Laura Galvis (LG): When we talk about conflict and peace, we tend to do so from State or legal categories. What Indigenous principles do you consider fundamental to understanding the deep roots of violence against Indigenous Peoples?

Leonor Zalabata Torres (LZT): In order to talk about conflict, we need to start from the thinking and ways of life that exist in the world. Indigenous Peoples are cultures of peace. Our peaceful way of living is disrupted when external factors negatively transform our way of being in the world. Conflict has nothing to do with an alleged vulnerability of Indigenous Peoples but rather with external factors that undermine our way of thinking and living. Our way of life has developed over time and is still valid today. Indigenous Peoples have ancient traditions that are not stuck in the past; on the contrary, they are deeply contemporary to the evolution of humanity. We have learned other languages, we have been able to adapt without abandoning who we are. This capacity to adapt does not imply renouncing our principles but rather dialoguing with the world without losing our balance.

In Colombia, there are more than 60 Indigenous languages and, paradoxically, Indigenous Peoples are the most bilingual population in the country. Many of us have learned Spanish as the national language, without ceasing to speak, when it was not taken away from us, our mother tongue. This condition does not form an automatic loss of identity; it is also a form of cultural continuity. Spanish has become a vehicle through which Indigenous thought continues to be transmitted to Colombian society. Even though some languages have weakened, the spirit of Indigenous cultures continues to circulate, adapt and dialogue, without disappearing.

The problem arises when these balances are upset, sometimes even when there is no bad intent. When we intervene without knowing or understanding what a culture means, we interrupt already existing human development processes. This is when deep conflicts are generated. Territorial dispossession is one of the clearest expressions of this rupture: by separating peoples from their territories, a historical relationship with life is also broken.

Our knowledge is neither abstract nor merely symbolic. We are people with a deep knowledge of the territory, of the plants, of the climate, of the energies that sustain life. These practices have been effective for centuries, long before the Conquest, although we do not always explain them in the dominant languages. The fact that they are not understood from the outside does not mean that they do not work; it means that they answer to another rationale.

LG: How do Indigenous Peoples understand the concept of peace?

LZT: For us, peace is not something that is decreed. It has to do with the stability of life, with our customs, with the way we relate to the territory, to others and to the world. Values such as water, air and land are not individual goods; they are the common building blocks of collective life. When these values are subordinated to an idea of development that measures everything in terms of production or profitability, that balance is broken. Any recognition that does not understand peace as a deep relationship with life is therefore incomplete. It is like trying to recognize a spirit without a body: it is named but not sustained. Without territory, language and living practices, peace becomes an empty idea, disconnected from the real experience of the people.

LG: In Colombia, the armed conflict is usually referred to as a six-decade phenomenon. How does this change if we view the conflict from an Indigenous timeframe, in which the war does not begin with the armed actors but with older ruptures?

LZT: When the conflict is viewed from an Indigenous timeframe, the starting point changes radically. We are not talking about 60 years but centuries: a period in which we were not allowed to continue our own development, and were forced to defend ourselves permanently in order to exist. The Indigenous identity turned inwards. It has to do with knowledge, practices and a deep relationship with nature, the territory and the cosmos. This identity has been maintained despite the imposition of a single system of thought, the forced abandonment of our languages and customs and the denial of our knowledge systems.

Instead of allowing each culture to develop from its own thinking, a single idea of development and economic evolution was imposed. This generated a profound disruption of our ways of life and reduced us, for centuries, to permanently defending the right to be. The right to have came later, when the tangible elements began to be recognized. From an essential point of view, human development should be based on the recognition that we are different brothers and sisters. The lack of such recognition continues to fuel a conflict that is not only historical but also structural and global.

LG: Throughout your career, you have insisted that the constitutional recognition of Colombia as a multiethnic, multicultural and legally pluralistic country has opened the way for broader Indigenous participation. How do you view the impact of this recognition, both in national life and in multilateral spaces?

LZT: From our experience as Indigenous Peoples, Colombia’s constitutional recognition in 1991 was not only an internal legal change; it marked a turning point. For many years there was talk of “integration into national life” as if it implied ceasing to be what we were. With the 1991 Constitution, it was understood that the idea was not to integrate by subordinating ourselves but rather to recognize cultural diversity and legal pluralism as principles that the State must protect. This recognition also opened up an international outlook. It allowed us, the Colombian Indigenous Peoples, to relate to other peoples of the world without renouncing our own governments and ways of thinking. In this sense, the world became smaller and we began to recognize ourselves in common struggles with Indigenous Peoples from other regions.

LG: Given this experience, what role do international frameworks and mechanisms, particularly the United Nations System, now play in protecting Indigenous Peoples and in global peacebuilding?

LZT: The Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues, the Expert Mechanism on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, and the Special Rapporteur on the rights of Indigenous Peoples have been instrumental in expanding rights. These spaces are gaining value because they make a real contribution to peace and respect for Indigenous Peoples. They have helped to raise the visibility of and confront a deep political conflict related to territory, development and recognition of Indigenous Peoples, one which for decades was treated only as problem of internal governance. In contexts such as Colombia’s, this political conflict ended up turning into an armed conflict.

Human rights were long thought of almost exclusively from an individual logic. For Indigenous Peoples, this view is incomplete. Our rights are also collective and environmental because water, air, land and the stability of the territory do not belong to just one person: they sustain the life of all. International mechanisms have contributed to the fact that this vision is beginning to be recognized and discussed in global settings.

Our participation is becoming permanent, both in national and international life, because we have also understood that this constant presence is necessary. Humanity has not, however, yet fully accepted the fact that collective and environmental rights, and the practices that support them, should be understood as principles for a global peace. Indigenous Peoples have never stopped thinking about peace. A peace that is not only ours but also that of the countries and regions of the world. We are everywhere and, over time, we have sustained practices that allow us to live differently and to live together in balance. These practices do not belong only to the past: they are lessons that humanity needs to recover if it wants to build a lasting peace.

LG: Indigenous territories are currently at the centre of the energy transition, the dispute over minerals and the climate crisis. What conflicts are emerging from these global pressures?

LZT: When we talk about energy transition, climate crisis or strategic minerals today, it seems as if we are dealing with something completely new. But for me, that is not really the case. In many ways it is the same story, albeit with a different mechanism. In the past it was other resources, now it is the so-called critical minerals or clean energies. The names change, the discourse changes, but the territories at the heart of it all remain the same. And, with this, the conflicts over land, territorial boundaries and control over the spaces in which we live reappear.

Added to this is the climate crisis, which some still deny because they see it as an economic cost, but its impacts are already here. The melting of snow-capped mountains, for example, is not a theoretical discussion: it is directly affecting water sources, the cycles of nature and the lives of entire communities. Governments recognize that a crisis exists but they don’t know how to avoid it, mitigate it or really adapt to it. And, in this vacuum, decisions are once again imposed that do not stem from a care of life but from power and capital. This is where Indigenous Peoples are again exposed, even though we have historically protected these territories.

The idea still persists that Indigenous Peoples are the ones who must learn, as if other sectors of society already have all the answers. And yet the values I have been talking about: care of the air, of the water, of the river sources, do not belong to a particular culture. They sustain collective life. If taken care of, they benefit everyone. Pure air is not just for those who protect it: it circulates freely in time and space. These are practices that Indigenous Peoples have sustained over time, not in order to control nature but to maintain the balances that enable life.

I see some progress, for example, in spaces such as climate conferences, where the participation of civil society and Indigenous Peoples has been expanded and agreements and legal frameworks are discussed. This is important. But the underlying problem remains the same: an idea of development that justifies almost anything, even violence, in order to advance economically. Until this logic is questioned, these conflicts will continue to arise, even if we give them new names.

LG: In your view, peace does not seem to depend only on formal conflict resolution mechanisms but also on a deeper relationship with life. What is the place of Indigenous consciousness and cosmovision?

LZT: It is often thought that everything can be solved with mechanisms, standards or experts, and of course that is important, but it is not enough. There are practices that spread because they respond to specific interests and others that exist simply because they are a way of life. Awareness is not just about being informed and knowing the rules. It goes a little further than this. Having an identity means going beyond. In the case of the Indigenous Peoples, that beyond is in nature and in the cosmos. Human references, science, philosophy and law are important and provide clarity but they do not always manage to maintain that profound balance that the person and humanity need. These are issues that do not always fit into clear categories but which are worthy of further thought and conversation. That is why it is important that these dialogues exist.

LG: There is talk in some different spaces of a transformation of Indigenous leadership, especially with the greater visibility of women and youth. What changes are you seeing in the relationship between power, territory and participation in Indigenous Peoples?

LZT: For me, this issue cannot be understood by separating women from men or the young from the old. In our cultures, balance has always been found in complementarity. Women, men, youth, children and the elderly all fulfil different but necessary roles. It is not a division by category but a living relationship. The participation of Indigenous women has grown, it is true, and so has their political visibility. But not because we are separating ourselves from the Indigenous movement, rather because this complementarity has been strengthened. Many of us have been able to participate because we have the support of our Indigenous men and because there is a collective history of working for the defence of culture, territory and identity.

Indigenous youth play a fundamental role in this process. They have the strength, energy and capacity to energize people: they can reinforce the path or change it. Today young people study, attend universities, learn other languages and acquire other knowledge but none of this means turning their back on an Indigenous vision. On the contrary, this is an open vision that dialogues with other knowledge without renouncing its own.

That is why I say that I am not here just because I am a woman, not even because I am Indigenous. I am here because there has been a collective political development, a shared construction of thought and action. What really matters is to have an Indigenous vision, a living philosophy, not just external representation. That is one of the greatest challenges we face today.

LG: Colombia will become a member of the United Nations Security Council on 01 January 2026, and you will take up that representation. What is the significance of this moment, not only for your country but also for the Indigenous Peoples of the world?

LZT: Colombia’s election to the Security Council came not of a sudden decision nor was it the result of a single circumstance: it was a process that had been under construction for many years. The fact that this representation can today be held by an Indigenous woman has a profound political meaning, not as a personal achievement or as a symbolic gesture but as a way of making Indigenous Peoples visible in one of the most important spaces of global decision-making. It is to recognize that we have real experience of peace building, an experience that is born not only from agreements but from a way of life which, historically, has sought to resolve conflicts without destroying life.

