we do not have the file: the conflict emerged and the process was interrupted. But we did complete the survey!” The current situation reveals a critical paradox: while the State delays legal recognition, pressure from the mining, wine-producing and tourism sectors continues to intensify, forcing communities to defend their permanence on the land with their own bodies.

Free, Prior and Informed Consultation as a Simulation

Argentina possesses a strong legal framework for Indigenous Peoples, yet it lacks operative legislation on communal land ownership and prior consultation. This legislative vacuum turns ILO Convention 169 into a solitary tool of resistance. In theory, Free, Prior and Informed Consultation should grant communities a leading role; in practice, however, it has become an administrative simulation that companies and the State frequently ignore or delegate to private actors.

For participants in the workshop, the diagnosis is clear: the provincial State operates according to a logic of “selective presence”. It is absent when it comes to ensuring that consultation processes are legitimate, yet it intervenes swiftly to authorise mining exploration. This dynamic revives a colonial imaginary in which Indigenous territory is portrayed as a “sacrificial space” in the name of economic growth, reinforcing a form of discrimination that strips community knowledge and autonomy of their value.

The communities of Salinas Grandes and Laguna de Guayatayoc have created their own biocultural protocol: Kachi Yupi (“Footprints of the Salt”). This document affirms the sacred right to water and establishes that decisions must pass through the General Assembly of the Basin.

The communities of Salinas Grandes and Laguna de Guayatayoc have created their own biocultural protocol: Kachi Yupi (“Footprints of the Salt”).

Meanwhile, environmental impact assessments are financed by the very companies involved, and communities perceive them as documents designed to support external interests. Consultation processes are often carried out in ways that disrupt local practices: fragmented meetings are convened, the timing of community assemblies is ignored, and only limited information is provided. Daniel captures this sense of helplessness as follows: “We say that we are the owners of everything, but then a place is declared a World Heritage Site and nobody consults us about anything. No one defends us.”

In response to the state vacuum, the communities of Salinas Grandes and Laguna de Guayatayoc have created their own biocultural protocol: Kachi Yupi (“Footprints of the Salt”). This document affirms the sacred right to water and establishes that decisions must pass through the General Assembly of the Basin. However, Decree 7751/2023 reduces consultation to an “informational meeting” between companies and communities. For Flavia, president of Santuario Tres Pozos, the State ignores the community protocol: “Simply receiving them is considered consent. Everything is about negotiating quickly in exchange for a few small things: a projector, a generator.”

Snapshots of Dispossession: the State, Mining Companies and the Wine Industry

Socio-environmental conflict in Jujuy has ceased to be merely a dispute over land and has become a struggle for survival. In a context where water and territory are increasingly threatened by extractive, real-estate and state interests, Indigenous communities are deploying strategies that range from legal advocacy to direct action and territorial mobilisation. “The State handed the land over to multinational corporations with us still living on it,” summarises Débora, from the Casa Grande community.

In the area controlled by the El Aguilar mining company, the effects of extractivism are undeniable: tailings dams filled with toxic waste and a water shortage severe enough to threaten life itself. Anabella, from Abra Pampa, denounces what she describes as a “silent genocide”, including lead contamination affecting children within a dismantled public health system. Griselda, from Finca El Pongo, recounts how a model of family farming sustained across three generations was swept aside by medicinal cannabis ventures and lithium industrial parks. Here, the State is not absent; rather, it actively facilitates displacement: police guard Griselda’s home while machinery tears up the soil and the community is denied access to irrigation water.

When community institutions are co-opted by corporate interests, the response is often one of fission: communities split in order to create new organisational units and thereby recover autonomy in their struggle.  

The real-estate pressure on Indigenous territories and communities has even fractured internal ties between relatives and neighbours.

In the Quebrada de Humahuaca, real-estate pressure disguised as “wine-producing development” is generating new forms of dispossession. In the Chucalezna community, the expansion of wineries and tourism-related property developments has altered the course of rivers: these topographical transformations are triggering mudslides that bury crops and homes. Florencia and Amalia denounce the privatisation of community water springs and highlight the unequal means being deployed: “They want to take our water away. We carried out the work with shovels and pickaxes; the businessman does it with machinery.”

