The report ignores the collective aspect of justice, thus preventing changes that could ensure access to justice for Indigenous Women. The report also says nothing about the six essential interrelated components of access to justice: justiciability, availability, accessibility, good quality, provision of remedies for victims, and accountability of justice systems. In addition to being listed in Committee on the Elimination of Discrimination against Women (CEDAW) General Recommendation. No. 39, these components are also applicable in the case of Indigenous Women and girls.

One of the fundamental root causes of the injustice suffered by Indigenous Women in Nepal is the lack of recognition of their legal personality, disregarding the distinct identity and their principal role as custodians of the Indigenous collective identity, culture, heritage (tangible and intangible), language, knowledge, civilization, biodiversity, and lands, territories and resources. Women make up 50.4% of the population of Nepal, of which 37.5% are Adivasi Janajati Women. According to the 2021 population census, the Indigenous population comprises 35.2%, and Indigenous Women account for approximately 18%, of the total national population.

Pillars of Sovereignty and Guardians of Nature

Unlike Indigenous Women, the Constitution of Nepal recognizes Dalit women (members of the lowest caste groups in the traditional caste hierarchy) with equal access to privileges such as participation in all State bodies, based on the principle of proportional inclusion; special measures for employment, representation, and participation; resource provision for the traditional occupations, knowledge, skills, and technology of the Dalit community; and land provision for landless Dalit, etc. The right to social justice is not, however, guaranteed to Indigenous Women as they are not recognized in the constitution in the same way as Dalit women are.

Access to justice in the context of Indigenous Peoples is closely linked to the collective exercise of sovereignty over lands, territories, and natural resources. Indigenous Women are pillars of sovereignty and custodians of nature, a cornerstone of Indigenous jurisprudence. Moreover, Indigenous Women hold pivotal decision-making roles in households, communities, and cultural affairs, which are under critical challenge from colonial laws and practices.

In the customary system of the Magar Indigenous people, natural features are given female names, such as Khagar or Kuthi (the Himalayas), Boki (the hills), Kaanta (the foothills) and so on with forests, trees, waters and streams.

In the customary system of the Magar Indigenous people, natural features are given female names, such as Khagar or Kuthi (the Himalayas), Boki (the hills) and Kaanta (the foothills).

One example of this is the religious belief of the Yakthung (Limbu) Indigenous people, which is closely linked to nature. In their belief system of Mundhum, “Tambhungma” is a forest deity, and the forest belongs to her (and not to human beings). Tambhungma represents the supreme power of women to maintain the physical, mental, and spiritual life of humans in balance with nature. When someone falls sick, Tambhungma must be worshipped, and permission must be obtained before taking and using the forest’s products. The daytime is designated for human beings and the night for Tambhungma; human activities are therefore strictly prohibited in the forest at night.

In the customary system of the Magar Indigenous people, natural features are given female names, such as Khagar or Kuthi (the Himalayas), Boki (the hills), Kaanta (the foothills) and so on with forests, trees, waters and streams. In the Magar customary system, which is still practised in Atharah Magarat (the 18 regions or kingdoms of the Magyar people), known as Kachahari, women participate equally in land and resource management, including decision-making.

Towards a Paradigm Shift in Law

Another example of how Indigenous Women’s belonging and cultural identity are reflected differently from the mainstream society can be seen in names. A woman’s surname in Hindu castes (the majority religion in Nepal) changes after marriage whereas in Indigenous customary practice the woman retains her communal identity (both her community belonging and her collective rights). The state laws, however, fail to recognize these aspects of Indigenous Women’s identity, belonging, and role in spiritual practices. Respect for all women, irrespective of their origins, caste, ethnicity, creed, linguistic groups, communities, or denomination, thus requires a paradigm shift in law.

The constitution does not explicitly define what access to justice is and nor does it clarify the six essential interrelated components of access to justice, although it does recognize the right to justice as a fundamental right. The constitution lists criminal justice-related elements but omits the right to a fair trial by an independent, impartial and competent court or judicial body, to which every person is entitled. It also gives the power of exercising justice to the courts and other judicial bodies, in accordance with the constitution, other laws, and recognized principles of justice.

Constitutionally, the courts and other judicial bodies are responsible for delivering justice. The constitution does not, however, recognize the customary justice system, widely practised in Indigenous communities (which have almost no access to formal judicial mechanisms). The constitution not only closes the door on Indigenous jurisprudence but it also denies the Indigenous justice system, which guarantees access to justice in the community. This creates a structural barrier for Indigenous Women in accessing justice, since most Indigenous Women live in rural areas, while the courts are located in the city.

While procedural fairness is therefore an integral part of access to justice, Indigenous Women are, in practice, excluded from the system.

Structural Barriers: Language, Fees, and the Judicial System

Indigenous Women are the victims of inhumane treatment, violence, trafficking and exploitative systems such as Kamlari (bonded labour among Tharu women). Data reveals that Indigenous Women and girls are trafficked at an alarming rate: they make up 70% of the trafficking victims rescued by non-governmental organizations. The Human Trafficking and Transportation (Control) Act, 2007, fails to criminalize all forms of trafficking or establish standardized victim identification protocols. According to the annual report of the Auditor General’s Office (2019-2020), only 19.4% of cases are ever resolved: 10.4% result in a conviction and 8.9% in an acquittal. The court proceedings are extremely slow, and it is hard to obtain justice in trafficking cases.

Alongside this, the court proceedings are not culturally appropriate for Indigenous Women: the official language is Khas Nepali (which is not the mother tongue of Indigenous Women), while court and lawyer fees are prohibitive. On top of this, the courts, in which the dominant caste groups are overrepresented, are largely patriarchal and shaped by the jurisprudence of the Hindu caste system, shaped by institutionalized colonization and racism.

Indigenous Peoples, and women in particular, are thus disproportionately victimized. There are currently 19 presiding judges in the Supreme Court, of which 17 are from the Khas Arya group and only two are Indigenous. In addition, these two Indigenous judges are from the Newar Indigenous people, which is just one of 60 officially-recognized Indigenous Peoples. This structure of representation, along with the influence of the caste system, limits its capacity to ensure access to justice for all.

Towards a Paradigm Shift in Law

The provision of social justice as a fundamental right in the constitution provides for the right to participate in State bodies on an inclusive basis. This applies to 16 categories of people who are economically, socially, and educationally disadvantaged, including Indigenous Peoples and Khas Arya (the dominant caste group). A reservation (quota system) is similarly institutionalized in the constitution to support social justice. There is, however, no guarantee that Indigenous Women are entitled to benefit from these provisions.

In conclusion, hurdles exist in Indigenous Women’s access to justice and are institutionalized in the constitution and laws, which systematically fail to recognize these people’s distinct collective identity/existence. The justice system in Nepal thus colonizes, assimilates, and subjugates them, compelling them to remain in a subordinate position. The constitution and laws relating to access to justice likewise do not recognize Indigenous jurisprudence, Indigenous feminist jurisprudence, their justice systems, or the role of Indigenous Women as custodians of lands and territories.

These are all cornerstones of exercising the rights to self-determination, sovereignty, and freedom from all kinds of discrimination, marginalization, exclusion, and structural violence. Recognition of self-determination and non-discrimination, along with the collective identity of Indigenous Women, their role as custodians of nature, Indigenous jurisprudence and justice administration forms the bedrock of access to justice for Indigenous Women.

The Indigenous Women of Nepal meanwhile live in hope that these rights will one day be fully recognized.

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Under these conditions, Indigenous women face heightened risks of gender-based violence, such as harassment, sexual violence and intimidation. However, survivors often face difficulties in accessing justice. They encounter discrimination, language barriers, limited legal support and a lack of information about their rights. As a result, many perpetrators are never held accountable, and Indigenous women are left without the support or remedies they need.

Violence against women in Asia

A tragic example occurred in 2025 in the Chittagong Hill Tracts of Bangladesh. An Indigenous schoolgirl was gang raped while returning home from her classes in the Guimara area. When communities protested to demand justice, three Indigenous youths were shot and killed by the army, and four others were injured. After the shooting, Indigenous-owned shops were looted and burned, and nearby homes were damaged. This incident shows the serious risks communities face even when they demand justice peacefully. Violence discourages survivors, and intimidation discourages their communities from demanding accountability.

In my own community in Okinawa, Japan, we live with the burden of a strong United States military presence. Over the years, many women, from young children to elderly women, have experienced sexual violence linked to military personnel. Some victims have even been murdered after being assaulted. Many rape cases are not prosecuted, and some victims withdraw their complaints because seeking justice can be extremely difficult.

In other countries in the region, armed conflicts in Cambodia, Myanmar and Thailand also expose Indigenous women to high levels of domestic violence, rape and human trafficking. These risks are worsened by poverty and limited access to education. Another example comes from land struggles in Indonesia: Indigenous Batak women have faced harassment and violence while resisting land grabbing by a pulp and paper company operating on their ancestral territory.

The role governments must play

To address these challenges, governments must strengthen legal and institutional systems that protect the rights of Indigenous women. Justice systems must be accessible and culturally appropriate for communities. Recognizing multiple legal systems, including Indigenous justice mechanisms, can help ensure that Indigenous women are able to seek justice through processes that respect their cultures, while upholding national and international human rights standards.