Colombia has been a resilient country in terms of peace. Despite violence and armed conflict, it has insisted on dialogue as the way forward. Bringing this experience to the Security Council is a great responsibility but it also leaves an important legacy: that the world’s Indigenous Peoples are seen and heard, and that there is recognition that their practices and visions can contribute to global peacebuilding. That, to me, is the deeper meaning of this moment.

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

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

A Right to Be and to Will to Be

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

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

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

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

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

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

Between the Unitary State and Constitutional Pluralism

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beyond the Decision-making Limit: Toward Reciprocal Governance

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

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

The post Two Models, One Same Paradox: Critical Minerals and Indigenous Self-determination in Sweden and Colombia appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

Amid the chaos, several homes of political leaders, including the prime minister’s, were torched as he and the home minister resigned. Many parliamentarians went missing for days. Iconic sites such as the Parliament and Supreme Court were also burned down. Although an interim government, formed after talks with Gen Z leaders, is slowly restoring services, the judiciary remains paralyzed—thousands of legal documents were destroyed, including several writ petitions filed by the Indigenous communities of Nepal.

One of these petitions is against a cable car project on a sacred mountain that the Indigenous Limbu community have historically identified as Mukkumlung, renamed about a century ago as Pathibhara, after a Hindu goddess. In more recent decades, Pathibhara has become a popular religious site for Hindu pilgrims. Mukkumlung forms part of the ancestral Limbu territory and is a sensitive geographic region as it borders Tibet (China) and Sikkim (India). It is also geologically sensitive as it forms part of the Himalayan formation, one of the most biodiverse ecological zones. To safeguard it, the Nepal government declared this zone as the Kanchenjunga Conservation Area Project in 1997.    

Development and green transition vs Indigenous sacred sites?

“I don’t think we should give up our sacred lands for the sake of development. We are not even going to give up our community forest, let alone our temples, shrines, and sacred spaces,”says Sarita Ghale of Khasur village, in Northern Nepal, in the short documentary Marsyangdi Wile Ri’iba: May you live as long as the river. The film explores the tensions between Indigenous ancestral wisdom, the agency of land’s invisible guardians and the relentless force of ‘progress’ driving Nepal’s hydropower economy. The Gurung language title is a blessing from the elders to the younger generation: “(…) may you live as long as the Simal tree, may you be as strong as the rocks in the Marsyangdi river”.

This short film forms part of the Twin documentary project “Human rights beyond the human?”, produced as part of the six-year interdisciplinary RIVERS research project (2019-2026), funded by the European Research Council (ERC). RIVERS examines the relationship between humans and nature and the role of law through fieldwork in Nepal, Colombia, Guatemala and the United Nations.  It’s Colombian twin, Aty Seikuinduwa: A Judge Between Worlds, follows the spiritual and legal journey of Indigenous Judge Belkis Izquierdo. This intimate portrayal of Aty Seikuinduwa, Judge Belkis’ spiritual name, meaning “mother beyond the darkness”, shows how she brings the living land, multiple life systems, and Indigenous spiritual practices into the courtroom.

What the Nepali government, which endorses the project, and the private company constructing it do not reveal is what would be lost in the process – a complete erasure of Limbu culture and destruction of nature.

What the Nepali government, which endorses the project, and the private company constructing it do not reveal is what would be lost in the process – a complete erasure of Limbu culture and destruction of nature.

Together, these two films challenge the dominant legal frameworks by foregrounding more-than-human voices and Indigenous jurisprudence, offering a powerful reflection on legal pluralism, spiritualism and resistance to extractivism. Overlapping with the concerns these documentaries raise, the cable car project exemplifies the latest onslaught of ‘development’ against sacred land. Registered under ‘Pathibhara Devi Darshan Private Limited’, a private company led by a Nepali billionaire, this 21-million USD project would connect the base of the mountain with its top, flying over the pilgrimage trail that currently snakes its way through the hilly forest, claiming acres of forest.

The company claims that this cable car would ease the pilgrims’ commute while boosting tourism and creating jobs, so ‘bringing development’ to Taplejung district. In such claims, what the Nepali government endorsing the project, and the private company constructing it, do not reveal is what would be lost in the process – a complete erasure of Limbu culture and destruction of nature through the ‘Disneyfication’ of the sacred land as resorts, cafes, hotels and a skating zone, all of which are planned for construction on top of the sacred site.

Bureaucratic and legal violence

As part of the post-war peace process following the end of Nepal’s decade-long ‘People’s War’ in 2006, the country ratified International Labour Organization (ILO) Convention 169 on Indigenous and Tribal Peoples (1989) and endorsed the adoption of the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) in 2007. These human rights instruments recognize Indigenous Peoples as collective-rights holders, including the right to self-determination, land, territory, and natural resources, and establish the right of FPIC – Free, Prior, Informed Consultation and Consent over decisions affecting their rights.

Initially, Nepal was hailed as a regional leader in Indigenous rights protection. It was the first Asian country to ratify ILO Convention 169 and, in its 2015 Constitution, explicitly recognized Indigenous Peoples’ rights.  The country also ratified the 1978 World Heritage Convention, and the 2010 Convention on Intangible Heritage; articles 26 and 34 of its Constitution furthermore protect communities’ rights to preserve religious sites and cultural practices.

Multilateral development banks and the Nepalese government systematically fail to uphold Indigenous rights, including FPIC, in major hydropower projects.

Multilateral development banks and the Nepalese government systematically fail to uphold Indigenous rights, including FPIC, in major hydropower projects.

Almost 20 years later, Nepal’s leadership has proved to be a false dawn. A recent report “Hanging by a Thread: Indigenous Peoples’ Rights in Renewable Energy Transition”, published by Accountability Council and Lawyers’ Association of Human Rights of Nepali Indigenous Peoples, documents how multilateral development banks and the Nepalese government systematically fail to uphold Indigenous rights, including FPIC, in major hydropower projects.

Besides destroying sacred sites, the Nepal government, in endorsing the cable car project, has approved the cutting down of thousands of trees, destroying the habitat of threatened animal species and, in the process, dismantling the very reason why it created the Kanchenjunga Conservation Area Project in the first place. More recently, this has morphed into full-blown violence meted out against the peaceful community protestors. The armed police force has been deployed  to aggressively clamp down on protests, throwing tear gas canisters inside private houses in the middle of the night, destroying surveillance cameras, putting people behind bars, physically assaulting and opening fire on the protestors, and severely wounding people, while filing cases against the protestors for ‘creating unrest’.

Knowledge that comes from the territories

Nepal is now forging much-needed reforms on many fronts. Amid state-induced violence, the legal future of Mukkumlung rests in the hands of Nepal’s Supreme Court – which is currently literally rising from its ashes. Could this High Court finally transform Nepal’s leadership in Indigenous Peoples’ rights protection on paper into progressive jurisprudence, allowing the Limbu sacred mountain to win its legal battle? 

The innovative Indigenous jurisprudence of Colombia’s Special Jurisdiction for Peace may offer new legal pathways for Nepal’s court cases on harm to Indigenous lands from development and green transition projects. Since its 1991 Constitution recognized ethnic and cultural diversity, Colombia has built a strong body of multicultural jurisprudence. Yet it was only in 2014 that the judiciary appointed its first Indigenous assistant magistrate, Belkis Izquierdo Torres—a historic milestone. Four years later, she became one of the 31 judges of the Peace Tribunal, alongside three other Indigenous judges.

“To recognize the Territory as a victim means acknowledging it is alive, that it is a sentient being, that it is a subject of rights”.

“To recognize the Territory as a victim means acknowledging it is alive, that it is a sentient being, that it is a subject of rights”.

Created as part of the 2016 Peace Agreement between the Colombian government and Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC-EP), the JEP investigates and prosecutes cases linked to the armed conflict, which disproportionately affected Indigenous and Afro communities. These groups secured the inclusion of the Agreement’s late-added Ethnic Chapter, guaranteeing recognition of their rights and territories within the transitional justice process. In line with its victim-centered mandate, this tribunal has elaborated a participatory territorial based investigation methodology.

As Judge Belkis Izquierdo explains in the short film: ” [Judges] need to get out of the confines of the office a little … to feel, to smell the Territory. …. Our [Indigenous] knowledge comes not only from human reason; it comes from the Territories because knowledge is territorialized.”  The idea that land itself can be a bearer of legal knowledge stands in stark contrast to Nepal’s jurisprudence on Indigenous rights.  The judge adds: “To recognize the Territory as a victim means acknowledging it is alive, that it is a sentient being, that it is a subject of rights. That, within the context of the armed conflict, it has suffered, it has been damaged, and it is still in pain. And that it needs to have a voice in the judicial process so that this harm can be acknowledged and repaired.”

Could Nepal’s Supreme Court set a legal benchmark in South Asia?

This marks a significant legal milestone: it is now recognized that it is not only human beings, but also sacred sites, spiritual beings and their interrelationships that can suffer harm. Indigenous territories in Colombia are thus accorded rights to truth, justice, reparation, and guarantees of non-repetition— rights previously reserved for individuals and groups affected by armed conflict.

In a similar vein, Nepal’s Supreme Court could consider an in-situ visit or a fact-finding mission to Mukkumlung to directly assess the territorial disputes and alleged violations. Over the past decade, the  Inter-American Court of Human Rights and several Latin American high courts have conducted similar visits to Indigenous and Afro communities, gathering additional evidence and hearing all parties involved. The Inter-American Court’s first in-situ visit took place in 2012 in the emblematic case Pueblo Indígena Kichwa de Sarayaku v. Ecuador, where the judges traveled by plane and canoe to hold proceedings within the Amazonian community’s territory. Since then, this regional Court has carried out 15 in-situ visits, six of them to Indigenous communities across Latin America.

If Indigenous movements worldwide are understood as a permanent struggle and resistance, the historic ruling in Colombia under Judge Belkis represents a monumental moment to which Nepal might aspire.

