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

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

A sophisticated form of dispossession

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

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

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

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

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

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

Debating carbon markets from the territory

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

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

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

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

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

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

Indigenous voices

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beyond carbon: challenges for territorial autonomy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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At first glance, the overall vote for the left slightly exceeded the combined vote for the right. In fact, the left reached an agreement to vote against the oligarchic candidate, who during his year in office had pushed through neoliberal reforms and militarised the country, leading to serious human rights violations —including the extrajudicial killing of four Afro-Ecuadorian children detained by the army. This technical tie shifted in the weeks leading up to the runoff due to cash handouts and gifts, and with a National Electoral Council that allowed the incumbent president and candidate, Noboa, to campaign using public funds. Amid allegations of fraud on election day itself, Noboa won by ten points and was declared president.

However, after the election, the Constitutional Court — which had endorsed the irregular presidential campaign — ruled against the government on several of its militarisation decrees, triggering a major institutional crisis. As a form of pressure, Noboa proposed a constitutional reform without the endorsement of the Constitutional Court and called for marches around its headquarters, directly targeting the magistrates. At one point, an attempt was even made to evacuate the Court building over an alleged bomb threat.

A War Against the Popular Sectors

Amid this institutional crisis, on 12 September the government issued Decree 126, which eliminated the diesel subsidy. This measure had been a decisive factor behind the popular and Indigenous uprisings of October 2019 and June 2022, which paralysed the country for eight and eighteen days respectively. Both uprisings ended after negotiations between the Indigenous movement and the government in power, which ultimately withdrew the measure. The popular mobilisation over fuel subsidies rests on two premises: on the one hand, the rising cost of the basic food basket; on the other, the measure removes the only mechanism that mitigates the enrichment of economic groups that have benefited from oil extraction.

In response, the leadership of the Indigenous movement, trade union centres and left-wing organisations called for mobilisation against Decree 126. A few days later, the Confederation of Indigenous Nationalities of Ecuador (CONAIE) announced a national strike to begin on 22 September. As a show of force, the Ecuadorian government temporarily moved the presidency to Latacunga, a city south of Quito, and the vice-presidency to Otavalo, in the north. Both cities are home to two of the country’s most influential Indigenous organisations — those of Cotopaxi and Imbabura provinces — the very centres of the 2019 and 2022 uprisings.

During the first days of the strike, the Constitutional Court finally granted the government authorisation for the popular consultation, after it had applied through the ordinary route. Four questions were approved: two populist ones, regarding the reduction of assembly members in the legislature and the elimination of public funding for political parties; and two of greater significance — allowing United States military bases on Ecuadorian soil (in line with Donald Trump’s military agenda) and the key question: convening a new constituent process. In this way, the oligarchic government was effectively declaring war on the popular sectors and setting the stage for the dismantling of one of the most advanced constitutions in terms of rights.

An Unprecedented Repression

The strike began with major roadblocks in the northern highlands, especially in Imbabura, accompanied by additional blockades in the central highlands and in Quito. There were also demonstrations in other parts of Ecuador, including in Cuenca, the country’s third-largest city, which in the weeks prior to Decree 126 had seen a historic march against large transnational metal mining companies, following three popular referendums that had rejected mining activities. Acts of support were also recorded in 16 of the country’s 24 provinces during the first three days of the national strike.

The military deployment multiplied the Ecuadorian State’s capacity for warfare against the strike: assault rifles, military tanks, and the widespread use of helicopters and drones. At the same time, in the first days of the strike, the government carried out administrative repression by freezing 70 bank accounts belonging to individuals and institutions of social organisations and allied collectives, under the false pretext of pursuing terrorism and drug trafficking. This confirmed the warnings issued months earlier by human rights organisations regarding the Social Transparency Law, which restricts the right to association in the country.

The presence of the Vice-Presidency in Otavalo prompted a major military deployment in the demographic and symbolic capital of the Kichwa people which, from the outset, repressed the mobilisations.

The use of high-calibre bullets aimed at the bodies of demonstrators meant that, in the early days, numerous people were admitted to hospitals with gunshot wounds and extremely serious medical diagnoses.

In the face of this dictatorial deployment against the popular and Indigenous strike, human rights organisations began documenting the emerging situation of political persecution in Ecuador. On the one hand, the Human Rights Alliance reported assaults and detentions carried out by the State (continuing the reporting and legal action it undertook in 2019 and 2022). On the other, the monitoring carried out by the Coalition for Mapping State Repression, which during the 2022 uprising had tracked acts of state persecution and the mobilisations in support of the strike.

Despite their different methodologies, both sets of data documented an escalation in state violence from the very first day of the strike. The presence of the Vice-Presidency in Otavalo prompted a major military deployment in the demographic and symbolic capital of the Kichwa people which, from the outset, repressed the mobilisations through a novel form of direct repression against the peaceful marches and roadblocks of the Indigenous movement. The use of high-calibre bullets aimed at the bodies of demonstrators meant that, in the early days, numerous people were admitted to hospitals with gunshot wounds and extremely serious medical diagnoses.

A Government Determined to Kill

One of the first scenes that shook the country was the murder of Efraín Fueres, a Kichwa man from Cotacachi. CCTV footage showed soldiers shooting him and, far from providing medical assistance, beating the person who tried to help him and leaving both unconscious. The government initially denied the footage and later sought to justify it. In addition, twelve young Otavalo men who had been detained were reported missing and were eventually transferred to “maximum-security” prisons, where several prison massacres have taken place in recent years despite heavy militarisation. In the days that followed, detentions and violence were carried out against the marches in Quito, with particularly harsh images of repression against the Kichwa people of Saraguro in the southern highlands.

Repression spread throughout the country. In Saraguro (Loja), the elderly Kichwa woman Rosa Paqui died as a result of the indirect impact of tear gas canisters; and José Guamán, a Kichwa man from Otavalo (Imbabura), was killed by gunfire. There were also harrowing images of repression documented in Imbabura, including shots fired at people’s faces from only a few metres away as they called for an end to the violence, and the cutting of Indigenous protesters’ braided hair — a form of violence that recalls the era of hacienda slavery. As a stark display of the racism deployed by the State, the symbolic date of 12 October recorded the highest level of documented state repression.

The extensive military violence exercised, the government’s ability to tighten its grip on part of the social movements, and the turmoil caused by organised crime violence in Ecuador all contributed to the State’s greater capacity to counter the mobilisation in 2025.

The strike lasted 33 days, with 678 acts of mobilisation across the country’s 24 provinces and 78 of its 224 cantons.

According to the Coalition for Mapping Repression, the Confederation of Indigenous Nationalities of Ecuador (CONAIE) added a series of demands to the strike: in addition to calling for the withdrawal of Decree 126, it demanded an end to extractive policies. Amid the state brutality unleashed in Otavalo, the strike intensified. The grassroots organisations of Otavalo, led by the Union of Peasant and Indigenous Organisations of Cotacachi (UNORCAC), rejected the contacts initiated by provincial leaders to bring the mobilisation to an end. The strike lasted 33 days, with 678 acts of mobilisation across the country’s 24 provinces and 78 of its 224 cantons.

