A decade later, under the government of Luis Arce Catacora, Plurinational Constitutional Court Ruling No. 0040/2024 declared the prohibition on the commodification of environmental functions unconstitutional, ordering the removal of the relevant provisions of Law No. 300 from the legal framework. The Court justified its decision by arguing that the prohibition conflicted with a number of international agreements and rights, including the primacy of international treaties (such as the Paris Agreement and the Kyoto Protocol), the right to trade, freedom of enterprise, and the right to a healthy environment. However, the ruling failed to establish minimum guarantees or safeguards to protect Indigenous Peoples’ rights and territorial rights.

The removal of the prohibition paved the way for carbon markets in Bolivia, allowing access to international climate finance mechanisms. Against this backdrop, the government of Luis Arce Catacora issued Supreme Decree No. 5264, establishing guidelines for the management of and access to climate finance. These included the creation of the National Registry of Programmes and Projects (RENAPP), the introduction of Emission Reduction Units, and provisions defining the State’s role in channelling climate finance.

Private Interests in Indigenous Territories

State efforts to regulate carbon markets are advancing along two parallel tracks. On the one hand, the Chamber of Deputies is promoting Bill No. 060/2025–2026, on the Regulation of the Market for Greenhouse Gas Emission Credits and Allowances. On the other, the Vice-Ministry of Environment, Biodiversity, Climate Change, and Forest Management and Development is drafting the Framework Bill on the Regulation and Coordination of Climate and Biodiversity Finance. While the Framework Bill remains in the early stages of development, the Carbon Markets Bill is already set to be debated by the full Chamber of Deputies. This haste highlights a lack of planning and coordination.

Although both state bodies have held information-sharing sessions with the Confederation of Indigenous Peoples of Eastern Bolivia (CIDOB), Indigenous organisations have repeatedly called for compliance with international standards and respect for their own rules and procedures before any legislative debate takes place. Nevertheless, given the State’s institutional track record, there are concerns that it will bypass the requirement for Free, Prior and Informed Consultation in accordance with Indigenous Peoples’ own rules and procedures, thereby violating their constitutional and collective rights.

Indigenous Peoples of the Lowlands, whose territories cover vast areas of land, now face the imminent risk of being subjected to decisions driven by party-political interests and the agro-industrial sector’s pursuit of capital accumulation.

Indigenous Peoples of the Lowlands, whose territories cover vast areas of land, now face the imminent risk of being subjected to decisions driven by party-political interests and the agro-industrial sector’s pursuit of capital accumulation.

The bills promoted by the Government and business interests seek to generate profits in the name of Indigenous Peoples and the Amazon. In this regard, David Quiroga, President of the Coordinating Body of Indigenous Peoples of the Tropics of Cochabamba (CPITCO), states: “The national Government, through its ministers and those around them, sees carbon credits as a business opportunity. Incredibly, government officials themselves are setting up their own NGOs, foundations and intermediary organisations because they see an opportunity to make money. They want to profit in the name of Indigenous Peoples, the Amazon, and our forests. I find this unacceptable.”

Indigenous Peoples of the Lowlands, whose territories cover vast areas of land, now face the imminent risk of being subjected to decisions driven by party-political interests and the agro-industrial sector’s pursuit of capital accumulation. In this regard, Manuel Gonzales of CIDOB warned: “As Indigenous Peoples, we are up against political forces, private businesses and the Government, and we often find ourselves alone. We need allies to confront this struggle, because it could turn into a full-scale dispute over our territories.”

Failed Carbon Credit Initiatives and the Lack of Transparency

Experts have identified a wide range of actors involved, highlighting the participation of national and international private companies, state institutions, intermediary organisations and multilateral partnerships: the LEAF Coalition, Green Carbon, Bluegrace Energy Bolivia, the Federico Hecker Foundation, Green Oxygen SRL, Laconic Infrastructure Partners (SADAR), Deutsche Gesellschaft für Internationale Zusammenarbeit (GIZ) and the Natura Bolivia Foundation.

These organisations play strategic roles in the development of carbon credit projects, including the design, financing, implementation, and management of initiatives aimed at mitigating, reducing, or removing greenhouse gas emissions. In practice, however, the implementation of carbon projects in Bolivia has led only to frustration and a lack of transparency. Expert Miguel Vargas recalled that the pilot project in Noel Kempff Mercado National Park, managed by the Fundación Amigos de la Naturaleza (FAN) and The Nature Conservancy (TNC), failed to secure the sale of carbon credits due to “the lack of a government signature and regulatory gaps”.

Regarding the lack of transparency in contractual arrangements, researcher Stasiek Czaplicki points to several private projects promoted by intermediary companies, such as Green Carbon, in Indigenous territories across Bolivia. These include the Isiboro Sécure Indigenous Territory and National Park (TIPNIS), the Monte Verde Indigenous Community Land, the Multiethnic Indigenous Territory (TIM II), Isoso and Lomerío, with contracts spanning 35 to 100 years. These agreements involve the full transfer of carbon rights and submission to private commercial arbitration bodies, such as the Chamber of Industry, Commerce, Services, and Tourism of Santa Cruz (CAINCO). Furthermore, the lack of information available to communities undermines their right to self-government and self-determination in decisions concerning their territories.

Finally, the bills driven by business interests seek to circumvent social consensus and strict compliance with constitutional and international standards on Free, Prior, and Informed Consultation (FPIC). Francisco Maza, of the Central de Pueblos Étnicos Mojeños del Beni (CPEM-B), stressed the need to address both consultation and consent: “We must work on free, prior and informed consultation, including consent, and on planning from within our own territories. We have to be part of this entire process. This mechanism is going to be implemented, but the question is: where do we stand? We cannot simply wait until everything has been approved before making our voices heard.”

Contradictions in Bolivia’s Legal Framework

The debate over the unviability of carbon credits in Bolivia persists due to structural risks and vulnerabilities associated with the country’s legal framework. These include the so-called “fire laws”, Nos. 337, 741 and 1171, which facilitate burning and place pressure on forests and Indigenous territories without imposing significant penalties. Between 2016 and 2025, nearly 50 million hectares of land were burned in Bolivia, highlighting the persistence of this environmental and territorial problem. The scale of these fires has made Bolivia the country with the second-largest burned area in Latin America.

In this regard, Czaplicki explains: “First, there must be a functioning national forest management programme that serves as the primary source of funding, with carbon credits playing a complementary role. Second, there must be genuine disincentives to deforestation. This means that penalties must be high enough to ensure that deforestation is no longer profitable, even when fines are imposed. Third, there must be a comprehensive and effective fire management strategy focused on prevention and firefighting. Unless these conditions are met, it will be very difficult for carbon projects to function researcher Cassandra Smithies emphasises: “Companies pay to gain access to forests, obtain their carbon credits and continue polluting.properly, as shortcomings remain in all three areas.”

Researcher Cassandra Smithies emphasises: “Companies pay to gain access to forests, obtain their carbon credits and continue polluting”.

Researcher Cassandra Smithies emphasises: “Companies pay to gain access to forests, obtain their carbon credits and continue polluting”.

This contradiction between the legal framework and the State’s institutional weaknesses is compounded by the economic paradox of carbon markets. The sale of carbon credits would finance the conservation of forests and Indigenous territories by selling emission rights to highly polluting transnational corporations, such as oil, mining, and logging companies. In this way, large corporations are able to shift their environmental responsibility onto the Global South, including Indigenous Peoples who protect their territories.

On this point, researcher Cassandra Smithies emphasises: “Companies pay to gain access to forests, obtain their carbon credits and continue polluting. The key is to understand that carbon markets can lead to territorial dispossession and constitute a false solution to climate change, as companies continue exploiting resources and polluting.” Smithies therefore stresses the importance of asking: “Who is behind REDD? Who is promoting the REDD mechanism, carbon markets and these false solutions? The very same oil, mining and logging companies, alongside some conservation NGOs that ultimately facilitate the interests of extractive industries.”

Warnings, Threats and Concerns Regarding Carbon Market Regulation

Over the past six months, various national and international actors have pursued strategies aimed at promoting legal certainty, attracting investment, and facilitating access to climate finance mechanisms and carbon markets. The central government, departmental governments in eastern Bolivia (Pando, Beni and Santa Cruz), the business sector and conservation NGOs have used a range of communication channels, including social media, official communications and alternative media, to shape public perceptions of the “opportunities” offered by green economy projects.