If Indigenous movements worldwide are understood as a permanent struggle and resistance, the historic ruling in Colombia under Judge Belkis represents a monumental moment to which Nepal might aspire.

Even though the Indigenous communities in Nepal remain skeptical about their country’s judicial system – often perceiving a structural bias against Indigenous cases – there a few alternatives but to turn to the national courts. The state has shown no political will to upholds its international human rights obligations. Indicatively, during a hearing in the Supreme Court in May 2025 on the cable car project, a company lawyer dismissed Indigenous claims over the sacred land by saying: “It is like listening to fiction and poetry … their argument belongs in the stone age”. The irony, one could argue, lies in how much such racist remarks sound archaic when compared to innovative legal practices, such as in Colombia, where a plurality of knowledge systems is integrated into environmental and Indigenous litigation.

As Shree Linkhim, one of the young Indigenous leaders of the #NoCableCar movement reflected in a private conversation: “When you think of it, this [the Indigenous movement] really goes beyond cancelling cable cars and hydropower projects. At the heart of it all, the struggle is really about pushing to transform the character of the Nepali state.” Easier said than done, but that is their resolve. If Indigenous movements worldwide are understood as a permanent struggle and resistance, the historic ruling in Colombia under Judge Belkis represents a monumental moment to which Nepal might aspire. Whether it ever gets there will depend on how the character and practice of the Nepali state and judiciary evolve in the wake of the Gen Z uprising and the upcoming 2026 elections that promise to reshape the country’s political landscape.

The post When Sacred Land Meets the Law: Stories of Legal Resistance from Nepal and Colombia appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

These reports, published in May 2022 by the news agency N-TV, attracted attention because they came to light shortly before the entry into force of ILO Convention No. 169 in Germany. After years of civil society efforts, Germany decided in 2021 to ratify Convention No. 169, which protects Indigenous Peoples’ rights. The ratification aimed to express the solidarity of the Federal Republic of Germany with Indigenous Peoples worldwide, and it was expected that the European power would respect, protect and uphold their rights through its international economic policy.

However, Germany’s growing demand for Colombian coal gave new impetus to El Cerrejón, the largest coal mine in Latin America which, in 2021, had announced a gradual shutdown due to falling demand for the mineral. The reactivation of the mine has already had serious consequences for the Indigenous and Afro-descendant Peoples living in the area.

El Cerrejón and the Wayuu People

El Cerrejón is located in the department of La Guajira, in Colombia’s Caribbean region, on ancestral Wayuu territory. The Wayuu are the largest Indigenous People in Colombia, numbering over 300,000 in La Guajira, and they also inhabit the state of Zulia, across the border in Venezuela. The mining complex was established in 1976 following the signing of a partnership agreement between the Colombian State, through Carbocol, and the International Colombia Resources Corporation (Intercor), a subsidiary of Exxon.

Coal extraction began in 1983. For several decades, two multinational mining companies, Anglo American and BHP Billiton, each held equal shares in the enterprise. Between 2000 and 2002, the Colombian State sold its stake through Carbocol. Today, Carbones del Cerrejón, the company that operates the mine, is wholly owned by the Swiss transnational Glencore.

In one of the driest regions of tropical South America, several rivers —the main sources of water— have disappeared. Fine dust emissions from mining and the high levels of mercury have severely affected the health of local residents.

The company rerouted the Bruno north of its natural course in order to extract the coal beneath it.

Since its inception, the local communities within El Cerrejón’s area of influence have suffered severe environmental, social, and cultural impacts as a result of the mine. Around 35 Indigenous and Afro-descendant communities have been displaced from their ancestral territories. Mining activities have polluted the soil, air, and water. In one of the driest regions of tropical South America, several rivers —the main sources of water— have disappeared. Fine dust emissions from mining and the high levels of mercury have severely affected the health of local residents: almost all Wayuu people suffer from respiratory illnesses and skin rashes.

The Cerrejón company has, since 2013, sought to develop a new open-pit mine known as La Puente in order to expand coal extraction. To do so, it has diverted the Bruno Stream, a crucial tributary of the Ranchería River —the only major river in this arid region— which flows through the heart of El Cerrejón’s concession area. The company rerouted the Bruno north of its natural course in order to extract the coal beneath it. In response to this escalation, several local communities, both Wayuu and Afro-descendant, have denounced the project, stating that they were not consulted.

The Conflict over the Bruno Stream

In 2017, Colombia’s Constitutional Court ruled that the company Carbones del Cerrejón and state institutions had violated the Wayuu people’s rights to water, food sovereignty, and health by authorising and carrying out the diversion of the Bruno Stream’s natural course in order to expand the mine. The Court therefore ordered the suspension of the coal exploitation zone, which had been expanded by the El Cerrejón complex without consultation. Throughout the legal process, the claimants were subjected to threats.

Ruling SU-698/17 was regarded as a legal victory for the plaintiffs before the Constitutional Court. The Court justified its decision on the basis of the project’s impacts on the local climate and the health of residents, as well as on the cultural rights protected under Colombia’s constitutional framework. It also recognised the river’s spiritual significance. For the Wayuu, rivers are not only sources of life but also sacred entities. As lawyer Mateus Parra explained: “One of the supreme deities of the Wayuu lives in the rivers. When the river disappears, this goddess can no longer be invoked.”

The use of international arbitration mechanisms (ISDS) demonstrates how the defence of Indigenous rights clashes with the global investment protection regime, which grants corporations asymmetrical legal advantages over States.

The use of international arbitration mechanisms (ISDS) demonstrates how the defence of Indigenous rights clashes with the global investment protection regime.

In its ruling, the Court instructed the company, the authorities, and the affected communities to work together to find a solution to the most contentious issues. Instead of complying with the decision, however, Anglo American and Glencore launched international legal action against Colombia. The companies resorted to a mechanism of public international law that grants foreign investors the right to initiate arbitration proceedings against the host State. The basis of their claims was that the State had altered the conditions under which the investment was made, thereby undermining the investors’ legitimate expectations of profit. The companies argued that the Court’s decision amounted to a measure equivalent to indirect expropriation without compensation, even though it was grounded in national constitutional norms designed primarily to protect human rights and the environment.

The use of international arbitration mechanisms (ISDS) demonstrates how the defence of Indigenous rights clashes with the global investment protection regime, which grants corporations asymmetrical legal advantages over States. In their investor–State arbitration claims, Glencore and Anglo American described ruling SU-698/17 as “discriminatory and unreasonable”, invoking bilateral investment treaties to safeguard their economic interests over and above human rights.

Failure to Uphold the Spirit of the Court’s Ruling

In April 2022, a report by the Interinstitutional Technical Committee, chaired by the Ministry of Environment, revealed that the Bruno Stream would remain diverted into an artificial channel. The José Alvear Restrepo Lawyers’ Collective commented: “The Committee expects the ‘purpose of the Court’s ruling’ to be fulfilled. In turn, they note that the recommendations regarding ‘the Wayuu people’s world vision, spiritual and cultural aspects’ have already been incorporated into the study with contributions from the La Horqueta community. In exchange for the permanent destruction of the Bruno Stream’s natural ecosystem, the company offers, as ‘compensation’ measures, the construction of a ritual site and the expansion of nurseries.”

Organisations such as the José Alvear Restrepo Lawyers’ Collective interpreted this outcome as a failure to uphold the spirit of the Court’s ruling and as a precursor to the international arbitration claims previously initiated by Glencore and Anglo American against the Colombian State. However, the international arbitration proceedings brought by the companies against the Constitutional Court’s decision were closed in 2023. This occurred in the context of negotiations with President Gustavo Petro regarding the mine’s future, as part of a “planned energy transition” under the new government.

A report by Censat Agua Viva estimates that El Cerrejón consumes some 30 million litres of water per day —approximately 40% of the water available in the region— while thousands of families lack access to drinking water.

El Cerrejón consumes some 30 million litres of water per day —approximately 40% of the water available in the region— while thousands of families lack access to drinking water.

Backed by administrative decisions, the Swiss company Glencore thus continued to divert the course of the Bruno Stream. Human rights organisations have interpreted this institutional support as a form of “state capture”: the lobbying efforts of El Cerrejón executives are believed to have influenced public entities to skew the outcome of the Interinstitutional Working Group (established by order of the Court itself) and secure approval for the stream’s diversion, disregarding the opposition of local communities.

A report by Censat Agua Viva estimates that El Cerrejón consumes some 30 million litres of water per day —approximately 40% of the water available in the region— while thousands of families lack access to drinking water. Water deprivation has been so severe that, in 2023, President Gustavo Petro publicly accused the company of being partly responsible for the deaths of “thousands of Wayuu children” from hunger and thirst. Although his remarks sparked political debate, they illustrate the scale of the humanitarian crisis perceived nationwide. Furthermore, neither El Cerrejón nor the Interinstitutional Committee took into account the Wayuu people’s spiritual connection to the rivers.

The War in Ukraine and German Imports

Historically, El Cerrejón was operated by a consortium of three mining giants: Anglo American, BHP Billiton, and Glencore. In January 2022, when Glencore acquired full ownership of the mine, it assumed complete responsibility for its social and environmental impacts. Weeks later, the war in Ukraine triggered a surge in Colombian coal demand from Germany. This spike contrasts sharply with the company’s legal actions: while benefiting from the boom, it was simultaneously litigating against Colombia through the ISDS mechanism for “losses” arising from the constitutional protection of the Bruno Stream.

By 2023, production had increased by 12%, and Glencore announced its intention to operate the mine until 2034. As of August 2025, Glencore remains the sole owner, despite international lawsuits and political pressure. Current output stands at approximately 24 million tonnes per year (2024). Although this is below the historical peak of 32 million tonnes reached in 2015, it represents a significant revival compared with pre-Ukraine war levels, when the mine was on a path toward gradual closure. However, this development contrasts with the European trend of progressively reducing coal consumption in favour of renewable energy. Coal from El Cerrejón is a structurally declining resource, yet its extraction continues to leave irreversible impacts on the Guajira desert.

To date, the mine’s record reveals a pattern of forced displacements, pollution, unfulfilled compensation promises, and extensive use of corporate social responsibility rhetoric.