Governments must also support and empower Indigenous women’s organizations so they can participate in legal processes and advocate for their communities. Preventing gender-based violence must be a priority. Governments need to enforce stronger laws and policies to protect Indigenous women and girls, especially in areas affected by militarization and resource extraction. Survivors must have access to safe spaces, healthcare, mental health services and legal assistance so they can report violence safely and pursue justice.

Accountability is also essential. Governments, corporations and other actors operating in Indigenous territories must be held responsible for human rights violations. Indigenous women who defend their lands and communities often face threats, harassment and violence. Authorities must adopt a zero-tolerance approach to attacks against Indigenous women human rights defenders. Violations must be investigated, perpetrators prosecuted and victims provided with fair and culturally appropriate reparations.

Notes to improve access to justice

In addition to justice, Indigenous women must have access to meaningful reparations. These should address both economic and social harms, including compensation for lost livelihoods, support for healthcare and education and, where possible, the restitution of lands and resources. Supporting Indigenous women’s organizations and community initiatives is also essential, because Indigenous women play a central role in protecting their communities, cultures and environments.

It is necessary to understand that achieving justice requires addressing the root causes of violence and marginalization. Governments must recognize the rights of Indigenous Peoples to their lands, territories and natural resources, and ensure that development projects respect the principle of Free, Prior and Informed Consent.

Finally, governments must understand that Indigenous women must also be included in decision-making at all levels, from local governance to national policy discussions. Their leadership and knowledge are essential to create policies that truly reflect the needs and experiences of Indigenous communities.

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For Indigenous Samburu, Borana, Rendille, Ogiek, Turkana, Elmolo, Pokot, and Sengwer women –many living hundreds of kilometers from courts, police posts, or health facilities– justice is rarely found in formal institutions. Instead, it is often negotiated under a tree, where elders prioritize clan harmony over a survivor’s dignity, healing, or rights. In these informal systems, women’s testimonies are minimized, violence is normalized, and perpetrators walk free. For Indigenous women and girls, silence is not a choice: it is enforced.

When Violence Meets Silence

In many pastoralist communities, survivors of rape or sexual abuse are still forced into so-called “compensation marriages”, where a girl is handed to the perpetrator’s family as settlement. Others are pressured to withdraw cases in the name of family honor or clan unity. Reporting violence is further complicated by geography: the nearest police station may be 70 to 120 kilometers away, with no transport, no fuel, and no guarantee of being heard. At times, local authorities intervene to suppress reporting, arguing that formal justice “destroys families”. What is destroyed instead is trust, safety, and the futures of girls.

To confront this reality, the Samburu Women Trust (SWT) established a Women’s Digital Centre, a modest but transformative space equipped with computers, internet access, phones, and documentation tools. For the first time in their lives, women and girls in remote villages can report cases promptly, document violations, and produce evidence required by the justice system without travelling for days. The center has become a lifeline for survivors trapped in cycles of violence.

The road to justice remains long and fragile. Survivors often walk for days across difficult terrain, carrying the trauma they have endured and facing intimidation from the perpetrators’ families.

The road to justice is long and fragile. Survivors walk for days, carrying the trauma they have endured and the intimidation of the perpetrators’ families.

SWT also created the Naramat Indigenous Women Arboretum, a sacred healing space rooted in land, culture, and collective care. Under the shade of indigenous trees, women gather for trauma healing, reflection, and solidarity. Here, stories once whispered in fear are spoken aloud with courage and the support of other women who have suffered similar experiences.

Still, the path to justice remains long and fragile. Survivors often walk for days through harsh terrain, carrying trauma and facing intimidation from perpetrators’ families. By the time they reach a police post, evidence may be compromised, files may disappear, and cases collapse. It is important to note that these are not isolated stories: they are the daily realities of Indigenous women across Kenya.

Bringing Justice Closer to the Villages

For over a decade, the Samburu Women Trust and the Indigenous Women Council (IWC) have walked alongside women and girls, crossing dry riverbeds, hills, and dusty roads, to close a justice gap that continues to widen. Our work is not only about awareness; it is about transforming power, restoring confidence in institutions, and ensuring women can speak without fear. Our approach is grounded in five interconnected pillars:

1. Community Legal Empowerment. We train Indigenous women paralegals who accompany survivors through every step of the justice process: reporting cases, understanding their rights, gathering evidence, and navigating police and court systems. As trusted daughters of their communities, these paralegals make justice more accessible and culturally grounded.

2. Challenging Harmful Elders’ Justice Systems. We engage male elders in order to confront mediation practices that treat rape or sexual abuse as negotiable family matters resolved through the transfer of livestock. Through sustained dialogue and training, more elders are now referring criminal cases to the formal authorities.

3. Safe Spaces for Girls. Under acacia trees and in village circles, SWT organizes girls’ leadership forums where girls learn about bodily autonomy, self-confidence, and their right to say no to female genital mutilation and forced marriage. These spaces nurture informed and courageous girls who know their rights.

4. Survivor-Centered Response. We collaborate with health facilities, police, local chiefs, and gender desks to ensure survivors receive medical care, psychosocial support, and legal follow-up. Our team accompanies girls from filing police statements to standing before magistrates, advocating for timely and child-sensitive justice.

5. National and Global Advocacy. Through the Indigenous Women Council, we elevate village realities to national, regional, and international platforms, advocating for gender-responsive justice systems, mobile courts, accountable policing, and recognition of Indigenous land and resource rights that shape women’s safety.

The Long Journey toward Justice

A mother from Narasha village told us sadly, “My daughter’s justice is 75 kilometers away.”Her words capture a painful truth: justice is shaped by geography, poverty, gender, power, and survival. Through sustained community engagement and survivor accompaniment, Samburu Women Trust has reopened stalled investigations, prevented forced marriages, supported girls through trials, and secured convictions in cases once silenced. Each case sets a precedent. Each voice breaks the silence for many others.

Change is emerging. Elders are increasingly referring cases to the police. Girls are refusing female genital mutilation and reporting threats. Women are organizing and demanding accountability. Chiefs and police officers are becoming more responsive as awareness grows. But the journey is far from over. Access to justice for Indigenous women and girls requires investment in mobile courts, functioning police posts, safe shelters, and culturally responsive, gender-sensitive services. Community actors, paralegals, women leaders, and traditional authorities must be recognized as equal partners.

Most importantly, Indigenous women and girls must remain at the center of all solutions. They are not only survivors; they are leaders, advocates, and architects of a more just future. For us at Samburu Women Trust and Indigenous Women Council, this work is more than advocacy – it is a lifelong commitment. We carry their stories. We push their cases. We stand with those who survive. And, in the territories, we walk long distances so that justice can finally reach the last woman in the last village.

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The so-called “war on drugs” is a security strategy declared in 2006 by then-President Felipe Calderón Hinojosa, aimed at attacking and weakening drug cartels through the use of the Armed Forces. However, this strategy has only increased the criminalisation and imprisonment of Indigenous people and represents a continuation of the colonial project through territorial dispossession, the disruption of communities, and systematic violence against marginalised populations. This process has forcibly displaced Indigenous people from their communities, relocating them to distant prisons, where they experience both isolation and physical and symbolic violence.

Indigenous women in detention face specific forms of intersectional violence before, during, and after their incarceration. Although only 5 per cent of the 13,985 women held in state and federal prisons have been officially identified as Indigenous, this is widely considered an undercount, as many Indigenous women are not recognised as such because they no longer speak their languages. According to the National Chamber of Human Rights, among the women whose ethnic affiliation has been recorded, 43 per cent were detained for drug-related offences, euphemistically known as “crimes against health.”

Their incarceration allows the Mexican State to present statistics showing that it is “doing something” against drug trafficking, without damaging the interests of organised crime networks. In fact, imprisoning Indigenous women involved in small-scale drug dealing or the cultivation of natural drugs has not contributed to reducing the impacts of drug trafficking networks. Rather, it leaves their children vulnerable, perpetuating cycles of cultural uprooting and youth recruitment into organized crime groups.

The Imposition of Colonial Law

Over seventeen years of work in carceral spaces, supporting Indigenous women in the writing of their life stories, we have documented that before, during, and after their detention, Indigenous women have suffered racist violence ranging from harassment and discrimination, separation from their children, physical torture, and sexual violence. The occupation of indigenous lands through the construction of prison complexes has been accompanied by the domination of their bodies through police violence.

Judicial racism operates exogenously (outside the judicial institutions) by concentrating militarisation and security strategies in poor, racialised regions inhabited by Indigenous peoples. At the same time, endogenously,  we mean within the justice system that reproduces racist and patriarchal prejudices in its treatment of Indigenous women, who often lack translators and are unaware of their right to a public defender. Moreover, the enforcement of criminal justice in Indigenous territories represents the imposition of colonial law over Indigenous jurisdictions, in violation of the Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Convention, ILO Convention 169, and the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples.

Historically, the imprisonment of Indigenous men and women represents a continuation of colonial practices that impose the law of the colonizer in place of Indigenous forms of justice. It is not only problem of the overrepresentation of poor, racialised bodies in prisons, but the imposition of a punitive system that does not respond to the traditional forms of conflict resolution historically developed by the Indigenous Peoples of Mexico. In this way, Indigenous women imprisoned at the Federal Social Rehabilitation Centre (Cefereso 16), Mexico’s largest high-security women’s prison, have been displaced from their territories and condemned by a colonial justice system that has systematically violated their rights.