This real-estate pressure on Indigenous territories and communities has even fractured internal ties between relatives and neighbours. When community institutions are co-opted by corporate interests — as in the case of delegates who are simultaneously employed by wineries — the response is often one of fission: communities split in order to create new organisational units (as occurred in Antigal de Moya) and thereby recover autonomy in their struggle, even when this entails a painful fragmentation.

“Sowing Water” and “Walking the Land”: Strategies of Resistance

Faced with abandonment, communities have begun to build solutions from within. The struggle often starts on paper, through the filing of reports and complaints, and the forging of alliances with universities and NGOs. It is a process of collective learning in which communities must navigate bureaucratic labyrinths and identify potential allies. Yet when formal channels are exhausted, protest shifts to the body and the road: from hunger strikes and blockades to the seizure of heavy machinery. In the absence of justice, mobilisation and collective organisation become the most effective tools. “There is strength in being united within the Council,” remarks one community member.

In the Puna, the Women Defenders of the Natural Habitat Group (from Casa Grande, Vizcarra and El Portillo) has redefined protest by transforming it into active environmental stewardship. Faced with the decline of the queñua — a native tree capable of storing large quantities of water and devastated by mining activities and road construction — these women have embarked on a process of environmental restoration and healing. “Sowing water for future generations” is the slogan under which they committed to planting 15,000 queñua trees during 2025. This process also required an internal “cleansing”: they had to seek leadership independent from the mining company, since, until 2017, their own representatives had been employees of the firm.

For Diego and David resistance is above all about remaining on the land. Community-based tourism and the strengthening of rural schools have emerged as strategies to prevent the exodus of young people.

For Diego and David resistance is above all about remaining on the land. Community-based tourism and the strengthening of rural schools have emerged as strategies to prevent the exodus of young people.

Another form of resistance was the “Women’s March in Defence of Pachamama”, held in August 2025. From Laguna de Pozuelos, women walked 282 kilometres to San Salvador de Jujuy to denounce how mining dismantles networks of life and traditional ways of living. This action was not merely an act of protest, but also a process of intercommunity weaving that reaffirmed the central role of women as guardians of the territory.

For Diego and David, from the Rodero community, resistance is above all about remaining on the land. In the face of tourism-driven gentrification and extractive pressure, community-based tourism and the strengthening of rural schools have emerged as strategies to prevent the exodus of young people: “I studied in Tucumán and came back because I missed the community. Being on the territory is the best form of defence. We work so as not to lose our identity.” David adds a demographic urgency to this vision: “We know the territory, but we need people to stay.” A territory that remains inhabited and sustained by people with a strong sense of identity is far more difficult to sacrifice than an “empty space” on investors’ maps.

Imagining Other Possible Futures

However, not all strategies are embraced unanimously. A growing phenomenon has emerged: the fragmentation of communities. Faced with internal tensions or political co-optation by companies, groups of community members — such as those of the newly formed Antigal de Moya community — have chosen to separate from their original organisations. While these ruptures seek to safeguard the autonomy of those committed to resisting, they also reveal the capacity of the extractive model to erode the cohesion of the Indigenous Peoples who inhabit north-western Argentina.

In sum, the report produced by the Anthropology of Development and Territorial Policies team at the Institute of Anthropological Sciences not only documents the conflicts and challenges that Indigenous and peasant communities face on a daily basis, but also opens a horizon of possibilities, inviting us to imagine other ways of inhabiting and relating to the environment. The experiences shared by Indigenous and peasant communities in Jujuy make clear that territory is not merely a resource for extractive planning, but a living fabric of histories that resists being reduced to the logic of the market.

By placing local and academic knowledge in dialogue, the report sheds light on practices, experiences, forms of resistance and territorial strategies that are often silenced: from the creation of autonomous biocultural protocols to the collective planting of queñua trees. The experience in Jujuy demonstrates that resistance is written through the body and through permanence on the land. It also underscores a shared certainty: in the face of a model that projects “empty spaces”, rooted identity and the effective occupation of territory constitute the strongest frontier against dispossession.

You can read the report by the Anthropology of Development and Territorial Policies team on the website of the Institute of Anthropological Sciences.

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