The mine’s record reveals a pattern of forced displacements, pollution, unfulfilled compensation promises, and extensive use of corporate social responsibility rhetoric.

With the entry into force in January 2023 of the Lieferkettensorgfaltspflichtengesetz (LKSG), the “German Supply Chain Due Diligence Act”, the El Cerrejón case acquired even greater significance. This legislation requires large German companies to ensure that their global supply chains are free from serious human rights violations and environmental damage. In practice, this means that companies that are importing coal from El Cerrejón, such as EnBW, Uniper, and STEAG, are now accountable for complaints raised by the Wayuu communities.

This framework also serves as a test of the effectiveness of international norms against the reality of abuses. To date, the mine’s record reveals a pattern of forced displacements, pollution, unfulfilled compensation promises, and extensive use of corporate social responsibility rhetoric. Glencore and its partners have implemented various “sustainability” initiatives, yet German and Colombian critics denounce these as greenwashing. The German Bundestag has questioned the fact that Glencore’s claims of compliance with the UN Guiding Principles contrast sharply with reports of disease, hunger, and displacement in La Guajira.

Governance and Social Struggles

The conflict surrounding El Cerrejón cannot be understood solely as an environmental dispute. It represents a relational space in which the development vision of the Colombian State, the interests of a multinational corporation, and the survival of an Indigenous People converge. Within this space actors exercise different forms of power—economic, legal, and symbolic—and continuously negotiate meanings, including the very concept of “development”.

These negotiations do not take place between monolithic blocks. Wayuu demands have evolved from an initial call for financial compensation to a sophisticated assertion of ethnic rights: autonomy, ancestral territory, and the right to define their own model of development. This “politics of identity-based claims” has enabled them to engage with the mining project without being entirely subordinated, strategically leveraging the multicultural framework of the 1991 Constitution to gain legitimacy.

German companies can no longer claim ignorance regarding the origin of their coal. The critical question is whether the law will serve as an effective instrument for the Wayuu or remain trapped in a web of bureaucracy and symbolic gestures.

German companies can no longer claim ignorance regarding the origin of their coal.

Despite these internal dynamics and the company’s divisive strategies, the Wayuu people have resisted by means of railway blockades, legal action, and international alliances. In 2015, they petitioned the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights, which granted precautionary measures to protect Wayuu children from malnutrition and lack of water. In 2019, Colombia’s Constitutional Court recognised that pollution from El Cerrejón was violating fundamental rights: ruling T-614/2019 established that the mine infringed upon the rights to health, water, food, and a healthy environment. However, the enforcement of these rulings has been slow and selective.

In this context, Germany’s role is particularly significant. As both an importing country and now a regulator under the LKSG, its decisions directly affect local dynamics. German companies can no longer claim ignorance regarding the origin of their coal. The critical question is whether the law will serve as an effective instrument for the Wayuu or remain trapped in a web of bureaucracy and symbolic gestures.

The Double Standard of the Energy Transition

El Cerrejón epitomises the dilemmas of the global energy transition: as Europe seeks to reduce its dependence on Russian gas and shift towards “clean” energy sources, it is, in the short term, turning to Colombian coal, exacerbating the crisis in Indigenous communities. The impact on the Wayuu people is just one example among many across Latin America.

Recent events illustrate how local struggles over water, health, land, and spirituality intersect with global debates on corporate responsibility, climate justice, and sovereignty. The presidency of Gustavo Petro has once again placed the issue on the national agenda, linking the hunger and thirst of Wayuu children directly to mining exploitation. In Germany, the entry into force of the LKSG now provides an unprecedented opportunity to ensure that documented abuses do not go unaddressed.

The central question remains: can a transnational legal framework compel Glencore to respect Indigenous rights, or will the logic of global capital continue to prevail? Either way, the Wayuu struggle serves as a stark reminder that the energy transition cannot be a just one if those who pay the highest price are ignored.

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Through participatory methodologies, the communities themselves led the process, generating key information for planning and political advocacy based on their priorities. The tool allowed them to raise the international profile of their reality and consolidate strategic alliances. In addition, they promoted a community project to improve the water system in an important area of their territory. During this process, traditional practices such as the minga and the use of the Talking Map were revived. This has reaffirmed their autonomy and capacity for self-management in the face of external development models.

Ancestral Self-Recognition of the Misak People

The Guambía Reserve is located in the department of Cauca, in south-western Colombia, in the upper heights of the Central Andes mountain range. This territory represents only a fraction of the former ancestral Pubenence territory, today claimed by the Misak as an historical subject and the basis for the construction of a new universal narrative, rooted in their collective memory.

Misak, in Namtrik Namuy Wan (the Misak language), means “people”. The shures and shuras (elders) manage the category of being misak misak, that is, the relationship of human people with the people of nature. This relationship brings us to another category that contains everything: the nupirauk or territory, which includes the cosmos, the soil and the subsoil.

In the 1980s, the Misak called on the Indigenous and non-indigenous people of Colombia to envision a possible world governed by mutual respect: “Recover the land to recover everything. It is ours and yours too.”

The Misak called for a world governed by mutual respect: “Recover the land to recover everything. It is ours and yours too.”

The foundation of their ancestral wisdom comes from the teachings of the natural order: from the language of the nupirauk, by which the identitary principles of the Misak people have been governed. These principles are expressed in community values, such as lata-lata (mutual aid), mayailai (abundance for all) and alik-minga (festive community work).

During the times of the republic, even though they did not enjoy rights and nor were they recognized in the National Constitution, the struggle for the recovery of part of their usurped territory led the Misak to legislate for themselves in their territory. In the same vein, in the 1980s, they called on the Indigenous and non-indigenous people of Colombia to envision a possible world governed by mutual respect: “Recover the land to recover everything. It is ours and yours too.”

Intercultural Dialogue: a Driving Force for Initiating Surveys

The initial relationship between the Misak people and the Indigenous Navigator was the fruit of a connection established in 2020 between the International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs (IWGIA) and the Ala Kusrei Ya Misak University (Casa Minga de Pensamiento), through the ARTE + Foundation. This collaboration focused on creating communication materials with the collective participation of Misak students and teachers, and “allies” (non-indigenous people supporting the Indigenous struggle).

Of the productions to emerge from this cooperation, the radio documentary “Walking from Guambía, the Puben Territory” is particularly noteworthy. This was made up of four chapters that have been used as study materials by a group of young Misak people. Likewise the animation “Walking the Memory” a collective creation based on the writing of Taita Abelino Dagua, Raíz y retoño; the podcast on the 10 years of the Ala Kusrei Ya Misak University (spoken in Namtrik Namuy Wan); and the documentary film Piwam Mera (Voices of the Water) produced with the participation of Misak elders – water sowers, traditional (spiritual) doctors, midwives, seed collectors and the local governor–.

The Misak authorities expressed their interest in the project: they recognized its potential to raise the profile of their history, strengthen alliances with other Indigenous communities and gain the support of global organizations.

The Misak authorities recognized the potential to raise the profile of their history, strengthen alliances with other Indigenous communities and gain global support.

In May 2023, the Indigenous Navigator proposal “Towards the full and effective recognition and realization of the rights of Indigenous Peoples” was publicized. The meeting was attended by the authorities of the Guambía Reserve, representatives of IWGIA and the ARTE + Foundation. Through a frank and direct dialogue, the purpose and scope of the community survey was discussed in depth and approved for uploading to the Indigenous Navigator platform.

The Misak authorities expressed a deep interest in the project: they recognized its potential to raise the profile of their history internationally, strengthen alliances with other Indigenous communities and gain the support of human rights organizations globally. It was also agreed that the survey should be implemented in Ovejas Kaltunk Chak and in the municipality of Caldono (Cauca), given that this Misak community has been suffering ongoing violations of its right to establish its territory as a reserve.

Participatory Methodology, own Language and Collective Reflection

It was first agreed to use the focus group methodology, selecting local representatives and zonal authorities with experience of the issues to be addressed. The Tatas governors appointed Mama Nancy Tumiñá as general coordinator, who led the process with the support of three community members. The four leaders were trained on the structure of the survey and the methodology for collecting the information and the concluding comments.

During the training process, the importance of using namtrik namuy wam (the Misak’s own language) became evident as it would ensure a more active, deep and comfortable participation by the respondents. It was also agreed to form four groups on the first day so that each group could respond to different topics in the survey. The next day, coming together in an assembly, the answers given in each group would be reviewed and approved collectively. Each member of the coordinating team took on the responsibility of facilitating one of the four thematic groups.

One of the most significant reflections arose in response to the question on poverty, based on international standards. The collective response of the Misak communities, both in Guambía and Ovejas Kaltun Chak, was forceful: “The question does not correspond to what we have learned from our elders. These categories do not align with our thinking. We do not live in poverty: we are a dignified people. We plant our vegetable gardens or yatules on the small plots of land we have. We are a cornered people who are unable to fully develop our talents or our economy. So we are a people fighting for our rights.”

Community Validation

After processing and validating the data with the help of the ARTE+ team, the information collected through the surveys served as the basis for a summary that was disseminated across the Guambía territory. This work was done by consultant Diana Mendoza, who has extensive knowledge of the Indigenous Navigator Initiative and who conducted the national survey on Colombia.

The dissemination of the summary coincided with the handover between the 2023 and 2024 council authorities, thus enabling the involvement of new representatives and their contributions. Here, disagreement was expressed over government projects that have taken place on their territory, designing plans without community participation and with unjustified results. One of the main findings deriving from the data collection was the issue of water distribution in one of the areas with the greatest impact on the community, identified as a priority need.

This is how the Misak coordinator put it: “There are plenty of workshops, training sessions and so on, but no materials. How can we meet our needs if there are no materials? For example, the pipeline: we want to improve the aqueducts, but we don’t have enough resources.” To this concern was added the testimony of a recently elected representative: “The engineer built the intake pipe right where people, motorcycles and cattle pass. He didn’t think about the community, he only thought about fulfilling the contract. Now we have to drink dirty water.”