Imbabura Province, where Otavalo is located, registered 226 actions, and Pichincha Province, where Quito and Cayambe are located, recorded 195. Unlike in 2019 and 2022, CONAIE ended the strike on 24 October without securing any measures from the Ecuadorian State. The extensive military violence exercised, the government’s ability to tighten its grip on part of the social movements, and the turmoil caused by organised crime violence in Ecuador all contributed to the State’s greater capacity to counter the mobilisation in 2025. The strike made it clear that Daniel Noboa’s government was set on securing constitutional change through military force.

To Halt Oligarchic Power

However, the strike led to a sharp drop in the president’s popularity, both because of rising transport costs and basic goods, and due to the discredit brought on by the military and police violence deployed. Despite the defeat, the popular response was immediate: as soon as the strike ended, the campaign against the Constitutional Referendum began. For his part, the president failed to demonstrate what would be different or superior about a new constitution. Noboa only explained that it would be drafted by “notable” figures (from the right wing and the oligarchies) and, in the final days, even mentioned the importance of ChatGPT in drafting the constitutional text.

Meanwhile, the government announced that new United States military bases would be installed in the Galápagos Islands. The news generated a wave of outrage given the memory of the destruction wrought by the US Army during the Second World War in Ecuador’s natural and symbolic emblem. Facing this, the government encountered a wide range of social sectors that carried out campaigns for the “NO”. Through various messages, the opposition managed to mobilise the entire electorate with remarkable originality.

The result was a democratic rejection of President Daniel Noboa by more than 60% of the electorate—and consequently, of his political proposals, which combine oligarchic neoliberalism, patriarchal authoritarianism and fascist militarism. The strike and the referendum show that the only way to halt the absolute power of the elites who govern the country is through the articulation of popular sectors together with the peoples and nationalities of Ecuador.

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Ideas of ownership, boundaries and exclusivity over space became more entrenched during the republican era, particularly following the agrarian reforms of the 20^th century. All these colonisation processes brought violent encounters and the genocide of many Amazonian peoples. In this context, a technique emerged that endures to this day: the setting of boundaries. This geometric method imposed limits between agrarian–extractive colonisation and the Indigenous territories. The Amazonian Indigenous Peoples were compelled to set boundaries against the parcelling out of their living spaces by declaring their own territories.

Those Indigenous Peoples who remained in voluntary isolation, however, continued their nomadic lifestyle. Not as if “nothing had happened” but by pushing against the borders and areas in which they had never been included, and where their presence was acknowledged only through the violence of colonial occupation. For this reason, territories created with Geographic Information Systems (GIS) to protect Indigenous Peoples in voluntary isolation are continually challenged by their lived, shifting dynamics.

The Tagaeri and Taromenane in Ecuador

Recognition of Ecuador’s Indigenous Peoples in Voluntary Isolation was a gradual process, beginning with the establishment of the Tagaeri-Taromenane Intangible Zone (ZITT) in 1999. The ZITT was created on the basis of the areas into which these peoples had been gradually forced during the 20^th and 21^st centuries. However, the zone excluded areas occupied by roads and oil wells—the very causes of their ongoing confinement—already exposing a limitation in its definition: their territory was made up of zones of exclusion, ranked clearly beneath extractive interests.

Alongside the ZITT, a 10-kilometre buffer zone was introduced as a transitional belt surrounding the protected area. Within this buffer, oil operations were allowed to continue where they had already begun but further expansion was restricted. The Ecuadorian state enshrined the intangibility of the ZITT in the 2008 Constitution and has since delineated the areas of influence of different Indigenous groups in voluntary isolation through the use of zones.

The Ecuadorian state has relied on methods such as identifying visual signs, gathering accounts from neighbouring communities, and carrying out drone flights to determine where these peoples live.

The Ecuadorian state has relied on methods such as identifying visual signs, gathering accounts from neighbouring communities, and carrying out drone flights.

In 2008, the Yasuní-ITT Initiative became pivotal. It proposed keeping the oil reserves of Block 43 (including the Ishpingo, Tiputini and Tambococha fields) underground in exchange for international financial contributions that would acknowledge the ecological debt of the Global North. In this way, the country was moving towards climate justice by safeguarding one of the most biodiverse places on Earth and the home of Indigenous Peoples in Voluntary Isolation. As a result, in 2012 the Ministry of the Environment defined four zones of influence—three of them lying outside of the ZITT zone—thus recognising life and territoriality beyond the boundaries of the designated conservation area.

In its efforts to trace the presence of Indigenous Peoples in Voluntary Isolation, the Ecuadorian state has relied on methods such as identifying visual signs, gathering accounts from neighbouring communities, and carrying out drone flights to determine where these peoples live. Such areas are inferred through sightings of people, dwellings, crops, or objects, as well as through records of violent encounters. The state has traditionally justified their zones by linking these points together and delineating areas of presumed greater presence. Whether from a conservationist or extractivist standpoint, this methodology has remained narrow, grounded in a binary presence/absence approach and in the points-to-polygons logic typical of Geographic Information Systems (GIS).

The Struggle Against Oil Exploitation in Yasuní

In 2013, the Ecuadorian government cancelled the Yasuní-ITT Initiative to make way for oil extraction in Block 43. The Ministry of Justice effectively redrew the map, reducing the number of zones from four to three and removing the locations of oil operations in Block 43—contrary to the state’s previous stance. Following the cancellation, the YASunidos movement emerged, initially organising protests and later activating the constitutional mechanism to collect signatures for a popular referendum aimed at halting oil exploitation in Block 43.

Oil extraction was justified under the promise of minimal environmental impact, claiming that only 1 in 1,000^th (one-tenth of 1 %) of the block would be exploited, and that impact would be measured solely in terms of deforestation. This disregarded Environmental Impact Assessments of the oil activities, which documented deforestation as well as areas affected directly and indirectly by noise pollution, air emissions, water discharges, and seismic activity—ultimately impacting over 19 % of the oil block, 190 times the promised figure. In response, a geographical struggle unfolded over the following years, with two major milestones: monitoring of oil activities and challenging Decree 251.

Field inspections sought to demonstrate that the true impact would far exceed the limits approved by the National Assembly. The movement brought together civil society, scientific institutions such as the Colectivo de Geografía Crítica del Ecuador, GeoYasuní, and the MAAP, which, in collaboration with YASunidos and the Human Rights Alliance, exposed the opacity of oil operations and their severe consequences. Satellite imagery revealed extensive clearings and gas flares associated with oil extraction, while mapping from Environmental Impact Assessments highlighted incursions into the Buffer Zone, direct environmental impacts, and skewed oil wells.

