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

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

More Than 70,000 Unidentified Bodies

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

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

Violence in Indigenous Territories: Dispossession and Disappearances

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

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

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

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

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

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

Search Collectives and the World Cup

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Chance to Play One More Match

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

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

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

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

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

The Rural Vote and the Coastal Vote

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Indigenous and Environmental Agenda Adrift

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

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

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

The Peruvian Model and Structural Inequality

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

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

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

Drifting towards Authoritarianism

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Way Forward Is Collective

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

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

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

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

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

The Politics of Racism and Stigmatisation

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

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

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

Proposals Affecting Indigenous Peoples

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

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

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

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

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

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

Appointments That Herald the Storm

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

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

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

Warnings for the Future

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

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

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

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

A President No One Saw Coming

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

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

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

An Accumulation of Demands

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Conflict That Seemed Never-Ending

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

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

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

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

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

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

Evo Morales’ Role

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

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

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

The Truce and the Uncertainty Ahead

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

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

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

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

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

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

Indigenous Lands and the Institutionalisation of Dispossession

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Indigenous Marine and Coastal Areas under Pressure

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Indigenous Vote for a Conservative President

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Government Manifesto That Promises Nothing New

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Contradiction for Indigenous Peoples

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

REDD+ (Reducing emissions from deforestation and forest degradation and the role of conservation, sustainable management of forests and enhancement of forest carbon stocks in developing countries), an approach originally developed within the UN climate negotiations as a mechanism to reduce emissions from deforestation and forest degradation, has gradually evolved into a complex system involving private developers, conservation NGOs, certification bodies, financial intermediaries and state agencies.

This expansion is unfolding within a profoundly unequal global political economy. While international institutions warn of a massive “climate finance gap”, fossil fuel subsidies still amount to trillions of dollars annually, and wealthy countries continue to fall short of their historical responsibility and climate finance commitments. Within this context, carbon markets are promoted as a way to “mobilise private finance” without challenging the economic structures driving the climate crisis in the first place.

For Indigenous Peoples, the implications are enormous. Indigenous Peoples collectively steward vast areas of the world’s remaining biodiversity and carbon-rich ecosystems. Research consistently shows that forests under Indigenous governance tend to experience lower rates of deforestation and better ecological outcomes than state-managed protected areas. However, in many countries, Indigenous land rights, including customary land rights, remain weak, incomplete or entirely unrecognised. This creates the conditions for governments and private actors to claim authority over “forest carbon” while bypassing Indigenous Peoples’ governance and rights over their land and territories.

Article 6 of the Paris Agreement risks exacerbating this harm by allowing governments and private actors to generate jurisdictional carbon credits across vast territories without first guaranteeing the land rights of Indigenous Peoples, recognizing their customary institutions and authorities, or ensuring meaningful consent..

From Safeguards to Dispossession

While international safeguards are supposed to protect Indigenous Peoples’ rights in the context of carbon projects, in practice, these protections are frequently weak, non-binding or easily circumvented. In multiple regions, Indigenous Peoples’ organisations report recurring patterns: incomprehensible contracts, rushed consultation processes, unequal access to information, uninformed decisions, and growing restrictions over customary land tenure.

Free, Prior and Informed Consent (FPIC) is often reduced to a procedural formality or a simple verification requirement. Communities are approached through isolated meetings, technical presentations, or consultations conducted in foreign languages and under significant pressure. Contracts frequently involve highly complex legal and financial arrangements spanning decades, yet communities receive little independent legal or technical support to assess the long-term implications. This information gap leaves room for intermediaries — sometimes described as carbon pirates or cowboys — to secure exploitative contracts.

In many cases, the asymmetry of knowledge and power is profound. Carbon project developers, intermediaries, and certification bodies operate with specialised expertise, legal teams, and access to international finance. Communities, by contrast, are often compelled to make decisions about abstract financial instruments and future territorial-use obligations with limited information about pricing structures, contractual risks, or revenue distribution. The result is an environment in which Indigenous Peoples’ territories become incorporated into volatile global carbon markets without the rights-holders exercising informed and meaningful engagement over the process.

REDD+ pilot projects in sub-Saharan Africa have imposed strict controls on shifting cultivation and forest grazing, while communities report that conservation benefits fail to offset lost livelihoods, leading many to disengage.

REDD+ pilot projects in sub-Saharan Africa have imposed strict controls on shifting cultivation and forest grazing.

Restrictions imposed in the name of carbon conservation impact practices such as shifting cultivation, grazing, hunting, gathering or small-scale forest use. In some contexts, carbon projects replicate old models of “fortress conservation,” in which Indigenous people’s presence is viewed as a threat to environmental protection. For instance, REDD+ pilot projects in sub-Saharan Africa have imposed strict controls on shifting cultivation and forest grazing, while communities report that conservation benefits fail to offset lost livelihoods, leading many to withdraw from these programs. Research into a failed REDD+ initiative in Tanzania found that “wilderness” narratives were used to justify coercive enforcement, forced evictions, and the treatment of Indigenous residents as intruders in their own territories. In the Colombian Amazon, carbon offsetting has similarly been described as a “subtle green grab” that creates “de facto enclosures” on Indigenous lands and disciplines forest communities.