Expansion of the Water Network

In response to these concerns, and with the assistance of an ARTE+ adviser, the environmental committee and the Tatas council governors, a technical project was designed to increase the flow in the water network from three to six inches and to reforest the watercourse that supplies the reservoir tank. This project was submitted to the Indigenous Navigator and received support through a small grant from the European Union. Given the possibility of providing a solution to this felt need on the part of the community, the Council of Guambía undertook to co-finance the work with the resources and community work of the minga.

This intervention has benefited four villages and several community institutions, including the Town Hall, the Misak University, the Sierra Morena Medicinal Plants Centre and the cemetery. Finally, the Mama Manuela school, which was not included in the plan, also joined the network. The project was initiated under the leadership of the Tatas governors for the 2023 term and concluded with its handover to the community by the Mama governor elected for the 2024 term.

The roadmap, aimed at improving food autonomy, proposes: the recovery and return of native and creole seeds, as well as the promotion of livestock reconversion and backyard production systems.

The roadmap proposes the recovery and return of native and creole seeds, as well as the promotion of livestock reconversion and backyard production systems.

In the Guambía territory, in December 2024, a day of advocacy took place with the support of the Indigenous Navigator project. The activity involved the participation of State entities attached to the Ministry of Agriculture and was aimed at jointly constructing a strategic roadmap. This roadmap, aimed at improving food autonomy, proposes: the recovery and return of native and creole seeds, as well as the promotion of livestock reconversion and backyard production systems. As a result, agreements were signed with the Ministry, and these will begin implementing actions focused on seed recovery and technical assistance in 2025, with plans to develop sustainable livestock and backyard components by 2026. As we go to press, the Ministry of Agriculture is being sued for failure to comply with the agreement.

Finally, the Indigenous Navigator experience enabled the Misak people to participate in a recent meeting of peoples of Abya Yala where they were able to share experiences and proposals with delegations from the Mapuche (Chile), Wampis, Asháninka and Quechua Nation (Peru), Morelos (Mexico), Kichwa of the Anzu River (Ecuador), Salinas de Lomerío (Bolivia) and Wayúu (Colombia) peoples. It has thus fulfilled a part of the objectives set and left open the possibility of keeping the survey feedback active.

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From the mountains of the Sierra Nevada, the Guajira desert, the Pacific coast and the Andean mountains to the Amazon rainforest, Colombia is home to more than 116 Indigenous Peoples. These peoples have been – and continue to be – victims of armed and socio-political conflict, and of the forced displacement it has caused. The impact on Indigenous communities is severe, as displacement brings uprooting and the breakdown of communal life according to their culture. It also increases their vulnerability and marginalisation within both urban and rural contexts of the Western world, where they face structural racism and discrimination.

In this context, the Je’eruriwa people have had to overcome numerous challenges. After experiencing the violence of armed conflict, they endured re-victimisation and the denial of their rights by the very entity responsible for their reparation and dignity – for nearly a decade. They then took their struggle to the Constitutional Court, where they finally won a favourable ruling. The Je’eruriwa people now gather and raise their voices in celebration, but the fight is far from over: the ruling must be enforced, and their ancestral land reclaimed.

Guarantees That Do Not Reflect the Reality of Indigenous Peoples

On paper, the rights of displaced populations and Indigenous Peoples are clearly established—and supported by numerous public policies and favorable court rulings— nevertheless, the reality they face is quite different. The Constitutional Court of Colombia has repeatedly acknowledged the disproportionate impact of armed conflict and forced displacement on Indigenous Peoples. In Ruling T-025 of 2004, the Court declared the situation of forced displacement victims a “State of Unconstitutional Affairs.” This ruling was followed by several subsequent orders including Order 004 of 2009, specifically about the impact on indigenous peoples.

In these decisions, the Court drew attention to the risk of physical and cultural extermination facing forcibly displaced Indigenous Peoples, and denounced the State’s silence and inaction in the face of violence against them. In one of these follow-up rulings, the Je’eruriwa people were listed among the peoples at risk of physical and cultural extinction. As a result, the Court ordered the Ministry of the Interior to create a Pilot Safeguard Plan, and instructed the Victims’ Unit to prioritize this people in its reparation programs. Yet to this day, neither agency has complied with those orders.

Meanwhile, the Directorate of Indigenous, Rom, and Minority Affairs of the Ministry of the Interior claims to be overwhelmed with workload. It fails to respond to formal petitions (legal requests that must be answered within 15 days) and does not comply with its commitments. Without persistent follow-up over several weeks, it neither summons the other entities to inter-institutional meetings nor records and shares the meeting minutes. The Victims’ Unit claims to have prioritized our people, but no concrete results have been achieved to date.

The People of Water and of the Jaguar

We, the Je’eruriwa people, are an Indigenous people from the Waniya stream, a small tributary of the lower Caquetá River, in the Amazonas department of Colombia. We were only officially recognised by the Ministry of the Interior in 2017, as a people with its own language, worldview, ancestral territory, and distinct customs and traditions.

We come from the sacred land of Yuruparí. We are people of the water and of the jaguar, grandchildren of the water boa (ide jĩno). Our ancestral practices and socio-cultural activities are closely tied to the cyclical rhythms of our ecological calendar and our Law of Origin, which has been passed down from generation to generation to ensure a healthy physical and spiritual coexistence with humanity, natural resources, Mother Earth, and the ayawaroa (spirits).

Throughout history, we have suffered from violent intertribal wars and the destructive forces of European colonisation. Earlier, following shamanic visions of the Spanish invasion, some of our ancestors retreated deep into the jungle, choosing isolation— now denominated as people in voluntary isolation. Of those who did not retreat, only two individuals survived, a man and a woman, who were taken in, but marginalised, by the Camejeya people. Later, the rubber exploitation and the arrival of Catholic missionaries, brought new waves of violence against our culture and spirituality.

Yet we, Je’eruriwas did not allow ourselves to be defeated—we fought for the survival of our people. In the early 1970s, we succeeded in reorganising and settling independently on a private land, which we purchased along the trail between the Mirití Paraná and Apaporis Rivers. There, we lived in harmony with nature and with neighbouring Indigenous Peoples. We hunted, fished, cultivated our chagras (traditional gardens), and healed ourselves with the medicinal plants of the rainforest. We had our maloca, where we welcomed other peoples to mambear (chew coca leaves), dance, and practise our spirituality according to the ecological calendar. It was there that our elders and wise ones passed on ancestral knowledge to the new generations.

The Struggle to Rebirth

Everything changed forever in 1986, when our communal life was abruptly shattered by the arrival of around 35 armed members of the FARC-EP. They halted all community activities, held training sessions in the maloca, imposed their anthem, and conducted weapons drills with minors, which had been forcefully recruited. The guerrillas threatened us, warning that anyone turning out to be a snitch, would be executed immediately. Soon, they began seizing our food supplies and fuel. When they attempted to recruit some minors, our parents sent us away to a school run by the Capuchin Fathers.

After a period of occupation, the commanding officer ordered us to abandon our land immediately due to the threat of bombardment or confrontation of the Colombian army with the FARC-EP. It was a moment of deep uncertainty: we all fled with nothing but the clothes on our backs, leaving behind our lands, sacred sites and objects, crops, our roots, our present, and our future. Each family sought to survive as best they could—some in the jungle, others seeking refuge in municipal centres or Indigenous reserves belonging to other Amazonian peoples. Attempts were made to reunite, but they without success.

We had to be reborn: the separation we suffered due to the collective displacement has had a devastating and lasting impact on our cultural survival, Our childhool has been exposed to the white people’s world and we are in need to transmit our ancestral knowledge.

We had to be reborn: the separation provoked by the collective displacement and the individual flights had a devastating impact on our culture.

Between 2000 and 2016, we once again faced personal threats and forced displacement due to our leadership in defending the environment, Indigenous Peoples’ autonomy, and opposing forced recruitment. Gradually, we fled the Amazon towards the city of Villavicencio, other municipalities in Meta, and finally to Medina (Cundinamarca). Although this central-eastern region differs greatly from our ancestral territory, it shares some similarities in vegetation and has served as a refuge for other Amazonian peoples.

We had to start over from scratch. Our wise brother Pejriwaca purchased a plot of land, we reorganised ourselves, strengthened our family and community bonds, and sought new lands to establish a reserve and ensure our survival. We had to be reborn: the separation caused by collective displacement and individual flights to the cities had a devastating impact on our culture. Our children—our future—had been exposed to the ‘white world’, and we needed to create a new space to practise and pass on our ancestral knowledge and our own language.

The Legal Victory

In 2018, we declared our displacement of 1986 in order to be recognised as a collective subject of reparation and to obtain a comprehensive response to the damage caused by being uprooted from our ancestral territory. The path was very long and despairing: we have been victims of persistent denial, based on false and unconstitutional arguments and a complete lack of differentiated approach by the Victims Unit. Paradoxically, the very institution created by the Colombian State to support us denied our existence, claiming that we had only come into being in 2017, when we were officially recognised by the Ministry of the Interior.

But we did not give up. We exhausted all legal remedies, filing motions for reconsideration, appeals, and requests for annulment, hoping for a shift with the arrival of Colombia’s first progressive government. Unfortunately, our plea went unanswered. In 2024, we filed a tutela action, the constitutional mechanism in Colombia used to report violations of fundamental rights. Once again, our case had to go through all judicial levels, revealing how the lower courts continue to ignore the rights and realities, the Indigenous Peoples face. Eventually, we appealed to the Constitutional Court to review our case and uphold our fundamental rights.

The Court accepted the case, reviewed it, and concluded that the Victims Unit had for years violated our rights to due process, cultural identity, and comprehensive reparation. In an exemplary ruling, the Court ordered the State to recognise our pre-existence, include us in the National Victims Register as a Collective Subject of Reparation, and implement reparation measures without imposing further barriers. As a pre-existing people, we celebrate this historic ruling and call on the Victims Unit and all relevant institutions to comply fully with the rulings and the rights established for Indigenous Peoples—especially those currently facing physical and cultural extermination.

In the meantime, we continue to raise our voices: “We are a collective subject of reparation. We are a people. We are history. We are the Je’eruriwa people.”

