Autonomy, as an expression of self-determination, requires a territorial basis on which it can be exercised. The interdependence of rights, recognised by the Inter-American Court of Human Rights, underscores the close relationship between the various Indigenous rights recognised by States. The eviction of an Indigenous community violates more than a single right. Such eviction also entails the denial and infringement of other rights, including the right to cultural identity, the right to water, and the right to adequate food. Consequently, it also prevents Indigenous Peoples from exercising their rights to autonomy and self-determination.

In Argentina, autonomy and self-determination remain distant prospects. Against a backdrop of legislative, administrative, and judicial setbacks that directly affect the daily lives of Indigenous communities, a succession of evictions and attempted evictions stands in stark contrast to the rights previously recognised by the State itself, at least on paper. This discrepancy exposes a state model that continues to refine its methods. Rooted in extractivism and the ongoing promotion of foreign investment through the Incentive Regime for Large Investments (RIGI), which encourages the foreign acquisition of land, this model depends on dispossessing Indigenous communities of their territories.

The Distant Prospect of Indigenous Self-Determination and Autonomy

It is difficult to speak of respect for self-determination and autonomy when public policy denies the very existence and pre-existence of Indigenous Peoples in Argentina. This denial directly contributes to evictions. It is shocking that judges across the country are ordering Indigenous communities to leave their territories.

Beyond individual judicial decisions, these measures must be understood within a broader context that is increasingly hostile to Indigenous rights. The promotion of extractive activities, economic interests in Indigenous territories, and the current government’s failure to recognise Indigenous rights combine to create a situation that is increasingly difficult to address.

Yet evictions are not carried out solely through court orders. Intimidation, threats and fear are also used to force communities from their territories. The balance of power is deeply unequal, leaving Indigenous communities vulnerable to security forces that do not hesitate to enforce eviction orders.

Legal Insecurity Facing Indigenous Peoples in Northern Argentina

Several cases of eviction illustrate the points made above. In July 2026, in the town of Garuhapé, Misiones Province, the judiciary carried out an illegal eviction of the Mbya Guaraní community of Puente Quemado II. During the operation, around 50 police officers presented an eviction order marred by numerous irregularities and forcibly removed community families through threats and violence. Although the community has since returned to its ancestral lands, its long-standing dispute with Arauco, one of Latin America’s largest forestry companies, continues to intensify.

This eviction must be understood as part of a broader process of territorial transformation driven by a production model based on monoculture and agribusiness. The complaint lodged by the businessman that triggered the eviction of Puente Quemado II is a clear indication of the gradual displacement of Indigenous Peoples by economic interests rooted in a model that is incompatible with their ways of life.

Indigenous communities find themselves caught between business interests and the State, which has taken sides and shows contempt for the ways of life maintained by Indigenous Peoples.

The contradictions between different ways of life, reflected in opposing economic models, are not only deepening but also revealing who stands to lose the most.

In Salta Province, the Diaguita Kalchakí community of Las Pailas, in Cachi, suffered a violent eviction carried out through irregular procedures, forcing women, children and older people from their territory. The government’s official narrative seeks to undermine Indigenous identity by setting it against the claims of registered landowners, whom state officials regard as the rightful owners. The tension between Indigenous communities’ territorial claims and private property rights continues to resurface.

The situations in Misiones and Salta offer a glimpse of the bigger picture. The contradictions between different ways of life, reflected in opposing economic models, are not only deepening but also revealing who stands to lose the most. Indigenous communities find themselves caught between business interests and the State, which has taken sides and shows contempt for the ways of life maintained by Indigenous Peoples.

Dispossession in Southern Argentina

In Patagonia, evictions and attempted evictions are commonplace, creating a persistent climate of fear, uncertainty and violence within Indigenous communities. The cases of the Mapuche communities of Quintriqueo and Melo, in Villa La Angostura, Neuquén Province, are clear examples, particularly given the high property values driven by tourism in the area. The eviction order issued in favour of a woman of Belgian origin, who reportedly holds property titles dating back to the 1970s (which the community considers irregular or fraudulent and which were allegedly transferred to private companies). This stands in contrast to documents and anthropological studies establishing the community’s presence in the area since the late 19th and early 20th centuries. This includes a recent resolution by the National Institute of Indigenous Affairs confirming its traditional occupation of the land.

Given the sensitivity surrounding foreign ownership of land, the eviction of these communities prompted expressions of support from organisations and local residents. The Lof Melo community is currently facing renewed threats of eviction, creating a climate of considerable tension. Both communities have legal status and possess technical documentation resulting from a cadastral survey conducted by the State itself. Therefore, it is difficult to understand how the same State that formally acknowledges their public and traditional occupation of the land can simultaneously disregard Indigenous communal property rights and rule in favour of a private individual.

One need only travel across the country and speak to Indigenous communities to understand the difficulties they face and the insecurity they endure under the constant threat of eviction.

One need only travel across the country and speak to Indigenous communities to understand the difficulties they face and the insecurity they endure under the constant threat of eviction.

There is a clear connection between judicial actions, the orders issued to security forces by the executive branch, and the demands of private individuals and companies, both domestic and foreign. Violations of Indigenous Peoples’ constitutional rights and the protections enshrined in international legal instruments are becoming increasingly evident. One need only travel across the country and speak to Indigenous communities to understand the difficulties they face and the insecurity they endure under the constant threat of eviction.

There is a clear link between the State’s drive to extract natural resources, policies that treat Indigenous territories as empty land, the succession of evictions, the denial of Indigenous rights, and incentives for companies to establish operations in Argentina. Together, these processes reveal the continuity of a trajectory that began with the conquest and persists today, well into the 21st century, through a cultural assault that amounts to a blatant violation of rights.

Nothing Changes: Current Challenges and the Crisis of Extractivism

The expansion of extractivism has had a profound impact on Indigenous communities. Today, the new right-wing movements are advancing a political agenda that is far removed from Indigenous rights. Policies hostile to all forms of diversity, combined with economic policies centred on the exploitation of natural resources, are increasingly pushing Indigenous Peoples to the margins of a political agenda that has always paid them scant attention. In short, the disregard for Indigenous rights is becoming ever more apparent, as decisions concerning their territories are made without respecting those rights.

One example is the Incentive Regime for Large Investments (RIGI), introduced by the current government, which facilitates the entry of companies seeking to exploit lithium and hydrocarbon resources. Tax exemptions granted to those seeking to invest in Argentina effectively subordinate all other rights, including the constitutional recognition of Indigenous Peoples’ pre-existence. The ongoing debate surrounding the Land Law, which restricts foreign ownership of land and which Javier Milei’s government sought to repeal through an Emergency Decree (DNU 70/23) shortly after taking office, has become a renewed source of conflict following two recent rulings by Argentina’s Supreme Court of Justice.

The crisis generated by the prevailing model of development and production, and the energy system that underpins it, does not bode well for those who live on and depend on the land.

There are pockets of resistance and proactive efforts to protect territories and nature, alongside attempts to engage with institutions and other actors more willing to support their struggles.

By leaving the constitutionality of Decree 70/23 unresolved, even Argentina’s highest court has shown itself unwilling to uphold the Constitution. This situation also raises alarm among Indigenous communities, which are witnessing mounting threats to their territories and the implementation of a nationwide eviction policy that is far from coincidental. In practice, evictions serve as a barometer of the economic policies being pursued.

The crisis generated by the prevailing model of development and production, and the energy system that underpins it, does not bode well for those who live on and depend on the land. Nevertheless, there are pockets of resistance and proactive efforts to protect territories and nature, alongside attempts to engage with institutions and other actors more willing to support their struggles. Political cycles are long, and Indigenous Peoples have survived all manner of attacks for more than five centuries.

Prospects and Future Horizons

Developments at both local and global levels point to turbulent and violent times ahead. The tensions between Indigenous Peoples’ ways of life, a capitalist system increasingly revealing its darkest side, and States that fail to protect rights while persecuting those who demand them are becoming ever more pronounced. These are all manifestations of setbacks that should not be regarded as irreversible. Rather, they form part of an ongoing process marked by significant milestones that may, under more favourable circumstances, open up new horizons.

The Inter-American Human Rights System, for all its strengths and shortcomings, continues to support Indigenous Peoples in their struggle for their rights. Despite difficulties in implementing its judgments, as illustrated by the Lhaka Honhat case, its rulings remain authoritative legal precedents that can be invoked in defence of Indigenous rights. The changes required by these judgments can provide a basis for efforts to transform existing realities.

Constitutional reform would also be important, although the current political climate is hardly conducive to such an undertaking.

Constitutional reform would also be important, although the current political climate is hardly conducive to such an undertaking.

At the local level, despite widespread distrust of a judiciary that has consistently aligned itself with the political interests of those in power, there are exceptions that make it worthwhile to continue pursuing legal action. This path is fraught with obstacles, but it must be pursued to explore every available avenue within the framework of the rule of law. Nevertheless, recourse to the courts must remain subordinate to a broader political strategy defined by Indigenous organisations and communities.

Ultimately, the goals are clear. In Argentina, legislative changes are needed. One example is a specific law on Indigenous communal property rights, which has never even been debated in Congress. Constitutional reform would also be important, although the current political climate is hardly conducive to such an undertaking. Constitutional amendments, debates on new legislation and institutional reforms all remain distant prospects. More than five centuries after the conquest, Indigenous Peoples continue to demand the effective implementation of their rights. Fortunately, political cycles also change.