Furthermore, carbon projects reshape local governance systems, exacerbate internal inequalities and generate conflicts regarding representation, benefit-sharing and territorial authority. Benefit-sharing is often unclear, delayed, and minimal, with communities receiving only a small fraction of total revenues. Women, youth and traditional authorities are frequently excluded from negotiations — despite bearing much of the social and environmental burden — while project revenues, when they do materialize, may be captured by local elites or external intermediaries. As the “carbon rights” or the benefit share is often defined together with the land ownership, the carbon market has become another weapon for eliminating customary land rights of Indigenous Peoples due to the non-recognition of customary land rights by many governments. Recurring demands have included access to culturally appropriate and translated information, as well as independent facilitation of FPIC processes.

Phantom Credits and the Logic of Offsetting

Investigations into voluntary carbon markets have found that large numbers of forest-based credits — particularly within REDD+ schemes — are effectively “phantom credits”: credits issued for emissions reductions that either did not occur or cannot be reliably verified. Inflated baselines, weak additionality rules and the displacement of deforestation from one area to another undermine claims that these projects generate meaningful climate mitigation. Yet, these same credits are routinely used by major corporations to support “net zero” claims while they continue fossil fuel extraction and high-emission business models. Therefore, carbon offsetting does not function not as a pathway beyond fossil fuels, but rather as a mechanism that allows emissions to continue elsewhere.

This contradiction highlights one of the central problems of carbon markets. There is simply not enough land on Earth to offset current levels of fossil fuel consumption while maintaining existing patterns of extraction and economic growth. The idea that ongoing emissions in the Global North can be balanced indefinitely through conservation projects in the Global South rests on increasingly unsustainable ecological assumptions.

The problem is also epistemic. Carbon markets benefit systems of measurement, verification and monitoring rooted in technocratic and financial logics: satellite imagery, biomass calculations, carbon accounting methodologies and digital registries.

The problem is also epistemic. Carbon markets benefit systems of measurement, verification and monitoring rooted in technocratic and financial logics.

For many Indigenous Peoples, this is not merely a technical failure but a continuation of colonial relations. Territories in the Global South become spaces tasked with absorbing the environmental costs of industrial economies – i.e., greenhouse gas emissions – generated elsewhere. Forests are reduced to carbon stocks registered in distant databases, while Indigenous Peoples are expected to shoulder the burden of climate mitigation for economies that remain dependent on oil, gas and mining.

The problem is also epistemological. Carbon markets benefit and prioritize systems of measurement, verification and monitoring rooted in technocratic and financial logics: satellite imagery, biomass calculations, carbon accounting methodologies and digital registries. These frameworks often marginalise Indigenous conceptions of territory grounded in reciprocity, relationality and responsibilities between human and non-human life.

Between Rejection and Strategic Engagement

Indigenous Peoples’ responses to carbon markets are neither uniform nor static. In various regions, numerous organisations and territorial movements reject carbon markets outright, arguing that they are false solutions that commodify nature while allowing major polluters to avoid meaningful emissions reductions at source.

At the same time, the reality on the ground is often more complex. Carbon markets are already expanding rapidly across Indigenous Peoples’ territories, frequently in contexts marked by simultaneous pressures from mining, agribusiness, logging, infrastructure expansion, and organised crime such as drug trafficking. For some communities, participation in carbon projects emerges not from endorsement, but rather from the need to navigate an increasingly restrictive political and economic environment.

Indigenous Peoples’ organisations are demanding stronger territorial protections, transparent contracts, independent legal support, community-controlled benefit-sharing mechanisms and prior consultation processes designed according to Indigenous Peoples’ governance systems.

Indigenous Peoples’ organisations are demanding stronger territorial protections, transparent contracts, independent legal support, community-controlled benefit-sharing mechanisms and prior consultation processes.

In certain cases, communities view carbon initiatives as a lesser threat compared to other forms of extractive development. Others seek to engage strategically in order to secure territorial recognition, strengthen collective governance or gain leverage within negotiations that are likely to proceed regardless of Indigenous Peoples’ opposition. In this sense, participation may function less as acceptance than as a strategy of defence and political survival.

This has given rise to forms of cautious, rights-based engagement focused on strengthening Indigenous Peoples’ decision-making power rather than legitimising carbon markets themselves. Across various regions, Indigenous Peoples’ organisations are demanding stronger territorial protections, transparent contracts, independent legal support, community-controlled benefit-sharing mechanisms and consultation processes designed according to Indigenous Peoples’ governance systems rather than project timelines.

Beyond Carbon Markets

Despite the diversity of Indigenous Peoples’ positions on carbon markets, one demand remains constant across contexts: self-determination. Whether communities choose rejection, negotiation, or selective engagement, the central issue is the right of Indigenous Peoples to determine what happens within their territories according to their own institutions, knowledge systems and political priorities. Secure collective land tenure must be a precondition for any legitimate form of engagement.

Increasingly,Indigenous Peoples’ organisations are advancing alternative approaches centred on territorial rights, direct access to climate finance and non-market forms of climate action. These proposals emphasise Indigenous governance and protocols, collective land rights, food sovereignty, ecological restoration and the defence of living territories.