For more information about our case, please visit the website of the Corporación Jurídica Yira Castro and consult Constitutional Court Ruling T-185 of 2025.

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In 2008, an emblematic case emerged concerning the autonomy and self-governance of Colombia’s Indigenous Peoples. During a large mobilisation, the Indigenous Guard—the community-based self-protection system of the peoples of Cauca—identified and detained the army corporal, Jairo Danilo Chaparral Santiago. He was carrying a weapon and had infiltrated the mobilisation, pretending to be a university student. Following internal consultation and accusations that he had entered Indigenous territory clandestinely and without authorisation, the communities decided to apply a sanction (harmonisation) under their customary law (derecho propio): 20 lashes.

In response, Chaparral filed a complaint against the Indigenous authorities, in particular against Feliciano Valencia, who at the time was the legal representative of CRIC. The corporal claimed he had suffered humiliation and physical harm, arguing that his sanction did not constitute a legitimate legal procedure but rather arbitrary violence. He further contended that Indigenous Jurisdiction had no authority over him, as he was an active member of the National Army.

A Landmark Ruling for Indigenous Justice

The road was anything but easy. In the first instance, a judge ruled that the sanction imposed on the army corporal had been a legitimate exercise of Indigenous Jurisdiction and acquitted Feliciano Valencia. However, in September 2015 the Superior Court of Popayán overturned that decision and sentenced him to 18 years in prison for aggravated unlawful detention and bodily harm. Two years later, on 28 June 2017, after appealing to the Supreme Court of Justice, Valencia was released. The court recognised that both the detention and the sanction imposed by the community had taken place within the legitimate framework of the Special Indigenous Jurisdiction (JEI).

The ruling marked a turning point. It set a national legal precedent on the recognition of Indigenous justice in Colombia—a country where, until 1991, Indigenous Peoples were still legally classified as minors and “savages” in need of civilisation. Valencia’s case sparked a legal and political debate that continues to this day: if Article 246 of the Constitution allows Indigenous Authorities to exercise jurisdiction in their territories, in line with their cosmovision and traditions, why is that right still so difficult to enforce? Despite the Supreme Court ruling, obstacles remain. In practice, Indigenous justice continues to face serious challenges—not least its coordination with Colombia’s ordinary justice system, military courts, and the Special Jurisdiction for Peace.

The debate remains urgent. In October 2024, a bill known as the Law of Coordination was elaborated and proposed to the Parliament. Its goal is to promote better integration between the Special Indigenous Jurisdiction and the national system, and to strengthen recognition of the justice systems of Colombia’s 116 Indigenous Peoples.

The Long Road to Justice

It has now been 34 years since Colombia adopted its new Constitution. In historical terms, that’s not a long time—especially considering that the country waited nearly a century, and endured an almost permanent state of civil war, before replacing the 1886 Constitution. Over those turbulent decades, Colombian society underwent profound changes, yet power remained concentrated in the same few hands. And yet, viewed from another angle, 34 years is a long time—particularly given the sense of collective euphoria that swept the country during the constitutional process. Back then, many believed the country was finally on the brink of building a Social State under the Rule of Law, in stark contrast to the longstanding myth of Colombia as “the oldest and most stable democracy in Latin America.”

The 1991 Constitution—hailed as the Human Rights Constitution—was, at the time, almost revolutionary. Not only because it emerged in the midst of a decades-long armed conflict, but also because it coincided with the signing of peace agreements and the demobilisation of several guerrilla movements. Among them were the 19th of April Movement (M-19), in which current President Gustavo Petro once militated, and the Quintín Lame Armed Movement (MAQL), a group rooted in and largely based in the department of Cauca.

Article 246 promoted the recognition of Indigenous customs and traditions through legal pluralism. This paradigm shift led to the constitutional recognition of Indigenous Peoples as collective legal subjects and acknowledged the country’s ethnic and cultural diversity.

Article 246 promoted the recognition of Indigenous customs and traditions through legal pluralism.

Emerging in the mid-1980s to protect Indigenous communities from armed groups and to defend advances in land recovery and the establishment of Indigenous Councils led by the CRIC, the Quintín Lame Armed Movement demobilised between 1990 and 1991 for two main reasons: first, the Indigenous communities themselves requested it, believing that armed resistance was no longer a viable strategy given the historical circumstances; and second, the opening of political space brought about by the constitutional process.

Thanks to the persistence of the Quintín Lame Armed Movement, “ethnic rights” were enshrined in constitutional provisions that recognised Indigenous Peoples’ collective identity, spiritual beliefs and practices, territorial rights, and autonomy. Notably, Article 246 promoted the recognition of Indigenous customs and traditions through legal pluralism. This paradigm shift led to the constitutional recognition of Indigenous Peoples as collective legal subjects—a concept previously nonexistent—and acknowledged the country’s ethnic and cultural diversity. In doing so, Colombia transformed into a plurinational and multicultural state.

An Ongoing Struggle

Nearly 20 years after the adoption of the Political Constitution, the case of Feliciano Valencia—and the widespread public acclaim following his release after a landmark ruling—revealed how slowly progress has been made and highlighted a crucial shortfall: the practical implementation of agreed principles and the effective, systemic coordination between the National Judicial System and the Special Indigenous Jurisdiction.

This glaring contradiction is far from new in Colombia. Unfortunately, the country has long been accustomed to seeing rights confined to paper while peace processes are repeatedly undermined. This pattern first emerged in the late 1980s with the political genocide of the left-wing Patriotic Union party, formed in the wake of an initial FARC-EP demobilisation. It continued throughout the 1990s and 2000s, with the rise of paramilitary forces following the adoption of the new Constitution, plunging the country into one of its darkest eras. This troubling trend was reaffirmed in the past decade, as the armed conflict reconfigured itself amid failures to implement the 2016 Peace Agreements.

The issue of the Special Indigenous Jurisdiction continues to spark debate. In 2024, the draft of a statutory bill was proposed to the Senate, seeking to foster greater harmonisation between the JEI and the National Judicial System.

The issue of the Special Indigenous Jurisdiction continues to spark debate. In 2024, the draft of a statutory bill was proposed, seeking to foster greater harmonisation between the JEI and the National Judicial System.

In this context, the struggle led by the Regional Indigenous Council of Cauca (CRIC) and its Own Justice System remains active, standing as a powerful example of how rights are claimed and exercised autonomously despite numerous challenges, compelling the State to uphold its constitutional obligations.

The issue of the Special Indigenous Jurisdiction continues to spark debate. In October 2024, the draft of a statutory bill known as the Law of Coordination was proposed to the Senate, seeking to foster greater harmonisation between the Special Indigenous Jurisdiction (JEI) and the National Judicial System, with the aim of strengthening recognition of the justice systems of Colombia’s 116 Indigenous Peoples. The ambition remains the same: to achieve genuine democracy, strengthen autonomy, and claim diversity.

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Nelson Cucuñame: We can understand the Indigenous Customary Justice system through three fundamental components. First, the Law of Origin or Natural Law, which refers to the natural rules established by nature itself. Second, Derecho Propio —the so-called people’s constitution—which addresses all acts of disharmony and offences against the Law of Origin. Third, the wisdom and knowledge held by each community, organisation, or institution, reflected in their justice practices. These three elements form the legal foundation underpinning the entire administration of Customary Justice systems.

DI: What are the scope and limitations of the Special Indigenous Jurisdiction?

NC: The only limitation established by the Constitutional Court concerns crimes against humanity. Article 246 of the Political Constitution recognises the jurisdictional authority of Indigenous Authorities without imposing further restrictions—even regarding serious crimes such as drug trafficking, armed conflict activities, recruitment, or femicide. Therefore, within the framework of Customary Justice, there are effectively no other limits.

DI: What is the main barrier to implementing the JEI?

Sofía Campos: The greatest obstacle is the judiciary’s lack of understanding of Indigenous legal frameworks. Generally, Special Indigenous Jurisdiction is excluded from legal education because it is seen as “an Indigenous matter.” This ignorance originates in academia failing to grant it the recognition it deserves, which is a serious issue. Another challenge is that, although the 1991 Constitution established the JEI, no guarantees or funding were provided for its practical implementation. The Special Jurisdiction for Peace has existed for eight years and benefits from infrastructure, funding, organisation, and operational capacity. In contrast, the Special Indigenous Jurisdiction has functioned for 34 years without equipment, stationery, offices, or archives. It remains largely symbolic, recognising only Indigenous Authorities.

DI: How does the Special Indigenous Jurisdiction function in practice?

NC: Indigenous Authorities also act as judicial authorities and collaborate closely with a legal team and the Indigenous Guard, who conduct the technical work of investigating cases and collecting evidence, always respecting the rights of victims, and accused alike. Based on the evidence gathered, the Indigenous Authority enforces decisions made collectively by the community through its Assembly.

DI: How is the Special Indigenous Jurisdiction (JEI) implemented within the context of the internal armed conflict?

SC: First and foremost, it is essential to acknowledge the violence inflicted upon Indigenous communities. Article 246 of the Political Constitution grants Indigenous Authorities jurisdictional powers. This was a major achievement secured through the advocacy of the three Indigenous constituents and serves as a safeguard, empowering Indigenous Authorities judicially against armed actors. Undoubtedly, Article 246 recognises territorial security through Indigenous Authority; it protects Indigenous guards and provides a form of self-defence that, legally, has facilitated territorial control against armed groups’ influence.

DI: What principles guide the JEI in addressing situations of “disharmony”?

NC: For Indigenous Peoples, there is a principle called collectivity, which means that if an individual causes disharmony within their community, it affects the community collectively. Therefore, when examining a case, the focus is not solely on the individual but on the community as a whole. When applying sanctions—or remedies or sentences—we aim to involve the entire community in the process to support the person concerned.

DI: Why don’t you refer to it as a “crime”?

NC: We don’t speak of crime, but rather of illness: the offender is seen as someone who is unwell and needs to be supported and surrounded by the community to help them overcome that error, that illness, so they can, through their own actions, repair the harm caused within the community. In other words, there is a collective responsibility to help correct the damage done. Sanctions or remedies may include community service, restitution of property, educational or political training within the community, and can also entail the loss of political rights within the territory.