Michapa: Rehabilitation Centre or Colonial Enclave?

Over the Indigenous and peasant territory of Michapa rises the Federal Social Rehabilitation Centre No. 16: Mexico’s first and only high-security women’s prison. The centre was built by Grupo Inbursa, owned by the magnate Carlos Slim, under a public-private partnership scheme, and, like many prisons in Mexico, it was established on the lands of Indigenous Peoples. Today, the descendants of the Tlahuica people are small-scale farmers cultivating subsistence crops and tropical fruits on ejido (collectively owned) and communal lands. On these lands, vegetation was cleared to construct a vast prison complex stretching for over a kilometre of frontage, intruding upon the landscape along the isolated road from Amacuzac to Michapa.

The prison’s punitive economy commodifies confinement: the private sector is responsible for designing, building, equipping, and maintaining the facility, while the State, as the service’s client, pays for its full capacity—2,528 cells—whether occupied or not. At the same time, a prison-based textile maquiladora or sweatshop has been established, using cheap labour without employment benefits and using infrastructure subsidised by the State. Workers are paid 250 pesos per week (approximately USD 14.57) through an internal points system redeemable in prison stores, reminiscent of the colonial “tiendas de raya” or “company stores” on the exploitative haciendas during the dictatorship of Porfirio Díaz (1876–1911).

To enter Michapa is to traverse a territory of oppression. Before arrival, mobile signals are lost, and temperatures of over 40°C turn access into an exercise in endurance. A succession of more than twenty checkpoints form part of a strict bureaucratic-punitive labyrinth, where extreme control functions as punishment for those attempting to enter. Symbolic violence is manifested in the monochromatic, mechanical, and arid architecture, where carefully controlled vegetation greets external visitors, while the areas inhabited by women deprived of liberty contain only synthetic grass that simulates life—as if the denial of life were part of the punishment. This territory constitutes the daily reality for the prison population.

Cell Block 6.1

The conditions of torture, isolation, and lack of medical care experienced by inmates have been identified as primary factors contributing to the deterioration of their mental health. These conditions have reached an unsustainable point, pushing the emotional balance of the women to the extreme and resulting in a distressing and alarming number of suicides: 20 cases recorded in the last two years, up to January 2026. Specifically, the transfers of inmates from other detention centres since 2022 have been cited as a significant factor underlying this wave of suicides, a concern also noted by the National Human Rights Commission and the Federal Institute of Public Defence.

Among the population who have been transferred are Indigenous women from various regions: Mayas from Quintana Roo; Otomís from the States of Mexico and Hidalgo; Nahuas from Guerrero, Morelos, and Puebla; Mixtecas and Chatinas from Oaxaca; Yaquis from Sonora; Wirrarikas from Zacatecas; and one Afro-Guerrerense woman. Following the 2020 detention of Afro-Amuzga human rights activist Kenya Hernández, the Indigenous women of Michapa, guided by her leadership, requested a special Cell block where they could live together and preserve their cultural practices. As a result, Cell Block 6.1 became a multi-ethnic community comprising 18 Indigenous women, detained for federal offences ranging from theft and participation in organised crime to minor offences such as fraud or the falsification of documents.

The continuum of violences has marked their lives since childhood now also includes the violence of the colonial State that uses the prison as a form of control and dehumanization.

The continuum of violences has marked their lives since childhood now also includes the violence of the colonial State that uses the prison as a form of control and dehumanization.

As most of the women were accustomed to living in close contact with nature, the prison space itself constitutes a form of violence: they are confined in a grey concrete cell block. It is a circular structure, with cells arranged around a central space where all activities take place, from meals and training sessions to personal hygiene in the showers. The entire Cell block is completely covered in concrete, leaving the Indigenous women without even a single patch of earth to step on. Something as elemental as feeling the soil beneath one’s feet is deeply longed for by these women, who dream of and write about the land, rivers, trees, and all the natural surroundings of their home communities.

Alongside the isolation from their communities, punitive measures such as total solitary confinement continue to be used as forms of control over the prison population. During the three years we worked in this detention centre, we witnessed one case in which a resident of Cell Block 6.1 was beaten, bound by hands and feet, and held in isolation as punishment for her “misconduct.” The continuum of violence that has marked their lives since childhood now includes the legitimised violences of a colonial State, which uses the prison as a means of control, dispossession, and dehumanisation.

Writing as Resistance: Totoltin and Dissenting Voices

In the face of this colonial system of control, the multi-ethnic community has developed its own strategies of collective resistance, creating networks of care. Through the space opened by collective reflection in the Reborn in Writing workshop, the women of Cell Block 6.1 were able to share their stories, get to know one another, and reflect each other’s experiences, engaging in processes of individual and collective healing through writing and the dignification of their memories.

The Hermanas en la Sombra Editorial Collective entered Michapa in 2023 to deliver this workshop across several cell blocks, based on the Identity Writing methodology, which we have developed over seventeen years of work in carceral spaces and systematised in Reborn in Writing: Manual for Feminist Intervention in Spaces of Violence. This methodology represents an exercise in reconstructing subjectivity, enabling women to recover their own voice and denounce structural logics of oppression, affirming themselves as individuals with history, memory, and agency. Engaging with writing also serves as a political tool, allowing Indigenous women to challenge the ways they are represented in official narratives, which reduce them to mere numbers and offences.

Little by little, memories were released through writing, many of them surrounded by violence and oppression, both in their life trajectories and in the remembered histories of their ancestors and their communities.

Memories were released through writing, many of them surrounded by violence, both in their own lives and in the remembered histories of their ancestors and their communities.

Through the written word, the women of Cell Block 6.1 explored, week by week, the themes of the manual: racism, classism, androcentrism, sorority, and misogyny; the myths of romantic love; life stories and the body; autonomy; and transformative and healing writing. These processes of dialogue and writing were accompanied by songs, rituals, readings, and exercises of introspection and reconnection with themselves. In each session, we reflected collectively on life experiences, listening to and recognized ourselves in each other. Gradually, memories were released through writing, many of them shaped by violence and oppression, both in their own life trajectories and in the histories of their ancestors and communities.

In the book we published Totoltin: Palomas. Writings by Indigenous Women Prisoners in Michapa (2025), Nido recalls her childhood in the Sierra of Sonora and relives the displacement she experienced with her Yaqui family in order to access public education: “The day came to start primary school. I remember the first day well; it was enough to present myself in the hand-embroidered outfit my mother had made me for them to laugh and say I was Indigenous and that the city girls did not understand my language. Gradually, hatred took hold of me, and to this day I drag that chain. Many times they call me ‘Indian,’ ‘shitty Indigenous,’ or sometimes ‘the idiot.’”

Authors—Giving Birth to Their Stories and Pain

After the conclusion of the writing workshop, the texts were digitised, marking the start of a second phase aimed at materialising these stories in the book Totoltin: Palomas. Writings by Indigenous Women Prisoners in Michapa. The texts were selected and edited by the authors themselves. In addition, they handcrafted the endpapers, learned bookbinding techniques, and poured their hearts into every stage of the process. As several of the 18 participants spoke their mother tongues—mainly Nahuatl, Chatino, Maya, and Zapotec—but were unable to write them, most of the texts were written in Spanish. Some explained that they no longer spoke their languages because racism and discrimination had forced them to forget. In her text “I Grew Up”, Lucía Ramírez, a Nahua woman from Tatahuicapan de Juárez, recounts the hardships and deprivations of her childhood:

Nej ni guella ken inon pelotzit zit cuak illek qui mel cajtek (I grew up like little puppies abandoned by their mother),
noselti (alone), nictemo ken nia ni isatotik (trying to figure out how to survive).
Ne niteki pano nochipa aun quej poins ni ciahuia pues alla ni llole catca (I worked, always getting very tired because I was still so small).

In the final sessions, the women reflected on the transformative process they had experienced and its impact during the workshop. Leticia Pérez, a Nahua woman from Puebla, expressed: “I see the book as something we all gave birth to together, something we have been working on for months and that is now going to be released—yes, it’s going to come out, comrades! It represents our stories, but also what we have suffered. I don’t know how you will see it, but for me, we all gave birth to it together.” The collective birth metaphor shared by “Mamá Lety” illustrates how writing strengthens community bonds and connection. By recognising themselves as authors—giving birth to their stories and pain, reframed, collectivised, and materialised in the book-object, they construct memories narrated in their own words, imbued with poetic, political, and emotional power.

It is within the prison, a hostile space designed for control, that writing emerges as a symbolic womb from which resistance and community are produced and “born.” Writing allows the imagination of forms of subjectivity not defined by the punitive logic of the State, but by the capacity to create, narrate oneself, resist, and reaffirm oneself as an individual with history, memory, and agency. Through it, the authors of Totoltin share collective memories portraying the conditions of violence, exclusion, oppression, and dispossession faced by Indigenous women in twenty-first-century Mexico.

Final Reflections

Prisons continue to function as instruments of punishment, control, and territorial dispossession of Original Peoples across the Americas. In this sense, Totoltin: Doves. Writings by Indigenous Women Prisoners in Michapa can be considered part of the archives of Indigenous resistance, and specifically of Indigenous women. The continuity of the colonial project in the Americas has been denounced through various textual strategies, ranging from political manifestos to songs, chronicles, and poetry. The silence of complicity has been broken, and nothing can silence these voices.