The expansion of carbon markets suggests that the global economy is still searching for ways to manage the climate crisis without confronting the structures that produced it in the first place. Indigenous critiques expose the limits of that approach.

The expansion of carbon markets suggests that the global economy is still searching for ways to manage the climate crisis without confronting the structures that produced it in the first place.

These approaches also challenge the broader political economy underpinning carbon markets. Addressing climate change requires far more than new financial instruments. It demands a radical structural transformation of society and the economy, facilitating a rapid fossil fuel phase-out, strict regulation of extractive industries and supply chains linked to deforestation, cancellation of illegitimate debts, and large-scale public investment in Indigenous and community-led initiatives.

The expansion of carbon markets suggests that the global economy continues to seek ways to manage the climate crisis without confronting the structures that created it in the first place. Indigenous critiques expose the limits of that approach. They remind us that forests are not simply carbon reservoirs, and that climate justice cannot be reduced to accounting exercises conducted in distant financial centres.

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On the why, we are often told these days that the main obstacle to addressing the biodiversity crisis is a lack of funding for nature, that this funding gap is too great for governments alone to be able to close, that we consequently need to reorient private capital, and that the best way to do this would be via the creation of a financial market that trades in biodiversity credits. I find this narrative to be debatable and politically biased.

The False Funding Gap Narrative

First, the alleged US$700bn annual funding gap could easily be closed by redirecting a fraction of the existing US$1,700bn annual subsidies to harmful activities. This means that the funding gap could be entirely closed with public funding, without the need to raise taxes or increase deficits, meaning there is no need for private capital at all.

If a political choice is made to rely instead on private capital for conservation, then the most effective and fastest way to reorient private capital would be via environmental regulations that curb destruction. This is because any regulation will have an impact on the future expected profits of the sectors involved, and private capital flows will adjust automatically to the new profit expectations.

Creating a market for biodiversity credits is, therefore, arguably, the last and least effective option if the goal is to address biodiversity loss.

Creating a market for biodiversity credits is, therefore, arguably, the last and least effective option if the goal is to address biodiversity loss.

But even if we were to deem environmental regulations aligned to planetary boundaries too “coercive” and we chose instead to use only the carrot and no stick, it would still be far faster, more efficient and more cost-effective to do this via favourable tax or regulatory treatment rather than by creating a whole new financial market infrastructure based on a pseudo-commodity.

Creating a market for biodiversity credits is, therefore, arguably, the last and least effective option if the goal is to address biodiversity loss. Recent precedents such as the 2008 banking crisis, the Covid recovery plan, or the recent increase in EU defence spending also show that governments can find the money when they want to.

A Lack of Environmental Integrity

In terms of concerns over the creation of a market for nature credits, such a privatization and financialization of conservation policies would fundamentally change these latter by introducing a requirement for profitability. This would, in turn, result in weaker policies than if they were based on regulation. And we have already seen the deleterious consequences of financialization in other areas such as healthcare, education, and housing. Nature credits would also mean a transfer of sovereignty from the State to the financial markets, the priorities of which are unlikely to match ecological priorities, thereby threatening our future and survival.

There is also a fundamental contradiction between the need for a large number of credit types to reflect the large number of species, and the need to transform millions of species into a handful of types of credit in order to have a liquid financial market in which buyers and sellers can easily find trading counterparts. Such a level of simplification is not compatible with environmental integrity.

This makes biodiversity offsetting not “better than nothing”, as is sometimes said, but worse than nothing, as it helps maintain a social licence to destroy, and reduces public pressure for real solutions by giving the illusion that the issue is being addressed.

This is why biodiversity offsetting has had such a poor track record in past decades.

Crucially, I fear that biodiversity credits will also be used largely for offsetting purposes as there is no other business case on this scale. The European Union’s roadmap already places nature credits beyond the mitigation hierarchy —the framework that prioritises avoiding environmental harm first, then minimising, restoring, and only as a last resort offsetting residual impacts. This culminates in offsetting, thereby reinforcing and legitimizing it, particularly as the current balance of political forces is likely to push the EU to align with the International Advisory Panel on Biodiversity Credits framework, which explicitly accommodates offsetting.

And yet there is a scientific consensus on the fact that biodiversity offsetting is not possible in most cases, as our scientific knowledge is incomplete, the science of restoration is in its infancy, and it is simply not possible to transform millions of species into a handful of liquid tradable assets. This is why biodiversity offsetting has had such a poor track record in past decades. This makes biodiversity offsetting not “better than nothing”, as is sometimes said, but worse than nothing, as it helps maintain a social licence to destroy, and reduces public pressure for real solutions by giving the illusion that the issue is being addressed.

The First Scandals Are Already Emerging

I fear that biodiversity credits and offsets will primarily take place in the Global South, under the argument that this is where you find the most intact biodiversity. In reality, however, it will also be because land is far cheaper, as a consequence of colonialism. This will lead to the same land-grabbing, tensions, and human rights abuses that have been documented with carbon offsets.