DI: Which has been the path towards establishing Special Indigenous Jurisdiction?

NC: The Customary Justice System has always existed among Indigenous Peoples. In 1991, public policy was formulated to protect this jurisdictional practice as a constitutional right. Since then, we have established bodies such as inter-jurisdictional and departmental councils, which bring together the entire sectional judiciary branch, all judicial auxiliaries nationwide, and Indigenous national organisations to design policies, strategies, and actions aimed at strengthening Indigenous Jurisdiction in Colombia. Despite numerous challenges, we have proposed alternatives and pathways that ultimately secure tangible guarantees for Indigenous Peoples: not only institutional and legal guarantees but also budgetary ones to implement justice—something that remains lacking.

SC: CRIC’s advocacy has succeeded in making Special Indigenous Jurisdiction a lived reality, going beyond mere legal and constitutional formalities. To achieve this, it facilitated dialogue between institutions and Indigenous communities to foster a shared understanding of the vision underpinning Customary Justice.

DI: What criteria has the Constitutional Court established for a case to be dealt within the Special Indigenous Jurisdiction?

SC: Indigenous Customary Justice and Special Indigenous Jurisdiction are related but distinct concepts. The JEI forms part of the Constitutional Ordinary Law that recognises the applicability of Customary Justice. Since 1993, the Constitutional Court has developed jurisprudence requiring Indigenous Authorities to establish four limiting elements: an objective element, a subjective element, a territorial element, and an institutional element. In other words, these four criteria must be met for a criminal case under the authority of a judge or prosecutor to be transferred to the Special Jurisdiction. While these criteria are quite restrictive, they have not prevented Indigenous community members from being exempted from other legal responsibilities. Furthermore, coordination means that an arrest warrant issued by Indigenous Authorities must be recognised and acted upon by the Prosecutor’s Office.

DI: How is coordination between the Special Indigenous Jurisdiction and the Ordinary Justice system carried out?

SC: Currently, Article 246 of the Political Constitution mandates that the law determines how coordination between the Special Indigenous Jurisdiction and the National Judicial System should be carried out. This has led the Constitutional Court to affirm that the constitutional recognition of Indigenous Peoples’ Customary Justice constitutes a jurisdiction in its own right, and that coordination with other jurisdictions must respect decisions issued by Indigenous Authorities.

DI: Was the Special Indigenous Jurisdiction a model for developing the Special Jurisdiction for Peace?

NC: The Special Jurisdiction for Peace (JEP) was established following the 2016 Peace Agreements between the Colombian State and the FARC-EP. It’s important to understand that this transitional justice system has incorporated many elements from the Special Indigenous Jurisdiction. These restorative elements facilitate reconciliation, forgiveness, and renewed harmony in the territories of both victims and perpetrators. As such, the JEP recognises the JEI as a justice-administering entity that should be protected and supported not only by the State but also by human rights organisations, both nationally and internationally.

DI: Could Colombia’s plural jurisdictional model work in other countries and regions where migrant populations are accustomed to different justice systems?

NC: Yes, it could be developed in a respectful and reciprocal manner that embraces pluriethnicity and plural jurisdiction. Educational efforts are crucial, focusing on interculturality and plural jurisdiction, involving academia, lawyers, political scientists, sociologists, and also public officials. It is essential to recognise that alternative systems can exist and function effectively, without imposing a single legal order over the entire territory. There are peoples with different ways of life and justice systems, whose authorities continue to support them wherever they reside. Such systems must be acknowledged and respected within the frameworks of human dignity and national and international human rights.

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Colombia is home to an Indigenous movement that has become a reference point for various social organization processes across Latin America. According to the most recent population census conducted in 2018, 4.4% of the country’s population identifies as Indigenous—that is, 1,905,617 people out of a total of 48,258,494 inhabitants. This population comprises 115 unique Indigenous Peoples, and 65 Indigenous languages that are grouped into 13 language families and still spoken across the country. The department with the largest Indigenous population is La Guajira, with 394,683 inhabitants, followed by Cauca, with 308,455.

It is precisely in Cauca where the Indigenous movement has grown strongest. Its development dates back to the founding of the Regional Indigenous Council of Cauca (CRIC) in 1971, in the context of broader popular struggles—especially agrarian ones. The movement was founded on the principles of Unity, Land, and Culture, with Autonomy added later. The council’s early objectives included recovering land within Indigenous reserves, strengthening Indigenous councils (cabildos), refusing to pay rent (terraje), raising awareness of Indigenous laws, demanding their fair application, defending Indigenous history, language, and traditions, and “training teachers to educate in accordance with the Indigenous context and in the corresponding Indigenous languages.”

Within these struggles, education was defined as a core component of broader organizational process: doing education was doing politics, and doing politics was doing education. Today, more than 50 years later, the Indigenous movement has solidified a concept developed by the communities themselves: Educación Propia (Self-determined Education). This concept has guided the development of the Indigenous Self-Education System (Sistema Educativo Indígena Propio, SEIP), a national public policy designed by and for Indigenous Peoples—something unequaled elsewhere in the region. It is this journey, which began with the CRIC, to which we turn our attention now.

The Path Toward Self-Determined Education

In the organization’s early days, educational efforts and training were focused on land recovery. The goal was for communities to recognize their situation, defend their rights, and gain support to legitimize their organizational actions. Training sessions explored the realities of communities and territories, their different forms of organization, the history of the country and of Latin America, national and international Indigenous legislation, and the dominant structures implicated in land ownership. At the same time, a literacy program took place, as many community members could neither read nor write. Education was not directed at children, but rather at building the community’s collective capacity for political organizing.

A few years later, in 1978, CRIC’s Bilingual Education Program was formally established. The project was grounded in a critical approach to the role of the official school system, which Indigenous communities viewed as an external institution that undermined their language and culture in order to reshape them. From this perspective, communities reclaimed the borrowed school and transformed it into a community-based one—turning it into a space of resistance, a platform for imagining and creating an education from within. The school was not seen as an end in itself, but as a tool for strengthening the political fabric of the entire community.

In addition, the first CRIC schools were established in communities already engaged in land recovery processes, with the aim of strengthening the path of collective organization. A central focus of these self-managed schools was the training of community-based teachers—individuals who emerged from the early seeds of leadership and who would later become the first bilingual educators. These individuals had not received formal training as teachers, but they were respected leaders, knowledgeable and deeply committed to the struggles of their peoples. For the organization and its goals, they were the most suitable people—pillars of resistance capable of shaping new ways of doing education.

This alternative education project, developed from within Indigenous communities, was identified more than 40 years ago as Educación Propia (Self-Determined Education). It was part of broader Latin American initiative aimed at affirming Indigenous cultures and languages. What distinguished it was the centrality of its political character and the guiding principle of autonomy in all educational processes. Educación Propia was defined not so much in terms of ownership, but through the concepts of relevance and self-determination. It was considered “propia” (their own) because Indigenous peoples had control over the frameworks and content of an educational project aligned with a specific vision of society—one committed to recovering Indigenous cultures and identities, and to advancing political struggles for Buen Vivir (Collective Well-Being).

The First Country in the Americas to Recognize the Right to Self-Determined Education

Another key element that contributed to the advancement of Educación Propia in Colombia was the Proyecto Educativo Comunitario (PEC, or Community-Based Education Project), which was extended not only to Indigenous communities but also to other ethnic groups such as the Romani people and Afro-descendant communities. The PEC involved the development of educational guidelines rooted in a community-based perspective and reoriented education to reflect the worldviews of local cultures and communities. When it was introduced in 1996, it focused on formal schooling, as this was the most visible educational setting for communities. However, its main objective was to go beyond schools as the sole spaces for learning and to link education with the life projects of the communities.

By the late 1990s, the Regional Indigenous Council of Cauca (CRIC) began developing the Sistema Educativo Propio (Self-Determined Education System), which acknowledged the diverse learning processes of Indigenous communities beyond formal schooling. At the same time, the system identified the levels of guidance and action needed to implement Educación Propia, with the active participation of authorities, organizational structures, and the broader community. Nationally, the system gained formal recognition in 2009 through participation in the Comisión Nacional de Trabajo y Concertación para la Educación de los Pueblos Indígenas (CONTCEPI, or National Commission for Dialogue and Cooperation on Indigenous Peoples’ Education), which was created in 2007 as a space for jointly developing public policy guidelines for Indigenous education in Colombia.

In this context, the system was renamed Sistema Educativo Indígena Propio (SEIP, or Indigenous Self-Determined Education System) to distinguish it from other sistemas propios (self-managed systems) that might emerge but were not necessarily Indigenous. From that point on, work began on developing a clear profile of the SEIP based on the diverse perspectives of the Indigenous peoples involved. This work led, later, to the drafting of a legal framework to guarantee the fundamental right to Educación Propia for the 115 Indigenous peoples officially recognized in Colombia. In 2024, with the formal adoption of this legislation, Colombia became the first country in the Americas to recognize the fundamental right of Indigenous peoples  to an education that respects their social, cultural, linguistic, and territorial specificities.

Recognition by the Colombian State

One of the defining characteristics of the organizational and educational dynamics of the Indigenous movement in Colombia has been the relative openness of the State, which has led to the formal recognition of a range of Indigenous rights. These recognitions are the direct result of grassroots struggles, legal advancements, and initiatives developed by Indigenous organizations themselves. This process has been reflected in differentiated policies and legal frameworks that support the autonomy and rights of Indigenous peoples across various sectors—territory, education, health, and Indigenous justice systems.

Several key organizational achievements are embodied in the development of comprehensive systems designed to guide public policy and address the specific needs of Indigenous communities. Among these are the Sistema de Salud Propia Intercultural (SISPI, Intercultural Indigenous Health System), the Sistema de Autoridad Territorial Económica Ambiental (ATEA, Territorial, Economic, and Environmental Authority System), the Sistema de Administración y Gestión Propia (SAP, Self-Managed Administration and Governance System), the Sistema de Gobierno Propio (SGP, Indigenous Self-Government System), and the Sistema Educativo Indígena Propio (SEIP, Indigenous Self-Determined Education System). All of these are supported by differentiated public policies that acknowledge and protect Indigenous autonomy.