The State’s geographical Inaccuracy

At the same time, the actions of this coalition, together with the Ombudsman’s Office, enabled a field inspection in 2019 that revealed the use of outdated technology and the disproportionate impact of oil activities: road construction altering the topography, the presence of gas flares and decompression facilities, as well as land clearings and noise levels exceeding those typical of industrial areas. These findings led to a series of legal actions that slowed the advance of the oil exploitation. Faced with the abundance of evidence presented by civil society in these proceedings, the Ecuadorian state resorted to showing only videos featuring grotesquely inaccurate maps and 3D animations depicting idealised scenarios that did not exist in reality.

Decree 251, issued in 2019, sought to expand the ZITT while permitting new areas of oil exploitation within the Buffer Zone, effectively leaving eight times as much territory unprotected. In response, the coalition opposing oil extraction used legislative and judicial channels to nullify this reduced protection. A significant victory was achieved when the Ministers of the Environment and Energy were sanctioned by the National Assembly. In 2022, the Constitutional Court annulled the decree’s articles that allowed new exploitation, including the 320 oil wells planned for the Ishpingo area within Block 43. Throughout these processes, mapping produced by civil society proved crucial in demonstrating to the Constitutional Court the reality of oil operations, their standards, and their spatial extent.

Finally, the popular referendum promoted by the YASunidos collective took place in 2023, after 10 years of fraud and delays, resulting in 59 % of voters in favour of leaving the oil in Block 43 underground, despite Ecuador’s severe economic and social crisis in recent years. During the referendum campaign and official debate, the geographical dimension of the oil exploitation narrative played a crucial role. Demonstrating the results of geographical inspections in Yasuní and explaining why the Constitutional Court had considered Decree 251 an infringement on the rights of Indigenous Peoples in Voluntary Isolation were key factors in raising public awareness among Ecuadorian voters.

The ruling of the Inter-American Court of Human Rights

In 2025, the Inter-American Court of Human Rights (IACHR), whose rulings are binding on all OAS member states, issued the first judgement in the Americas recognising the rights of Indigenous Peoples in Voluntary Isolation. After 15 years of presenting evidence to the Ecuadorian state, the social coalition of Indigenous movements and environmental organisations had achieved an historic verdict: the Court found the State responsible for violating the rights of the Tagaeri and Taromenane Indigenous Peoples in Voluntary Isolation and ordered a series of reparative measures.

The IACtHR recognised the geographical evidence presented regarding oil exploitation, particularly oil spills and directional drilling operations. This was reflected in the arguments put forward by the Colectivo de Geografía Crítica del Ecuador in the Court’s ruling, such as petroleum contamination (see map of oil spills) and the encroachment of oil wells into areas legally reserved for the Indigenous Peoples in Voluntary Isolation in Yasuní (see map of areas proposed for expanded oil activity). The ruling mandates strict limitations on oil activities and prohibits the construction of new infrastructure. It also instructs the government to expand the protected areas to more accurately reflect the territories actually occupied and contested by the Indigenous Peoples in Voluntary Isolation.

Only through agreement and the inclusion of the proposals and needs of the communities that share Yasuní can long-term protective measures be effectively achieved.

Only through agreement and the inclusion of the proposals and needs of the communities that share Yasuní can long-term protective measures be effectively achieved.

However, an additional challenge remains—one that falls to the social and geographical sciences in dialogue with the various Indigenous Peoples (Waorani, Kichwa, Shuar) and the peasant communities with whom the Indigenous Peoples in Voluntary Isolation coexist in Yasuní: the need to move beyond a binary logic of protection. While the zones of the ZITT and the circles of presence have proved invaluable as visual and judicial tools to illustrate State and oil-related aggressions against Indigenous Peoples in Voluntary Isolation, the multiplicity of territorial logics among different communities demands approaches that go beyond rigid boundaries, borders, and prohibitions on activities.

The struggle of Ecuador’s Indigenous Peoples and civil society demonstrates the need for more nuanced ways of representing space, alongside fostering intercultural dialogue that can ensure the IACtHR ruling is implemented on the ground in meaningful and substantive terms. Only through agreement and the inclusion of the proposals and needs of the communities that share Yasuní can long-term protective measures be effectively achieved.

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As a result, the Indigenous communities of Pastaza live under constant alert. In the face of multiple threats, the ancestral Kichwa peoples are consolidating their sumak kawsay Territorial Management Agendas”, as a means of fully exercising their rights to autonomy, self-determination, autonomous territorial governance and the sumak kawsay of their families and communities. Their aim is to enforce the rights enshrined in the Ecuadorian Constitution and in international instruments, within their sovereign ancestral territories.

Sumak Kawsay: Core Pillars and Way of Life

Sumak kawsay is the Kichwa peoples’ vision of life, which guides territorial stewardship (Sumak Allpa Mama), the organisation of families, communities and the people (Sumak Ayllu), the management of the community economy (Sumak Mirachina), and the transmission of ancestral knowledge and wisdom (Sumak Runa Yachay). Communities are understood as integral to all beings that inhabit the living forest: supay (guardian spirits that protect all existing entities), animals, forests, ancestors, peoples and worlds, which together constitute the Kichwa territory of Pastaza.

Kichwa communities manage their lands according to two main conceptions: sacha and yaku. Sacha encompasses the different types of forest, considering dominant plant and animal species, soil characteristics, and groundwater recharge areas. Yaku refers to aquatic ecosystems and their surrounding environments. These principles guide their territorial management, ensuring that conservation and restoration efforts remain grounded in ancestral knowledge and in the values of sumak kawsay.

When integrated into modern cartography, this knowledge enriches territorial interpretation, facilitates community-based monitoring, and provides a structured foundation for Indigenous planning and self-government.

When integrated into modern cartography, this knowledge enriches territorial interpretation, facilitates community-based monitoring, and provides a structured foundation for Indigenous self-government.

Participatory work with the communities has enabled the documentation of a locally rooted system for recognising habitat diversity in their environment, in which each category brings together biophysical and cultural attributes: cachi refers to mineral licks where hunting is strictly prohibited; turu designates seasonally flooded palm swamps critical for groundwater recharge; cucha describes deep pools that serve as refuges for aquatic species; urku encompasses forested hills, sources of seeds and medicinal plants; pamba denotes upland plains suitable for diversified chacras (traditional farming plots); yaku patapamba refers to riparian floodplain forests essential for mitigating river surges; and runa aylluguna kawsana allpa includes settlements, schools and community centres interconnected by pathways.

When integrated into modern cartography as vector layers labelled with Kichwa terms and their biocultural descriptions, this knowledge enriches territorial interpretation, facilitates community-based monitoring, and provides a structured foundation for Indigenous planning and self-government. In this way, Kichwa communities—particularly those along the border with Peru—have initiated zoning processes in response to the need to regulate and manage their territories. To this end, they have carried out workshops combining the collection of geographic information on Sumak Allpa Mama with analyses of territorial management, its challenges, and its alternatives.