These denunciations also include testimonies of the diverse forms of resistance that women have developed to defend life and build community, even in contexts where the violences of colonial States isolate them through laws that justify the seizure, displacement, and dispossession of their territories. We hope that this text echoes their call to tear down the walls of these colonial enclaves, disguised as Social Rehabilitation Centres. As Yanetzin Marcelo describes in the poem that gives the book its title, it is a call to continue resisting collectively:

Dear Doves,
Build your nest and groom yourselves
Protect yourselves alone and in a flock
You are strength, will, courage, and life
Resist dying within those cells
Write, love, sing, and dance
And always stay in the air

Totometzinti
Xmotlahpialikan
Xmonapalokan
Nehuame maka xmikan
Xkelnamikan nimochikawalis
Xpatlanikan, xmititikan, xmotlasohtlakan
Nochipa xnemikan

(Yanetzin Marcelo, Poem Palomares–Totohmetsinti)

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This daily reality unfolds where traditional gender roles intersect with the unique circumstances of pastoralist life. Pastoralist communities care for vast rangelands and sustain food systems built on generations of knowledge about livestock, mobility, and communal land use. Their contributions to food security and the environment are significant, albeit under-documented, yet opportunities to participate fully in economic and political life are often limited.

For women in these communities, the challenges are even greater: expectations around household and family responsibilities, limited access to education, remote locations, and minimal representation in decision-making all make it harder to have their voices heard. Together, these factors create a gap in access to justice that is shaped by culture and tradition as well as by structural obstacles.

External Pressures and Land Insecurity

Although it might not seem relevant, distance is a major barrier, as courts and administrative offices are far from rural pastoralist communities and costly to access. Legal systems are complex, operate in unfamiliar languages, and exclude women with limited literacy. Even when these barriers are overcome, patriarchal norms restrict women’s ability to assert claims. Harmful practices including early and forced marriage, widow disinheritance, and gender-based violence further limit access to justice. While dispute resolution prioritises social harmony, it often leaves women vulnerable and reinforces existing power imbalances rather than providing impartial protection.

These barriers are compounded by external pressures. Climate change, expanding conservation areas, commercial agriculture, and infrastructure development increasingly encroach on pastoralist grazing lands. As competition over land intensifies, disputes multiply. Despite their central role in managing households, food security, and livestock-related labour, women are rarely consulted (or compensated) in negotiations when land is lost. Their exclusion from land governance deepens economic insecurity and weakens their ability to claim their rights, reinforcing cycles of vulnerability.

Rights enshrined in global instruments or national laws have little meaning if women do not understand them, have limited access to them, or cannot safely exercise them in their own communities.

Rights enshrined in global instruments or national laws have little meaning if women do not understand them or cannot safely exercise them in their own communities.

For pastoralist women themselves, justice is understood far more broadly than legal redress alone. It is about being respected within the family, listened to by elders, and recognised by state authorities regardless of gender, ethnicity, literacy, or mobility. For them, justice means protection from violence, secure access to land and livestock, and the ability to participate in decisions that shape community futures. It also means accountability and knowing that harm will not be dismissed as a private matter or absorbed quietly in the name of tradition.

International norms support this vision. The UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples affirms Indigenous Peoples’ rights to self-determination, land, and participation in decision-making, and explicitly recognises Indigenous women’s rights to equality and freedom from violence and discrimination. Yet the distance between international commitments and lived reality remains vast. Rights enshrined in global instruments or national laws have little meaning if women do not understand them, have limited access to them, or cannot safely exercise them in their own communities.

Grassroots Holistic Solutions: Pastoral Women’s Council

Bridging the justice gap requires approaches that are culturally grounded, locally led, gender-balanced, and attentive to the everyday realities of pastoralist life. This is where grassroots organisations play a critical role. The Pastoral Women’s Council (PWC) is an organisation representing more than 8,000 pastoralist women in northern Tanzania that demonstrates how access to justice can be strengthened from the ground up. Rather than treating women as passive beneficiaries, PWC operates on the premise that pastoralist women are rights-holders and agents of change. This initiative for access to justice, with a gender equity approach aimed at Indigenous Peoples, promotes:

Developing Voice and Agency: Through locally rooted dialogue and leadership training, women gain the confidence and skills to speak publicly, negotiate within households, and engage traditional leaders and government officials. This agency is evident in community-based action on land rights, where women facing displacement from tourism-related investments have helped shape more equitable outcomes through direct participation in multi-stakeholder dialogue. The women leaders have successfully challenged land dispossession, asserted inheritance rights, and intervened in cases of domestic violence, contributing to shifts in community perceptions about who has the authority to speak and to decide.

Leadership and Decision-Making: When women occupy decision-making positions, locally or nationally, issues affecting women and families are more likely to be raised, debated, and addressed. PWC’s work becomes particularly visible when women enter formal leadership spaces. Fifteen years ago, only three pastoralist women were elected as Village Chairs. Now that number is 18, with a further 1,400 such pastoralist women in decision making positions in village governing bodies. Alongside individual achievement, this increase in leadership equity signals a transformation in social norms and political inclusion.

Gender-Based Violence Prevention and Norms Change: Addressing gender-based violence requires both prevention and comprehensive responses. PWC works with women and men to challenge harmful norms that normalise abuse, while also strengthening referral pathways to health, legal, and protection services. Engaging men as allies is a deliberate strategy, recognising that lasting change depends on transforming collective attitudes, not simply supporting individual survivors.

Legal Literacy and Paralegal Support: Many pastoralist women are unaware of the rights afforded to them by law or how these intersect with customary practices. PWC’s Women’s Rights and Leadership Forums (WRLFs) translate legal concepts into local languages and real-life scenarios, enabling women to understand land laws, marriage regulations, and protections against gender-based violence. Knowledge thus becomes a tool of empowerment, reducing reliance on male intermediaries and increasing women’s confidence in asserting their claims. To further decentralise access to justice, PWC trains community-based paralegals, often women from the communities themselves, who provide basic legal guidance, mediate disputes, and connect survivors of violence to formal institutions. In areas where lawyers and courts are distant, these paralegals serve as trusted entry points into the justice system. Their presence helps demystify legal processes and ensures that women are not navigating them alone.

Land Rights and Economic Empowerment: Land and economic security are essential to women’s access to justice. Without secure land rights, women’s bargaining power remains limited. PWC thus supports marginalised women to obtain Certificates of Customary Rights of Occupancy, formalising land claims while addressing gender-based exclusion. Via Village Community Banks (VICOBA), women build savings, access loans, and develop financial literacy, later progressing to formal microfinance through partners such as Engishon Microfinance Ltd. Economic independence thus reduces vulnerability to exploitation and strengthens women’s capacity to challenge injustice.

Justice as Collective Transformation

By way of example, in 2025, Vaileth Elias and Sarah Oltetia were elected as councillors, roles traditionally dominated by men. In a recent PWC “Local to Local Dialog” training session, Vaileth shared her experience: “I received training at a very early stage [in my leadership journey] and have seen great benefits from it. This gave me the courage to run for leadership alongside four men. It was a tense time and even the men seemed confused. Eventually, I was announced the winner by a large margin.”  This gaining of confidence and agency was confirmed by Sarah: “I now know how to call a meeting, whom to invite, and how to train people so that they clearly understand what I am communicating”. She continued, “Where I am today, serving as a Councillor, is truly because of the education I received through PWC.”

Despite their proven impact and scalable models, organisations such as Pastoral Women’s Council face significant structural barriers, particularly in mobilising financial and technical resources. Global climate, conservation, and land-rights funding rarely reaches Indigenous and local women-led organisations directly, undermining sustainability and limiting institutional growth. If equitable access to justice for Indigenous pastoralist women is a genuine priority, funding architectures must change. Direct, long-term, gender-responsive financing is not charity: it is a strategic investment in effective, sustainable, locally legitimate justice systems.

In conclusion, the experience of pastoralist women in Tanzania challenges narrow definitions of justice. Laws and courts matter but they are insufficient without cultural legitimacy, economic security, and women’s leadership. Justice emerges when women can speak, communities recognise their authority, and institutions respond to lived realities. The work of PWC, and the solidarity expressed by its members and allies, demonstrates that integrated approaches, combining legal literacy, leadership development, economic empowerment, and community advocacy, can address the root causes of injustice. Equitable access to justice is ultimately about power: who holds it, who shares it, and who can claim it.

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For women, this alienation has gender-specific consequences. Traditionally, Indigenous women have enjoyed a relatively high status due to their role in production, ecological knowledge, and family economy, which are built on CPRs. Indigenous women of North-East India have thus participated in decision-making and are economically active agents as long as land is managed by the community. When these systems are disrupted through land alienation, development-induced displacement, legal assimilation with the dominant society, and market interventions, Indigenous women experience a disproportionate loss of status, agency, and access to justice.

Justice for Indigenous women must, therefore be located at the intersection of collective rights, livelihood security, gendered power relations, and self-determination. The loss of CPRs, the imposition of individualised legal regimes, and development-induced displacement have disproportionately undermined Indigenous women’s rights. A re-conceptualisation of the notion of justice is therefore necessary that prioritises sustenance-based rights, gender-sensitive reforms of customary laws, and meaningful recognition of Indigenous legal systems.