This is in addition to the fact that getting paid to protect nature somewhere in order to enable its destruction elsewhere could well stand in contradiction to the values and worldview of many Indigenous Peoples and communities. Many Indigenous Peoples understand land, waters, animals and plants as kin, or as part of a living territory, not as external “natural capital” or a bundle of “ecosystem services”. Moreover, market‑based schemes risk subordinating Indigenous territorial governance to distant financial actors and State agencies, effectively recentralizing control over territories that Indigenous Peoples have struggled for generations to defend.

The revenues can be very useful for some Indigenous communities. However, as always, the devil is in the detail: what proportion of the governance body is made up of Indigenous representatives, and do they receive at least 50% of the revenue, for example?

The revenues can be very useful for some Indigenous communities. However, as always, the devil is in the detail.

While there is currently a big push to involve Indigenous Peoples and other forest-dependent communities in the various international biodiversity credit initiatives, I understand this to be more for communication purposes than a desire for real co-design and fair sharing of decision-making power and revenues. Getting a few Indigenous leaders on board is a great and cheap way to avoid accusations of green neocolonialism, and to divert attention from the lack of environmental integrity in these schemes. This is because the conversation now becomes one of “look at these poor farmers that we’re helping with our good hearts, how dare you criticize biodiversity credits and take these revenues from them”.

To be clear, I appreciate that the revenues can be very useful for some Indigenous communities. However, as always, the devil lies in the detail: what proportion of the governance body is made up of Indigenous representatives, and do they receive at least 50% of the revenue, for example? Furthermore, biodiversity credit and offset projects are often promoted in situations where communities are under strong economic and political pressure to accept them, and this can effectively undermine the right to Free, Prior and Informed Consent (FPIC), turning “consent” into coercion.

The Impact on Indigenous Self-Governance

I would like to emphasize two points: firstly, I understand the current emphasis on Indigenous participation as indicating that a vast proportion of biodiversity credit/offset projects will take place on Indigenous Peoples’ territories rather than in the countries of the Global North. Secondly, I want to caution against the promises of revenues from the sale of these credits. These are hypothetical revenues that will likely be extremely volatile, as they are based on financial market prices, and could easily disappear once political leaders in the Global North no longer see a need to pretend to address the biodiversity crisis. In fact, the UK provides a textbook example of such a risk. After starting a mandatory biodiversity offset market in 2024, leading many to start restoration projects, and farmers and landowners to expect revenues, in 2025 the government introduced an alternative: real estate developers will now have an alternative to offsetting 110% of their residual destruction of nature, by paying a one-off fee into a conservation fund.

If markets collapse, communities may be left without a stable income and unable to return to their traditional livelihoods – pressured instead towards dispossession or further commodification of their lands just to survive.

If markets collapse, communities may be left without a stable income and unable to return to their traditional livelihoods.

The consequences could be especially severe for Indigenous Peoples: long-term contracts may restrict land use and governance while promised revenues are often short-lived and uncertain. If markets collapse, communities may be left without a stable income and unable to return to their traditional livelihoods – pressured instead towards dispossession or further commodification of their lands just to survive.

There are already a growing number of scandals linked to biodiversity credits and these point to deeper structural problems. They include TotalEnergies destroying a national park in Uganda to drill oil and claiming to offset, and Eiffage building a dam in the Ivory Coast and destroying the forest and protected species while falsely promising no net loss. Similar patterns are emerging elsewhere: in Mozambique, TotalEnergies’ megaproject has been associated with misleading environmental claims while, in Guinea,mining projects backed by international financial actors have been linked to large-scale ecological damage framed through compensatory mechanisms.

Who Is Promoting These Markets and Why?

Why then are these markets being promoted, knowing that they will likely be an environmental failure, just like carbon offsetting before them? I understand the primary political goal as one of protecting the status quo for a few more years. These markets give the illusion of action while avoiding any confrontation with the private interests that are currently benefiting from destruction, including mining, agribusiness, infrastructure, and real estate, and avoiding any questioning of outdated and unsustainable economic paradigms.

Put another way, I understand that the European Commission does want to address the biodiversity crisis but only to the extent that it does not get in the way of short-term economic growth and competitiveness, which remain its overarching priorities. I also fear that this market could be instrumentalized to dismantle EU environmental regulations even further, by claiming they are no longer needed as they have been replaced by this market. In a way, this is very similar to climate politics, and carbon offsetting in particular, which are both an environmental failure and a political success, as they have successfully delayed meaningful climate action for many years.

Moreover, these new markets are also not without risk for potential private investors, who will be exposed to massive levels of regulatory and reputational risk surrounding this pseudo-commodity. Recent events in the UK have also highlighted the risks of expecting to earn a stable income from the sale of biodiversity credits.

The primary objective of promoting these markets is to maintain the status quo. Image: Frédéric Hache

The Solutions Are Well-Known

What is needed instead is a shift in existing harmful subsidies and a tightening of environmental regulations in order to address the root causes of biodiversity loss and align with planetary boundaries. We know, for example, that the global food system is the primary driver of biodiversity loss through deforestation to raise livestock. The solution, according to the EAT-The Lancet Commission, is to cut food waste and change diets, incentivizing this by a shift in agricultural subsidies, a tax on unhealthy foods and regulated advertising. This would massively reduce deforestation, cut greenhouse gas emissions, and reduce water pollution from overuse of pesticides.