Technical Capacities for Monitoring Life Spaces

The community-strengthening strategy progressed on two complementary fronts. On one hand, local teams were trained to operate sub-metric Global Navigation Satellite System (GNSS) receivers, set up camera traps, and record observations using standardised mobile applications. Using these tools, local technicians georeferenced water sources, salt licks, transit routes, and points of human activity, both in the upper reaches of the Anzu River (exposed to agricultural and livestock expansion) and in the lower Curaray–Pinduyaku basin.

The collected data feed into high-resolution mosaics obtained from drone flights and satellite analyses, which are used to derive coverage and disturbance indices, creating a consistent technical foundation for assessing risks and planning conservation actions.

In parallel, participatory “talking mapping” workshops were conducted in the territory. Elders who safeguard territorial memory, community leaders, and youth gathered to identify the life spaces defined by the Kichwa worldview. Each site was described not only by its physical characteristics but also by the supay that protects it—the guardian spirit conferring obligations of respect and proper use. Once digitised, these polygons are integrated with the geographic information gathered by the monitoring teams, ensuring that the Territorial Management Agendas combine empirical evidence with the symbolic heritage underpinning sumak kawsay.

Two Experiences Strengthening Territorial Management

The Kichwa people of Kawsac Sacha comprise six communities, with their territory spanning 245,735 hectares between the Pindoyaku River to the south and the Curaray River to the north. Work was carried out with the community of Yana Yaku, the only Kichwa settlement in this area, strategically located for territorial control and management due to its position on the border with Peru and adjacent Indigenous nationalities. Since 1992, Yana Yaku has played a pivotal role in advancing the rights of Indigenous Peoples, establishing and managing community territories, and overseeing the forests of the Kawsac Sacha people.

Beyond the main zoning categories for life spaces, specific categories for lacustrine ecosystems were identified, such as Yana Jita Lake. Lindus refers to the immediate shores of rivers, lakes, and lagoons, which contain a high concentration of organic matter. Pulaya are beaches that form during the dry season, either as dry sandbanks (tiu pulaya) or muddy shores (turu pulaya). Chimbana Sacha denotes the connecting area between two bodies of water originating from the floodplains of the main channels. Uma is found at the terminal end of the lagoon and is often linked to a spring. Pungu, also called bocana, refers to points where two bodies of water meet, with one feeding into the other.

Through continuous monitoring and the development of sumak kawsay cartography in the Kupal Paccha micro-basin, a restoration plan was implemented. Local technical brigades georeferenced degraded polygons along the Kupal Yaku River.

Through continuous monitoring and the development of sumak kawsay cartography in the Kupal Paccha micro-basin, a restoration plan was implemented.

The ancestral Kichwa people of the Anzu River consist of seven communities, with primary and secondary road access and connections to the provincial capitals of the Ecuadorian Amazon. They maintain strong organisational structures, with a focus on ecosystem conservation, Indigenous rights advocacy, and territorial management guided by the vision of sumak kawsay. Their territory encompasses biodiverse highland forests alongside agricultural plots. As all lands are subdivided and allocated to different owners, the association of neighbouring plots is essential to preserve territorial cohesion, which faces pressure from population growth and expansion. These highland areas contain the headwaters that feed the Pastaza River basin, underscoring the strategic importance of their conservation.

Through continuous monitoring and the development of sumak kawsay cartography in the Kupal Paccha micro-basin, a restoration plan was implemented. Local technical brigades georeferenced degraded polygons along the Kupal Yaku River. Drawing on botanical inventories and local knowledge, seeds were collected and seedlings of native species with high ecological and cultural value were acquired. Over 1,000 plants—including morete, wayuri, ayahuasca and taraputu—were planted in water recharge zones and areas with verified biodiversity loss. Restoration progress is monitored by community technicians using camera traps and permanent plots, which have already documented a variety of bird and mammal species.

Conclusions and Future Challenges

Kichwa cartography has emerged as a response to the need for communities to express, in a contemporary spatial language, the logic of land use and management derived from their sumak kawsay worldview. By translating the traditional classification of sacha and yaku into vector layers, tabular attributes, and thematic symbology, communities transform their oral knowledge into a reference system capable of engaging with regional scales, legal frameworks, and technical standards, while retaining its cultural depth.

This process goes beyond the mere translation of terms; it constitutes the development of a data model that reflects the reciprocity between people, rivers, forests, and all beings that inhabit them. In this way, spatial analyses preserve the ontological meaning of each element. The resulting cartographic files provide the empirical foundation for the Kichwa Territorial Management Agendas.

By integrating communal boundaries, cultural zoning, biodiversity hotspots, and records of external pressures, these agendas obtain the technical support needed to plan land use, regulate extractive activities, substantiate complaints, and design restoration programmes. The ability to produce, update, and safeguard this data strengthens self-government and self-determination: communities control the scale of information dissemination, define access protocols, and, above all, legitimise their decisions before state and private actors from a technical standpoint grounded in ancestral knowledge.

The communities of Yanayaku and Gavilán del Anzu have been pioneers in this process, using sumak kawsay cartography as a strategic tool to conserve their ecosystems and protect their territories from extractive activities. In the medium and long term, the project aims to consolidate the Territorial Information System (SIT) as an integrated platform combining advanced technology with ancestral knowledge, promoting environmental resilience, sustainable development, and the self-determination of the Kichwa Indigenous Peoples in Pastaza.

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Despite the 2008 Constitution’s guarantees of collective rights, the reality reveals a significant gap: between 2022 and 2024, over 315,000 people were displaced—many of them Indigenous—while the State continues to prioritise economic interests over the protection of vulnerable communities. Ecuador is confronting an unprecedented socio-environmental crisis, in which the convergence of extractive and criminal capital is driving the expansion of mining, oil, and drug trafficking projects. This has resulted in forced displacement, systemic violence, and the destruction of Indigenous ancestral territories.

In this context, it is crucial to explore the characteristics, causes, and impacts of internal forced displacement in Ecuador, particularly its effects on Indigenous peoples and nationalities. Cases such as the violent eviction of the Shuar community from Nankints in 2016 and mining-related contamination in Napo reveal patterns of dispossession, militarisation, and impunity that distinguish Ecuador from other countries in the region. Given this situation, State responses fluctuate between neglect and the criminalisation of community leaders, while alternative approaches—such as sustainable community mining in Kenkuim—are beginning to emerge.

An Economy that Fuels Violence

While the 2008 Constitution positions Ecuador as a country committed to upholding human rights, in practice there remains a significant gap between its legal progress and the reality of internal forced displacement. Although the Constitution prohibits arbitrary displacement and protects Indigenous ancestral territories, the Ombudsman’s Office has denounced the lack of specific legislation guaranteeing protection, reparations, or the return of victims, many of whom belong to Indigenous communities.