Collective Rights and the Question of Justice

The Indian debate on whether communities should be recognised as “tribal” or “Indigenous” is not merely semantic.  The term “tribe”, as used in the Indian constitution, refers to a community with shared culture and social organisation. It thus situates these communities within a welfare and development paradigm, while not acknowledging their historical prior occupancy. The term “Indigenous,” on the other hand, is grounded in international law and emphasises original habitation, self-determination, collective rights, and sovereignty over land, forests, and natural resources. This term refers to a rights-based political identity tied to historical continuity.

The Indian State, however, does not recognise any community as Indigenous; it classifies them all under the caterory of “tribal”. While “tribal” recognition limits justice to redistributive and compensatory measures, “Indigenous” recognition extends it to historical, territorial, and restorative justice. Indigenous Peoples perceive themselves as distinct “peoples” possessing collective rights rooted in their historical, cultural, spiritual, and territorial relationships. Their rights are not limited to individual entitlements but include collective rights over land, resources, and governance systems. These collective rights are essential for maintaining intergenerational continuity of culture, law, and livelihood.

However, the imposition of private or individual property regimes through colonial and postcolonial legal frameworks and capitalist notions of development has undermined the collective land rights of tribal and Indigenous communities. The legal system in India does not recognise CPR as the Indigenous Peoples’ sustenance. The denial of their right over CPR leads to land alienation and impoverishment. Such a framework is particularly ill-suited to Indigenous societies that have traditionally held and managed land and other resources collectively. Justice in this context means recognition of Indigenous Peoples’ collective rights and their authority over sustenance systems.

Gender Implications, Customary Law and Formal Law

Indigenous communities in Northeast India have traditionally governed themselves through customary laws that prioritised equitable distribution, sustainable management of resources, and intergenerational equity. Women enjoyed a relatively high (although not equal) status because of their role in managing the family economy. However, the imposition of individual property has converted community land into state property and recognised ownership largely through individual pattas (legal individual ownership land document), usually vested in “male heads of households”. As CPRs are alienated, Indigenous women increasingly lose access to the economic and social spaces that sustained their status.

This legal shift transfers power from the community to a male elite and marginalises women from decision-making. The State and market institutions further intensify this process by granting loans, subsidies, and benefits only to individual landowners, reinforcing male control and accelerating class formation within the communities. As a result, women lose their economic roles, social autonomy, and authority, leading many to even internalise ideologies of female subordination. The encounter between customary and formal law is thus not a neutral transition but an unequal process that deepens gender injustice. 

While externally imposed models of development often deepen gendered inequalities, meaningful gender justice is more likely to emerge when customary institutions themselves are reformed in ways that protect women’s rights.

Gender justice is more likely to emerge when customary institutions themselves are reformed in ways that protect women’s rights.

Indications show that modernisation without safeguards or preparation strengthens male domination by introducing individual land ownership and intensifying male control over resources. It also results in class formation in their traditionally egalitarian societies. For example, among the matrilineal Garo of Meghalaya, financial schemes for State-supported rubber plantations required individual land titles in the name of male heads of households. This affected community ownership since a few powerful individuals monopolised land and it weakened women’s role.

There are also instances that benefit women and arise from  customary systems themselves. The reforms proposed by the Paite Tribal Council to recognise daughters’ inheritance rights demonstrate the possibility of aligning tradition with gender justice. Taken together, these experiences underscore that while externally imposed models of development often deepen gendered inequalities, meaningful gender justice is more likely to emerge when customary institutions themselves are reformed in ways that protect women’s rights.

Development, Displacement, and the Feminisation of Injustice

Development-induced displacement constitutes one of the gravest barriers to justice for Indigenous Peoples in general and Indigenous women and girls in particular. Dams, mining, and industrial expansion have primarily targeted the CPRs that form the backbone of Indigenous livelihoods. Large-scale acquisition of tribal land for development projects has resulted in widespread impoverishment.

In this regard, a significantly higher proportion of Indigenous displaced persons become landless compared to non-indigenous groups. Furthermore, territorial encroachment has devastating social consequences for Indigenous Peoples, such as marginalisation, destitution, and loss of identity and culture. In India, while around 25 percent of displaced cultivators become landless after displacement, this figure exceeds 50 percent among Indigenous and Dalit displaced persons.

Displacement thus goes beyond reproducing pre-existing inequalities; it actively feminises injustice by dismantling the material, social, and cultural bases that sustain Indigenous women’s dignity and rights.

Displacement feminises injustice by dismantling the material, social, and cultural bases that sustain Indigenous women’s dignity and rights.  

While displacement impoverishes entire communities, its consequences are markedly gendered. Displacement erodes not only women’s material security but also their social status. The loss of CPRs deprives women of their status as economic contributors and social actors, thus reducing many to unpaid domestic roles and intensifying their dependence on men. Alongside this, women internalise the ideology of subordination and, as livelihoods collapse, they are often pushed into low-paid, insecure work.

For their part, girls are often withdrawn from school to contribute to household survival, perpetuating cycles of poverty and female exclusion. Justice mechanisms rarely account for these impacts because they focus narrowly on individual compensation rather than collective and social loss. Development-induced displacement thus goes beyond reproducing pre-existing inequalities; it actively feminises injustice by dismantling the material, social, and cultural bases that sustain Indigenous women’s dignity and rights.

Towards Justice for Indigenous Women

Ensuring access to justice for Indigenous women and girls in Northeast India requires a fundamental reorientation of legal and policy frameworks. First, Indigeneity must be defined in terms of sustenance rather than chronology. The protection of Indigenous rights  depends on recognising CPRs as the foundation of Indigenous culture. Second, customary laws must be accorded due recognition and interpreted to address gender inequity. While the uncritical revival of tradition risks reinforcing the patriarchy, reform grounded in Indigenous values of equity, sustainability, and community welfare can strengthen women’s rights.

Third, access to justice must be expanded beyond courts to include culturally appropriate dispute resolution mechanisms, legal literacy, and participatory governance structures that ensure women’s representation. Modernisation of their customary law would be a step in this direction. Finally, justice for Indigenous women must acknowledge their agency. Despite structural constraints, Indigenous women remain central to ecological knowledge, resource management, and community resilience. Recognising and strengthening this agency is essential not only for gender justice but also for sustainable development and democratic governance in the region.

What this means is that access to justice for Indigenous women in Northeast India is inseparable from struggles over land, livelihood, self-determination, and identity. The erosion of community-based sustenance systems, combined with the imposition of individualised legal regimes, has produced intersecting forms of injustice that affect women disproportionately. Addressing this injustice requires recognising collective rights, restoring control over CPR, and reforming both formal and customary laws through a gender-sensitive lens. Only by centring sustenance, dignity, and agency can justice become meaningful for Indigenous women in the Northeast and in the rest of India.

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The CHT Accord of 1997, a peace treaty signed between the Indigenous movement that had led the resistance since 1974 and the ruling government party, included provisions to resolve land conflicts between Indigenous Peoples and settlers and to demilitarize the CHT by removing over 230 temporary army camps, among others. Had the CHT Accord been fully implemented by successive governments, the military occupation and settler expansion could have been halted. However, the lack of political will of successive governments to implement the Accord has resulted in a continuation of de facto military rule in CHT.

There is a symbiotic relationship between military occupation and settler expansion. Settlers rely on military protection to claim, retain and expand land ownership, while the military, with the aim of consolidating and retaining its power in CHT, depends on settlers who act as the civilian props for the military and, at times, as instruments against Indigenous resistance. In this context, when sexual violence against Indigenous women or girls is perpetrated by Bengalis, the military –in conjunction with the State institutions and other state agencies– systematically tries to protect the perpetrators.

A Repeating Pattern: the Lack of Police Cooperation

The steps for covering up crimes of sexual violence follow a recurring pattern, especially for cases that spark public outrage. And cases that gain a greater degree of national and international visibility are often the least likely to result in justice for the victims. Paradoxically, the more attention these cases receive, the more intensive the efforts of the State agencies to shield the perpetrators. In a few extreme cases, such efforts culminate in communal attacks on Indigenous Peoples by the settler Bengalis, resulting in deaths and destruction. Drawing upon four notorious sexual violence cases from the past decade, the subsequent analysis illustrates the processes by which justice is denied to the Indigenous victims.

Firstly, when family members of victims attempt to file complaints of sexual violence allegedly perpetrated by settlers, the officers in charge almost invariably show reluctance to receive them. After much persuasion and persistence, when police eventually agree to receive or file a case, critical information (such as eyewitness accounts or specific details that are crucial for future investigation) is often omitted or misrepresented. This is done intentionally to leave space for doubt and to enable the fabrication of an alternate narrative that will ultimately shield the perpetrators from accountability.

When two Marma sisters went to seek medical care at the district hospital for injuries they sustained after being allegedly raped by two soldiers, the law enforcement agencies unlawfully arrested.

When two Marma sisters went to seek medical care for injuries they sustained after being allegedly raped by two soldiers, the law enforcement agencies unlawfully arrested.