Another central pillar of an effective biodiversity strategy is the recognition and reinforcement of Indigenous stewardship. Securing collective land titles, recognizing Indigenous legal and governance systems, and providing stable, unconditional public support for Indigenous‑led conservation and territorial defence are among the most effective measures a government can take. The other root causes of biodiversity loss, such as overexploitation of natural resources, climate change and pollution, should likewise be addressed by gradually changing the way we consume, eat and travel, and by putting in place regulations, including to cut plastic production. This would, of course, require confronting private lobby groups such as industrial food and farming, and the current political momentum for this is not great.

I take comfort, however, in the fact that the history of social and environmental progress shows several examples of how transformative change has occurred despite unfavourable political contexts — from the trade union movement to the suffragettes, from the US civil rights movement to the environmental movement, as well as the longstanding struggles of Indigenous Peoples to defend their territories. I also take comfort in the fact that several recent surveys show that a majority of citizens worldwide are already on board, willing to change the way they work and live in order to address the climate crisis. Given enough awareness, they would likely show the same support for addressing the biodiversity crisis. The future has not yet been written; once grassroots organizing reaches a critical mass, we will eventually win.

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One biodiversity credit represents a quantified, measurable and tradable “unit” of a positive biodiversity outcome ,such as the restoration or protection of particular ecosystems or species. Leading initiatives insist that, unlike traditional offsets, these credits should serve solely as additional investments in biodiversity rather than as mechanisms to compensate for damage caused elsewhere. In this context, they are presented as a voluntary tool for companies and investors seeking to demonstrate “nature-positive” contributions; however, the distinction between credits and offsets remains unclear in practice.

Various structures driven by States and private actors have explored “dual use,” whereby biodiversity units contribute to both mandatory regulatory offset requirements and voluntary “nature credit” markets. However, this possibility remains controversial due to concerns regarding double counting and system integrity concerns. National approaches vary: For example, England’s Environment Act 2021 established a mandatory, regulated market for biodiversity units, whereas New Zealand currently supports a voluntary, privately managed market that could eventually interact with regulatory offset mechanisms.

The Promotion of Private Financing

Major carbon certification bodies and consultancies are also entering into this space. Organisations such as Verra, South Pole, Plan Vivo, rePLANET, Terrasos and ValueNature have developed methodologies to certify biodiversity outcomes and create tradable units. The appeal is clear: a new product for investors and corporations, and a new revenue stream for intermediaries who already control a large share of the carbon market.

A growing network of initiatives – including the Biodiversity Credit Alliance, the World Economic Forum’s Financing for Nature platform, the Taskforce on Nature-related Financial Disclosures (TNFD), and new multilateral funding mechanisms such as the Global Biodiversity Framework Fund under the Global Environment Facility – is shaping the architecture of nature finance and promoting “high-integrity” biodiversity markets. In parallel, initiatives such as the International Advisory Panel on Biodiversity Credits are advancing a Global Biodiversity Credits Roadmap through voluntary,  multi-stakeholder processes.

At COP16 of the Convention on Biological Diversity, governments prioritised mobilising private finance for the Kunming-Montreal Global Biodiversity Framework (KMGBF) and operationalising the Global Biodiversity Framework Fund, yet they stopped short of formally endorsing biodiversity credit markets. Although the fund recognises Indigenous Peoples’ rights and social safeguards, serious doubts remain regarding how compliance with these commitments will be upheld in practice as biodiversity financing increases.

The Roadmap towards Nature Credits does not adequately address the rights of Indigenous Peoples, including their rights to lands, territories, and resources.

The Roadmap towards Nature Credits does not adequately address the rights of Indigenous Peoples.

In July 2025, the European Commission published its Roadmap towards Nature Credits, a market-based framework aimed at mobilising private sector investment for biodiversity conservation, based on the premise that public funding alone is insufficient. The Roadmap does not adequately address the rights of Indigenous Peoples including their rights to lands, territories, and resources. Nor does it sufficiently address the structural drivers of biodiversity loss, such as biodiversity-harmful subsidies, financial flows and production systems.

Can biodiversity be standardised and sold?

Proponents of this argument note that biodiversity credits can unlock conservation funding, reward sound environmental management, and incentivize better business practices. However, the “financing gap” approach adopted in the KMGBF obscures the fact that current proposals rely heavily on private capital from the very entities most responsible for biodiversity loss. This reinforces patterns in which wealthy states and corporations retain control over “nature finance” flows.

Biodiversity credits thus risk replicating colonial dynamics by concentrating decision-making power and value extraction in the Global North, while positioning Global South territories and peoples as sites of environmental “reparation.” The technical language of “market integrity” ultimately upholds a political project that preserves extractive economic patterns while shifting responsibility for ecological damage onto the lands of Indigenous Peoples and racialised communities.

Current strategies disproportionately benefit market-based tools, avoiding the strengthening of territorial rights, the halting of destructive projects, or subsidy reform.

Current strategies disproportionately benefit market-based tools, avoiding the strengthening of territorial rights, the halting of destructive projects, or subsidy reform.