Criminal violence and drug trafficking are the primary drivers of this crisis. According to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), Ecuador ended 2023 with one of the highest rates of violent deaths in Latin America and 315,000 forcibly displaced persons. Provinces such as Guayas, Esmeraldas, and Sucumbíos are hotspots of territorial control by armed groups, where 58 % of displaced people cite violent robbery as the main cause. Specialist Ana Julia Viteri notes that the violence is economically motivated rather than political, complicating the application of International Humanitarian Law.

Women, children and LGBTQI+ groups represent 55 % of the displaced, with a 42 % increase in gender violence between 2023 and 2024.

Women, children and LGBTQI+ grups represent 55 % of the displaced, with a 42 % increase in gender violence between 2023 and 2024.

Indigenous communities bear a disproportionate impact. Amid violent evictions—such as that of the Shuar community from Nankints—organised crime forcibly recruits young people and devastates the environment through illegal mining. The economic crisis further exacerbates the situation: 93 % of jobs are informal, and 82 % of displaced individuals prioritise access to food and shelter. Additionally, climate disasters such as the 2024 El Niño phenomenon have destroyed homes and infrastructure across 23 provinces.

Women, children, and LGBTIQ+ groups account for 55 % of those displaced, with a 42 % increase in gender-based violence recorded between 2023 and 2024. Despite these realities, the State does not legally recognise displacement as a category, limiting the scope of comprehensive responses. There is an urgent need for public policies that integrate legal protection, social investment, and reparations, alongside Constitutional Court guarantees of displaced persons’ rights. Meanwhile, thousands of families remain trapped in limbo, victims of a crisis the State persistently ignores.

Forced Displacement, Violence, and Extractivism

The Ecuadorian Amazon, home to Indigenous nationalities such as the Shuar, Kichwa, Waorani, and Siekopai, is experiencing a humanitarian crisis driven by the expansion of transnational organised crime and extractive industries. These forces have resulted in forced displacement, systematic violence, and the destruction of ancestral territories. Over the past decade, a clear pattern of dispossession has emerged, with the State prioritising economic interests over the protection of rights.

In the south-central Amazon, the San Carlos-Panantza mining project, operated by the Chinese company Explorcobres S.A. (EXSA), has become emblematic of this conflict. In August 2016, some 2,000 police and military personnel violently evicted eight Shuar families from Nankints. A subsequent confrontation at the La Esperanza mining camp led the government to declare a state of emergency, militarise the area, and target community leaders such as Agustín Wachapa. At least 35 Shuar families—including 46 children and seven pregnant women—were forced to flee into the jungle, seeking refuge at the Tlink centre under conditions of overcrowding, inadequate medical care, and children deprived of access to education.

“They are killing us; our river is contaminated with mercury, cyanide and fuel,” report the Kichwa communities.

“They are killing us; our river is contaminated with mercury, cyanide and fuel,” report the Kichwa communities.

In Zamora Chinchipe province, bordering Peru, projects such as Mirador and Fruta del Norte have exacerbated existing inequalities. Although mining attracted investments totalling USD 314.9 million in 2023, 52 % of the population live in multidimensional poverty. Between 2015 and 2017, at least 32 families were evicted from Tundayme without prior consultation. Shuar women, guardians of ancestral knowledge, face triple oppression based on gender, ethnicity, and the prevailing economic model, with 39.2 % living in poverty.

In the central province of Napo, both legal and illegal gold mining have devastated rivers such as the Anzu and the Punino, located within the territories of the Kichwa and Quijos peoples. The Chinese corporation Terracarth Resources operates under a legal framework that prioritises subsoil rights over Indigenous rights. Meanwhile, illegal gold mining linked to armed groups has led to the deforestation of 2,037 hectares and contaminated water sources with mercury. “They are killing us; our river is polluted with mercury, cyanide, and fuel,” report the Kichwa communities.

Mining and Drug Trafficking: From River Pollution to African Palm Cultivation

The case of the Carlos Julio Arosemena Tola canton is emblematic. Here, mining concessions have advanced into the ancestral territories of the Kichwa communities. Complaints by community leaders regarding the presence of heavy machinery and river contamination have gone unanswered by the State. “The institutions responsible for environmental oversight and natural resource management fail to exercise effective control and, in many cases, act as accomplices in the expansion of mining,” states a report by Ecuador’s Colectivo de Geografía Crítica.

This pattern of institutional complicity is repeated in other cantons such as Tena and Archidona, where mining companies frequently operate without complying with requirements such as prior, free, and informed consultation—a right enshrined in Ecuador’s Constitution. Communities are left to confront economically and politically powerful actors alone, while the State remains absent or acts as a mediator favouring corporate interests. One of the most serious consequences is the impact on water sources. The contamination of the Jatunyacu, Anzu, and Napo rivers affects not only biodiversity but also human consumption.

Leaders who resist the mining are threatened, suffer smear campaigns and unfounded legal proceedings.

Leaders who resist the mining are threatened, suffer smear campaigns and unfounded legal proceedings.

Furthermore, social organisation has undergone significant changes. The influx of external actors connected to mining has caused internal divisions within communities, with some viewing extractive activities as economic opportunities while others resist in defence of their territories. This tension frequently leads to intra-community conflicts and the criminalisation of land defenders. Even more troublingly, leaders opposing mining face threats, smear campaigns, and unfounded legal actions.

Drug trafficking similarly undermines Indigenous territories. Situated between Colombia and Peru, Ecuador has become a major cocaine trafficking hub. In 2020, 128 tonnes of narcotics were seized, while armed groups forcibly recruit Indigenous Awá and Siona peoples. Illegal mining and drug trafficking also intersect in Esmeraldas, a coastal province bordering Colombia, where African palm plantations are used to conceal coca crops. These activities displace communities and, in 2019 alone, destroyed 114 square kilometres of rainforest.

State Responses to Forced Displacement: Omissions and Challenges

The Ecuadorian State has implemented measures such as the VIRTE visa, which had regularised 95,809 people by 2024, and the Safe Mobility Initiative for refugees. However, these efforts stand in stark contrast to the absence of a unified registry of internally displaced persons—a critical gap that hampers the assessment of the crisis and the development of effective public policies. The Ombudsman’s Office has called for the establishment of such a system, yet progress remains minimal.

One of the greatest challenges is the criminalisation of Indigenous leaders who are defending their territories. The Confederación de Nacionalidades Indígenas del Ecuador (Confederation of Indigenous Nationalities of Ecuador / CONAIE) has documented cases of leaders accused of terrorism or sabotage for opposing megaprojects before the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights (IACHR),. CONAIE President Leonidas Iza stated: “They want to prosecute us for defending our territories. It is a strategy for sowing fear.” This persecution not only violates individual rights but also undermines community organisation.