However, even as concerns grow over these promises, the proposed Regulation of the Market for Greenhouse Gas Emission Credits and Allowances raises several fundamental concerns. During the International Interorganisational Meeting of Indigenous Peoples on the Climate Crisis and Climate Finance, following extensive reflection and debate on experiences in Ecuador, Peru, and Bolivia, participants identified a number of preliminary warnings and threats:

• Lack of transparency and the imposition of state and corporate interests in the development of failed carbon credit projects.
• Absence of Free, Prior, and Informed Consultation (FPIC), with government authorities and intermediaries passing off mere information-sharing activities as genuine consultation processes.
• Territorial fragmentation and the co-option of local actors by intermediaries promoting carbon markets in Indigenous territories.
• Pressure from external actors seeking to benefit from carbon projects, creating divisions and parallel organisational structures that weaken social cohesion and territorial governance.
• Economic disparities and mistrust of intermediaries and the distribution of revenue generated by carbon credits, as most of the proceeds remain within the state bureaucracy or in the hands of intermediaries.
• Abusive contractual arrangements imposed by intermediary companies through opaque, long-term agreements (30 to 100 years), posing risks of territorial dispossession or the transfer of rights that could restrict territorial self-government.
• Weaknesses within some national and regional Indigenous organisational structures due to political party and government interference, prompting calls to revise their statutes to protect organisations from unfavourable carbon credit projects.

Consequently, during the meeting, Indigenous organisations, together with local and international specialists, proposed the following measures to ensure that decisions are made autonomously, on the basis of adequate information and without harming their territories:

• Indigenous organisations consider it urgent to establish their own Free, Prior, and Informed Consultation and Consent protocols, tailored to each Indigenous People, to define territorial rules before entering into any negotiations.
• All public and private initiatives must disclose their gross costs, benefit-sharing plans, and voluntary withdrawal clauses. Forest conservation in Bolivia must not become a means of undermining Indigenous Peoples’ self-government and self-determination.
• Carbon credits must not be presented as an economic lifeline that creates false expectations, but rather as a contested arena in which territorial sovereignty is at stake.
• Indigenous Peoples agree on the need to defend self-government, binding Free, Prior and Informed Consultation and direct control over resources to prevent carbon markets from becoming a new form of green neo-extractivism and territorial dispossession.
• The need to strengthen legal self-defence mechanisms and develop proposals establishing non-negotiable minimum requirements to safeguard Indigenous Peoples’ self-government and self-determination.

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In this context, access to justice remains one of the main challenges, particularly for women living in rural and Indigenous territories. Institutional bureaucracy, geographical distances, the limited availability of specialised services, and linguistic and cultural barriers can make seeking protection a difficult and, at times, traumatising experience that exposes women to further victimisation. These challenges are exacerbated when state institutions lack effective mechanisms for coordination with Indigenous authorities.

Women’s right to a life free from violence requires us to examine not only the State’s response but also the capacities, challenges, and responsibilities of Indigenous autonomies themselves. The development of the Plurinational State and its system of autonomies remains an ongoing process, and its consolidation requires ensuring that self-government and territorial defence go hand in hand with the effective protection of the rights of all Indigenous people.

Indigenous Women and Justice in Indigenous Autonomies

The exercise of Indigenous autonomy is a demanding process of continuous learning that poses significant challenges in ensuring the protection of rights. Law No. 348, the Comprehensive Law to Guarantee Women a Life Free from Violence, establishes mechanisms for prevention, assistance, protection, and punishment aimed at eradicating violence against women and safeguarding their right to live free from violence.

As a key strategy for eradicating violence, the law provides for specific mechanisms and institutions, including the Municipal Comprehensive Legal Services (SLIM), specialised units that offer support and protection to women experiencing violence. Meanwhile, the Children and Adolescents Code establishes Offices for the Defence of Children and Adolescents, whose implementation is the responsibility of autonomous municipal governments. However, no equivalent institution has been established within Indigenous autonomies to address violence against women.

How is Law No. 348 applied within indigenous autonomous territories? In what ways do indigenous women understand, interpret, and internalize this law, based on their own realities, needs, and cultural contexts?

How do Indigenous women understand, interpret, and appropriate this law, based on their own realities, needs, and cultural contexts?

In this context, several fundamental questions arise. What happens to these services when an Indigenous group consolidates its autonomy? How is Law No. 348 implemented within Indigenous autonomies? How do Indigenous women understand, interpret, and take ownership of this law in light of their own realities, needs, and cultural contexts? These questions invite reflection on the challenges of ensuring effective access to protection and justice services within the framework of Indigenous self-government.

At the Centre for Legal Studies and Social Research (CEJIS), we conducted an assessment of the implementation of Law No. 348 in the autonomous governments of Charagua Iyambae, Kereimba Iyambae, Huacaya and the Multiethnic Indigenous Territory (TIM I). We completed a documentary analysis of key legal frameworks, including the statutes of Indigenous autonomies and lowland Indigenous women’s organisations. This includes national and international legislation on women’s rights and the right to a life free from violence. We worked with two groups comprising women leaders from different generations, authorities from Indigenous Native Peasant Autonomous Governments (GAIOC), grassroots women and representatives of the National Coordination of Indigenous Native Peasant Autonomies (CONAIOC). Finally, a dialogue and validation session was held with the participants to discuss and confirm the findings.

Structural Violence in Indigenous Territories

Direct violence and the cultural factors that contribute to its perpetuation are intertwined with forms of structural violence, reflected in the absence, or inadequacy of basic services, healthcare facilities, protection mechanisms, and effective access to justice. These conditions exacerbate existing inequalities and limit women’s ability to fully exercise their rights and obtain timely support and protection when faced with violence.

The main findings of the assessment contribute to the debate on eradicating violence against women, highlighting the need to strengthen established Indigenous governments and develop intercultural justice systems grounded in a rights-based approach. Three key issues emerge:

– Tensions between justice systems: Coordinating the state justice system with communities’ own norms and procedures to address cases of gender-based violence remains a complex challenge.

– Structural violence: Barriers to accessing justice are not merely legal but are also shaped by racism, discrimination, and geographical and economic exclusion.

– Bureaucratic centralisation: Women living in Indigenous territories perceive Law No. 348 as an external legal framework that is difficult to navigate due to the lack of judicial institutions in their regions.

The responses identified include coordination protocols between the Indigenous Native Peasant Jurisdiction (JIOC) and the ordinary justice system, developed in Charagua Norte; the establishment of reporting pathways in Huacaya and Kereimba Iyambae; and the referral of cases to municipal authorities in TIM I. These experiences demonstrate how Indigenous autonomies have developed their own approaches to addressing women’s needs through their existing organisational structures.

A Comprehensive Agenda from the Perspective of Indigenous Women

Through collective analysis, women leaders developed proposals aimed at strengthening the prevention of violence against Indigenous women, as well as the provision of support and protection. Although these proposals reflect the specific circumstances of each autonomy, several common priorities can be identified, as outlined below.

First, ongoing training and awareness-raising are essential. Women leaders from Charagua, Huacaya, Kereimba Iyambae, the Multiethnic Indigenous Territory and Lomerío emphasised the importance of ensuring that women are aware of their rights and can report incidents of violence. They then proposed establishing ongoing training programmes for women and men, Indigenous authorities, public officials and communities.

These initiatives should cover Law No. 348, the Political Constitution of the State, autonomy statutes and legislation protecting women’s rights. The leaders also highlighted the need to improve understanding of how to prevent violence and political harassment against women. Ensuring the continuity of these initiatives is particularly important given the regular turnover of authorities and representatives. They stressed the importance of institutionalising training to prevent knowledge from being lost when administrations change and to establish a solid legal and organisational framework.

Reporting Pathways and Coordination with the State

Second, developing and strengthening pathways for reporting violence and accessing support emerged as a key priority. Indigenous authorities emphasised the need for clear procedures that enable women to report incidents of violence, receive guidance and access protective measures. In particular, women leaders from TIM I proposed developing and implementing a pathway to facilitate access to justice.

This pathway should provide safe spaces where women can be heard and supported, enable the identification of the problems they face, establish which authorities or institutions should intervene, and ensure timely responses. It should also safeguard the confidentiality and safety of women reporting violence.

Coordination between the Indigenous, Native, and Peasant Jurisdiction and the ordinary justice system must be strengthened, and working mechanisms must be established with the Municipal Comprehensive Legal Services, health centers, and other entities.

In Charagua, the importance of strengthening community promoters and coordinating with the autonomous government’s gender-related unit and with support services was highlighted.

Third, the women leaders agreed that protecting women’s rights requires coordinated efforts involving community authorities, women’s organisations, Indigenous territorial authorities and relevant public institutions. Coordination between the Indigenous Native Peasant Jurisdiction (JIOC) and the ordinary justice system must be strengthened, alongside the establishment of mechanisms for cooperation with the Municipal Comprehensive Legal Services (SLIM), healthcare centres and other support and protection services. Such coordination should clearly define responsibilities, prevent women from being referred from one institution to another without receiving adequate assistance, and ensure that each case is addressed appropriately.