The post The Dispossession of Indigenous Territories in Argentina 534 Years After the Conquest appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

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

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

Private Interests in Indigenous Territories

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

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

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

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

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

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

Failed Carbon Credit Initiatives and the Lack of Transparency

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

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

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

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

Contradictions in Bolivia’s Legal Framework

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warnings, Threats and Concerns Regarding Carbon Market Regulation

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

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

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

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

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

The post State and Private Interests Behind Carbon Markets in Bolivia appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

On 25 February 2007, Ernestina was found seriously injured near a military camp. Her family identified signs of physical and sexual violence but faced geographical barriers and difficulties in accessing medical care. When Ernestina was admitted to Río Blanco Regional Hospital, significant language barriers also became apparent. As a monolingual Nahuatl speaker, she had no access to interpreters or translators to facilitate communication with medical staff. She died a few hours later.

Initial investigations and forensic examinations revealed evidence consistent with sexual assault. Nevertheless, the Federal Government concluded that her death was due to natural causes and closed the investigation. This decision raised questions about the impartiality of the institutions responsible for establishing the facts. In response, Ernestina’s family and civil society organisations requested access to the case file, but the authorities restricted access for years, citing security concerns and the protection of personal data.

A Victim of Intersectional Discrimination

Ernestina’s case reached the Inter-American Human Rights System on June 11th, 2023, raising concerns about violations of the right to access information, inadequate medical care, the absence of interpreters, and irregularities in the investigation. In September 2025, the Inter-American Court of Human Rights ruled against the Mexican State, recognising the importance of the right to truth in cases involving possible serious human rights violations.

This landmark ruling also sheds light on the multiple forms of discrimination faced by Indigenous women in Mexico. From an intersectional perspective, the case illustrates how gender, ethnicity, age, poverty and language barriers intersected to heighten Ernestina’s vulnerability and restrict her access to intercultural justice. It also exposes the persistence of structural racism within state institutions.

The Inter-American Court emphasised the obligation to conduct independent, impartial, and thorough investigations whenever there are indications of sexual violence or possible involvement of state agents. It also reiterated that sexual violence could constitute torture due to the physical and psychological suffering it causes. Nearly two decades later, Ernestina Ascencio’s case remains a powerful example of the consequences of militarisation, the need to combat institutional racism, and the importance of ensuring truth, justice, comprehensive reparations, and guarantees of non-repetition for Indigenous women in Mexico.

Militarisation in Mexico

According to the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights, militarisation in Mexico can be understood as a process characterised by the increasing involvement of the Armed Forces in functions traditionally performed by civilian institutions. This particularly pertains to areas of public security and the fight against organised crime. This phenomenon is not limited to the deployment of military personnel in urban and rural areas but also encompasses their involvement in public administration.

This historical perspective helps place the case of Ernestina Ascencio Rosario within a broader context. Her death occurred during the first months of the federal militarisation strategy associated with the fight against drug trafficking. The Inter-American Court subsequently noted that the region was marked by poverty, marginalisation, historical discrimination, and incidents of violence against Indigenous women linked to this context of militarisation.

For Indigenous women, the military presence further highlights inequalities related to gender, ethnicity, language, age, poverty, and territory, as reflected in numerous human rights violations and the judgments in Fernández Ortega v. Mexico and Rosendo Cantú v. Mexico. In Ernestina’s case, several factors combined to increase her vulnerability in relation to state power. Ernestina was a woman, Indigenous, an older person, a monolingual Nahuatl speaker, and a resident of an area characterised by high levels of marginalisation. [1]

The Importance of Intersectionality

Political, economic, and legal constraints are compounded by patriarchal practices. It is also important to consider the impact of colonisation, a process that was profoundly violent for Indigenous Peoples and had particular consequences for women. Their bodies were subjected to sexual violence, exploitation and subjugation, becoming sites of domination. From this perspective, intersectionality helps explain how inequalities based on gender, ethnicity, and class intersect and perpetuate the specific barriers faced by Indigenous women in Mexico.

Intersectionality provides a particularly useful framework for examining how power relations operate. This approach shows that the different forms of oppression arising in societies shaped by patriarchal, racial, and economic structures do not affect everyone in the same way. Indeed, certain systems of oppression operate simultaneously, giving rise to experiences that cannot be understood by examining each category in isolation. It is not simply a matter of stating that a person experiences discrimination because she is a woman. Additionally, because she belongs to a particular ethnic or racial group.

This approach is particularly relevant to analysing the case of Ernestina Ascencio Rosario. Her heightened vulnerability, her status as a resident of a rural community, and the context of military presence introduce different dimensions of inequality that interact with one another, shaping both the violence she may have experienced and her actual opportunities to access justice.

Memory, Truth and Justice

The right to truth is an essential aspect of human rights protection, particularly in cases of serious violations involving state agents. This right ensures that victims and their families can fully understand what happened, the circumstances surrounding the events, those involved, and the motives behind the violations. It is also closely linked to states’ obligations to conduct effective investigations, guarantee effective remedies, and provide reparations to victims.

The violence experienced by Ernestina cannot be understood solely as an isolated incident, but must be considered within a broader structure in which gender, Indigenous identity, age, social inequality, and military presence intersect. Preserving her memory also means questioning the historical conditions that have allowed certain forms of violence against Indigenous women to be minimised, normalised or excluded from public debate.

In this way, memory can be understood as a form of resistance to institutional forgetting. When institutions fail to investigate adequately, when victims receive no answers or when an official account seeks to close off further discussion of an event’s significance, memory can keep the demand for clarification alive. Memory prevents forgetting, truth helps establish the facts, and justice seeks to ensure legal accountability and provide redress for the harm caused. The ultimate aim of this interconnected process is to guarantee non-repetition.

Ernestina’s Case in the Light of International Human Rights Law

The judgment delivered by the Inter-American Court of Human Rights in Ascencio Rosario et al. v. Mexico on September 30th, 2025 marked a milestone in international human rights law by addressing sexual violence perpetrated by military personnel, the absolute prohibition of torture, and the rights of Indigenous women. Furthermore, there were advancements in access to healthcare, discrimination, access to justice and the right to truth.

The Court concluded that state agents had subjected Ernestina to acts of torture, including sexual violence, and serious physical injuries. The case was examined from an intersectional perspective. The violence Ernestina experienced cannot be considered separately from her status as a woman, an Indigenous person, an older person and a resident of a historically marginalised community. These factors operated together, shaping both her exposure to violence and her subsequent opportunities to obtain state protection.

When there are indications of sexual violence against a woman, the authorities must conduct an investigation that is immediate, impartial, and exhaustive, and that complies with international standards applicable to the situation.

When there are indications of sexual violence against a woman, the authorities must conduct an investigation that is immediate, impartial, and exhaustive, and that complies with international standards.

Similarly, the Court found that the Mexican State had failed to fulfil its obligation to investigate the events with heightened due diligence and to guarantee Ernestina’s family equal access to justice. When there are indications of sexual violence against a woman, the authorities must conduct an immediate, impartial and thorough investigation in accordance with the relevant international standards. When the victim belongs to an Indigenous People, investigative procedures must also take intercultural considerations into account.

Perhaps one of the most significant aspects of the case is the tension between the State’s construction of an official narrative of events and the requirements arising from the right to truth. During the investigations, various public authorities made statements questioning the accounts of the victim and her family and attributing her death to natural causes. This highlights the distinction between the ‘official truth’ and the truth established through legal evidence and an investigation that complies with human rights standards.

A Precedent for Indigenous Women

The publication of the judgment in the case of Ernestina Ascencio Rosario in the Official Gazette of the Federation goes beyond mere formal compliance with a measure ordered by the Inter-American Court of Human Rights. Its significance lies in bringing into the public and institutional sphere a truth that had been undermined for years by a flawed investigation and official narratives that downplayed the violence normalised in contexts of militarisation.

Reopening the investigation entails confronting the institutional conditions that made impunity possible. The absence of interpreters, shortcomings in medical care, the premature closure of investigations, and the obstacles faced by her family demonstrate that discrimination did not operate in isolation. These each operated in convergence of different structures of inequality.

For Indigenous women in Mexico, this case sets a fundamental precedent. Indigenous women’s testimonies, their bodies, and their experiences of violence can no longer be rendered invisible or erased by official history.

For Indigenous women in Mexico, this case sets a fundamental precedent. Indigenous women’s testimonies, their bodies, and their experiences of violence can no longer be rendered invisible.

The Ernestina Ascencio case highlights the close relationship between memory, truth and justice. Publishing the judgment restores Ernestina’s memory in the face of an official narrative that questioned the circumstances of her death for years. In addition, reopening the investigation provides a means of upholding her family’s right to truth. Identifying those responsible represents the outstanding task of delivering justice. Finally, guarantees of non-repetition require the State to address the institutional conditions that allowed her rights to be violated.

The judgment marks the beginning of a new phase in the pursuit of accountability. The efforts of civil society and the use of strategic litigation were vital in bringing the case before international human rights bodies. Effective implementation of the judgment will determine whether international recognition of these violations translates into substantive justice or remains merely a legal declaration. For Indigenous women in Mexico, the case sets a fundamental precedent. Indigenous women’s testimonies, their bodies, and their experiences of violence must never again be rendered invisible or erased from official history.