According to UNHCR, Indigenous communities face barriers such as the lack of interpreters in native langugees and a longstanding distrust of institutions.

According to UNHCR, Indigenous communities face barriers such as the lack of interpreters in native langugees and a longstanding distrust of institutions.

Access to Justice Remains Limited. According to UNHCR, Indigenous communities face barriers such as the lack of interpreters in native languages and a longstanding distrust of institutions. Many victims are unaware of their constitutional rights, which exacerbates their vulnerability. Added to this is impunity: crimes committed by armed groups in border areas are rarely investigated.

In response to rising violence in the country, international organisations have issued key recommendations: 1) pass an internal displacement law with a differentiated approach for Indigenous Peoples, including humanitarian assistance and comprehensive reparations; 2) guarantee prior consultation in extractive projects, in accordance with ILO Convention 169, avoiding formalities and ensuring genuine participation; 3) establish a national victims registry, coordinated with the Ombudsman’s Office and UNHCR, to make this population visible and allocate resources efficiently.

Alternatives That Weave Hope

Meanwhile, displaced families across the Amazon, the Coastal Region, and the Andes endure precarious conditions, lacking access to healthcare and education, with little prospect of return. In response to the advance of extractivism and organised crime, initiatives such as that of the Shuar community of Kenkuim demonstrate that alternative mining models are possible. Their Exploken Minera project, a pioneering endeavour in South America, combines Indigenous autonomy with environmental sustainability by avoiding mercury use and prioritising the remediation of historical damages. “We do not use mercury. We are Shuar, and we protect our land,” states community leader Alipio Wajari.

Although not without internal tensions and economic challenges, this case represents a viable alternative to destructive extractivism, aligned with the principles of Sumak Kawsay and constitutional rights. However, such initiatives contrast sharply with the State’s absence and the lack of comprehensive policies to protect ancestral territories. While the State prioritises economic interests, communities resist: organising surveillance teams, promoting local economies, developing agroecology and community tourism projects, and demanding reparations for victims of forced displacement.

The gap between the constitutional rhetoric of Buen Vivir and the lived reality of these communities continues to widen. Organised crime not only exploits resources but also fractures the identity of Indigenous Peoples. Their struggle, marked by the defence of land and culture, is an urgent call to rethink development from the perspectives of environmental and gender justice. The path to a just transition requires recognising these violations as structural and supporting the grassroots alternatives that weave hope amidst crisis.

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This explains why IBE has been a central demand of the political agenda of Indigenous organizations, and why it has consistently played a key role in political negotiations with the Ecuadorian state. This was especially evident during the Dialogue Tables held in 2022, following the major Indigenous uprising in June of that year.

Historical Trajectory of Intercultural Bilingual Education

The emergence of Intercultural Bilingual Education in Ecuador dates back to the 1940s, when the Clandestine Schools of Cayambe were established by Dolores Cacuango and the Ecuadorian Federation of Indians, with the goal of teaching literacy to children and youth from communities working on local haciendas. In the decades that followed, various educational initiatives sprang up across the Highlands, the Amazon, and even parts of the Coast.

A defining feature of these initiatives was their autonomous nature: they were created and operated independently of the state and managed directly by the communities themselves. Another important aspect was their commitment to creative and innovative educational approaches—both in terms of content and methodology—aimed at addressing the needs and aspirations of Indigenous communities.

In 1988, as a result of pressure from the Indigenous movement and negotiations with the government of the time, Indigenous education was officially recognized by the Ecuadorian state through Executive Decree 203. Thismilestone led to the creation of the National Directorate of Intercultural Bilingual Education (DINEIB), with the aim of enabling Indigenous peoples and nations, through their organizations, to lead, plan, and manage Indigenous education comprehensively at the national level.

Over the course of more than three decades of institutional life, Intercultural Bilingual Education (IBE) has made significant progress in several areas, including teacher training, curriculum development, and the production of educational materials. However, it has also faced serious challenges and setbacks. The vitality and progress of IBE have depended not only on the priority Indigenous organizations assign to it within their political agendas, but also on the vision and political will of successive governments.

The Current Landscape: Limited Presence in Urban Areas

There is no available data on the quality of Intercultural Bilingual Education in Ecuador, as reports from the National Institute for Educational Evaluation (INEVAL) do not differentiate learning outcomes between the two educational jurisdictions: intercultural (formerly “Hispanic jurisdiction”) and intercultural bilingual. Furthermore, there are no specific criteria for assessing the quality of IBE.

In terms of coverage, IBE currently serves 131,282 students across the three educational levels—early childhood, primary, and secondary—which represents only 3.12% of the country’s total student population. This figure is a cause of concern, particularly in a country where 7.7% of the population identifies as Indigenous.

While 80% of students enrolled in IBE identify themselves as Indigenous, the remaining students identify themselves as mestizo, Afro-descendant, montubio, or white. Among Indigenous students, the majority belong to the Kichwa and Shuar nations (64.73% and 24.12%, respectively), the two largest Indigenous groups in Ecuador. They are followed, in smaller numbers, by students from the Chachi, Achuar, and Awa nations, with other groups represented in minimal percentages.

A related issue is that most IBE students in Ecuador live in rural areas—70.49%. This reflects the fact that 73.87% of the Indigenous population resides in rural areas and also points to one of the current weaknesses of IBE: its limited presence in urban areas.

One notable characteristic that distinguishes Ecuador from other countries in the region is that IBE has a nationwide reach: it operates in 23 of the country’s 24 provinces, including the Galápagos Islands, where sustained Indigenous migration has occurred over several decades. Most IBE students are concentrated in the Amazon and the central Highlands.

Finally, it is important to note that to attend its students, the IBE program currently employs 9,146 teachers working in 1,710 educational institutions of various types (early childhood, primary, secondary, and mixed), sizes, and conditions. The majority are located in rural areas.

Structure of the Educational Proposal

In Ecuador, Intercultural Bilingual Education is based on the Intercultural Bilingual Education System Model, developed by Indigenous peoples and approved in 1993—five years after the state recognized Indigenous education. This model clearly defines the principles, goals, foundations, and strategies of IBE, as well as various criteria for organizing and implementing the educational process, including the academic calendar, language use, classroom methodology, and learning assessment.

IBE is organized into two levels: intercultural bilingual basic education and intercultural bilingual secondary education. The basic level includes two stages: the non-formal stage, which involves family- and community-based early childhood education; and the formal stage, comprising the first ten years of schooling. The formal stage is structured around four sequential processes: introduction to semiotic systems; cognitive, emotional, and psychomotor development; development of academic and technical skills; and investigative learning. The secondary level, or intercultural bilingual high school, includes the final three years before entry into higher education.

Each level of education has its own specific curriculum, approved in 2017. These are adapted versions of the national curriculum. For the basic level, there are 14 specific curricula—one for each Indigenous nation. For the high school level, a unified proposal called Curricular Extension for the Intercultural Bilingual Unified General Baccalaureate was developed to complement the contents of the national curriculum.