Given the specific characteristics of each Indigenous autonomy, the proposals varied. In Charagua, emphasis was placed on strengthening the role of community advocates and improving coordination with the autonomous government body responsible for gender issues and relevant support services. In TIM I, the proposal was to involve the TIM Indigenous Subcentral, the Indigenous Autonomous Government, community authorities, community advocates, women’s organisations, healthcare centres, and the municipally administered SLIM in developing and implementing the support and referral pathway.

Women’s Participation, Autonomous Legislation and Resource Allocation

Fourth, the proposals emphasised the need to involve women’s organisations, grassroots communities, Indigenous organisational authorities, and the wider community. Women leaders from Huacaya and Lomerío stressed the importance of ensuring that women are heard and respected, strengthening their knowledge of their rights and creating safe spaces where their needs can be addressed. In Kereimba Iyambae, the proposal focused on promoting grassroots initiatives involving women and authorities committed to defending human rights.

Fifth, autonomous legislation should be developed and adopted within the powers granted to Indigenous autonomies by the Political Constitution of the State. Such legislation would aim to prevent and address violence against Indigenous women and protect their rights by establishing comprehensive reporting and support pathways, strengthening the Indigenous Native Peasant Jurisdiction and introducing mechanisms to facilitate Indigenous women’s access to justice, taking into account their cultural contexts and the barriers they face. The establishment of shelters for women experiencing violence was also proposed to ensure timely protection and support.

Finally, implementing these proposals requires adequate financial resources to ensure that initiatives can be sustained over time. The women leaders identified several funding options, including allocating resources through the annual operational plans (POAs) of autonomous governments, developing specific projects and seeking support from state institutions and international cooperation agencies. Women from Charagua highlighted the need for dedicated funding for prevention and support initiatives, as well as greater commitment from the legislative and representative bodies of the Indigenous autonomy. In Huacaya and Lomerío, the possibility of using resources from their respective annual operational plans was explored, while in Lomerío, the reallocation of municipal budget funds was also considered.

Conclusions

Indigenous women seek to ensure access to justice by strengthening their own organisational structures and Indigenous justice systems. However, significant challenges remain in overcoming patriarchy and sexist attitudes within their own Indigenous autonomies, as well as in developing autonomous legislation to protect Indigenous women from violence.

The most effective immediate strategy for addressing violence is prevention, with a strong emphasis on awareness-raising, education, and ensuring that Law No. 348 is fully understood and embraced within Indigenous territories. In terms of providing support, traditional cultural practices that offer therapeutic and emotional support could be promoted and shared through an intercultural approach to help survivors of violence build resilience.

The central challenge is to raise awareness of the structural violence experienced by Indigenous women as a result of their gender, Indigenous identity, and vulnerable circumstances. Addressing this challenge requires not only implementing Law No. 348 but also strengthening it through Indigenous autonomies’ own legislation, incorporating cultural practices for conflict resolution and the restoration of community harmony. This means moving beyond the perception of Indigenous justice as merely a stepping stone towards the ordinary justice system and addressing the structural roots of violence.

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

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

From Territorial Claims to the Exercise of Authority

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

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

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

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

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

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

Building Indigenous Self-Government

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tensions and Limits of Indigenous Autonomy

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

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

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

From Autonomous Government to Territorial Control

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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In other words, governments will face an exam to answer a simple but decisive question for the health of the Earth: are they really doing what they promised to halt the destruction of nature and restore lost biodiversity? Bolivia is one of the countries expected to show what it has done. Before facing that exam, at COP17 of the Convention on Biological Diversity (CBD), to be held in Yerevan, Armenia, from October 19 to 30, 2026, countries first had to account for their progress. They did so through their Seventh National Reports (7NR), in which each government details the measures it has taken and the results it has achieved.

The deadline was February 28, 2026. These reports will provide input for the first global review of collective progress. Bolivia also submitted its report, a document that makes it possible to reconstruct—from the State’s official account—the progress it claims to have made and the difficulties it acknowledges.

The Great Challenge

In 2022, during COP15 of the Convention on Biological Diversity, countries adopted the Kunming-Montreal Global Biodiversity Framework and laid out a roadmap toward a world living in harmony with nature by 2050. To meet that challenge, they established 23 targets for 2030 that not only commit governments to halting biodiversity loss, but also place Indigenous Peoples and local communities at the center—as rights holders and essential actors in the conservation of their territories and ways of life.

This relationship between conservation and Indigenous rights runs throughout the Framework. It is particularly evident in Targets 1 and 3. The first calls for spatial planning that reduces the loss of areas of importance for biodiversity while respecting the rights of Indigenous Peoples and local communities. Target 3, known as the 30×30 target, establishes that conservation of at least 30% of the planet’s lands and waters must respect these peoples’ rights over their traditional territories. The message is clear: biodiversity conservation cannot be separated from Indigenous Peoples. So, what has Bolivia done over the past four years to fulfill the commitments it made?

If Indigenous territories are part of Bolivia’s strategy to conserve biodiversity, what is actually happening to their forests in the face of deforestation, land encroachment, and the other pressures the State itself acknowledges?

If Indigenous territories are part of Bolivia’s strategy to conserve biodiversity, what is actually happening to their forests?

In its Seventh National Report, prepared by the General Directorate of Biodiversity and Protected Areas, the Bolivian State maintains that Indigenous territories form part of its conservation strategy. Without providing any figures, the document reports progress in the titling of new Tierras Comunitarias de Origen (TCOs) / Territorios Indígena Originario Campesinos (TIOCs), the development of life plans, and the strengthening of Indigenous forms of governance. It also highlights the creation of conservation areas under Indigenous management, as well as initiatives in forest management, sustainable use, restoration, and territorial monitoring.

But the same report points to a more complex picture. Bolivia acknowledges land encroachment, conflicts over land use and overlapping rights, as well as pressures stemming from extractive activities, agricultural expansion, and illegal settlements. It also admits difficulties in updating and harmonizing life plans and, above all, a lack of information to measure land-use change and land tenure in ancestral territories and local communities. The Document states: “No Data Available”.

The paradox is significant. Bolivia presents Indigenous territories as key to conservation and to the international target of protecting at least 30% of the planet’s lands and waters. Yet when it comes to showing what is actually happening within those territories, the State itself acknowledges that it still lacks the data needed to report on one of the indicators established by the Global Biodiversity Framework. If Indigenous territories are part of Bolivia’s strategy to conserve biodiversity, what is actually happening to their forests in the face of deforestation, land encroachment, and the other pressures the State itself acknowledges?

Forests Under Pressure

An investigation by Amazonía Traficada—a journalism project supported by the Pulitzer Center, Mongabay Latam, RAI Bolivia, and Asuntos Centrales—used satellite data to examine a key region for conservation: Bolivia’s Indigenous Amazon. The investigation analyzed deforestation within 48 titled Indigenous territories in Bolivia’s Amazon basin and found that, between 1986 and 2024, these ancestral territories suffered a cumulative loss of 257,000 hectares of forest. That figure represents 3.4% of the 7.6 million hectares deforested in Bolivia during the same period.

To determine how much of that deforestation was legally authorized, the investigation cross-referenced the data with forest-clearing permits issued by the Authority for the Social Oversight and Control of Forests and Land (ABT) between 2003 and 2023. Records show that, over those two decades, the institution authorized the clearing of nearly 80,000 hectares of forest in 41 Indigenous territories. Yet only 17,900 hectares within those authorized areas actually lost their forest cover. Most of the forest loss occurred outside areas where clearing had been authorized.

In other words, between 2003 and 2023, 168,670 hectares were deforested in areas without authorization. The ratio gives a sense of the scale of the problem: for every hectare cleared within an authorized area, more than nine were cleared outside authorized areas. In other words, nearly 90% of the forest loss recorded in Amazonian Indigenous territories during that period occurred outside State authorization mechanisms. The pressure on these territories is part of a nationwide trend. A World Resources Institute (WRI) report shows that in 2025 Bolivia once again ranked second in the world for primary forest loss, behind only Brazil.

A Territorial Struggle with No End in Sight

The pressure on Indigenous territories is not limited to forests. It also extends to land tenure and the legal security of these territories. In its Seventh National Report, Bolivia states that it has expanded the area covered by TCOs/TIOCs through new land titles, although it does not specify how many hectares were incorporated.

However, cross-referencing data from research conducted by the Centro de Estudios Jurídicos e Investigación Social (CEJIS) and the Centro de Investigación y Promoción del Campesinado (CIPCA) shows that the struggle of Lowland Indigenous Peoples for the recognition, titling, and defense of their ancestral territories is far from over.