However, core challenges are often presented as technical problems: defining a biodiversity unit that is scientifically robust, measurable and scalable. In practice, these efforts face deeper ecological and ethical problems. Biodiversity is radically place-based — ecosystems are not interchangeable, and their relationships complex and often only partially understood. Attempts to define “ecological equivalence” have already failed in biodiversity offset systems. A global review found that most of these structures failed to deliver on their promise of “no net loss” due to poor monitoring, weak enforcement, and unrealistic restoration timelines.

Although biodiversity credits claim to focus on positive outcomes rather than compensating losses, they inherit the same logic of converting complex ecological relationships into standardised, tradable units. The push for global fungibility reflects investors’ need for liquidity rather than ecological realities. As a result, this  carries the risk of fragmenting ecosystems into “assets” and “service units” — undermining the holistic approaches to territory that underpin many Indigenous legal orders.

There is also a broader issue regarding reliance on markets to resolve a crisis largely driven by accumulation of wealth. Economic tools, such as credits, should complement — not replace — regulation, public funding and collective forms of governance. Yet, current strategies disproportionately prioritize market-based instruments, while failing to strengthen land rights, halt destructive projects, or reform subsidies.

Indigenous territories at the frontline of biodiversity finance

Many biodiversity credit pilot projects are being developed in the Global South, particularly in forest territories governed by Indigenous Peoples —the same lands that have hosted carbon offset projects over the past two decades, frequently accompanied by rights violations and social conflicts. Protected areas have repeatedly been established without recognising customary tenure, without ensuring Free, Prior, and Informed Consent (FPIC), and with severe restrictions on traditional livelihoods. Biodiversity credits are likely to intensify these dynamics in various ways:

Land pressure. Assigning a financial value to biodiversity conservation outcomes makes Indigenous territories more attractive to conservation investors, particularly where land rights remain unresolved, creating a risk of long-term management arrangements that marginalize customary institutions.

Control and surveillance. Verification systems such as remote sensing, standardised indicators, digital tokens displace Indigenous knowledge and governance, benefitting external experts whilst potentially monitoring how communities use their own territories.

Unfair contracts. As with carbon projects, communities often lack independent legal advice; contracts may be signed by narrow leadership without collective consent, with small and poorly documented revenue shares vulnerable to elite capture.

Division and criminalisation. Where significant sums of money are at stake, intermediaries can exploit internal differences to secure consent. Those who question projects risk being labelled anti-development or threats to conservation — a serious concern given the growing criminalisation and killing of environmental defenders.

Beneath these concrete risks lies a deeper clash of values. Biodiversity credit methodologies reduce nature to what can be counted, economically valued and traded, whereas many Indigenous knowledge systems are grounded in responsibility, reciprocity and the sacred nature of the natural world — where territory cannot be partitioned into commodities. When that relational worldview is treated as an obstacle rather than a foundation for public policy, biodiversity credits become yet another tool of colonisation.

Whose integrity?

In response to mounting criticism, biodiversity credit initiatives emphasize “high-integrity” principles such as robust governance, FPIC, equitable benefit-sharing, and grievance mechanisms. Some multilateral funds publicly recognise Indigenous Peoples as custodians of biodiversity. However, there is a marked gap between rhetoric and practice. Core principles and methodologies are being designed by coalitions of financial institutions, conservation NGOs and standard-setting bodies, with limited or late-stage Indigenous involvement.

Since the adoption of the KMGBF, numerous Indigenous organisations — including the UN Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues — have repeatedly warned, including at CBD COP16, that biodiversity markets risk replicating the dispossession, inequality, and territorial control observed in carbon offset projects. These organizations emphasise that biodiversity financing must address historical injustices, strengthen direct funding for Indigenous Peoples, and avoid commodifying nature while undermining collective territorial governance. Any emerging biodiversity credit framework must critically incorporate these positions.

Governance must reflect genuine Indigenous leadership. Indigenous organizations must occupy real decision-making spaces in the design and oversight of biodiversity financing mechanisms.

Governance must reflect genuine Indigenous leadership. Indigenous organizations must occupy real decision-making spaces in the design and oversight of biodiversity financing mechanisms.

Three fundamental shifts are required to prevent biodiversity credits from replicating the harms associated with carbon markets. First, rights must precede markets: recognition of Indigenous Peoples’ land, territory and collective tenure rights should be a prerequisite for any credit scheme, rather than an aspiration. This entails the full implementation of the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples — particularly regarding FPIC and self-determination — in both law and practice.

Second, governance must reflect genuine Indigenous leadership. Indigenous organisations should hold real decision-making roles — not merely advisory ones — in the design and oversight of biodiversity finance mechanisms, supported by dedicated funding and respect for diverse knowledge systems. Third, the role of credits must remain limited. They should neither license destructive activities through offsetting nor replace regulation and public financing. Binding rules are needed to prevent double-counting, greenwashing and the use of credits to justify mining, fossil fuel extraction or large infrastructure projects elsewhere.