The Challenges of a Self-Determined Education

The most pressing challenge today is the issue of autonomy: the right and power of Indigenous nations to define their own education according to their needs and political visions. This is a basic condition for the development of an education that is culturally, linguistically, socially, and politically relevant. Indigenous organizations are working to restore the status they held until 2008, when they had control over appointing authorities, designing curricula, managing the educational process, and training their own teachers. Achieving educational autonomy is a key component of the plurinationality recognized in the Ecuadorian Constitution.

A second major challenge is the need to rethink the curricular proposals. Although there are curricula specifically for IBE, they are ultimately adaptations of what is misleadingly called the “national curriculum,” which in reality reflects the worldview and context of the urban, white-mestizo, middle class. The Confederation of Indigenous Nations of Ecuador (CONAIE) advocates for the development of curricula that respond to the current needs and realities of Indigenous peoples and that support the realization of their political projects.

In recent years, several promising curricular proposals have emerged from different areas in the Highlands and the Amazon. These experiences could serve as valuable references for and contributions to the current process of reform. Naturally, any curriculum reform initiative must be sufficiently flexible to incorporate both core areas of shared learning and the specific needs of Indigenous peoples and nations. This goes beyond language and culture—it also includes organizational, territorial, and political dimensions.

A third major challenge relates to teacher training. Although significant progress has been made over the past three decades, much remains to be done. The challenge lies not only in increasing the number of teachers with specific intercultural profiles, but also in expanding representation from all Indigenous nations. Currently, the majority of teachers in the Intercultural Bilingual Education (IBE) system are from the Kichwa nation (70.95%), followed by Shuar teachers (18.76%). However, there are very few teachers from the other nations.

Inter-institutional coordination and the production of educational materials

Addressing the challenge above requires coordinated efforts among Ecuadorian universities, the Intercultural Bilingual Education System, and Indigenous organizations. The goal is to develop a strong, sustainable teacher training program that acknowledges the internal diversity of Indigenous populations, with special attention to nations with fewer educators.

Closely linked to this is the challenge of producing educational resources and materials. Despite the work carried out over the past thirty years, there is still a shortage of materials in Indigenous languages that reflect the unique cultural, social, and political realities of each people and nation.

Last—but certainly not least—is the challenge of reaching new generations of Indigenous people living in urban areas. The IBE currently being offered in urban contexts is limited, while the rural-to-urban migration trend continues to grow. Addressing the needs of urban Indigenous youth calls for a rethinking of many of the principles that originally shaped and sustained IBE, and for adapting the system to the new educational demands of these populations.

It is also important to consider Indigenous populations living abroad. Migration is an ongoing and increasingly widespread phenomenon that appears to be irreversible. The advances in virtual education in recent years—particularly following the pandemic—could offer significant opportunities for delivering education to Ecuadorian Indigenous communities living outside the country.

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The territories of the Indigenous Peoples of Ecuador are characterized by their rich biodiversity and, simultaneously for containing significant subsurface resources such as hydrocarbons and metallic and non-metallic minerals. The extraction of these resources has been the core of the country’s primary export-oriented economic model for the past five decades. This means that the economy is anchored to the dynamics of the global commodities markets, particularly oil, gold, and copper.

The mineral market is controlled by transnational corporations that sign highly favorable contracts for foreign investors. With 80% of Andean mining under the control of companies from Canada, the United States, China, South Africa, and Switzerland, how much of this wealth truly stays at home? The extraction of metallic minerals (such as gold, copper, and silver) is prioritized as an engine of economic growth, but at high socio-environmental cost in the form of violations of Indigenous rights, damage to their territory, and the displacement of communities. Furthermore, the volatility of international prices encourages cycles of overexploitation during booms and crises during downturns.

An unstoppable advance

In this context, Ecuador’s dollarized economy, with a state dependent on revenue from extractive activities, has sought to diversify its production matrix and reduce its reliance on oil exports over the past decade. In this framework, the expansion of mining has created some opportunities for formal and legal investment. However, it has also led to two, major harmful effects; the rise of illegal mining and an increase in socio-environmental conflicts, accompanied by the violation of collective rights and damage to the territories of Indigenous Peoples.

According to Ecuador’s Ministry of Energy and Mines, the mining sector directly employs over 20,000 people and indirectly employs nearly 100,000. Between 1985 and 2023, both legal and illegal mining covered 13,000 hectares nationwide. In recent years, that coverage has expanded at a rate of 2,600 hectares per year, representing 35% of the total area reached in the last 35 years.

Illegal mining in the central Amazon, particularly in Napo, has expanded by 500 hectares in just one year. Throughout the Ecuadorian Amazon region, it is estimated that 7,490 hectares have been affected by illegal mining, especially gold mining.

Throughout the Ecuadorian Amazon region, it is estimated that 7,490 hectares have been affected by illegal mining, especially gold mining.

Seventy percent of the expansion is concentrated in the Amazon, where open-pit mining projects such as Cóndor Mirador (in the exploitation phase) and Warintza (in the exploration phase) are operating. According to the Ecociencia Foundation, illegal mining in the central Amazon, particularly in Napo, has expanded by 500 hectares in just one year. Throughout the Ecuadorian Amazon region, it is estimated that 7,490 hectares have been affected by illegal mining, especially gold mining.

According to data from the Ministry of the Environment, illegal mining has affected 562 hectares in four protected areas of this region: the Cofán Bermejo Reserve, the Sumaco-Napo Galeras National Park, the El Zarza Wildlife Refuge, and the Podocarpus National Park. Illegal mining also impacts territories in the Andes, in the provinces of Bolívar, Azuay, and Imbabura, as well as Indigenous territories and Afro-Ecuadorian communities in the province of Esmeraldas.

Mining and organized crime in Napo

The territory of the province of Napo is the ancestral home of the Quijos and Napo Runa, as well as the Waorani. During the 19th and 20th centuries, at least two major waves of settlers partially occupied their lands, known for their great biodiversity and various ecological zones. In this region, indigenous communities have developed community-based forestry enterprise, organic cacao and chonta production in Rukullacta, along with a community tourism network managed by the Federation of Indigenous Organizations of Napo (FOIN).

However, everything was significantly disrupted due with the arrival of both legal and illegal mining. Mining activity has increased by 300% since 2015. Between 2015 and 2021, areas with mining activity increased by 855 hectares, according to data from the Monitoring of the Andes Amazon Program (MAAP) and the Ecociencia Foundation. The problem became even more severe between 2022 and 2024, when  mining expansion in the cantons of Carlos Julio Arosemena Tola and Tena doubled, growing from 1,118 to 2,024 hectares. The environmental impact is evident. Between 2019 and 2021, mining-related deforestation wiped out 32 hectares of forest, while in 2022, the losses amounted to 185 hectares. Moreover, mining activity has increased by 300% since 2015.