While much of this territorial demand remains unresolved, the State has continued allocating land to third parties in areas bordering Indigenous territories.

While much of this territorial demand remains unresolved, the State has continued allocating land to third parties in areas bordering Indigenous territories.

From the 1990s through the first decades of the twenty-first century, the 48 Indigenous territories in the Amazon basin collectively requested legal recognition of around 22.7 million hectares. Yet the National Institute for Agrarian Reform (INRA) titled only 11.7 million hectares—just 52% of the area claimed. In other words, more than 11 million hectares were left outside the titling process.

While much of this territorial demand remains unresolved, the State has continued allocating land to third parties in areas bordering Indigenous territories. Between 2009 and 2019, INRA allocated approximately 318,500 hectares for the establishment of 236 intercultural and campesino communities, whose social organizations were aligned with the political party that governed Bolivia between 2006 and 2025.

When Protection Is Not Enough

The gap between the protection the State says it provides and what actually happens within Indigenous territories also appears in the Seventh National Report itself. Bolivia acknowledges that it lacks information to measure, amongst other things, land tenure in the ancestral territories of Indigenous Peoples and local communities. It also acknowledges problems of land grabbing and illegal tenure.

These ancestral peoples face pressure from third-party communities settled around their titled territories with authorization from the National Institute for Agrarian Reform. But they also face land grabbing within areas legally recognized by the State—that is, territories for which they hold collective title.

While Indigenous communities denounce land grabbing and State institutions take months—even years—to act, the trees keep falling and Indigenous territories keep being trafficked.

While Indigenous communities denounce land grabbing and State institutions take months—even years—to act, the trees keep falling and Indigenous territories keep being trafficked.

An analysis of interviews with leaders from 30 of the 48 titled Indigenous territories in the Amazon basin concludes that 28 of these ancestral territories have experienced land grabbing over the past two decades and that, in 22 cases, the conflicts remain unresolved. According to the leaders interviewed, behind these occupations are networks seeking to fuel an illicit land market in the Bolivian Amazon, primarily to open up land for large-scale agricultural activities.

While Indigenous communities denounce land grabbing and State institutions take months—even years—to act, the trees keep falling and Indigenous territories keep being trafficked. But this is not the only pressure. The 30 Indigenous leaders also identified conflicts and threats linked to carbon markets, illegal mining, timber trafficking, and drug trafficking.

Conserving Beyond the Map

In Yerevan, Bolivia will have to show how much progress it has made toward 30×30. It will be able to talk about titled territories, Indigenous governance, and conservation under Indigenous management. Yet behind those figures are territories where trees continue to fall, where disputes over land persist, and where Indigenous communities wait years for the State to respond to land grabbing and the trafficking of their lands.

30×30 may look achievable when viewed on a map. But conservation does not happen on a map. It happens in real territories, where Indigenous Peoples defend their forests, their rights, and their ways of life. The unresolved issue Bolivia will take to COP17 is not simply how many hectares it can declare conserved, but how much of what it says it protects is actually safe—and how effectively it can halt or control the pressures it acknowledges in its own Seventh National Report: the expansion of the agricultural frontier, extractive activities, and human settlements as major drivers of biodiversity loss and deforestation.

In other words, beyond the exam it must sit in October, the Bolivian State—regardless of who happens to be the current occupant of power in La Paz—must be capable of enforcing the rules it has created and guaranteeing the protection of the forests and of those who inhabit these ancestral lands. This is not only an obligation to Bolivians. It is also a responsibility to a planet that no longer has time to wait for promises to become action.

The post 30×30 and Indigenous Territories: Bolivia’s Contradiction 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.

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The passage of this law comes in a political context marked by the advance of conservative forces which, from within the state, are seeking to reorient the agrarian model in favour of agro-industrial and corporate interests. It is significant that the bill has been promoted by figures such as Branko Marinković, a leading representative of the Santa Cruz business elite and a long-standing advocate of more flexible land ownership regimes. In this context, the measure forms part of a broader offensive aimed at dismantling the limits that Bolivia’s agrarian framework has historically placed on the commodification of land.

Reactions have been swift. Various peasant and Indigenous organisations have declared a state of emergency and announced mobilisations in defence of land, drawing on a long history of struggle that recognises this measure as a direct threat to hard-won gains. Small-scale property is not simply a legal category; it is a safeguard designed to sustain livelihoods and prevent dispossession. Weakening it would entail dismantling the protective nature of the current agrarian regime. This is therefore not an isolated development but the first step in a broader strategy which, driven by the same centres of power, also targets communal property and Indigenous peasant territories.

Small-scale property in Bolivia’s agrarian regime

Within Bolivia’s agrarian regime, small-scale property is a form of individual agricultural ownership whose purpose is the subsistence and reproduction of the peasant family unit. The National Institute for Agrarian Reform Law (INRA) defines it as the source of subsistence resources for the holder and their family, while Article 394 of the Constitution protects it as indivisible, non-seizable family patrimony and exempt from taxation. This configuration reflects a clear political choice: to exclude small-scale property from market logic. It is not conceived as an asset to be traded, mortgaged or integrated into processes of capital accumulation but rather as a material foundation intended to sustain peasant life and shield it from indebtedness, dispossession and the reconcentration of land.

In Bolivia, small-scale property is not a concession to individual smallholders but an agrarian institution of social protection forged in the context of the struggles surrounding the 1953 Agrarian Reform, which sought to dismantle the latifundio system and secure the livelihoods of rural men and women. Its constitutional recognition in 1967 reaffirmed this logic by establishing a framework aimed at preventing peasant plots from once again being drawn into cycles of seizure, loss and reconcentration. The 2009 Constitution renewed this protection within a new plurinational order, situating it within an agrarian regime that coexists alongside other collective forms of property.

The subject of this form of property is the peasant, understood not as an isolated owner but as part of a broader collective political organisation. Small-scale property constitutes the material basis upon which organised peasantry is structured, expressed through bodies such as the Confederación Sindical Única de Trabajadores Campesinos de Bolivia and the Confederación Sindical de Comunidades Interculturales Originarias de Bolivia. In this framework, land is not merely a means of production but a key element that underpins organisation, political representation, territorial control and the defence of rights. Its protection therefore safeguards not only an individual asset but a social fabric historically built by the peasant movement.

A conversion that strips away constitutional protection

Article 394 of the Constitution expressly states: “Small-scale property is non-seizable, constitutes family patrimony and is exempt from taxation.” This means that small-scale property is protected in order to prevent peasants from losing their material basis of life as a result of debt or market pressures. It should also be recalled that its original basis lies in land allocation — that is, the free granting of land by the state to ensure dignified living conditions. It is not an asset acquired on the market for speculative purposes but a space assigned to sustain peasant livelihoods.

By allowing the conversion of small-scale property into medium-sized holdings, Bill of Law No. 157 is clearly unconstitutional as it effectively removes this protection. The land ceases to be non-seizable and becomes liable for use as collateral. In such circumstances, if a peasant is unable to meet their obligations, they may lose their property. This is not a side effect; it is the direct outcome of the model being advanced: to open the door for peasant land to enter financial circuits and become exposed to appropriation by actors with greater economic power. In this way, the law reintroduces conditions for the reconcentration of land and the reconfiguration of the latifundio, in clear contradiction with Article 398 of the Constitution.

The law opens the door to a financial model that requires land as collateral and, in cases of default, enables its loss. Far from promoting rural development, the measure thus forces the commodification of peasant living spaces.

The law opens the door to a financial model that requires land as collateral and, in cases of default, enables its loss. Far from promoting rural development, the measure thus forces the commodification of peasant living spaces.

More troubling still, the approved text establishes a ten-year grace period during which compliance with the Social and Economic Function (FES) will not be subject to verification. This is a cornerstone of Bolivia’s agrarian regime, as the FES legitimises property on the basis of its use and productive purpose. By suspending its verification for a decade, the law is effectively dismantling one of the principal oversight mechanisms, allowing converted plots to remain idle or to be redirected towards purposes unrelated to their social function, thereby entrenching a logic of accumulation that the Constitution was designed to restrain.

The main justification advanced for the measure is that conversion will enable peasants to access credit and, in turn, improve production. In practice, however, it opens the door to a financial model that requires land as collateral and, in cases of default, enables its loss. Far from promoting rural development, the measure thus forces the commodification of peasant living spaces and deliberately weakens an agrarian regime specifically designed to protect them.