Choosing a different path

The drive for biodiversity credits addresses a real problem:  chronic underfunding of biodiversity, particularly where Indigenous Peoples are its primary custodians despite historic marginalisation. Yet, direct funding for Indigenous-led conservation, coupled with legal reforms to secure land and governance rights, would likely deliver far more enduring outcomes than speculative credit schemes.

Whether or not Indigenous Peoples engage with these markets is a matter of self-determination, but any decision must be based on FPIC with transparent information regarding the risks and alternatives. Governments and private actors must not treat credit schemes as a shortcut around the harder decisions of ending destructive industries and confronting unequal power relations.

The fundamental question is which visions of nature, development and justice will shape the future. If biodiversity credits simply reinforce the extractive logic that created the biodiversity crisis, they will represent another round of sacrifices imposed on Indigenous Peoples.

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Throughout the workshop, one message resonated strongly: carbon markets cannot be understood in isolation, but rather as part of a longer history of interventions in Indigenous territories. Participants drew a line connecting different historical periods, from colonization, to the rubber boom, and the expansion of oil extraction and mining, with contemporary climate initiatives. In each of these processes, Indigenous territories have become the focus of external interests, while the Peoples who inhabit them have had little decision-making power.

The New Face of Extractivism

From this perspective, carbon has become a new element within a familiar pattern. The issue is not simply about conserving forests or reducing emissions, but about who has the power to determine how territories are used and under what conditions. For many participants, these mechanisms serve global interests by helping to sustain prevailing economic models, allowing companies and corporations to continue polluting while claiming to offset their environmental impacts. In doing so, responsibility is increasingly shifted onto Indigenous Peoples, who have long protected and cared for their ancestral territories.

The experiences shared during the workshop reinforced this conclusion. Participants cited examples of conservation projects that have restricted the customary use of Indigenous territories. These restrictions include limiting traditional practices such as hunting, fishing and gathering. In other cases, protected areas or carbon projects were implemented in Indigenous territories without adequate consultation processes, giving rise to conflicts that continue to this day. These experiences also highlighted how conservation agendas can operate as mechanisms of control.

The problem is not only carbon markets. The language changes, but relationships of power remain intact. For this reason, beyond the technical discussion, this issue was highlighted as a political struggle over territory, autonomy, and rights.

The problem is not only carbon markets. Language changes, but relationships of power remain intact.

These processes do not occur in isolation. They are accompanied by narratives that promise economic benefits, local development and so-called “improvements in quality of life”, often reduced to health and education. These arebasic rights that states should already be fully guaranteeing. Several participants recalled that similar promises have long been part of the story, particularly in the context of oil extraction, where the outcomes failed to match the expectations that had been created. This collective memory provides an important historical lens through which current carbon-related proposals are understood.

In this sense, the problem is not only the carbon market as an instrument, but also the way it is being introduced into territories marked by histories of dispossession. The language has changed, but the underlying power relations remain. For this reason, the issue was framed not simply as a technical debate, but as a political struggle over territory, autonomy, and rights. Through such disputes, Indigenous Peoples seek to avoid repeating the experiences of the past.

Unequal Decision-Making and Internal Conflicts

Another key theme was how decisions are made within these processes, given the profound power imbalances between the actors involved. While companies, NGOs and governments possess technical expertise, financial resources and institutional backing, local communities often engage with in these processes with limited access to information and under starklyunequal conditions. In many cases, external actors arrive with pre-designed proposals and seek to secure rapid agreements that do not align with community timelines or decision-making processes. Negotiations are frequently conducted without going through collective mechanisms such as community assemblies, generating tensions and divisions within communities.

One of the issues most frequently highlighted was the lack of clear and accessible information. Communities do not always have access to complete information about the benefits, obligations and long-term implications of carbon projects. This problem increases the risk of decisions being made under pressure or on the basis of incomplete information, undermining the ability of Indigenous Peoples to fully exercise their right to self-determination.

The importance of free, prior, and informed consent was highlighted with the recognition that there exists a necessity to go beyond its formal application. For this, there was an emphasis on the need to strengthen community-owned decision-making mechanisms.

Decisions are made outside of territories and then they are taken to local communities to receive approval, many times, under fraudulent pretenses.

The role of the State was also called into question. Cases documented in countries such as Colombia and Bolivia showed that state laws and regulations do not necessarily guarantee transparent or equitable processes. In some instances, governments themselves have promoted the aforementioned mechanisms without ensuring the effective participation of Indigenous Peoples. This suggests that decisions are often shaped outside Indigenous territories and only later brought to communities for approval, in many cases under fraudulent pretenses.

In light of this information, participants highlighted the importance of free, prior and informed consent (FPIC), while stressing the need to move beyond a merely procedural application of this right. Particular emphasis was placed on strengthening Indigenous decision-making institutions. Such institutions include community assemblies, local statutes, and territorial governments, fortifying each as essential spaces for the assurance of collective decision-making processes and the prevention of imposed or even fragmented decision-making.

Autonomy, Memory and Indigenous-Led Alternatives

The discussions converged on a key point: decisions concerning Indigenous territories cannot be subordinated to external agendas. Autonomy and self-determination are not abstract principles but concrete conditions that enable Indigenous Peoples to decide what under what terms they accept and reject decisions. Historical memory is central to this position. Experiences with oil extraction, mining and “conservation and development” policies have left enduring scars such as broken promises, damaged territories and casualties. Consequently, carbon markets are not viewed as isolated opportunities but as part of a broader continuum of external interventions imposed on Indigenous lands and peoples.