The post The Ernestina Case: Intersectional Violence in Times of Militarisation appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

Third, the results of the 2016 referendum, in which territories with large ethnic populations voted ‘Yes’, demonstrate these communities’ commitment to and hopes for a negotiated end to the conflict. Finally, it is essential to assess the implementation of the Ethnic Chapter, weighing structural advances, such as Indigenous representation in the Special Jurisdiction for Peace and the Truth Commission, against the significant shortcomings revealed by the Agreement’s ethnic indicators.

Ethnic Peoples in the Peace Agreement Negotiations

After more than half a century of armed conflict, the 2016 Peace Agreement between the Colombian Government and the FARC-EP is internationally recognised for its comprehensive approach, incorporating a cross-cutting gender perspective and an Ethnic Chapter. This achievement was the result of the long-standing resistance, participation, and advocacy of women’s organisations and Ethnic Peoples. From the outset of the peace talks in Havana in November 2012, Indigenous, Afro-Colombian, Raizal, and Palenquero Peoples saw the prospect of ending the conflict as an opportunity to put an end to violations of their individual and collective rights in their territories. They then firmly demanded a place at the negotiating table to secure guarantees throughout the process and defend the physical and cultural survival of their peoples.

One example was the Letter from the Indigenous Peoples of Colombia to the FARC-EP, sent on May 16th, 2013 by the National Indigenous Organisation of Colombia (ONIC), the Regional Indigenous Council of Cauca (CRIC) and the Association of Indigenous Councils of Northern Cauca (ACIN) to the then FARC commander, Timoleón Jiménez. In the letter, they denounced the extermination and crimes against humanity committed by the guerrilla group in their territories, demanded an end to recruitment, landmine use, and violence, and reaffirmed their autonomy and self-government under the slogan: “Count on us for peace. Do not count on us for war.”

The Ethnic Chapter established self-determination, autonomy, self-government, consultation and free, prior, and informed consent as guiding principles, , alongside the protection of rights to lands, territories, and resources.

The Ethnic Chapter established self-determination, autonomy, self-government, consultation, and free, prior, and informed consent as guiding principles.

The interethnic alliance, together with numerous mobilisations, letters and advocacy efforts at national and international levels, demonstrated the commitment of Ethnic Peoples to peace. However, their central demand was to ensure that a stable and lasting peace would guarantee respect for their self-government, territorial rights, and cultural integrity. The Ethnic Chapter was not envisaged at the outset of the negotiations but emerged from the struggle, resistance, and persistence of Indigenous and Afro-Colombian organisations. Through their delegates, they succeeded in negotiating its provisions just minutes before the final text of the Agreement was announced.

The Ethnic Chapter established self-determination, autonomy, self-government, consultation and free, prior, and informed consent as guiding principles, alongside the protection of rights to lands, territories, and resources. It also incorporated safeguards to prevent the implementation of the Agreement from undermining previously recognised ethnic rights. Far from being an annex or a mere declaration within the Final Agreement, the Ethnic Chapter constitutes a binding interpretative framework for the policies, programmes, and projects arising from its six main areas (Comprehensive Rural Reform, Political Participation, End of the Conflict, Solution to the Illicit Drugs Problem, Victims and Implementation). However, structural racism sometimes leads to the Chapter being treated as a secondary provision or its binding nature being disregarded.

The Armed Conflict, the Figures and the ‘Yes’ Vote in Ethnic Territories

In Colombia, more than 10 million people are listed in the Single Registry of Victims, representing nearly 20 percent of the country’s population. Within this figure, the impact on Ethnic Peoples is disproportionate. For example, 718,782 Indigenous victims have been registered, accounting for 6.91 percent of all victims of the armed conflict. However, the true scale of the impact becomes particularly alarming when measured against the Indigenous population itself. More than 30.22 percent of Colombia’s Indigenous population have been victims of the armed conflict. Moreover, this is a conservative estimate, as underreporting persists due to barriers to accessing institutions, the lack of Indigenous language interpreters, and pressure from armed groups in the territories.

Nearly one-third of Colombia’s Indigenous population has been affected by the armed conflict, a critical figure that demands immediate institutional action. This must include comprehensive measures to guarantee rights, address humanitarian emergencies, prevent further violations, ensure access to justice and reparations, and promote territorial transformation through the implementation of the Peace Agreement. Indigenous organisations and the Constitutional Court, in its Order 004 of 2009, had already warned of this critical situation. The Court identified 34 Indigenous Peoples at risk of physical and cultural extermination and found that the impacts of the war had disproportionately affected their organisational structures, autonomy, and exercise of self-government.

With very few exceptions, regions with predominantly Indigenous and Afro-descendant populations overwhelmingly supported the Final Agreement, hoping to overcome centuries of violence and historical injustice.

Regions with predominantly Indigenous and Afro-descendant populations overwhelmingly supported the Final Agreement, hoping to overcome centuries of violence and historical injustice.

Against this backdrop, a referendum on the Peace Agreement was held on October 2nd, 2016 to seek public approval of the text negotiated between the Colombian Government and the FARC-EP. With an abstention rate of 62 percent, the ‘No’ vote prevailed by a narrow margin (50.21 percent against 49.78 percent for ‘Yes’), preventing the Agreement from taking immediate effect and prompting a new round of negotiations with opposition groups over certain provisions. Nevertheless, the results revealed that the proportion of the population belonging to Ethnic Peoples in municipalities where the ‘Yes’ vote prevailed was 4.5 times higher than in those where ‘No’ won. These municipalities were also predominantly rural, had high levels of poverty, and had historically been among the areas hardest hit by the armed conflict.

The vote reflected the commitment of Colombia’s Ethnic Peoples to peace. With very few exceptions, regions with predominantly Indigenous and Afro-descendant populations overwhelmingly supported the Final Agreement, hoping to overcome centuries of violence and historical injustice. Ultimately, the results of the 2016 referendum demonstrated that the territories most severely affected by the war were precisely those most willing to support a negotiated solution to the armed conflict.

Implementing the Ethnic Chapter of the Peace Agreement

The Ethnic Chapter of the Peace Agreement has played a crucial role in paving the way for the legal, institutional, and public policy reforms needed to guarantee the rights of Indigenous Peoples throughout its implementation. Ten years after the signing of the Agreement, the picture remains mixed. On the one hand, its implementation has reduced violence and human rights violations committed by the FARC-EP, as well as armed clashes between the guerrilla group and state security forces in Indigenous territories. Similarly, the adoption of laws and public policy instruments to give effect to the Agreement’s six main provisions has enabled Indigenous Peoples to participate in the process and helped establish a legal framework to safeguard their rights.

On the other hand, the implementation of the Final Agreement has taken place amid ongoing conflict and pressure from other armed groups seeking to take control of territories formerly held by the FARC-EP, leading to a resurgence of violence in several Indigenous regions. As implementation has progressed, however, results across the ethnic indicators associated with the Agreement’s six main provisions have fallen short of expectations.

According to the National Planning Department’s (DNP) official platform for monitoring the Peace Agreement, commitments to Ethnic Peoples have made less progress than other areas. As of August 31st, 2026, implementation of the Ethnic Chapter stood at 49.2 percent, below both the overall average of 58.83 percent and the gender-related indicators at 53.7 percent, highlighting the need to accelerate progress. Rather than signaling failure or justifying the abandonment of the Agreement, these figures underscore the urgency of strengthening its comprehensive implementation in ethnic territories, ensuring the effective participation of Ethnic Peoples and placing greater emphasis on their rights ten years after its signing.

The Legacy: Transformation, Participation and Milestones

Beyond quantitative progress, the fundamental legacy of the Ethnic Chapter lies in the structural transformation of the institutions established under the Peace Agreement. This happened particularly through the direct involvement of Indigenous professionals and leaders in key transitional justice and truth-seeking bodies. The appointment of Indigenous judges and representatives of ancestral communities to the Special Jurisdiction for Peace — Ana Manuela Ochoa Arias (Kankuamo), Belkis Izquierdo (Arhuaco), Miller Hormiga (Totoró) and Juan José Cantillo Pushaina (Wayuu) — alongside Commissioner Patricia Tobón Yagarí (Emberá) on the Truth Commission, helped challenge paternalistic approaches and consolidate the recognition of Ethnic Peoples as full political actors in institutional dialogue.

This representation led to significant practical achievements. The Comprehensive System for Peace adapted its methodologies in consultation and agreement with Ethnic Peoples and established specialised bodies, including the Ethnic Commission of the Special Jurisdiction for Peace. Key advances include the opening of Macro-Case 09 (crimes against Ethnic Peoples and their territories), the imposition of restorative sanctions under the transitional justice system on former members of the La Popa Battalion for the benefit of Wiwa, Kankuamo, and Afro-Colombian communities. This also includes the publication of the chapter Resisting Is Not the Same as Enduring in the Truth Commission’s Final Report. Despite the challenges, these transformations have opened up an unprecedented opportunity to address historical injustices and advance the institutional reforms needed to guarantee Indigenous rights.

Indigenous Peoples have maintained a longstanding and unwavering commitment to peace in Colombia. Beyond bearing the disproportionate impacts of the armed conflict, they are key political actors in the country’s transformation and nation-building process. The implementation of the Peace Agreement must therefore not be allowed to falter. It must be strengthened through concrete measures that ensure its implementation in Indigenous territories, guarantee their active participation and right to prior consultation, and fully safeguard their fundamental and collective rights.