An irregular legislative process with no social participation

The legislative handling of Bill of Law No. 157 was marked by significant irregularities that call its validity into question. The bill was initially approved by the Chamber of Deputies during the previous legislative term but was subsequently amended in the Senate by the committee chaired by Branko Marinković, introducing substantial changes to its content. Despite this, the amended version was not returned for detailed scrutiny but was instead approved directly in plenary, securing its passage. As a result, the text as adopted has not been subject to sufficient or proper deliberation, despite altering key elements of the agrarian regime.

The issue lies not only in how the bill was passed but also in what was passed. The original draft already proposed converting small-scale property into categories subject to market dynamics. The Senate, for its part, removed references to corporate ownership but failed to address the underlying problem. On the contrary, it streamlined the conversion procedure, reduced oversight and introduced an expedited ten-day timeframe for processing requests. In practical terms, this has facilitated and accelerated a mechanism through which constitutionally protected property can lose that protection. This is not a correction but a redesign aimed at making the transformation of the small-scale property regime more rapid and effective.

An even more serious omission must be noted: the absence of consultation and participation on the part of peasant and Indigenous organisations on a matter that directly affects their land. This is not merely a technical issue; legislation is being enacted on the material basis of peasant life without hearing from those who depend on it. The request for legislative reconsideration submitted on 31 March by Patricia Helen Patiño raised these concerns but failed to secure the required two-thirds majority. As a result, a law lacking sufficient debate and adopted without the participation of those most directly affected has been pushed through.

Land and territory are not for negotiation

The approval of Law No. 157 has prompted an immediate response from peasant and Indigenous movements across the country. Various organisations have declared a state of emergency and issued statements rejecting a law they deem unconstitutional and aligned with the interests of agro-industrial actors, large landowners and private banks. They have also announced mobilisations and the filing of constitutional challenges should the law be promulgated, signalling the beginning of an open confrontation over a measure that directly affects the material basis of their existence.

This rejection rests on a clear understanding of what is at stake. Small-scale property is not merely a legal category; it is a historic achievement. Its constitutional protection was not a concession but the outcome of struggles aimed at securing an autonomous material base for peasant families. To alter its legal framework is therefore to reshape fundamental conditions of access to and control over land while opening up the possibility of its renewed concentration in the hands of powerful groups.

In this context, Law No. 157 does not stand as an isolated development but as the starting point of a broader offensive. Weakening small-scale property opens a pathway that could extend to other forms of tenure, particularly communal property and Indigenous peasant territories. What is at stake is not only a category of ownership but the protective nature of Bolivia’s agrarian regime as a whole. The mobilisation now being announced thus constitutes a pre-emptive defence against a process that is seeking to reconfigure land as a market commodity rather than as the foundation of life.

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In 2016, the traditional authorities began collecting formal agreements to initiate administrative procedures in accordance with state requirements. Thanks to this groundwork, in June 2018 the Promoting Commission formalised the request for autonomy by applying for the Certificate of Ancestral Territory Status and the Certificate of Governmental Viability from the Vice Ministry of Autonomies. Both certificates were granted in January 2020.

On 15 February 2020, more than 3,000 community members gathered at the Jacha Mara Tantachawi and voted “yes” for Indigenous Peasant Original Autonomy (AIOC). The Deliberative Assembly was then formed, initially comprising 45 primary Constituent Members (later expanded to 60) and 15 alternates. After years of debate, conciliation, socialisation, and consultation, the highest decision-making body, the Jacha Mara Tantachawi, approved the Autonomy Statute in December 2023. This decision was endorsed by more than 4,000 community members, assembled in the capital, Challa Lacuyo, of the Challa Original Autonomy (AOCH).

Delays in State Bureaucracy

In May 2024, representatives of the Challa Original Autonomy submitted the draft of the Law Establishing the Challa Indigenous Peasant Territorial Unit to the Plurinational Legislative Assembly. The draft law had been prepared by the Vice Ministry of Autonomies in collaboration with traditional authorities and supporting institutions. Through this submission, they entrusted the Assembly with enacting the law that would enable the territorial consolidation of Challa.

Following the formal handover of the draft law to the President of the Senate, Andrónico Rodríguez, the AIOC representatives held a ceremony featuring cultural performances and musical rhythms of the Challa Original People, including pinkillada, thurumeada, khonqoteada, and moseñada. Since then, the draft law has been subjected to numerous technical reviews and bureaucratic delays, both in the Senate and across other branches of the state apparatus.

Since then, the draft law has been subjected to numerous technical reviews and bureaucratic delays, both in the Senate and across other branches of the state apparatus.

Progress has been slow due to constant technical observations and a lack of institutional clarity.

Faced with persistent bureaucratic delays, the President of the Council of Authorities of the Challa Original Autonomy, Fabián Choque Cruz, explained: “After the initial submission, the commission’s work concluded in late October 2024. All progress was nullified, as they were unable to address the observations. The draft law was then resubmitted to another Senate commission, headed by Senator Romaña.”

The conclusion of the commission’s work in October interrupted the progress that had been achieved, compelling the traditional authorities to resubmit the draft law. It was subsequently reviewed by the new Senate Commission on Territorial Organisation and State Autonomies. Progress has been slow due to constant technical observations and a lack of institutional clarity.

Bureaucratic Obstacle to Autonomy Rights

One of the most contentious points in the draft law was the redefinition of interdepartmental boundaries between Oruro and Cochabamba, a responsibility that lies with the governments of both departments. If unresolved, this issue would have directly affected the Challa territory, located precisely in this border area.

Throughout 2024, the traditional authorities of Challa facilitated dialogue and called for urgent attention to this matter, which falls outside their jurisdiction but affects the progress of the autonomy process. On 23 October, the issue was finally addressed with the approval of Law No. 127/2024-2025, the Law on Boundaries/Sections between the Department of Oruro, Municipality of Paria, and the Department of Cochabamba, Municipalities of Tacopaya, Tapacarí, and Bolívar. This provided territorial certainty and allowed the autonomy process to continue.

The inconsistency stemmed from outdated systems and a lack of coordination between state agencies, creating confusion regarding the numbering of titles issued under different administrations.

The inconsistency stemmed from outdated systems and a lack of coordination between state agencies, creating confusion regarding the numbering of titles issued under different administrations.

The second objection came from a report issued by the Ministry of Rural Development and Lands (MDRyT) and the National Institute of Agrarian Reform (INRA), which deemed the process “unfeasible” due to the alleged absence of the SAM-TIOC 369 executive title in their records. This title corresponds to the K’usilliri community, one of the 12 TIOCs comprising the Challa territory. The issue arose because there were two different numbers: one under the SAM-SIM 304 system and another updated under SAM-TIOC 369.

The inconsistency stemmed from outdated systems and a lack of coordination between state agencies, creating confusion regarding the numbering of titles issued under different administrations. However, thanks to technical dialogue tables involving the traditional authorities, the Vice Ministry of Autonomies, and supporting clarifying reports, it was demonstrated that there were no contradictions regarding the land’s extent or its legal regularisation.

Political Victory for Challa: Bolivia’s Ninth Indigenous Autonomy

On 30 October 2025, the Challa Original People achieved a historic milestone in the country’s autonomy process. The approval of the Law Establishing the Challa Indigenous Peasant Territorial Unit consolidates a long-standing process of struggle, resistance, and collective construction. Despite some opposition from those who still fail to recognise that Indigenous autonomy extends far beyond mere economic management, the law was backed by a coalition of political forces in the Chamber of Deputies committed to the common good and respect for collective rights.

Challa’s authorities were unequivocal: they do not seek handouts, but the full recognition of their right to self-government and self-determination. With the law providing legal backing, the Challa Original Autonomous Government (GAOCH) now enters a new phase of internal organisation, electing its leaders according to its own norms and procedures and implementing its Territorial Management Plan.

Each new autonomy is celebrated as a collective achievement, reflecting persistence, political clarity, and commitment to building self-government.

Each new autonomy is celebrated as a collective achievement, reflecting persistence, political clarity, and commitment to building self-government.

During the National Assembly of Indigenous Peasant Autonomies, held on 18–19 November, the National Coordinator of Indigenous Autonomies (CONAIOC) officially recognised the Challa Original Government as the ninth GAIOC of the Plurinational State of Bolivia. The resolution, approved by the Assembly, legitimises the bureaucratic process that the Challa territory successfully navigated, fully incorporating it into the network of already established autonomies.

The event brought together established GAIOCs such as Yura, Salinas, Charagua Iyambae, Kereimba Iyaambae, Raqaypampa, Huacaya, and Challa, as well as autonomies still in development, including Corque Marka, Totora I, and Oica Cavineño. The gathering highlighted that each new autonomy is celebrated as a collective achievement, reflecting persistence, political clarity, and commitment to building self-government. Amid words of congratulations, existing autonomies emphasised that the real challenge begins with the implementation of the Autonomy Statute.