Indigenous Self-Determined Education (Educación Propia) acknowledges the existence of multiple ways, moments, and spaces for learning—many of which do not necessarily take place within the School, even though the School remains a vital path embraced by Indigenous organizations. Today, Colombia is home to a special-status Indigenous university: the Universidad Autónoma Indígena Intercultural (UAIIN). Across Indigenous territories, diverse educational processes are flourishing, including the training of women and youth, the strengthening of the Indigenous Guard, cultural and linguistic revitalization initiatives, seedbeds for language learning, centers for training and research, political education schools, programs for young people and adults, and networks that weave together ancestral knowledge. This complex educational fabric has been made possible by decades of struggle—struggles that have expanded the meaning of education into a political project guided by the principle of Buen Vivir (Living Well, or collective well-being rooted in harmony and balance).

As such, the Indigenous Self-Determined Education System (SEIP) has played a key role in cultivating numerous essential achievements for Indigenous organizations in Colombia: the search for and reconnection with cultural roots; the recognition, appreciation, and active use of ancestral languages; the research and implementation of community-based pedagogies rooted in territory; the recovery of collective governance structures; the understanding and experience of knowledge from within Indigenous languages and ways of thinking; and, above all, the recognition that it is possible to build education from within—education that is aligned with the struggles, identities, and political visions of Indigenous peoples and their organizations.

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The parties negotiated six key points: 1- Comprehensive Rural Reform, aimed at transforming the countryside by closing the gap with urban areas and improving living conditions. 2- Political Participation, referring to the inclusion of new political forces without the use of violence. 3- Bilateral Ceasefire and Cessation of Hostilities, along with the disarmament of the FARC-EP. 4- Solution to the Problem of Illicit Drugs, providing economic alternatives to affected communities. 5- Agreement on Victims of the Conflict, with measures for truth, justice, reparation, and guarantees of non-repetition. 6- Mechanisms for Implementation and Verification of the agreement, as well as its endorsement by society.

Ethnic participation: an unprecedented eventuality on a global scale

As one of the two political actors in the Final Peace Agreement, the Colombian government was represented by then-President Juan Manuel Santos and the head of the negotiation team, Humberto de la Calle. Meanwhile, the FARC-EP was represented by its Commander-in-Chief, Rodrigo Londoño, and its chief negotiator, Luciano Marín. In addition, Cuba and Norway served as guarantor countries while Venezuela and Chile acted as accompanying nations.

During the negotiation process, ethnic peoples joined as a third political actor, marking an unprecedented event on a global scale. They were represented by the National Indigenous Organization of Colombia (ONIC), the Movement of Indigenous Authorities of Southwestern Colombia (AISO), and the National Afro-Colombian Peace Council (CONPA). Through their participation, they succeeded in including an Ethnic Chapter that recognizes that these peoples have been dispossessed of their lands, territories, and resources,   severely impacted by the internal armed conflict and must be allowed to uphold their institutions, cultures, and traditions.

The Ethnic Chapter also incorporates the right to social, economic, and cultural identity and integrity, as well as rights over their lands, territories, and resources, and ensures legal protection and security for lands and territories that have been ancestrally and traditionally occupied.

The Ethnic Chapter also incorporates the right to social, economic, and cultural identity and integrity, as well as rights over their lands, territories, and resources.

The Ethnic Chapter also incorporates principles for implementing the components of the Final Agreement with an ethnic and cultural perspective with respect to non-regression, the elimination of racial discrimination and discrimination against women, self-determination, autonomy, self-governance, participation, consultation, and Free, Prior, and Informed Consent. Additionally, it enshrines the right to social, economic, and cultural identity and integrity, as well as rights over their lands, territories, and resources, and ensures legal protection and security for lands and territories that have been ancestrally and traditionally occupied.

Finally, the Ethnic Chapter established four key safeguards: 1- Prior, Free, and Informed Consultation on any measures that may affect them. 2- Right to Cultural Objection regarding any measures that impact their culture, traditions, and survival. 3- Cross-Cutting Ethnic Focus on women, families, and generations, which is also included in rural reform, political participation, addressing the issue of illicit drugs, reparations for victims, and implementation and verification. 4- Non-Regression of Rights, meaning that the implementation of the agreement cannot undermine previously acquired rights.

Regulatory developments following the agreement

Following the signing of the Final Peace Agreement, the necessary legal developments for its implementation commenced. Two primary stages were identified: fast track and post-fast track. Previously, the Legislative Act of July 1, 2016, had been enacted, establishing legal instruments to facilitate and ensure the implementation and regulatory development of the final agreement aimed at ending the conflicts and building a stable and lasting peace.

Through the fast track mechanism, 23 regulations were issued. Among the most significant of these are the creation of the Comprehensive System of Truth, Justice, Repair, and Non-Repetition, which includes the Special Jurisdiction for Peace (JEP), the Legislative Act for the Stability and Legal Security of the Final Agreement, the Legislative Act for the Political Reintegration of the FARC, and the establishment of Development Programs with a Territorial Focus (PDET), the Comprehensive Security System for Political Exercise, and the National Comprehensive Program for the Substitution of Illicit Crops (PNIS). Additionally, measures were established for the economic reintegration of FARC-EP members, humanitarian agreements, and the implementation of Comprehensive Rural Reform.

Following the fast track mechanism, several legal regulations were issued to facilitate the implementation of the Agreement. These included Law 1957 on the Administration of Justice within the Special Jurisdiction for Peace (JEP),  Law 1958 for the reintegration of FARC-EP members into civil life in economic and social terms,  Law 1959 on the protection of human rights defenders and their families,  Decree 2278 to create the Colombia in Peace Fund, Law 2078 extending Law 1448 of 2011 on Victims and Land Restitution, Law 2197 on citizen security and territorial matters, Decree 1874 creating the Special Investigation Unit for prioritized crimes committed against social leaders, human rights defenders, and signatories of the Peace Agreement, and Decree 1591 establishing the Comprehensive Security System for Political Exercise.

The implementation of the Ethnic Chapter

The Framework Plan for Implementation, agreed upon by the Government and ethnic groups, outlines a detailed roadmap for the steps necessary to enact the Peace Agreement and its Ethnic Chapter. This plan seeks to translate the general agreements into concrete and measurable actions aimed at defining public policies, objectives, indicators, and timelines from an ethnic and cultural perspective. Additionally, it assigns institutional responsibilities, provides a cost estimate for carrying them out, and establishes mechanisms for their monitoring and verification.

As the eighth anniversary of the signing approaches, the Ethnic Chapter only 37 percent of it has been implemented, where points 4 and 5 (solutions to the problem of illicit drugs and the provision of economic alternatives, and the agreement on victims) are lagging the most. The same situation applies to the processes of collective land titling and the formal transfer of lands. Point 6, which concerns implementation, verification, and ratification, reflects the greatest progress, however, much of this involves  management indicators rather than impact indicators.

According to a 2023 report from the General Comptroller of the Republic, the total accumulated investment for the implementation of the Final Peace Agreement between 2017 and 2022 was approximately 51.2 trillion Colombian pesos (12.3 billion dollars).

As the eighth anniversary of the signing approaches, the Ethnic Chapter only 37 percent of it has been implemented.

According to a 2023 report from the General Comptroller of the Republic, the total accumulated investment for the implementation of the Final Peace Agreement between 2017 and 2022 was approximately 51.2 trillion Colombian pesos (12.3 billion dollars). The investment was allocated annually as follows: 2.9 trillion pesos in 2017; 5.7 trillion pesos in 2018; 9 trillion pesos in 2019; 9.8 trillion pesos in 2020; 11.9 trillion pesos in 2021, and  11.9 trillion pesos in 2022.

Additionally, there is data regarding the economic investments associated with the Peace Agreement accumulated from 2017 to 2022: Comprehensive Rural Reform – 25.7 trillion pesos; political participation – 1 trillion pesos; end of the conflict – 4.8 trillion pesos; solutions to the drug problem – 4.9 trillion pesos; victims – 11.5 trillion pesos; and implementation, verification, and ratification- 3.3 trillion pesos.

Lessons on the implementation of the Ethnic Chapter

The Special High-Level Instance with Ethnic Peoples (IEANPE) played a crucial role in verifying compliance with the Ethnic Chapter. It produced reports that highlighted both progress and setbacks, advocated for increased attention to the needs of ethnic communities, and called for greater participation of these groups in the implementation process. Additionally, it expressed concern over the slow pace of many provisions of the Ethnic Chapter, noting significant gaps between commitments and actual actions taken. This is particularly evident in areas such as land restitution, the protection of social leaders, and the development of specific socioeconomic programs for these communities.

From the IEANPE, we believe that this first stage of implementing the Ethnic Chapter has provided several important lessons for ethnic peoples:

1. Participation and Consultation: inclusion of ethnic peoples in negotiation and decision-making processes from the outset is essential.
2. Ethnic Perspective: there is a recognized need for an ethnic and cultural perspective that considers cultural, social, and territorial specificities.
3. Implementation Challenges: the execution of agreed-upon measures faces obstacles such as a lack of resources, bureaucratic hurdles, and the ongoing conflicts in ethnic territories.
4. Organizational Strengthening: a process that contributes to enhancing the capacity of ethnic organizations to engage in dialogue with the State.
5. Visibility: specific issues faced by ethnic peoples in the context of conflict and post-conflict have been brought to light.
6. Institutional Coordination: improving coordination among various state institutions as necessary for more effective implementation.
7. Monitoring and Oversight: establishing territorial monitoring and oversight mechanisms with the participation of ethnic peoples is crucial.
8. Security: ongoing security challenges in some ethnic territories requiring effective guarantees for leaders, communities, and their lands.
9. Comprehensive Reparation: collective reparation processes that must address both material and immaterial damages.
10. Peace Processes: the inclusión of ethnic peoples as political actors who contribute to the construction, implementation, and verification of all agreements while safeguarding ethnic rights through their organizations.

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