In September 2025, a 12-year-old Indigenous Marma schoolgirl stated that she had been raped by three settler Bengalis. According to her father, when he went to file a complaint, the police pressured him to describe perpetrators as “three unidentified men”, despite having eyewitness accounts of three Bengalis following her before the incident. Following the rape and murder of a Chakma woman in February 2014, her husband provided the names of three suspects based on eyewitness accounts. The police deliberately omitted those names when drafting the case and, without informing the changes to the husband (who was illiterate), police obtained his signature on the document the next day.  

In May 2025, the district commissioner and police questioned whether any crime had even been committed when an indigenous Khyang woman was brutally murdered after an alleged rape, despite having clear evidence of homicide. Her dead body was found stripped naked, the skull crushed. In their press release, police left out a crucial eyewitness account of her being harassed by three Bengalis a day earlier. In 2018, when two Marma sisters went to seek medical care at the district hospital for injuries they sustained after being allegedly raped by two soldiers, the law enforcement agencies unlawfully arrested and held them in an abandoned ward in that same hospital for more than three weeks.

Manipulation of Medical Evidence and Institutional Complicity

Forensic medical examinations are essential in substantiating cases of sexual assault. After filing cases, if public demonstrations demanding justice and condemnation from civil society have already occurred, the medical authority delays in producing the reports and they will eventually most likely return a negative result. In the two Marma sisters’ case, the initial medical report that was prepared and submitted in due time was withheld by the law enforcement agencies, and, two weeks later, a new second report with a negative result was produced by another medical examiner. 

Medical examiners risk serious retribution if they refuse to manipulate reports. On one occasion, a false accusation of corruption was even suddenly made against the examiner a few days after he had produced the first medical report. This ruined his medical career in the public sector. This false case thus simultaneously functioned as a method of punishment for his non-compliance, as coercion to maintain his silence on the ongoing rape case and as a warning to other medical examiners of the consequences of failing to comply.

Medical examiners risk serious retribution if they refuse to manipulate reports. On one occasion, a false accusation of corruption was even suddenly made against the examiner a few days after he had produced the first medical report.

Medical examiners risk serious retribution if they refuse to manipulate reports.

The report on the Marma schoolgirl was withheld for several days. The strictly confidential medical report on this minor girl, containing her photo and personal information, was leaked to, and widely shared on, settler-run online media outlets and a few popular news media outlets even before it had been handed over to police by the hospital authority. It is notable that, in the days leading up to this, settler organizations staged a series of demonstrations asserting that no rape had occurred, indicating their apparent foreknowledge of the report’s predetermined outcome. 

The information in the report had visibly been tampered with. The date of examination was written over with a new date, and was signed by the examiners with the previous date. By doing so, inconsistencies in information could not be avoided. No relevant authority undertook any investigation into the unauthorized disclosure of the confidential report or the discrepancies therein.

Narrative Control through Media

In recent years, mainstream media, online news portals and social media platforms have been extensively used to propagate narratives that delegitimize Indigenous Peoples’ demands for justice. While Indigenous protests receive minimal media coverage, settler organization-led counter demonstrations are extensively reported. Additionally, the media function as pro-military propaganda instruments. At the same time, scores of settlers run online news portals and social media platforms that spread false news about Indigenous resistance. This campaign aims to present Indigenous Peoples as anti-State forces and Indigenous rights defenders as separatists.      

In this context, when Indigenous Peoples intensify their demands for justice for crimes committed against women and girls, a coordinated campaign is launched to shift public debate from justice for victims to doubt as to the intention of the Indigenous protests. Generating a negative medical report is therefore essential in promoting the narrative that “Indigenous separatists” use false rape accusations to create agitation against the military and settler Bengalis with the aim of destabilizing the region.  

It can be fairly stated that the very structure that systematically provides impunity to perpetrators of sexual violence also ensures impunity for the subsequent violence inflicted upon Indigenous communities seeking justice.

It can be fairly stated that the very structure that systematically provides impunity to perpetrators of sexual violence also ensures impunity for the subsequent violence inflicted upon Indigenous communities seeking justice.

In extreme cases, communal attacks on Indigenous communities are orchestrated to intimidate, to reinforce the propaganda narrative and to divert attention away from demands for justice. In the 2014 rape and murder case of the Chakma woman, settlers launched a series of communal attacks on Indigenous villagers using rumors about a missing Bengali child. In the case of the Marma schoolgirl, attacks and arson swept across the district for two days, killing at least three and injuring scores of Indigenous people, as well as destroying property. There are strong allegations that the military backed these attacks and fired on the Indigenous villagers. These attacks followed the same pattern of spreading rumors about Indigenous aggression against settler Bengalis while the coordinated use of social media amplified their impact.   

No investigations into communal attacks were launched by the authorities in either of these two cases. Conversely, in the case of the Marma girl, false charges were brought against more than a dozen Indigenous youth under several laws, including the Special Powers Act, a draconian law frequently used to suppress Indigenous Peoples. It can be fairly stated that the very structure that systematically provides impunity to perpetrators of sexual violence also ensures impunity for the subsequent violence inflicted upon Indigenous communities seeking justice.

This article synthesizes testimonies from Indigenous rights defenders working in the Chittagong Hill Tracts, along with reports from documented sources.

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Indonesia’s Indigenous women experience disproportionate levels of discrimination. More than one in three Indigenous women is raped during their lifetime, with maternal mortality rates higher than the national average. In Nepal and India, Indigenous women face caste-based violence while, in Bangladesh, Indigenous women are often targeted because of their distinct physical features and religious beliefs.

Indigenous women are also the disproportionate victims of human trafficking. A study by the National Human Rights Commission of Nepal showed that 49 % of the women survivors of  trafficking are Indigenous, followed by Dalit at 15 %. Madhesis account for 6 % and other ethnicities constitute the remaining 29 %. Indigenous Peoples, Dalits, and Madhesis are the most socially, politically, and economically marginalised and excluded communities in Nepal. Access to justice for victims of trafficking remains almost impossible. 

State violations and access to justice

In some countries such as Bangladesh and Myanmar, there is simply no access to justice but rather absolute impunity. While courts are known for setting the jurisprudence in India, in cases of human rights violations, prosecution of the perpetrators requires prior authorization from the government. Under Section 197 of the Criminal Procedure Code and Section 6 of the Armed Forces Special Powers Act of 1958, prior authorization is required from the executive authorities for the prosecution of public servants and law enforcement personnel.  In armed conflict situations, this authorization is often denied and access to justice thus effectively denied. 

In Nepal, Indigenous women were the victims of sexual violence during the Maoist conflict. In 2019, the UN Human Rights Committee (HRC) issued a landmark decision in the case of an Indigenous girl who was the victim of rape, torture and forced labour in 2002. At the age of 14, she was arrested by the Armed Police and the Royal Army and forced to work in the barracks on the construction of a temple. Over that time, she was raped multiple times and subjected to other forms of sexual violence, torture and inhuman treatment. Following the rape, she was not able to urinate and was bleeding profusely and yet received no medical assistance. The Major who raped her threatened to kill her if she told anybody about what had happened.  

In war-torn Myanmar, women have been targeted by the military. In March 2023, Free Expression Myanmar (FEM) reported that more than 300 women and girls, including nurses, students, teachers, activists, and others, had been killed since the coup. Further, the military had used sexual violence as a systematic weapon to punish pro-democracy protesters who were detained: 17 women and girls were raped and killed. In addition, the military junta had arrested 16,432 people, of whom 3,434 were women, and military prison staff often torture female political prisoners. As Myanmar is not party to most international human rights conventions, victims do not have access to justice.

Violence from the majority society

Across the Asian region, Indigenous women face violations from the majority non-Indigenous communities because of their distinct identities, cultural practices and religious beliefs. In most Asian countries, disaggregated data on violence against Indigenous Peoples is not collected, thereby making it impossible to understand the real scale of the violence. Specific laws are consequently not enacted to address access to justice. 

India has enacted progressive laws by making sexual offences specific crimes under the 1989 Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities Act). Article 3 criminalizes “words, acts or gestures of a sexual nature towards a woman belonging to a Scheduled Caste or a Scheduled Tribe, knowing that she belongs to a Scheduled Caste or a Scheduled Tribe” with fines and prison terms of no less than six months and up to five years. However, the crimes continue to take place: 1,137 cases of rape of Indigenous women in 2020, 1,324 in 2021 and 1,347 in 2022. Nevertheless, there is no denying that the law does provide the basis for access to justice.

India ha promulgado leyes progresistas al tipificar los delitos sexuales como crímenes específicos en el marco de la Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities) Act de 1989. El artículo 3 criminaliza “palabras, actos o gestos de naturaleza sexual dirigidos contra una mujer perteneciente a una casta o tribu registrada, a sabiendas de que pertenece a una casta o tribu registrada”, con multas y penas de prisión no inferiores a seis meses y que pueden extenderse hasta cinco años. Sin embargo, los delitos continúan ocurriendo: 1.137 casos de violación de mujeres indígenas en 2020; 1.324 en 2021; y 1.347 en 2022. Aun así, no puede negarse que la legislación proporciona una base para el acceso a la justicia.

In Bangladesh, access to justice for sexual violence cannot be contemplated. Sexual predators are often posted to the Chittagong Hill Tracts region inhabited by Indigenous Peoples.

In Bangladesh, access to justice for sexual violence cannot be contemplated. Sexual predators are often posted to the Chittagong Hill Tracts region inhabited by Indigenous Peoples.