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

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

Indigenous Women and Justice in Indigenous Autonomies

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

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

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

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

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

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

Structural Violence in Indigenous Territories

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Comprehensive Agenda from the Perspective of Indigenous Women

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

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

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

Reporting Pathways and Coordination with the State

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

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

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

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

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

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

Women’s Participation, Autonomous Legislation and Resource Allocation

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

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

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

Conclusions

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

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

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

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This ruling did not emerge in a vacuum. It confirms and applies standards that the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights (IACHR) had systematised five years earlier, on 28 December 2021. The IACHR approved its thematic report Right to Self-Determination of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples. In that report, the Commission identified autonomy — that is, the right of peoples to govern themselves, define their own institutions and decide on their internal affairs — as one of the constituent elements of self-determination, alongside self-identification, cultural identity, collective property, political and participation rights, and the rights to free, prior, and informed consultation and consent.

Five years after that report, and with a recent case once again placing the issue on the regional agenda, it is worth examining what the Inter-American System has specifically noted about the right of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples to autonomy and self-government in its various dimensions. The purpose of the article is to examine the standards developed by the Commission and the Court, showing that the U’wa case is not an isolated event. Rather, the U’wa case serves as the most recent expression of a sustained body of institutional work spanning more than two decades, through the IACHR’s thematic and case reports and a continually evolving body of Inter-American jurisprudence.

Autonomy at the Core of Self-Determination

The self-determination of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples goes beyond the recognition of collective ownership of their lands. As the IACHR has stated, this right also entails the power to govern their territories through their own authorities, as part of the right to autonomy or self-government expressly recognised in Article XXI of the American Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (ADRIP) and Article 4 of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP). The Commission notes that the exercise of territorial governance is one of the most significant expressions of Indigenous and Tribal self-determination, as it entails the recognition of their own systems of government, which exercise control over, manage, and administer their ancestral territories.

Such control goes beyond holding title to the land. The IACHR emphasises that an essential component of Indigenous and Tribal autonomy is effective control over ancestral territories and the natural resources found within them. Ancestral territories and such natural resources constitute the material basis for the existence of these peoples as collective subjects, rather than commodities. They serve as “the basis of their economic subsistence” as well as a “source of their cultural identity and spiritual well-being”. However, the Commission notes with concern that, to date, very few States in the region have established legal or administrative mechanisms to guarantee the autonomy of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples over their natural resources and means of subsistence. On the contrary, it points out that domestic legal frameworks generally prevent these peoples from holding rights over the natural resources within their own habitats.

As early as 2001, in the case of the Mayagna (Sumo) Awas Tingni Community v. Nicaragua, the Inter-American Court recognised the close relationship between territory and the subsistence of Indigenous Peoples as organised collectives.

As early as 2001, in the case of the Mayagna (Sumo) Awas Tingni Community v. Nicaragua, the Inter-American Court recognised the close relationship between territory and the subsistence of Indigenous Peoples as organised collectives.

This difficulty is compounded by territorial fragmentation. The Commission has found that granting land titles to individual communities, rather than to entire peoples or territories, can exclude areas that are essential to their way of life and seriously hinder the exercise of autonomy. This is further compounded by the fragmentation caused by State borders themselves, which, in the case of cross-border and binational peoples — as in the Amazonian corridor between Colombia, Ecuador and Peru — restricts the exercise of rights associated with historical patterns of territorial mobility that do not recognise national boundaries.

This understanding of autonomy as territorial control is not new to the Inter-American System. As early as 2001, in the case of the Mayagna (Sumo) Awas Tingni Community v. Nicaragua, the Inter-American Court recognised the close relationship between territory and the subsistence of Indigenous Peoples as organised collectives. In doing so, it laid the foundations upon which, two decades later, the Commission would develop specific standards on autonomy and self-government.

Self-Government Within, Participation Beyond

The IACHR understands the right to autonomy or self-government as having a dual dimension. On the one hand, it entails the right of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples to have an autonomous government; on the other, it encompasses their right to participate in the broader social and political structures of which they form part, including the State itself.

The internal dimension entails the recognition and preservation of their own decision-making institutions, including the free selection of their traditional authorities without external interference. The State, in turn, has a general duty not to interfere with the functioning of these institutions. The Commission is explicit on this point: where a legal system requires a State authority to certify the election of an Indigenous authority, such certification is merely a declaratory record of the will of the people, as expressed through its respective territorial or community assembly. Under no circumstances may this replace, override, or supersede the decision taken collectively.

The Commission has documented the concrete consequences of failing to uphold this standard: both State action and inaction that foster the creation of “parallel” governments alongside those legitimately elected by Indigenous Peoples constitute violations of the right to self-government. This seriously undermines their self-determination, weakens traditional structures and can lead to social conflict within the communities themselves.

On a particularly important point, the Commission expressly rejects framing consent as a “right of veto”. It considers that such a view oversimplifies the issue and disregards the self-determination of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples.

The Commission expressly rejects framing consent as a “right of veto”. It considers that such a view oversimplifies the issue and disregards the self-determination of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples.

In its external dimension, the right to political participation requires that Indigenous and Tribal Peoples, through their own authorities and institutions, take part in State decision-making processes that may affect their rights. The Commission makes clear that such participation must be effective, rather than merely formal. It is not sufficient to entrust representation to a local or regional government authority that may not necessarily be familiar with the priorities and concerns of the people in question. In this regard, the IACHR has also noted with concern that political participation quotas do not always ensure genuine representation and that, in certain contexts, political party co-optation has resulted in a loss of political autonomy for Indigenous Peoples.

For the IACHR, the right to prior, free and informed consultation and consent is a direct manifestation of self-determination rather than a mere administrative procedure. It is the fundamental premise that enables peoples to determine how they wish to exercise the rights to which they are entitled, closely linking it to the aforementioned external dimension. On a particularly important point, the Commission expressly rejects framing consent as a “right of veto”. It considers that such a view oversimplifies the issue and disregards the self-determination of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples by wrongly assuming that the State’s decision-making process has the power to forcibly impose a particular activity.

Two Decades of Inter-American Standards

These developments by the Commission both draw on and contribute to a body of Inter-American Court jurisprudence that has evolved over more than 20 years. In the 2007 case of the Saramaka People v. Suriname, the Court established that, in the case of large-scale development or investment projects that would have a major impact on Indigenous or Tribal territory, the State has not only a duty to consult but also an obligation to obtain the people’s prior, free and informed consent, in accordance with their own customs and traditions. Five years later, in the case of the Kichwa Indigenous People of Sarayaku v. Ecuador, the Court further developed the relationship between territory, cultural identity and a people’s ability to develop and pursue their own plans for life.

In 2020, in the case of the Indigenous Communities Members of the Lhaka Honhat (Our Land) Association v. Argentina, the Court went a step further. The Court extensively linked economic, social, cultural and environmental rights to autonomy and the effective enjoyment of collective territory, recognising the interdependence of these rights. This includes the rights to a healthy environment, adequate food, water and cultural identity. These developments were systematised by the IACHR in its December 2021 report, in which it devotes a specific section to the internal and external dimensions of autonomy and their relationship with economic, social, cultural and environmental rights. The U’wa case, with which this article opens, reaffirms this same line of thought in a highly contemporary context: that of extractive projects overlapping ancestral territories, one of the situations that the IACHR itself identifies as recurring across the region.

This body of work by the Commission and the Court is underpinned by four approaches that the IACHR applies across the right to self-determination and that also provide a framework for autonomy. The first is its reparative nature: self-determination is understood as a corrective response to the historical injustices of dispossession, colonisation and denial of rights suffered by these peoples. The second is interculturality, which requires a shift from assimilation towards coexistence based on respect for different worldviews, together with a genuine sharing of decision-making power over their own development priorities. The third is its cross-cutting nature: for the Commission, self-determination should guide the way in which the State guarantees all other rights of these peoples, rather than being treated as an isolated issue. The fourth and final approach combines gender and intergenerational perspectives: the IACHR has highlighted the participation of Indigenous women in self-government and community leadership, as well as intergenerational solidarity as a means of ensuring that their own forms of organisation are sustained over time.

A Gap Yet to Be Closed

Five years after the IACHR report, the Inter-American standard on the autonomy of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples is clearly established. Autonomy is not a discretionary concession by States, but a pre-existing right which, as the Commission itself recalls, “should not be understood as a concession or something granted”. What persists, however, is the gap between this standard and its effective implementation: the Commission notes that very few States in the region currently have legal or administrative mechanisms in place to guarantee Indigenous autonomy over their territories and natural resources.

Closing this gap requires States to bring their legal and institutional frameworks into line with the standards developed by the Inter-American System, rather than treating the recognition of Indigenous autonomy as an exception or a concession. In this endeavour, both the IACHR — through its thematic and case reports and its ongoing monitoring — and the Inter-American Court — through its continually evolving jurisprudence, of which the U’wa case is but one recent expression — continue to provide a reference framework for Indigenous and Tribal Peoples throughout the Americas to exercise their right to self-government in practice.

I am grateful to Mishkila Rojas, a specialist with the IACHR Rapporteurship on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, for her valuable support in the preparation of this article.