Challa Territory Receives Its Territorial Unit Law

In one of the final acts of his administration, former President Luis Arce Catacora promulgated Law No. 1689, establishing the “Challa Indigenous Peasant Territorial Unit,” on the night of 7 November. The delay underscores that Indigenous autonomy processes were not a priority during his government.

On 23 November, more than 3,000 Challa community members from the Urinsaya, Aransaya, and Majasaya ayllus celebrated the law that recognizes them as an autonomous entity—a struggle that has faithfully followed the mandate of the grassroots for years. Music, dance, wiphalas, and ceremonial staffs marked the celebration, signalling the start of a new phase. The community will now move forward with the electoral stage, following their Election Regulations for the Authorities who will form the Original Autonomous Government.

Now more than ever, it is crucial to strengthen these experiences and support the genuine exercise of self-government, so that Indigenous Nations and Peoples can continue building their own systems of organisation, decision-making, and community life.

The true Plurinational State will only be realised when self-determination moves beyond rhetoric and becomes a lived reality in the territories.

The consolidation of Indigenous Autonomies in Bolivia continues to be an unfinished task for the Plurinational State. Following the end of the left-wing period described as “Indigenous Power,” only eight autonomies were able to fully establish themselves, leaving open questions about how the new centre-right government will assume responsibility for advancing the implementation of Indigenous self-governments.

Now more than ever, it is crucial to strengthen these experiences and support the genuine exercise of self-government, so that Bolivia’s Indigenous Nations and Peoples can continue building their own systems of organisation, decision-making, and community life. The true Plurinational State will only be realised when self-determination moves beyond rhetoric and becomes a lived reality in the territories.

The post Political Victory for Challa: Bolivia’s New Autonomous Territorial Entity appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

However, today the livelihoods of most communities are threatened by the overexploitation of natural resources, agricultural expansion, road construction, infrastructure projects, and other industrial-scale activities that alter their environments. These extractive projects jeopardise their survival, making it essential to have tools that strengthen governance and autonomy in the defence of their territories and natural resources.

The experience we wish to share in this article is a collaborative work carried out by the authorities of the Multiethnic Indigenous Territory (TIM): the Autonomous Indigenous Government, the Subcentral of Indigenous Councils, and the Subcentral of Women. This synergy, combined ancestral knowledge with new mapping technologies, resulted in the creation of an Atlas and a set of cartographic tools designed to optimise governance and reinforce autonomy.

A Territory Where Five Peoples Coexist

The Multiethnic Indigenous Territory is located in the Bolivian Amazon, in the so-called Llanos de Mojos—the third most important seasonally flooded savannah in South America. The TIM was officially recognised as an Indigenous territory by Supreme Decree 22,611, following the first march led by the Indigenous Peoples of the Lowlands in 1990. It is called “Multiethnic” because the territory comprises 28 communities belonging to five Indigenous Peoples: Mojeño Ignaciano, Mojeño Trinitario, Movima, Yuracaré, and T’simane. In this way, TIM exemplifies harmonious coexistence between diverse ethnic groups and nature.

In 2010, a Gathering of Corregidores (the highest territorial decision-making body) decided to begin establishing an autonomous government in the Multiethnic Indigenous Territory, as provided for in the Political Constitution of the State. The complex process began with fulfilling multiple requirements, including participatory drafting and approval, at several levels, of a statute that sets out the rules of the new Indigenous government. What makes the TIM Indigenous Autonomy unique is that it is established over the entirety of the ancestral territory titled as collective lands, unlike the other eight recognised Indigenous autonomies to date, whose territorial jurisdictions correspond only to former municipal boundaries.

By using “talking maps” and satellite imagery, sites of importance to each community and people have been georeferenced, with their various uses across the territory carefully documented.

By using “talking maps” and satellite imagery, sites of importance to each community and people have been georeferenced, with their various uses across the territory carefully documented.

After 13 years of lengthy procedures led by the Subcentral of Indigenous Councils and the Subcentral of Women, autonomy was finally achieved on 1 March 2023 with the adoption of Law No. 1497, which established the Territorial Unit of the Multiethnic Indigenous Territory (TIM). In November of the same year authorities that formed the new Autonomous Indigenous Government officially took office.

Since 2020, the Legal and Social Support Organisation (ORE) has been collaborating with TIM authorities, providing support in the management of shared natural resources, forest conservation, and monitoring and control systems. Within this framework of joint work with Indigenous organisations and authorities, environmental, geographic, demographic, and cultural maps have been produced. By using “talking maps” and satellite imagery, sites of importance to each community and people have been georeferenced, with their various uses across the territory carefully documented.

The Use of Cartography in TIM Governance

This initiative has enabled the creation of an Atlas of the Multiethnic Indigenous Territory, providing essential tools for territorial and environmental management. The atlas offers detailed information about the “Territorial Unit,” including its location, area, boundaries, and constituent communities, as well as physical, geological, and hydrographic features. In addition, through extensive collaboration with communities, social data has been updated, covering access to health and education at all levels, alongside an assessment of strengths and weaknesses to support the exercise of these fundamental human rights.

The atlas functions as both a visual and political instrument, designed not only to record land use and distribution but also to strengthen cultural identity and preserve historical memory. The maps combine ancestral knowledge with modern technologies, producing a dynamic representation that respects traditions while addressing contemporary needs. They also feature a historical map, narrated by the communities, showing the location of Jesuit reductions established in the 1600s. Furthermore, the atlas identifies areas that, centuries later, were exploited by logging companies but have now been restored to the Indigenous Peoples of Mojos.

Users can view territorial boundaries while monitoring hotspots in real time—a feature that proves crucial during fire season in August, September, and October, at the end of the dry season.

Users can view territorial boundaries while monitoring hotspots in real time—a feature that proves crucial during fire season, at the end of the dry season.

This historical and cultural mapping holds great significance in dual aspects of territorial governance. Internal governance entails taking control of one’s own affairs: the effective exercise of collective rights concerning territorial management, the functioning of local institutions, systems for distributing resource benefits, inter-community agreements, and the resolution of internal conflicts. External governance, on the other hand, involves legitimising these representative structures to outside actors, strengthening them to develop coherent policies and engage effectively with those seeking to influence decision-making within the territory.

Access to cartographic information is not limited to a physical atlas. Interactive maps have also been developed and are accessible via the TIM governance website. This tool allows authorities, community members, students, and the general public to create their own maps online through an intuitive geo-visualiser, offering layers of geographic, environmental, and social data. Users can view territorial boundaries while monitoring hotspots in real time—a feature that proves crucial during fire season in August, September, and October, at the end of the dry season.

A Conservation Area that Strengthens Culture

One key aspect of territorial management and governance was the development of zoning through a long and participatory process with communities. Six land-use zones were mapped: bodies of water, pampas, savannahs, grazing land, agricultural land, forests for traditional use, and a conservation area. Building on this zoning, on 26 November 2022, during a Gathering of Corregidores, the Subcentral of Indigenous Councils and the Subcentral of Women proposed the creation of the “Loma Santa Conservation Area.”

During the Jesuit reductions, the ancestral inhabitants of Gran Mojos moved in search of an ideal location deep in the forest—free from disease and human exploitation, where peace and abundant food could be found. They named this place “Loma Santa.” Centuries later, on 3 October 2024, the Autonomous Indigenous Government of TIM enacted Autonomous Law No. 003/2024, establishing a Conservation Area of Historical, Cultural, Social, and Spiritual Heritage under the name “Loma Santa,” thereby formalising the decision taken by the Gathering of Corregidores two years earlier.

This conservation area is the first Indigenous protected area created in the Bolivian Amazon. Cartography shows that “Loma Santa” is part of an important conservation mosaic linking protected areas and Indigenous territories and is connected to the extensive Vilcabamba-Amboró biodiversity corridor, which stretches across the central region of the country and extends into Peru. The TIM’s location is also highlighted as part of a globally significant wetland, the RAMSAR Site “Río Matos.”

Cartography: A Tool for Indigenous Autonomy

In recent years, TIM has faced various threats, ranging from the exploitation of its natural resources to climate-related events such as fires and floods. Access to accurate and up-to-date information allows timely decision-making and the protection of the territory. In response to these challenges, a Territorial Monitoring and Control System has been developed to safeguard common natural resources, monitor environmental changes, and strengthen Indigenous governance in the face of external pressures.

Territorial mapping by the Indigenous Peoples of Bolivia represents an act of recovery and reaffirmation of the lands they have traditionally inhabited. For decades, resource exploitation has caused the displacement and social and cultural disruption of these communities. In this sense, the process of land titling has sought, to some extent, to repair that damage.