Rather than adopting a purely reactive stance, Indigenous leaders emphasized that viable alternatives are already being implemented. These include community forest management, Indigenous production systems, traditional medicine, community-based tourism and Indigenous knowledge systems. Far from being mere aspirations, these are living practices that sustain life in Indigenous territories. Strengthening these alternatives points towards a future that differs fundamentally from the offsetting schemes promoted by external actors.

In this regard, the workshop ended not only with critical reflections but also with a clear direction: strengthening Indigenous-led agendas. The emphasis is on consolidating territorial processes—including organization, economic initiatives, communication and political coordination—that can sustain autonomous decision-making over time. Rather than adapting to carbon markets, the goal is to advance an Indigenous path in which territory is not treated as a tradable asset but recognized as the foundation of collective life.

Communication, Coordination and the Struggle over Narratives

The discussions held during the workshop highlighted the need to contest not only what happens in Indigenous territories, but also the narratives through which these processes are understood and represented. Carbon markets do not advance solely through economic agreements or legal frameworks; they are also promoted through narratives that portray them as the only solution to the climate crisis. In this context, communication becomes  a field of strategy, as there is a significant gap between how these projects are presented in international forums and how they are experienced in Indigenous territories. At the global level, they are described as mechanisms for sustainable conservation, yet within communities they are often experienced as processes that generate uncertainty, restrictions, conflict and violations of rights.

This disconnect reinforces the need for Indigenous Peoples to develop and disseminate their own narratives. Participants stressed the importance of strengthening Indigenous communication networks that can facilitate the sharing of information, the visibility of experiences and the production of analyses rooted in territorial realities. The aim is not merely to inform, but to build an autonomous voice capable of responding to narratives imposed from outside. In this way, communication becomes a key tool for territorial defense and political advocacy.

All in all, the debate regarding carbon markets is not only material, but also symbolic and political. It deals with who defines the problem, who proposes the solutions, and under whose terms such decisions are made.

The debate regarding carbon markets is both symbolic and political: who defines the problem, who proposes solutions, and under whose terms such decisions are made.

Coordination among Indigenous Peoples was another key theme. Although national contexts differ, many of the challenges they face are shared across the region. Exchanging experiences, lessons learned, and strategies helps strengthen collective positions and prevents these conversations from unfolding in isolation. Such coordination extends beyond local and national spaces to international arenas, where decision-making directly affects Indigenous territories.

Participants also highlighted the importance of identifying allies and mapping the actors involved in this landscape, recognizing that not all share the same interests. Such mapping enables more informed decision-making and helps Indigenous Peoples identify efforts to draw them into agendas that have not been shaped by their own realities. Taken together, the struggle surrounding carbon markets is not only material but, above all, political and symbolic. At stake are questions of who defines the problem, who proposes the solutions and on whose terms such decisions are made. In this context, communication and coordination are essential tools for sustaining processes of resistance and for building alternatives emerging from Indigenous territories.

A Contested Horizon: The Future of Indigenous Territories

The workshop did not result in a definitive conclusion; rather, it confirmed that a new arena of debate is emerging around Indigenous territories. Carbon markets have become one component within a broader global dynamic in which forms of control over nature, access to nature and decision-making power are being reconfigured. This is no longer solely a matter of direct extraction, but of more complex mechanisms that operate through regulations, certification schemes, financial instruments and climate-related discourses.

In this context, Indigenous Peoples face not only technical or economic challenges, but profoundly political ones. At stake are their territories, rights and autonomy. The discussions made clear that these processes are not being passively accepted. Instead, they reflect a critical reading that identifies in carbon markets a reconfiguration of earlier forms of dispossession, albeit expressed through new languages and justifications. At the same time, the debate went beyond outright rejection, opening space for reflection on what it means to care for and defend territories, how the climate crisis should be addressed, and what kind of future Indigenous Peoples seek to build.

What is at play is not simply a mechanism, but also the sense and feeling over the territory. Here, the message is clear: life, self-determination, and sovereignty of Indigenous Peoples cannot be negotiated.

The climate crisis cannot be resolved simply by placing responsibility in the hands of those  who have historically stewarded and cared for the forests.

Against a global narrative that turns forests into market assets, it is necessary to adopt a different perspective in which territory is not a resource, but a space of life, relations and community. This contrast defines the current moment. For those who took part in the meeting, carbon markets do not represent a solution, but rather a new form of intervention in Indigenous territories that, under the language of conservation and climate action, reconfigure long-standing logics of control and seek to determine the use of spaces that do not belong to them.

In this context, the position is clear: territories are not for sale, nor can they be turned into compensation instruments to sustain economies that continue to pollute. The climate crisis will not be solved by shifting responsibility onto those who have historically cared for forests. What is at stake is not only a mechanism, but the very meaning of territory itself. At this point, the message is clear: life, self-determination and the sovereignty of Indigenous Peoples cannot be negotiated nor debated.

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