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1. Two dates, one problem

In 2009, Bolivia remade itself as a plurinational state, on the authority of a constituent assembly in which Indigenous Peoples took part as principals and not as petitioners. Since then, eight Indigenous autonomies have been constituted. They exercise no authority over the subsoil beneath their territories and are financed on substantially the same terms as any municipality.

In 2015, the Government of India and Naga negotiators signed a Framework Agreement recording that in a democracy sovereignty lies with the people. Eleven years on, the Naga people have not been asked to exercise it.

Both of these problems arise from the same constitutional question. The issue is where that authority originates and whether it can be called upon again. The plurinational constitutions recognise many peoples as subjects of the order and one people as its author. The Naga difficulty is the reverse — an authority never conferred, and so never closed, but with no settled constitutional mechanism through which the people can exercise it. Neither arrangement secures both dimensions.

2. Terms, comparison and scope

Sovereignty is the quality of ultimate political authority, which in a democracy resides in the people and is not transferable, though its exercise may be entrusted. Self-determination is a right of peoples, with an internal dimension concerning how a people governs itself within an existing state and an external dimension concerning international status. Autonomy denotes a sphere of authority recognised by a state; self-government denotes the standing capacity of a people to constitute and direct the institutions through which it governs; self-governance denotes the continuing practice of governing through those institutions, norms and relationships.  

Bolivia and Ecuador underwent constituent processes aimed at refounding the state. The Naga case is a long bilateral negotiation between a state and a political movement. These are not the same kind of process but what is compared is a relation, namely the relation between the source of a people’s authority and the material and institutional base on which that authority can be exercised. The relation appears in both settings, despite their very different political and institutional conditions.

The Nagas are a territorial majority in their homeland, while Indigenous Peoples hold varying demographic positions in Bolivia and Ecuador. These Andean nations are rentier
states, whereas the Indian state in the Northeast operates primarily as a security state.

The Nagas constitute a territorial majority in their homeland, whereas Indigenous Peoples occupy different demographic positions in the two Andean states.

The Nagas constitute a territorial majority in their homeland, whereas Indigenous Peoples occupy different demographic positions in the two Andean states. Bolivia and Ecuador are rentier states whose legitimacy rests on redistributing resource revenue; the Indian state in the Northeast has operated substantially as a security state through exceptional legislation, which produces different incentives and different instruments of control. The relationship between Indigenous movements and political parties differs in each. These are the limits of the comparison. If the same relationship appears in such different settings, it is more likely to reflect a structural pattern than a feature of one political environment.

This article is written from a Naga vantage point and for a Naga purpose, which is to learn from what Indigenous Peoples in Bolivia and Ecuador achieved and from what they were unable to hold. The Latin American material rests on the work of scholars and movements in the region. The Latin American literature on de facto autonomy is taken up below through a single case, Chiapas, as a particularly clear instance of autonomy exercised without formal legal recognition. The internal contestation of Indigenous self-government, including the scholarship of Indigenous women, is touched on only where it bears on what peoplehood requires.

On sources, two competing versions of the text of the Framework Agreement have been published in the media but the competency proposals that followed are not in the public domain; the discussion below is therefore limited to the broad constitutional and political arrangement they indicate and does not quote the provisions directly. The claim on which the argument turns is independent of those confidential materials. It is that no constituent act appears on the public record, a claim that would be displaced by the production of such an act.

3. Bolivia: an architecture built, then narrowed

Bolivia gave constitutional standing to 36 nations and their languages, created a Plurinational Constitutional Tribunal and special Indigenous constituencies, recognised Indigenous jurisdiction as equal to the ordinary courts, and recognised Indigenous autonomy as arising from the pre-existing authority of Indigenous nations rather than as a grant from the centre. This was won over decades, at a cost that included lives.

The boundary between what the constitution recognised and what remained with the state is consistent throughout.Identity, language, custom and jurisdiction were recognised; the subsoil, the resource rent and much of the fiscal power stayed with the state. Bolivian Indigenous autonomies hold certain taxation powers attached to municipal competencies, but the available tax base is negligible and dependence on central transfers remains very high. A distinction that is often overlooked also matters. Indigenous territories hold considerably stronger rights over renewable natural resources than over the non-renewable subsoil, which remains with the state.

Equality therefore survives as a constitutional principle while the scope of the jurisdiction is narrowed by ordinary law. What a constitution grants, an ordinary statute can substantially narrow without amendment.

Equality therefore survives as a constitutional principle while the scope of the jurisdiction is narrowed by ordinary law.

Two mechanisms then narrowed what recognition delivered. The first is at the point of entry. A territory or municipality seeking Indigenous autonomy had to draft a written statute, win a local referendum and pass constitutional review; Ley 1198 of 2019 later eased that route, allowing a statute to be approved in a recognised Indigenous territory through the people’s own norms and procedures, with legislative approval to follow. Conversion nonetheless remained slow, which locates the constraint in the organisational capacity needed to complete the process, not in procedure alone.

The second mechanism works after recognition has been won. The Jurisdictional Demarcation Law, passed the year after the constitution, drew the boundary of that formally equal jurisdiction narrowly, placing serious criminal matters outside it along with mining, hydrocarbons and other fields. Equality therefore survives as a constitutional principle while the scope of the jurisdiction is narrowed by ordinary law. What a constitution grants, an ordinary statute can substantially narrow without amendment. This is the process of hollowing out. The breaking points have been where recognition meets the material base — the road driven through the Isiboro Sécure territory in 2011 being the clearest instance. Where a state lives on resource rent, the redistribution that sustains its legitimacy is financed by extraction from the territories where self-government would have real force.

4. Ecuador: an architecture declared, and not built

The 2008 constitution of Ecuador established plurinationality and interculturality as principles of the state and recognised Indigenous jurisdiction and Indigenous territorial districts, but it did not produce an equivalent institutional architecture for Indigenous autonomy, and no Indigenous territorial district has been constituted. Where Bolivia built and narrowed, Ecuador declared and did not build.

The narrowing that did occur came through adjudication. In 2014, in La Cocha, the Constitutional Court held that Indigenous jurisdiction does not extend to cases involving death, narrowing by interpretation the jurisdiction that the constitution had recognised in principle. Then, a national referendum in 2023 mandated an end to drilling in Yasuní, but the result has not been fully implemented. By 2026, a major exercise of Indigenous political mobilisation had become defensive. Indigenous organisations helped defeat a referendum on a new constituent assembly, while Indigenous and environmental organisations faced restrictions on their civic activity, including the freezing of bank accounts.

5. What the two retreats share

Hollowing out by statute in one state, non-implementation and judicial restriction in the other — different routes producing a similar structural weakness. This points to something in the structure of conferred recognition rather than to the politics of one governing party. Three features are common. The material base stayed with the state in each. The difficulty of the route to autonomy was in each case read back into the people as evidence of incapacity. And because the plurinational project was constituted through constitutional law, its survival depends in significant part on courts and legislatures continuing to uphold it. Where judicial independence erodes or political institutions turn hostile, its constitutional protections become vulnerable. By 2026 the strain is visible in both, with Bolivia’s long protest wave taking place inside the constitutional order rather than directed towards a new one. What was not secured was a continuing institutional capacity for the peoples themselves to reopen the constitutional settlement. The constituent power that could author the order was exercised at the founding but not reserved to be exercised again.

6. A people that has not been asked

6.1. A regime nobody granted

The Naga homeland lies across what is now northeast India and northwest Myanmar. Before colonial rule, there was no centralised Naga state because political authority was organised at the village level. Each village was its own polity, governing through its own institutions, holding its land and settling disputes under its customary law, with authority resting on the agreement of those who lived under it. Land and its resources belonged to communities and still do. That political and territorial inheritance was not granted by a state.

British administration gradually brought Naga territories under separate colonial jurisdictions during the nineteenth century, and the transfer of power in 1947 divided the Naga homeland again between India and Burma, now Myanmar, without a settlement reached with the people who lived there. A wider Naga political consciousness grew from this experience rather than preceding it. Division imposed from outside made a common political voice a practical necessity. A plebiscite was held in 1951; armed conflict followed, then long negotiation, and a ceasefire has held since 1997.

6.2. Article 371A: a shelter, not a foundation

Article 371A of the Constitution of India, in force since 1963, provides that no Act of Parliament touching Naga religious or social practice, Naga customary law and procedure, the administration of justice under that law, or the ownership and transfer of land and its resources shall apply in Nagaland unless the state legislative assembly decides that it should. Since land and its resources are understood to belong to the communities, this protects the material base more firmly than almost anything available in Latin America.

The provision must nonetheless meet the same test applied to conferred authority elsewhere, and it does not pass it. Article 371A is part of the Indian constitutional order and operates through a state legislative assembly. What is distinctive in the Naga situation is not the provision but the customary regime of community ownership that the provision recognises — a regime that predates the Indian constitutional order and is not derived from it. Article 371A is therefore the state’s recognition of an existing Naga institution, not the source of that institution.

The consequences follow from that distinction. The protection is conditional because the constitutional exclusion operates through the decision of the state legislative assembly. It is a shelter rather than a foundation. And because the Naga political question has never been settled, there has been no constituent act through which the Naga people authorised a permanent transfer or surrender of that authority. A settlement of wider scope, negotiated without constituent authority, could concede what the people never empowered their negotiators to concede. That makes protection of the material base, rather than its creation, one of the first questions any constituent settlement would have to address.