In Bangladesh, protesting rape committed by members of the majority Muslim community often leads to direct attacks from the State agencies upon the Indigenous Peoples. In 2025, three Indigenous youths were shot dead and four others injured by Bangladesh Army personnel in the upazila of Guimara, in the Chittagong Hill Tracts, while protesting the alleged gang rape of an Indigenous schoolgirl. After the shooting, many Indigenous shops were looted and set on fire at Ramesu while nearby houses were also vandalised.

In Bangladesh, under such circumstances, access to justice for sexual violence cannot be contemplated. Sexual predators are often posted to the Chittagong Hill Tracts region inhabited by Indigenous Peoples. On 25 February 2021, Abul Hasnat Mohammad Sohel Rana was jailed in a case filed of sexual harassment of an Indigenous student. After being released, he rejoined the school, which prompted protests. On 20 September 2024, Rana was beaten to death for allegedly raping an Indigenous student belonging to the Tripura community on the school campus but his killing led to another massive assault on Indigenous Peoples in the neighbourhood.

Violations within the community and Indigenous women’s access to justice

Indigenous women also face barriers to accessing justice within their own cultural practices. Inheritance is a critical issue.. As recently as 2025, the Supreme Court of India held that denying a female heir her right to property only exacerbates gender discrimination and that the law must eradicate this practice. Consequently, as per Article 14 of the Constitution relating to the right to equality, the Court determined that both a tribal woman and her legal heirs (her children) are entitled to an equal share in the ancestral property.

Among the Indigenous Chakma community, a Customary Law has been in place since 2014 by which certain people can be declared “Ek Goshchey”, meaning that no other members of the community are allowed to mix socially with the family. These “customs” are often invoked by self-proclaimed patriarchs to violate the rights of Indigenous women and girls. In several rulings, the Tripura High Court ruled the practice of declaring Ek Goshchey or the imposition of social boycotts by the Tripura Rejyo Chakma Samajik Parishad (Tripura State Chakma Social Council) to be unconstitutional.  

Across the communities, Indigenous women face a systematic denial of access to power. In Nagaland, men opposed the 33% reservation for women in the local government bodies, preventing elections from being held for 20 years. Elections were finally held on 26 June 2024, in compliance with a Supreme Court Order.

Digital abuses against Indigenous women and girls 

Violence in the real world is replicated on social media. As the digital space now plays an important role in modern society, Indigenous women and girls face increased risk of online hate and serious online harm at much higher rates than the general population. As many countries are still in the process of developing laws relating to cyber abuse, Indigenous women and girls remain largely beyond effective legal protection and access to justice.

The multiple forms of violence experienced by Indigenous women in Asia reveal a structural pattern of intersectional discrimination that combines gender, ethnic identity, tradition, religion and caste. Impunity, driven by a lack of political will, consolidates a context in which access to justice is the exception rather than the rule. Even where progressive legislation or landmark judicial rulings exist, their implementation faces deep resistance, both within state institutions and within the patriarchal structures of their communities.

In this context, it is essential to adopt comprehensive approaches that guarantee protection of the individual and collective rights of Indigenous women in Asia, while strengthening their political participation, economic autonomy and community leadership. This entails reforming discriminatory legal frameworks, collecting data on violence against Indigenous women, and ensuring culturally appropriate justice mechanisms. Without full recognition of their rights to land, inheritance, their bodies and their voices in the public sphere, it will not be possible to build democratic, plural and egalitarian societies.

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Within this context, historical portrayals of Indigenous women are often filtered through patriarchal, ethnocentric and racist lenses that erase their presence and reduce them to stereotypes. It is therefore vital to highlight the central role played by Guna women during the 1925 rebellion, when the government sought to dismantle the Guna cultural system by imposing a Western symbolic order. From a cultural and decolonial perspective, we can begin to understand the epistemic dimension of Guna women’s struggle and the legacy they continue to build today.

For Guna women, traditional dress, ceremonial songs, the role of knowledge bearer, and that of community educator, all represent symbolic territories of resistance in the fight for dignity and cultural sovereignty. These expressions are not mere objects of folklorisation but rather tools of symbolic resistance and historical reconstruction grounded in an Indigenous worldview.

Spaces of Symbolic Resistance among Guna Women

The participation of Gunadule women in the 1925 rebellion went far beyond a singular act of defiance – it became an enduring cultural affirmation grounded in everyday practice. Their resistance took shape across a range of symbolic spaces: the home, traditional medicine, healing, cooking, ceremonies and, most notably, in their identity as expressed through traditional dress. These became sites of identity reaffirmation in the face of a hegemonic system that, as early as 1922, sought to impose Western clothing – provoking strong resistance from Gunadule women.

In this context, Guna cultural practices – language, dance, spirituality, the mola, and ancestral medicine – took on an insurgent character. This was especially true given that Guna communities were among the first to suffer violent dispossession in places such as Yandub, Aggwanusadub, Niadub, Uggubseni, Gardi Sugdub, Diggir, Ailigandi and Uwargandub. Far from being folkloric expressions, these practices formed part of a complex symbolic system from which identity and resistance were articulated.

Traditional dress was the first symbolic element targeted for erasure: the Mola (the hand-sewn textile panel that adorns women’s clothing), bracelets, earrings, and the olasu (a gold nose ring). The mola, a living archive encoding ancestral narratives, became (and remains) a powerful emblem of cultural resistance: an aesthetic and political stronghold. After the rebellion, the Mola was reclaimed as a symbol of autonomy. Today, it represents not only beauty and tradition but memory, resilience, and pride. Despite efforts to suppress it, women safeguarded it, even concealing it within their clothing during the uprising.

The Symbolic Role of Orality and Education

Through stories, songs and teachings, women quietly ensured the survival of ancestral knowledge. This communal educational effort strengthened cultural identity and resisted the symbolic erasure imposed by colonisation. Despite guards forcing the Guna to dance to Western music, learn Spanish, and abandon their traditional dress, Guna women succeeded in transmitting the vital importance of preserving their culture through education.

The spiritual and ceremonial practices of the Gunadule people were not merely aspects of daily life but fundamental pillars in defending their identity against internal colonialism. As custodians of ancestral wisdom, keepers of oral memory, and active participants in traditional ceremonies, Gunadule women preserved the sacred rituals that sustain their relationships with spirits, nature and ancestors. From interpreting dreams to performing ceremonial songs, their involvement guaranteed the continuity of an Indigenous epistemology rooted in reciprocity, balance, and harmony with the environment.

Faced with imposed Western values such as rationalism, Christian morality, and a linear perception of time, Guna women resisted through the active practice of their spirituality. This inherited model, passed down from their elders, challenged hegemonic beliefs not with material weapons but with a coherent, living and meaningful symbolic framework. Consequently, rituals fulfilled not only religious functions but also political and educational roles, strengthening community bonds and reaffirming the right to exist according to their own worldview.

Community Organisation and Women’s Leadership

During the 1925 rebellion, Gunadule women played a pivotal role in community organisation, coordinating logistical, emotionals and strategic efforts that sustained the resistance on a daily basis. Their leadership unfolded across multiple levels: they established shelters and organised the relocation of families; ensured the safety of children, elders, and other vulnerable members of the community; and secured food, medicine, and essential supplies needed for survival amidst the conflict.

Yet their contribution went far beyond logistics. Women provided vital emotional support, offering collective care and transmitting calm, hope, and spiritual strength. Their presence was fundamental in holding the community together, maintaining morale, and preserving bonds of solidarity in the face of dispossession and state repression. This work of care and accompaniment – often rendered invisible by war-centred narratives that prioritise masculine roles – was a cornerstone of the resistance.

In this context, the Mornag – the Guna people’s normative and educational system – has long served as a key space for women’s active participation. It not only governs communal life but also functions as a bastion for the transmission of ancestral values and a site for negotiating women’s roles within a patriarchal order. During the 1925 uprising, the Mornag strengthened women’s organisational and spiritual capacities, enabling a resistance that was both coordinated and enduring.

The Home as a Symbolic Space of Cultural Resistance

Unlike Western perspectives that have historically viewed the home as a space of confinement and female subordination, in the Gunadule cultural universe the domestic sphere holds a profoundly different meaning. Following the 1925 uprising, the home was reimagined as a symbolic stronghold from which women enacted a powerful form of cultural, ethical and political resistance.

Far from serving as spaces of seclusion, homes became sanctuaries of collective care. Within these walls, Guna women not only ensured the nourishment, healing, and wellbeing of their families but also protected ancestral knowledge, spiritual practices, and oral traditions that form the foundation of Guna identity. The home was the space where ritual songs, the mother tongue, and the techniques for creating the Mola were preserved and transmitted down the generations.

Amid mounting pressure from the state to impose a Western model of life, the home became the nucleus of cultural sovereignty and a site of reaffirmed autonomy. In this context, women’s roles within the household defy any notion of passivity or subordination: their quiet, everyday, and spiritual labour was not only essential to sustaining the community during the uprising, but also to ensuring the survival and continuity of Guna cultural life over time.

Healing and Traditional Medicine as Strategies of Resistance

During the 1925 uprising, the ancestral medicine practised by women botanical healers emerged as a crucial instrument of holistic healing and a dynamic form of cultural resistance. In this context, the inaduled (botanical doctors) played a central role not only in tending to the physical well-being of combatants but also in restoring their spiritual and emotional equilibrium. Through sacred chants, ritual baths, medicinal plants, incense and ceremonial words, these women drew on knowledge passed down orally through generations – wisdom woven into a worldview in which the physical and the spiritual are inseparable.