Mining in Napo has fueled an organized crime structure comparable to drug trafficking.

Paradoxically, at the beginning of 2022, Napo had 142 gold and aggregate concessions, yet none met the requirements to operate legally. Of these, 62 were suspended, 45 had lost their exploitation rights, and 35 were still under review. In other words, as of March 18 of that year, all mining activity in the province was illegal.

In this context, mining in Napo has fueled an organized crime structure comparable to drug trafficking. It is estimated that, in six key areas (Ahuano, CIAT, Río Punino, Río Jatun Yaku, Puninos, and Río Anzú), between 150,000 and 230,000 grams of 18-karat gold are extracted daily — generating revenues of $8 to $11 million per day. The rise in illegal mining has escalated social conflicts, with community leaders and activists reporting threats and attacks.

The growing tension in Las Naves

The mining conflict in Las Naves canton, located in the Central Highlands, has intensified due to the expansion of mining in the region. A key turning point occurred in 1993, when the local population expelled the British company Río Tinto from the province, setting a precedent for civil resistance against extractivism. In 2003, the Las Naves mining concession was granted to a private entity which later transferred the rights to Amlatminas and subsequently to Curimining, a subsidiary of the Canadian company Salazar Resources Ltd.

Despite public opposition the Ministry of the Environment approved the advanced exploration phase in 2015 without prior consultation with the community. In 2021, Guillermo Lasso’s government promoted mining activities through Executive Decree 151, facilitating the exploitation of projects classified as strategic. This decision created the conditions for the conflict to escalate in October 2021, when a “march for peace” organized by groups aligned with Curimining resulted in violence and social division.

The case of Las Naves reflects the escalating tension between mining expansion and the defense of territory. The community now plans to appeal to international bodies in search of justice.

A year later, the government signed a $292 million contract with foreign mining companies to exploit the deposit. In June 2023, the Ministry of the Environment announced an environmental consultation on the Environmental Impact Study, but rural communities denounced that it was conducted without democratic guarantees. The consultation included only seven communities within the area of influence, excluding ten others that rely on the region’s water sources. In response, the community organized a protest on July 14 that was met with tear gas, resulting in 13 people injured and two detained.

By August 2023, the detainees were prosecuted for damage to public property, facing a trial without due process. The criminalization of land defenders continued into 2024, with more arrests and legal proceedings. This past June, the communities of Buenos Aires, Bellavista, and Jerusalén filed a protection action against the Ministry of the Environment, but it was rejected. The case of Las Naves reflects the escalating tension between mining expansion and the defense of territory. The community now plans to appeal to international bodies in search of justice.

The Cofán Bermejo Ecological Reserve Case

The Cofán Bermejo Ecological Reserve spans 55,451 hectares along the border with Colombia. With its dense tropical forest cover, this protected area is one of the most important biodiversity sanctuaries in Ecuador and is home to the A’i Cofán people. Families share the land with howler monkeys, coatis, anteaters, jaguars, pumas, and ocelots. For over 40 years, the A’i Cofán have faced repeated threats to their territory: oil projects, illegal logging, and invasions by settlers and land traffickers.

More recently, mining activities have emerged as an additional danger. The Andean Amazon Monitoring Project identified 337 hectares affected by illegal mining in the reserve’s buffer zone. Of that total, at least 1.05 hectares lie within the protected area’s boundaries — a direct threat to the ecosystem’s integrity. Heavy machinery tears through the forest, creating massive craters and pools for gold extraction, leaving behind polluted water and widespread destruction.

Several leaders have received threats for monitoring illegal activities, while fear of reprisals silences those who dare to speak out.

Greed for resources has fueled the rise of armed groups in the region, particularly in Barranca Bermeja. With no state presence, the Comandos de Frontera — a dissident faction of the FARC — assert control, demanding identification from residents. Beyond illegal mining, other illicit activities such as drug trafficking, fuel smuggling, and human trafficking loom over this border region. Far from offering relief, the pandemic accelerated the expansion of illegal mining, especially in the buffer zone.

Shuar communities, like Taruka and Etsa, have implemented internal controls to regulate activity on their lands. The reserve, created by the A’i Cofán people to safeguard their ancestral territory, now stands at a breaking point. Several leaders have received threats for monitoring illegal activities, while fear of reprisals silences those who dare to speak out. The park rangers — barely a dozen tasked with protecting the entire reserve — face constant danger and have also received threats after conducting operations against illegal mining.

Human Rights and Conflict: A Darkening Future

More than an environmental issue, mining has become a tangled web of corruption and organized crime, involving business people, police, and public officials. Carlos Mazabanda from Amazon Frontlines warns that legal mining concessions have served as a front for illegal operations, while investigative reports have uncovered shady contracts enabling their expansion. Furthermore, data from Ecuador’s Central Bank and records from China reveal a multi-million-dollar discrepancy in gold exports — suggesting the existence of a money laundering network.

Mazabanda points out that President Daniel Noboa’s declaration of an internal armed conflict overlooks how illegal mining fuels criminal groups. According to Amazon Watch, gold trade has now become the most dominant form of organized crime in the Ecuadorian Amazon. Drug trafficking networks have turned to illegal mining as a profitable tool for laundering money, driving increases in violence, extortion, and the smuggling of mercury, weapons, and drugs. In provinces such as El Oro, Azuay, Imbabura, Napo, and Zamora Chinchipe, gangs like Los Lobos have seized control of mining operations.

Shell companies, established under the Simplified Joint Stock Company (SAS) framework, became a vehicle for money laundering, enabling unlicensed exporters to operate without restriction.

Despite the Mining Regulation and Control Agency suspending mining registrations in 2018, over 650 concessions were granted between 2019 and 2024.

The rise of small-scale or artisanal gold mining is undeniable. In 2023, exports surpassed $1.26 billion, even exceeding the country’s only formal mining company. This boom, however, has come alongside the expansion of organized crime. Between 2019 and 2023, homicide rates quintupled, with Indigenous communities bearing the brunt of the violence. Despite the Mining Regulation and Control Agency (ARCOM) suspending mining registrations in 2018, over 650 concessions were granted between 2019 and 2024. At least 15 companies and 18 individuals have profited from illegal gold extraction, aided by complicit regulators.

Fernando Benalcázar, former Vice Minister of Mining, highlights that ARCOM’s dissolution in 2020 triggered total disorder. Shell companies, established under the Simplified Joint Stock Company (SAS) framework, became a vehicle for money laundering, enabling unlicensed exporters to operate without restriction. Meanwhile, agencies like the Internal Revenue Service (SRI) and the Financial Analysis Unit (UAFE) have failed to track the origin of the vast sums flowing through this multi-billion-dollar industry. In August 2024, the government reinstated ARCOM — but the lingering question is whether it will be enough to rein in an industry where organized crime has become deeply entrenched.

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