6.3. The Framework Agreement and the question of source

The Framework Agreement of 3 August 2015 recognises the unique history and position of the Nagas; records that both parties are cognizant of the universal principle that in a democracy sovereignty lies with the people; and speaks of sharing the sovereign powers as defined in the competencies.

Its meaning is contested. The Government of India has not publicly characterised the arrangement as shared sovereignty in the same terms as the NSCN (IM) but has indicated it as an enhanced form of autonomy. The leadership of the NSCN (IM) reads the same text as recognising Naga sovereignty and a relationship of shared sovereignty between distinct entities. The question pursued here is prior to both readings and has not been joined by any of the parties.

A proposed settlement intended to establish a new political order, but which cannot be shown to the people whose constituent power it claims to exercise, is not an exercise of that power, whatever its content.

A proposed settlement that cannot be shown to the people is not an exercise of their power.

The detailed competencies since proposed take the Framework Agreement as their point of departure and proceed directly to subjects of governmental and administrative power and would have the agreement itself stand as a constitution. Competencies are therefore being prepared without any exercise of constituent authority. Where the source of the competencies is unnamed, they remain open to being read as flowing from the Constitution of India, at which point the sharing of sovereign powers between two peoples could become an arrangement of autonomy within an existing constitutional order rather than a new constitutional relationship between distinct constituent peoples.

The confidentiality of the documents bears on the same point. A proposed settlement intended to establish a new political order, but which cannot be shown to the people whose constituent power it claims to exercise, is not an exercise of that power, whatever its content. Constituent authority is not a quality a document can hold privately.

6.4. What counts as a constituent act

A claim that constituent authority has not been exercised requires a criterion made up of three elements, applied to the whole record rather than to the current negotiation alone. A constituent act is one in which a people deliberates, decides by its own procedures, and authorises the creation or fundamental reordering of its political institutions.

The memorandum submitted to the Simon Commission in 1929 was a petition, not a decision. The plebiscite of 1951 satisfies the first two elements in relation to political status but not the third, since it established no institutions and conferred no mandate to design them. The Sixteen-Point Agreement of 1960 was concluded by a body with no mandate to represent or negotiate, at a point when the Naga resistance movement had been largely suppressed and the organisation claiming a mandate from the plebiscite was in no position to contest it. The Shillong Accord of 1975 was repudiated on the ground that it had not authorised the terms agreed. The competencies now under discussion rest on mandated negotiators.

Across almost a century, the Naga political process has repeatedly produced instruments that did not clearly rest on the consent of the constituent power, which is a substantial part of why none has settled the question. In the current negotiation for settlement, that power has never been expressly invoked through a constituent procedure, and the competencies still lack a publicly named source.

6.5. Who would vote?

If a people is to adopt its own settlement and reopen it, its identity cannot remain implicit. The Naga people and their ancestral territory are substantially identifiable, and identifiability is not what the Government of India disputes. The difficulty is that this homeland no longer coincides with present administrative boundaries, and Naga communities are now situated across Nagaland, Manipur, Assam, Arunachal Pradesh and, across the international boundary, Myanmar. The questions include: Who participates in the settlement, which Naga ancestral areas fall within its scope, and what constitutional form can give effect to a people whose homeland has been divided among existing states? The territorial question therefore belongs within the constituent process rather than being left as a matter to be resolved afterwards. The Myanmar side raises a separate interstate question and cannot be carried into a constitutional settlement confined to India.

In comparison, a plurinational constitution can reserve constituent authority to an electorate whose legal boundaries are already drawn, even where that electorate contains several recognised peoples. The Naga constituent community is identifiable, but its political territory and the present representation of its members do not coincide. The problem lies in the absence of a constitutional form through which an existing peoplehood, whose homeland and political representation have been divided among state boundaries, can act collectively. The definition of the constituent subject is therefore inseparable from the reservation of constituent authority to that subject.

6.6. What an unresolved question costs

The Naga position is not a solution to the problem identified above; it is a different way of remaining outside a settled constitutional order. There is no settled territorial jurisdiction, and talks have been stalled for years over a flag and a constitution. A negotiation running for decades can become a form of government in itself. Authority accumulates in the bodies conducting it, prolonged representation displaces participation, and rival bodies each claim to carry an authority whose source remains uncertain.

A political community that has spent 70 years without a settled constitutional relationship has also had no occasion to build the deliberative and administrative practice that exercising one would require. This creates a problem that is structurally comparable to the difficulty seen in Bolivia, but the causes are different. In Bolivia, institutional capacity was tested by a state-defined procedure for obtaining autonomy. In the Naga case, the absence of a settled constitutional relationship has limited the opportunity to develop institutions through which the people could exercise their constituent authority.

7. What a material base must include

7.1. Title and control

A material base of self-government cannot be reduced to legal title, subsoil ownership or resource revenue. Zapatista self-government in Chiapas has operated for decades without state recognition and without any conventional transfer of fiscal resources. Its experience shows that self-government can persist where formal title and state-derived revenue are absent, provided that communities retain effective control over territory and develop the organisational capacity to exercise that control.

This makes effective control a necessary part of the material base. What sustains self-government day to day is not legal title or resource revenue as such, but effective control over territory together with accumulated organisational capacity. On that reading, Chiapas is not an exception to the argument but an important illustration of it. The Zapatistas have exercised substantial control and built organisational capacity in the absence of formal title and resource rents.

The distinction is therefore between the legal and the practical dimensions of authority. Effective control is what makes a right usable; recognised rights are what make control legally defensible. Neither substitutes for the other in a settled relationship with a state. A durable settlement of self-government therefore requires both recognised authority and the effective capacity to exercise it.

7.2. Scale as a condition of control

Latin American scholarship has long argued that self-government needs a territorial and political scale able to sustain an economic base, and that autonomy confined to fragmented municipal units becomes municipal administration under another name. Bolivian Indigenous autonomy was encapsulated within municipalities before it was further constrained by the state’s retention of subsoil resources, and the two limitations compound one another. A unit too small to sustain an economy cannot exercise resource rights effectively even where it formally holds them. Scale is therefore a condition of effective control.

The claim for integration arises in part because the present arrangement distributes Naga areas across administrative units, few of which are viable as the territorial basis of self-government. If integration were achieved, it would also avoid the problem of winning a majority among neighbours who want no part of the arrangement, a difficulty seen in some Bolivian cases. It carries an obligation in return. Where proposed Naga territories overlap with territories inhabited by other peoples, integration would place those peoples in the position of a minority within an autonomy constituted primarily by the Naga people. The terms on which those neighbours are included would therefore have to be settled with them, rather than assumed as part of the Naga claim. Subsurface deposits straddle these boundaries and the homeland crosses an international border, so shared resources would need a regime agreed with neighbours and the State.

7.3. Ownership without the means of exercise

The Naga evidence states the proposition in reverse. Recognised community ownership has not settled who may licence extraction. Oil was produced at Changpang from 1981 until May 1994, when the operator withdrew amid demands for payment for Naga resources, leaving wells improperly decommissioned; the constitutional question remains open, with Nagaland invoking Article 371A and the Union invoking the Union List together with the Mines and Minerals (Regulation and Development) Act 1957. More than 60 years after Article 371A came into force, recognised ownership has still not produced effective control over the resource.

Ownership recognised without the institutions through which it can be exercised — including a clear linkage between customary and statutory jurisdiction, budgetary authority at the community level, and the technical and legal capacity to negotiate rather than merely refuse — leaves the right formally intact but practically exposed. Where those institutions do not exist, the state retains much of the practical machinery through which resource decisions are made. Building an effective system of community resource governance would therefore require authority and institutional capacity to exercise ownership.

An independent material base does not democratise-government by itself. Revenue accruing to an autonomous authority can concentrate power within a territory just as readily as it can remain under external control.

8. The condition no settlement supplies for itself

The constitutional settlement cannot supply for itself the political capacity needed to sustain it. The constitutional texts of Bolivia and Ecuador did not change between 2009 and 2026; the executives did, and recognition proved vulnerable once the institutions responsible for implementing it turned against it. More broadly, Indigenous self-government is difficult to sustain where the surrounding state ceases to respect democratic institutions and recasts claims to self-government as threats to territorial unity.Across Asia, claims to self-governance have often been treated as separatism and answered with force.

There is a trap in the observation. If self-government must await the state’s democratisation, the state holds a veto over it. Two considerations close the trap. Indigenous self-government is itself democratising. Plurinationality is, at its core, a claim about the character of democracy — that a political order can contain more than one legitimate source of authority and still hold together. Coexistence therefore requires more than the restraint of the state. It requires a shared political and moral horizon between peoples, built through their relationship rather than granted by one to the other.

A shared horizon is required between peoples, so that coexistence rests on something other than the balance of force. Peoplehood is therefore a precondition rather than a sentiment.

A shared horizon is required between peoples, so that coexistence rests on something other than the balance of force.

Self-determination is in this sense a practice carried on over time rather than a fixed institutional arrangement. A shared horizon is required between peoples, so that coexistence rests on something other than the balance of force. Peoplehood is therefore a precondition rather than a sentiment. Coherence sufficient to act together means the capacity to act through disagreement, not its absence, and a conception of peoplehood that treats dissent as a threat to unity produces a silenced subject rather than a constituent one, and the experience of Indigenous women in particular shows that rights are claimed within autonomy rather than against it.