Traditional medicine thus offered more than relief and strength; it stood as a form of epistemic resistance against the knowledge systems imposed by internal colonialism. By reaffirming their ancestral understandings of health, body, and spirit, the inaduled women redefined the very nature of the struggle, placing at its heart the defence of a collective, spiritual way of life deeply intertwined with the natural world.

In this context, healing became a resistance strategy as vital as any weapon, mending not only bodies damaged by violence but also the symbolic and cultural fabric of the community. In so doing, it fortified identity, cohesion and resilience against attempts at cultural annihilation. Traditional medicine was, therefore, also an act of ontological insubordination: a declaration of the right to exist through their own knowledge, languages, and beliefs.

Gunadule Women and the Epistemology of Resistance

The role of Gunadule women during the 1925 rebellion transcended the political and entered the epistemic realm, as they safeguarded ancestral knowledge through their distinct identity markers. Their actions wove a defence not only of their bodies and territories but also of a unique way of knowing, inhabiting the world, and passing down wisdom. Every song, ritual, and gesture of care and healing became a powerful act of resistance against the colonisation of thought and an affirmation of an ancestral worldview under threat from the hegemonic logic of the nation-state.

The legacy of these women does not rest solely in the memory of that historical moment. It endures in new generations who, through platforms such as general and local congresses, language revitalisation, territorial struggles, and spiritual practices, continuously reaffirm the cultural autonomy of the Gunadule people.

Gunadule women remain a central pillar in building and defending the fabric of their people’s identity. They weave together the symbolic and the political, the domestic and the spiritual, the ancestral and the contemporary. Their memory shines as a beacon for ongoing struggles for self-determination, justice, and the preservation of Indigenous cultures. Symbolically, the Guna woman embodies the backbone of the cultural system that internal colonialism sought to dismantle. Her body, her artistry, and her social role constitute a battleground in which the survival of Guna identity is fiercely contested. Today, as with many Indigenous women across Abya Yala, she continues to resist.

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Our region’s experience nevertheless also offers responses that have arisen outside the frame of action of the States. The history of peoples and communities confronting environmental transformations is a long one and, since the 1990s, political organization has become especially relevant with the intensification of extractivism in the region. A number of translocalized organizations have stood up for environmental justice by demanding self-determination, a struggle that has today also taken on the name of climate justice.

In this scenario, Indigenous women of different territorial origins have been the protagonists in promoting grassroots organizations. Through their collective organization and deep knowledge of their environments, they have managed to preserve ways of life that are interdependent with nature and threatened by the climate crisis. In addition, their contributions and careers transcend their territories: they are notable professionals in the environmental, legal and social sciences, and occupy roles as academics, public officials and community leaders. This plurality of experiences has allowed them to coordinate politically and to weave collaborative networks with other actors.

Capacity building for advocacy

One of Indigenous women’s main strategies for advocacy has been training. Long-standing organizations such as the Organization of Indigenous and Amazonian Women of Peru (ONAMIAP) the Indigenous Women’s Network on Biodiversity and the National Coordinating Committee of Indigenous Women in Chile have established initiatives by which to strengthen their leadership and actions, and build their capacities.

Through their own experiences in different local, national and global decision-making spaces, Indigenous women are exchanging knowledge and tools and publicizing the barriers they face. Based on the collective history of their peoples, they have thus improved their participation at the territorial, community and public policy levels, and have succeeded in establishing discussions in legislative debates, Indigenous consultations, international meetings and in the communities themselves.

Capacity building from their own worldview generates a recognition of their knowledge as valid, both in its heterogeneity and in its dynamism.

Capacity building from their own worldview generates a recognition of their knowledge as valid, both in its heterogeneity and in its dynamism.

Capacity building from their own worldview generates a recognition of their knowledge as valid, both in its heterogeneity and in its dynamism. This process allows for a collective and dialogical construction based on an exchange between different epistemes, with emphasis on those they consider their own (such as traditional and Indigenous knowledge). This dialogue is possible because of the collaboration between actors, and it enables the forging of networks between Indigenous women and communities, institutions, multilateral agencies, research centres and different organizations.

This collaboration has nurtured their advocacy strategies and allowed them to position their thematic priorities and ways of working in order to address climate justice. At the same time, it provides them with tools that make it possible to reduce the gender gaps in their dialogue with institutions (as well as in the territories), and which strengthen actions at the community level.

A climate change training and advocacy school with Indigenous women

In Chile, responses to the climate crisis have followed the broad outlines of international negotiations. However, the inclusion of Indigenous Peoples in climate governance, as recommended by the COP, still encounters a number of barriers: a detailed analysis of national climate change policy reveals only marginal participation on the part of Indigenous Peoples. Firstly, they are presented as a homogeneous group and the gender dimension is therefore ignored. Secondly, the participatory State bodies relevant to them have been hurriedly improvised, without providing their members with the necessary skills for effective participation.

The scenario is consequently an alarming one given that climate policies in Chile are reproducing Indigenous women’s situation of exclusion. As if this were not enough, they ignore the role that, through their local knowledge, these women could play in managing climate change. Failing to take concrete measures for their inclusion runs the risk of increasing their climate vulnerability.

The objective of the School is to promote a dialogue on situated knowledge, emphasizing the experiences of Indigenous women, the effects of the climate crisis on their territories and the lessons learned from this.

The objective of the School is for Indigenous women to influence climate governance from an understanding that this is not the exclusive task of State institutions.

The School for Training and Advocacy with Indigenous Women on Climate Change seeks to respond to this context of unequal participation. It is an initiative created collaboratively by the National Coordinating Committee of Indigenous Women and the Inter-thematic Working Group on Climate Change, Public Policies and Indigenous Peoples of the Center for Intercultural and Indigenous Research (CIIR). Its origin dates back to 2021 in the context of advocacy work on the draft Framework Law on Climate Change in Chile, a law that completed its legislative process without Indigenous consultation or differentiated participation for Indigenous Peoples.

The objective of the School is for Indigenous women to influence climate governance from an understanding that this is not the exclusive task of State institutions. It is also to promote the construction of and dialogue on situated knowledge, emphasizing the experiences of Indigenous women, the effects of the climate crisis on their territories and the lessons learned from this. Ultimately, the School hopes to contribute to the political coordination and networking of different actors committed to climate and social justice.

Overcoming gaps from their own experiences

In its four virtual and in-person versions, this training space has connected almost 100 individuals, organizations and institutions. Among the topics addressed have been climate and ecological justice, impacts on bodies and territories, intercultural dialogue of knowledge, institutional climate governance at national and global levels, and territorial leadership actions as concrete contributions to climate change adaptation.

The School’s outcomes have been key to building a more realistic concept of climate justice. Through workshops featuring critical and participatory methodologies, the historical circumstances of the climate crisis have been reconstructed, giving name to the systems of patriarchal, colonialist and global capitalist oppression that gave rise to it. From this situated perspective, it has been possible to look at and analyse the present, and to put forward shared notions of justice (how to live with the world) and of the future.

The knowledge shared and constructed at the School provides women with tools to participate in dialogues from which they are often excluded.

The knowledge shared at the School provides women with tools to participate in dialogues from which they are often excluded.

The training has had a significant impact on the formation of translocalized and multidisciplinary networks. The Schools have connected people from different territorialities and socio-cultural realities. Through listening and dialogue, Indigenous women share and learn from other experiences. Space has thus been given to a diverse range of knowledge from a logic of horizontality, providing meaning and the possibility of action with which to face the crisis as a complex problem, challenging the vulnerable position in which climate policy has pigeonholed Indigenous women.

In addition, the knowledge shared and constructed at the School provides women with tools to participate in dialogues from which they are often excluded. Understanding climate policy and environmental institutions at different levels has been one of the most interesting and challenging topics. The women are seeking to reduce the information gap and overcome the high technical complexity of the subject. In addition, the women leaders aspire to receive training in all areas necessary to be able to dialogue effectively with the State and thus position their demands.

Training as a political strategy

The training spaces promoted by Indigenous women are providing concrete possibilities through which to build knowledge and put it into practise collaboratively. They are also contributing to positioning their working methods and methodologies, and to taking on different roles in training. This learning also enables Indigenous women to locate their own boundaries and timeframe given that these do not always coincide with the institutional framework or with external agents.

The contributions of women in these spaces are concrete: they have generated situated diagnoses of vulnerability based on an analysis of the life paths of both themselves and their communities. In addition, they have identified actions that contribute to addressing the crisis, together with the knowledge necessary for this work. Furthermore, from a strategic viewpoint, Indigenous women have analysed their possibilities for advocacy at the institutional level and with different actors, increasing their collaborative networks in this area.

Capacity building in these terms promotes personal experiences from a community perspective, deeply connected to the territories and expressed collectively. Through the meeting and exchange of these experiences, specific tools and strategies are generated with which to create influence in the territories, giving value to the feelings and actions of Indigenous women from their bodies-territories. At the same time, capacity building collaborates with institutional relations and promotes multilevel public policy advocacy, generating new alliances and collaborations with the different actors involved in environmental and climate issues.

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