Cartographic tools, therefore, are merely static representations of geographic reality but are dynamic expressions of historical events and political decisions made by Indigenous Peoples. They aim to illustrate situations, disseminate information, and reaffirm the rights of Indigenous Peoples over their territory, its biodiversity, and other elements of the natural environment.

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Although many countries—especially in Europe—have sped up their energy transitions to meet climate commitments and to respond to the energy crisis triggered by the war between Russia and Ukraine, not all possess sufficient reserves of these minerals. The success of the transition is closely linked to the availability and supply of these resources, potentially reinforcing extractivist development models in resource-rich countries.

According to the International Energy Agency, China is the world’s leading producer and processor of rare earth elements, accounting for around 60% of global extraction and nearly 90% of global processing. The Xi Jinping administration has recognized that the value of these minerals lies not only in their marketability but also in their strategic importance for technological advancement. As a result, Western countries have become increasingly dependent on China—a dynamic that directly affects both the pace and the sovereignty of the global energy transition. In Latin America, only Brazil ranks among the top ten countries with the largest reserves, placing third with approximately 15% of the global total.

Rare Earth Elements and Critical Minerals in Indigenous Territories

Paradoxically, the energy transition that is being driven by renewable sources has increased the demand for rare earth elements and critical minerals—non-renewable resources—the extraction of which is concentrated in strategic and fragile ecosystems, such as Indigenous territories. A global study published in 2022, based on the international platform on mineral supplies for the energy transition, reveals that more than a half of extractive projects related to these resources are located within or near Indigenous lands.

In Latin America and the Caribbean, an estimated 73% of these projects directly or indirectly affect formally titled Indigenous territories. Many also overlap with areas facing high levels of water stress, further increasing their environmental vulnerability.

The exploitation of rare earth elements and critical minerals brings not only significant environmental impacts but also deep social and cultural consequences. These include the risk of forced displacement of Indigenous communities and threats to their cultural identity, driven by migration, territorial fragmentation, and the rapid transformation of their ways of life. Traditional decision-making structures and governance systems are also being undermined—especially as state authorities continue to disregard the right to Free, Prior and Informed Consent.

Bolivia in the Context of Rare Earth Element and Critical Mineral Extraction

Bolivia is suffering a profound economic and energy crisis resulting from the collapse of its hydrocarbon-based development model. The surge in international oil prices, combined with a sharp decline in domestic gas reserves, has triggered a severe fiscal imbalance. This crisis has far-reaching impacts across the social, political, and legal spheres and is compounded by weak democratic institutions and a lack of independence of the different branches of government.

Against this backdrop of multidimensional crisis, the national government has chosen to further entrench the extractivist development model by expanding hydrocarbon and mining frontiers into the Amazon, and is showing increased interest in the extraction of rare earth elements and critical minerals. While international attention on the energy transition has largely focused on lithium extraction projects in the country’s southeast, it is essential to also pay close attention to exploration and extraction initiatives targeting rare earth elements and critical minerals in regions such as the Amazon, Chiquitanía, Chaco, and Pantanal.

The national government is seeking to promote a “new, non-traditional mining” approach to meet the growing global demand in the face of the energy transition.

The national government is seeking to promote a “new, non-traditional mining” approach to meet the growing global demand in the face of the energy transition.

As part of the expansion of the extractivist model,in 2022 Bolivia established the Vice Ministry of Technological Minerals and Rare Earth Elements as part of its extractivist expansion strategy. Two years later, in January 2024, the Ministry of Mining and Metallurgy announced the commencement of exploration activities for these resources. The national government is seeking to promote a “new, non-traditional mining” approach to meet the growing global demand in the face of the energy transition. The objective is to diversify mineral extraction beyond traditional resources—such as silver, tin, lead, zinc, and gold—towards others like nickel, cobalt, and rare earth elements. To support this, the Bolivian Mining Corporation (COMIBOL), the state-owned enterprise that manages the mining production chain, has created the National Directorate of Technological Minerals and Rare Earths.

Alongside lithium extraction in Potosí, led by Yacimientos de Litio Bolivianos (YLB), two rare earth exploration projects are currently underway in Bolivia: Cerro Manomó and Rincón del Tigre, both located in Santa Cruz department within the Chiquitanía and Pantanal regions. These projects aim to identify and quantify reserves of minerals, including thorium, niobium, nickel, cobalt, chromium, gold, and rare earth elements.

Additionally, in 2023, prospecting activities took place in San Javier (Chiquitanía), where samples of rubidium, cesium, tungsten, titanium, tantalum, lanthanum, praseodymium, europium, cerium, neodymium, samarium, and thorium were taken. To date, the results of these studies remain unpublished, and little is known about which stakeholders may be involved in the extraction phase.

Technological Minerals and Rare Earth Elements in Indigenous Territories

There is currently no official database on the presence of technological minerals or rare earth elements in Indigenous territories of the Eastern region, the Chaco, and the Amazon. However, an overlay analysis conducted by CEJIS—comparing the Map of Technological Minerals and Rare Earths in Bolivia with the surface area of the 58 Indigenous Territories formally recognized by the State—reveals that these projects are mainly concentrated in the regions of Chiquitanía, Pantanal, and Northern Amazonia.

In Chiquitanía, the Indigenous Community Lands (TCO) of Guarayos, Monte Verde, Lomerío, and Zapocó are directly threatened by the Pico Suto project, while the Bajo Paragua TCO is affected by the Cerro Manomó project. In the Pantanal, the Rincón del Tigre project is directly affecting the Pantanal TCO and the territory of the same name owned by the Ayoreo people. In the Northern Amazon, the Madre de Dios gold mining project will directly affect the Multiethnic II Territory.

In addition, projects implemented by COMIBOL in Santa Cruz department will have an indirect impact on four Indigenous territories: Guarayos, Pantanal, Tobité, and Turubó Este.

Indigenous Peoples in Voluntary Isolation and Initial Contact

Prospecting projects also pose a significant threat to Indigenous Peoples living in voluntary isolation and initial contact in the Pantanal and the transitional areas toward the Chaco. In particular, the Rincón del Tigre project directly affects the migratory routes of the last Ayoreo groups that remain in voluntary isolation.

There is no evidence that safeguards have been developed to protect the integrity of these peoples or to uphold their decision to remain in isolation, as established by Article 31 of the Political Constitution of the State, in force since 2009. In an effort to strengthen international protections, the situation of the rights of Indigenous Peoples’—including those living in voluntary isolation and initial contact— was addressed during the 24^th session of the United Nations Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues, in the context of critical mineral extraction. On that occasion, the Forum recommended “prohibiting any economic activity, particularly exploration, research, extraction, and processing of critical minerals for the energy transition, in territories known to be inhabited by peoples in voluntary isolation.”

Far from implementing this recommendation, national authorities are continuing to expand prospecting activities into regions with a confirmed presence of Indigenous Peoples in voluntary isolation and initial contact.

Absence of Prior Consultation and Environmental Information

Although the Constitution states an obligation to conduct Free, Prior and Informed Consultation (FPIC) with Indigenous Peoples before any activity that may affect their lives or rights, the national policy promoting the so-called “new non-traditional mining” — particularly the exploitation of rare earth elements and critical minerals — has not been put out to consultation with the Indigenous communities in the Chiquitanía or Pantanal TCOs.

The Pico Suto, Cerro Manomó, and Rincón del Tigre projects were not previously discussed with the Guarayo, Chiquitano, or Ayoreo Indigenous authorities. The exclusion of Indigenous communities from consultation processes is rooted in Mining and Metallurgy Law No. 535, enacted in May 2014, which exempts prospecting activities from the requirement for consultation. This provision is openly unconstitutional, as it contradicts both the national Constitution and international instruments on Indigenous rights.

The application of this law exacerbates the vulnerability of Indigenous Peoples, particularly the Ayoreo, who include groups living in voluntary isolation in the area targeted by the Rincón del Tigre project. The law allows prospecting activities to proceed without oversight or Indigenous participation, based solely on a simple administrative authorization issued by the mining authorities. This situation is further compounded by the lack of publicly available information on the environmental impacts — both at the prospecting stage and during potential future exploitation.

Conclusion

The energy transition cannot take place at the expense of the rights of Indigenous Peoples, nor through the destruction of their territories and the environment. The experience of Indigenous communities in the Chiquitanía and Pantanal regions reveals that, far from offering a departure from the extractivist model, the implementation of rare earth and critical mineral exploration and exploitation projects is actually entrenching it. This results in increased pressure on Indigenous territories and further violations of their collective rights.