The Bolivian record is telling here. The composite category through which Indigenous peoplehood entered the constitutional text held as long as the coalition behind it held, then broke along the division it had covered, between Andean peasant federations and lowland territorial organisations. By the time the order needed its authors again, they no longer existed in a form able to act. That closure was contingent and political rather than inherent in constitution-making, which places the remedy less in drafting than in the maintenance of political power.

Proposal

Since the diagnosis is that constitutional texts are insufficient without the power and capacity to sustain them, the proposals address who holds and can exercise something — authority, territory, revenue or institutional capacity — rather than what a document merely says about it. Reserved constituent power.

Sovereignty is inherent in the people and cannot be permanently transferred, even though its exercise may be entrusted to institutions.A constitution must therefore specify when and in what circumstances the founding power may be reconvened and must leave that power with the people rather than with the head of state, the institutions or the negotiators. Where the text draws no such boundary, whoever holds office will draw it.

A standard objection in constitutional theory is that once a constitution regulates how a  constituent power is exercised, what it regulates is no longer constituent power but a constituted power of amendment.No constitution creates constituent power, and none can abolish it; a reopening clause acknowledges a power the text cannot originate and specifies who may set it in motion. The alternative to specifying it is not preservation but silence, which leaves the question to whoever holds office when it arises. The objection also points to a useful distinction. If a regulated reopening procedure is merely an amendment power, then the Bolivian and Ecuadorian provisions should not be described as reservations of constituent power to Indigenous peoples. What is proposed here is narrower in scope than general constituent power but distinct from ordinary amendment, reaching only the terms of the relationship between a people and the state.

A power invocable at will would make government impossible; one never invocable is not reserved. Four specifications give it workable shape:

• Who may trigger it. The people whose authority is at stake, acting through their own institutions and procedures, and not only the national electorate. In a plurinational order each constituent people holds the trigger for the terms constituting its own relationship with the state.
• What it reaches. Not the constitution at large but the terms of the relationship; the distribution of authority between the people and the state, the territorial arrangement, the material base, and the reopening procedure itself. Ordinary legislation and ordinary amendment remain with the constituted powers.
• Under what circumstances. Material breach, where the state has failed to implement or has legislated to narrow what was agreed; fundamental change of circumstances, such as a major resource discovery or a fundamental change in the constitutional character of the state; and periodic review at intervals of a generation. Periodic review matters most in practice, because it makes reconsideration a normal constitutional possibility rather than an allegation of bad faith.
• By what procedure. Deliberation within the people according to its own norms, decision by the people concerned, negotiation with the state, ratification by both. Initiation would not be unilateral, but neither would it require the other party’s permission.

Any such clause should state expressly that it is not a right of secession and should be drafted so that it cannot be read as one. Its purpose is the renegotiation of terms within a continuing relationship.

Both plurinational constitutions do provide for reconvening the founding power. In Bolivia, total reform, or reform touching the fundamental bases, rights and guarantees, proceeds through a plenipotentiary constituent assembly activated by referendum, which may be set in motion by citizen initiative carrying at least twenty per cent of the electorate, by an absolute majority of the Plurinational Legislative Assembly, or by the President, the resulting text requiring approval at a constitutional referendum. In Ecuador, a constituent assembly may be convoked only through popular consultation, requested by the President, by two-thirds of the National Assembly, or by twelve per cent of those on the electoral register, with any new constitution approved by referendum.

The trigger and the ratification mechanisms are organised through the national electorate as a single constitutional body. Neither constitution reserves the initiative to a constituent people as such. A plurinational constitution reserving the founding power only to the national body of voters has not institutionalised plurinationality in this respect. It recognises many peoples as subjects of the order and one people as its author. The criticism is internal to the plurinational project rather than directed against it. The question is whether recognising several peoples should extend beyond recognising them as subjects of rights and autonomy to reserving to each a constituent authority over the fundamental terms of its own relationship with the state.

9. What international law supports

India has not ratified ILO Convention No. 169; Bolivia ratified it in 1991 and Ecuador in 1998. Its consultation and benefit-sharing requirements therefore bind Bolivia and Ecuador as parties to the Convention, but not India. The relevant provision is in any event conditional in form, addressing cases in which the State retains ownership of mineral or sub-surface resources, and so presupposes rather than confers that ownership, which arises under domestic law.

UNDRIP recognises, in Article 26, the right to own, use, develop and control lands, territories and resources without expressly excluding sub-surface resources; requires, in Article 32(2), free, prior and informed consent before approval of projects affecting those territories, naming mineral resources expressly; and provides redress where resources have been taken without consent. The argument here draws on this stronger conception of control and consent rather than treating consultation as the outer limit of Indigenous participation.

One foreseeable objection concerns territorial integrity. The Declaration carries a savings clause for the territorial integrity and political unity of sovereign and independent states. That clause does not itself establish an unconditional rule that existing territorial arrangements prevail over all claims of self-determination. The closely related 1970 Friendly Relations Declaration states the territorial-integrity principle in a formulation that refers to states conducting themselves in compliance with the principle of equal rights and self-determination and possessing a government representing the whole people without distinction. Territorial integrity appears there as a condition to be met, not a guarantee.

The Friendly Relations Declaration states the territorial-integrity principle in a formulation referring to States conducting themselves in compliance with the principle of equal rights and self-determination and possessing a government representing the whole people.

The Friendly Relations Declaration states the territorial-integrity principle, referring to States in compliance with the principle of equal rights and self-determination.

A second foreseeable objection concerns India’s position on self-determination. India has entered a declaration concerning Article 1 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights that limits the right of self-determination, for purposes of India’s undertaking under the Covenant, to peoples under foreign domination. France, Germany, the Netherlands and Pakistan objected to that declaration. The declaration records India’s position in the treaty framework; it does not by itself determine what India and the Nagas may agree in a negotiated settlement. No such settlement has yet been concluded.

10. What self-government is, and what a settlement must secure

Self-government is the standing capacity of a people to establish, direct and remake the institutions through which it governs itself, resting on five conditions together  —  a people coherent enough to act together, in the sense given above; authority originating in the people rather than in a grant; a material base consisting of effective control over territory and its resources, at a scale able to sustain them, together with revenue held as of right; institutions answerable to the people and capable of being remade; and the practical capacity to design those institutions and govern through them.

Stated as requirements, and drawn from what the two experiences show, this is what a settlement would need to secure:

1. Name the origin of the authority it recognises, and recognise rather than create it;
2. Be adopted by the people themselves through a constituent assembly, referendum, plebiscite or comparable process, and not by negotiators alone;
3. Set out when and how the people may reconvene to revise it, with a trigger available to the people concerned and not only to a wider electorate;
4. Secure land, subsoil and resources as of right, at a viable scale, together with authority over their alienation and transfer, and the institutions and revenue through which that holding can be exercised;
5. Reduce nothing already protected, a settlement being measured against the position it replaces;
6. Entrench competencies so that they cannot be narrowed by statute or emptied by interpretation, with disputes referred to an independent forum rather than to the administration of one party;
7. Draw the form of government from the people’s own traditions rather than an external template;
8. Answer to its own members, standards such as the equal standing of women being reached through the people’s own institutions, supported by education and resources, rather than by external mandate alone;
9. Establish a standing forum in which the parties meet as parties, and a corresponding forum with neighbouring peoples or jurisdictions where territory or resources are shared;
10. Treat the capacity to design a governing architecture, and to govern through it, as a standing programme of work rather than as something acquired after signature.

The first nine are matters to be secured through mutual agreement and reciprocal obligation; the tenth is a capacity that no settlement can confer and that the people themselves must build and exercise. Capacity of this sort — administrative, fiscal, deliberative, and sufficient to carry internal disagreement — must be built by Indigenous governments and movements themselves, and there are two reasons for treating it as urgent. Where autonomy has functioned well in Latin America, organisational depth and governing practice generally preceded the legal form, with the legal framework recognising and consolidating capacities that had already developed. And states have learned to read missing capacity as a reason to withhold authority, turning a shortfall into an argument against further authority.

The pathways through which movements enter parties and state programmes, the conditions attached to participation, and the dismantling or displacement of institutions peoples had built for themselves all shape how much organisational capacity can accumulate. In the Naga case, the raw material has not been absent. Villages have governed continuously, although protracted militarisation, institutional disruption and weaknesses within the movements themselves have eroded that inheritance. What remains missing and unfinished is the deliberate work of revitalising and connecting those surviving institutions into a wider political, fiscal and administrative capacity capable of sustaining self-government at the scale required.

11. Conclusion

None of this requires an unprecedented constitutional imagination, with States building beyond the doctrinal minimum. Denmark’s Self-Government Act recognises the people of Greenland as a people under international law with the right of self-determination and establishes a defined legal route through which the relationship may develop further. The Latin American constituent processes also went a considerable distance, but stopped short when they recognised multiple peoples as subjects of the constitutional order but did not reserve to those peoples a continuing constituent authority, and substantial control over the material base remained with the state. The Naga process has kept the question open at the cost of never securing an answer and now risks settling how government will work without first settling where its authority comes from.

The question is who constitutes whom — and whether, once answered, that question may be asked again.