The silent advance of this “new mining” in Bolivia’s lowlands is already producing tangible consequences: exploration and extraction projects are being carried out without the consultation or consent of the affected Indigenous Peoples. These activities have led to significant losses of natural heritage — especially forests — and have worsened climate change impacts, such as water stress.

Bolivia is at a crossroads: it can continue down the path of extractivism or move toward development models that genuinely respect the self-determination of Indigenous Peoples. In this context, it is urgent to restore effective safeguards and ensure that Free, Prior and Informed Consultation processes are carried out at all stages of mining projects — as a minimum condition for advancing toward a truly just energy transition.

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In the 1950s, a team from the New Tribes Evangelical Mission, specializing in contact with nomadic Indigenous groups, began initial efforts to reach the Yukí. This process took several years and culminated on March 11, 1965, after a relationship of trust had been established between the missionaries and the community. This trust led to the relocation of an initial group of 43 people to the New Tribes camp, which would later become an Indigenous settlement. The missionaries then continued searching for more Yukí families along the region’s rivers.

In December 1986, a second group of 23 people was relocated from the Víbora River to Biá Recuaté. Amid an economic crisis, companies had intensified their encroachment on Yukí territory, triggering violent clashes between settlers, loggers, and hunters—conflicts in which the Indigenous population suffered the gravest harm. Finally, in 1989, a third group was relocated to Biá Recuaté, after the group’s leader made several visits and witnessed firsthand the conditions in which his relatives were living.

A Recently Contacted People

In 1990, Indigenous peoples from the Lowlands carried out the first “Great March” to La Paz, the seat of government, to demand dignity and territory. It was the first time they became visible to Bolivian society and the State. In this context, Supreme Decree No. 23.111 granted the Yuquí people a territory of 115,000 hectares, based on an estimated population of 500 people, the density and reproductive rates of local wildlife, the average number of animals hunted per species per year, and the age and sex of the fauna in their hunting area. The resolution made no mention of recognizing other Indigenous groups (such as the Indigenous Council of the Ichilo River).

The determination of the Yuquí territory was carried out by a multidisciplinary team from the New Tribes Evangelical Mission, the Inter-American Development Bank, and the University of Central Florida. To determine the location and size of the land, the project prioritized three key factors for their survival: traditional areas for hunting, gathering wild fruits and honey; the population growth rate; and the cultural determinants of a people in a state of extreme vulnerability.

The Yukí people are currently undergoing a transition from a nomadic lifestyle of hunting and gathering to a sedentary way of life. This shift involves learning new skills to generate income and meet the emerging consumption needs brought on by acculturation. However, this transition has made the Yukí highly vulnerable, as they are being overwhelmed by multiple overlapping forces in their social environment such as colonization, drug trafficking, and the encroachment of their lands by Yuracaré communities from the Chapare River and other Indigenous groups from the Ichilo River.

This vulnerability is further compounded by the Yukí’s unique sociocultural characteristics in the fragility of their internal organization, lack of established leadership, and absence of horticultural traditions. These factors place them at a serious disadvantage compared to other Indigenous groups in Bolivia when it comes to asserting their rights and articulating their demands to the State. This precarious situation is routinely exploited by settlers, loggers, other Indigenous groups, and the State itself, all of whom engage with the Yukí through interactions that are often deceitful and exploitative—socially, economically, and politically.

The Betrayal of the Yukí People

Although the Yukí Indigenous Territory has been formally recognized, the Bolivian State continues to enable the systematic encroachment of coca-growing settlers, illegal loggers, drug traffickers, and other Indigenous groups. This ongoing invasion has led to the progressive fragmentation of the territory, threatening both the ecological biodiversity of the region and the Yukí people’s means of subsistence. By 2024, the Bolivian government had invested approximately 20 million bolivianos (around 2.87 million U.S. dollars) in housing, sanitation, electricity, and telecommunications projects for other Indigenous groups who had been permitted by the Yukí to settle within their Original Communal Territory (TCO).

When the State officially recognized the Yukí TCO in 1992, the Yukí Council made the decision not to expel those already living in their territory. Instead, they required them to respect all of their norms and regulations related to the access, use, and control of natural resources. At that time, there were only five encampments of non-Yukí settlers and Indigenous families—Tres Islas, Capernaum, Santa Isabel, Las Flores, and Tres Bocas. These settlements were originally itinerant, primarily established for illegal logging, and their inhabitants lived in Puerto Villarroel, a mestizo town located outside the TCO. When the National Institute of Agrarian Reform (INRA) carried out the land titling process in 2000, the Yukí formally recognized these five settlements as official communities.

Nonetheless, these Indigenous groups—more deeply acculturated into national society—took advantage of the political moment to organize themselves under the Indigenous Council of the Ichilo River (CIRI), composed of Yuracaré, Moxeño, and Trinitario peoples. With weak and technically unsubstantiated arguments, they requested that the National Institute of Agrarian Reform (INRA) add the CIRI acronym to the official land title of the Yukí TCO. This marked the institutionalization of their betrayal: an attempt to dispossess the Yukí of their entire territory by creating five new communities, none of which were authorized or consented to by the rightful owners of the land.

Today, CIRI controls over half of the Yukí TCO. They have established ten communities populated by people from other regions to give the impression of a growing population in need of more land. Meanwhile, government investment in projects for the Yukí remains minimal and only materializes in response to public complaints about complicity in land invasions. International agreements and Bolivian laws are not enforced—they are merely used to attract funding from the international community. All ongoing projects are being implemented without free, prior, and informed consent.

A Latent Ethnocide

The Yukí people live under constant threat of losing their geographical space, which is essential for their social and cultural continuity. This situation is leading to the gradual disappearance of their people, as they are being assimilated into the mestizo population as a result of the Bolivian State’s deliberate actions—or its failure to act. Public officials routinely discriminate against them. In the 2014 elections, for example, the Supreme Electoral Tribunal validated the usurpation of a National Deputy seat by the Yuracaré people at the expense of the Yukí, within the special constituency of Cochabamba Department, justifying the decision by claiming that the Yukí are “ignorant and contribute nothing.”

The violation of Indigenous peoples’ rights in the Lowlands has only intensified since the Movement for Socialism (MAS) came to power in 2006. Paradoxically, despite the fact that most of the government’s leadership and officials come from the Altiplano, discrimination, racism, and ethnocidal practices against Lowland Indigenous peoples have become institutionalized. In this process of internal colonialism, their territories are being overrun by settlers from the highlands with authorization from the national government. Efforts to defend Native Community Lands (TCOs) are met with legal persecution, aimed at silencing any form of resistance or protest.

In this context, Indigenous Peoples, like the Yukí, without strong and stable organizational structures are the most vulnerable, as they lack leaders with the capacity to defend their Native Community Lands (TCOs). Although the national government has enacted legislation in support of Indigenous peoples, these laws are not enforced, and Indigenous communities continue to be pushed into the margins of their own territories by settler encroachment. Consequently, ethnocide takes shape through the expansion of the agricultural frontier, road construction, mining operations, oil exploration, and land invasions by campesino settlers.

According to the State, the deaths of Yukí individuals are the result of “tuberculosis.” However, laboratory analyses conducted in the United States have identified the presence of the Aspergillus fungus or mold spores in the lungs of Yukí patients. Misdiagnosed by national health professionals, this condition continues to claim lives. The treatments prescribed by the doctors assigned to monitor Yukí health are not eliminating the fungus; instead, they are strengthening it within the bodies of those affected.

What Can Be Done to Prevent the Disappearance of the Yukí People?

In the 21st century, this issue is highly complex and will not be resolved easily or quickly. However, a series of basic and urgent measures could serve as a starting point.

First, the State must draft a law that systematizes the various factors threatening the survival of the Yukí people, with the aim of ensuring their genuine protection. Furthermore, violations of this law should be met with severe penalties for offenders.

Second, the Ministry of Health must carry out a serious and in-depth study on the health conditions of the Yukí population, with the goal of eradicating the Aspergillus fungus and improving their overall well-being.

Third, the Ministry of Education must closely review and adapt the primary and secondary school curricula, as they currently fail to reflect the cultural identity of the Yukí people. In addition, the poor quality of education limits the skills of Yukí youth and their opportunities to pursue further education in technical institutes or universities.

Fourth, the State must prioritize funding for diverse development projects to ensure sustainable income for the Yukí population, thereby meeting their most basic survival needs.

Fifth, the Ministry of Justice should implement a leadership training program for Yukí representatives, enabling them to defend their people and culture against the many injustices they currently face.

Only through the implementation of these urgent initial measures by the Bolivian State can we begin the essential work of preventing the disappearance of the Yukí people.

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