The post Who Constitutes Whom? Constituent Power, the Material Base, and the Limits of Plurinational Recognition: a Naga Reading of the Latin American Experience appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

The book Mexico: Autonomies from North to South in Diverse Contexts, published by IWGIA (2026) and coordinated by the authors of this article, shows that criminal violence is more than a public security issue: organised crime operates as a mechanism of territorial control aimed at gaining control over natural resources, strategic routes, productive activities and community governance structures. The case studies show that, in many places, Indigenous autonomies have become sites of political contestation between community projects of self-determination and criminal actors seeking control over territories.

A Book Explaining the Erosion of Indigenous Autonomy

Sociologist Carlos Rafael Rea shows how, in the state of Nayarit, Indigenous communities are caught in armed confrontations between criminal organisations. This results in forced displacement, the recruitment of young people, economic control over everyday life and the erosion of their own institutions. Autonomy does not disappear immediately but is gradually eroded and weakened in the face of criminal actors capable of replacing or exerting pressure on community authorities.

In Guerrero, the case of the Regional Coordination of Community Authorities–Community Police (CRAC-PC), analysed by Evangelina Sánchez and Claudia Rangel, illustrates the complex relationship between criminality and autonomy. This experience shows how community-based systems of security and justice can become priority targets for criminal actors and external interests seeking to weaken them and fragment these forms of resistance. Violence against community leaders, co-optation and attempts to dismantle their organisations have become recurring mechanisms for undermining communities’ capacity to defend themselves.

The case studies show how criminal groups instrumentalise Indigenous organisational practices and mechanisms to gain legitimacy or access to local power, profoundly transforming community life. Enriqueta Lerma’s analysis of the Yaqui people introduces the notion of “narco-ethnocide” to explain how organised crime does not only perpetrate physical violence. It also reshapes the community’s political, symbolic and cultural structures. Along similar lines, Medardo Tapia develops the concept of the “social accumulation of violence” to explain the rise in homicides, extortion and other forms of insecurity affecting community life in Coatetelco, Xoxocotla and Hueyapan, in the state of Morelos.

Attacks on Indigenous Self-Government

The book also documents the blurred boundaries between criminal and state violence. Professor and researcher Carmen Ventura examines the struggles of Nahua and P’urhépecha communities to defend their territories and establish autonomous forms of governance in contexts of structural violence and dispossession. Ventura documents how Indigenous Peoples in Mexico face threats arising from illegal economies, large-scale extractive projects and exclusionary state policies.

Other studies highlight territorial dispossession, the capture of local governments, threats against traditional authorities, the killing of community leaders, the forced recruitment of young people and population displacement. The articles show that these mechanisms do not operate in isolation. They also form part of complex strategies aimed at gaining control over Indigenous territories and undermining autonomous forms of organisation.

Other Indigenous Peoples are experiencing the fragmentation of their community structures and the weakening of their decision-making and community protection mechanisms. They face a form of “community capture” whereby the loyalty of their authorities is bought, turning them into spokespersons for the interests of dominant economic actors and illegal economies, whether through inducements or the use of force.

The evidence presented shows that organised crime not only causes killings, displacement and fear but also directly attacks institutions of self-government, forms of community organisation and Indigenous Peoples’ projects of self-determination. This analysis helps to reframe the debate on Indigenous autonomies, moving beyond discussions focused primarily on their legal dimension. In essence, this article also encourages to consider Indigenous autonomies from the perspective of territorial security, community defence and the resilience of Indigenous Peoples in contexts of extreme violence.

Indigenous Peoples’ Responses

Communities are reconfiguring their communal governments, creating new forums for building consensus, strengthening regional ties and forging alliances to improve their position in negotiation processes and political mobilisation. In other cases, they turn to legal action. This includes (i) filing amparo actions (constitutional protection claims) in response to violations of their right to prior consultation and the dispossession of their territories; (ii) seeking the suspension of projects; (iii) challenging the enforcement of laws that threaten their autonomous practices; (iv) denouncing the contamination of their ecosystems; (v) demanding the release of imprisoned community members; and (vi) seeking justice for those who have been disappeared or killed. Finally, they turn to human rights bodies to seek protection and demand respect for their right to self-determination.

Regional organisations such as the Regional Coordination of Community Authorities–Community Police (CRAC-PC), in the Costa-Montaña region of Guerrero, have succeeded in protecting local communities and establishing a widely recognised justice system for more than 30 years. Today, however, the CRAC-PC faces a critical situation amid pressure from mining interests, the effects of government policies aimed at institutionalising it, and repeated armed incursions by organised crime. These have led to the displacement of more than 30,000 people from their communities, dozens of killings and the imprisonment of its defenders.

In Nayarit, communities have adopted various strategies in response to the imposition of large-scale infrastructure projects and extreme violence. These include the revitalisation of the community police in the municipality of Del Nayar, an initiative that resonated across the region. However, its leaders were arrested and imprisoned on charges of criminal association, leading to the organisation’s dismantling.

Collective Alternatives for Territorial Security

The territories of Indigenous Peoples in southern and south-eastern Mexico were at the centre of government geostrategic projects during the 2018–2024 period: the Interoceanic Corridor of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, which comprises ten development hubs, and the Maya Train, with major environmental and social impacts. The State strategy combined social assistance programmes with legal measures, including a decree declaring these large-scale infrastructure projects to be matters of public interest and national security, with the aim of curbing the series of amparo actions filed against them. These measures were accompanied by coercive actions, including imprisonment, threats against defenders, and the militarisation of the region.

Other community-based experiences can be found in states such as Hidalgo, Veracruz, San Luis Potosí and Michoacán. When these communities have exercised their autonomy, they have established community guards or police forces to protect their territories. Their members are appointed and regulated by community assemblies and their own normative systems, and provide a service to the community. These services include response to crime and house burglaries, address logging and community defence against armed incursions. The experience of San Luis Potosí is particularly noteworthy: 90 of its 389 communities have decided to prohibit the sale of alcohol, while around 5,500 community police officers operate across its 22 Indigenous municipalities. These measures enable communities to exercise a degree of control over security while strengthening their autonomy.

In Michoacán, the right to exercise what is known as the “direct budget” has been recognised, whereby communities directly administer the share of municipal resources allocated to them according to their population. These resources have been significant in enabling more than 50 communities to provide basic services and establish new government institutions. Some have strengthened their communal governments, while others have been dismantled by disputes over the administration of these resources.

However, only these more than 50 communities are entitled to establish their own security forces, leaving the more than 300 remaining communities in a situation of illegality and exposing them to criminalisation. Violence is present throughout the region. Consequently, territorial dispossession driven by mining and agro-export capital, together with the presence of armed actors, is putting these processes of autonomy at risk.

A State of Permanent Emergency

In the state of Sonora, the construction of an aqueduct and a gas pipeline crossing Yaqui lands sparked widespread mobilisation. However, their organisation was infiltrated by organised crime actors, who co-opted young people and weakened traditional governments and collective strength. In Chiapas, meanwhile, the continued paramilitary presence in Indigenous territories, as part of a counter-insurgency strategy, together with local caciquismo and actors involved in illegal economies, poses new challenges to the consolidation of de facto processes of autonomy. These challenges are compounded by large-scale infrastructure projects, state-run social programmes, and the co-optation of community leaders.

In Morelos, the creation of new Indigenous municipalities as a political means of exercising power and achieving security has also encountered setbacks. These setbacks include disputes between local leaders, negotiations with government authorities and the incursion by organised crime, all of which have weakened these processes. Finally, in Baja California, the Kumiai are resisting structural forms of violence that have reduced and fragmented their “large territory”. In response, they are building alliances with Native Americans, maintaining their emotional and spatial ties, revitalising their language, protesting against the border wall, resisting the plundering of their archaeological heritage, continuing to hold ceremonies at their sacred sites and keeping alive their knowledge of the desert.

This brief overview allows us to conclude that Indigenous societies today live in a state of permanent emergency. They are not only rights-bearing subjects but also political actors with the capacity to participate actively in shaping laws that respond to their demands, with a view to building horizons of hope. The cases documented in the book Mexico: Autonomies from North to South in Diverse Contexts show that Indigenous autonomies cannot be understood solely through the lens of vulnerability. In contexts of extreme adversity, Indigenous Peoples continue to develop strategies of resistance, organisational rebuilding and the creation of political alternatives.

The book’s main contribution lies in showing that the future of Indigenous autonomies in Mexico will depend not only on new constitutional recognition or legal reforms. It will also rely on the capacity to create effective conditions for guaranteeing territorial security, protecting community authorities, ensuring access to justice and fully respecting the collective decisions of Indigenous Peoples. Rethinking autonomy in the 21st century requires recognising that the central struggle is no longer waged solely in the realm of rights but also in the defence of territories against the multiple forms of violence that seek to dismantle community projects. Despite these pressures, Indigenous Peoples continue to develop their own forms of government, memory and resistance, which constitute one of the most significant expressions of democracy and political pluralism.

The post Mexico: Autonomies under Siege amid Extreme Violence appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

Gunayala encompasses both land and sea. Through negsedi (autonomy), the Gunadule people exercise control over their land and marine territories which include the islands and the marine resources of Muubilli (Grandmother Sea). In the face of the accelerating impacts of climate change, the Guna regulate fishing, land and maritime transport, and tourism according to our own rules. The Gunayala Comarca has consolidated its autonomy through its two principal Congresses: the General Congress, which is political and administrative, and the Congress of Culture. Within this framework, essential autonomous laws have been developed, including those aimed at protecting and caring for Nabgwana (Mother Earth) and Muubilli, which lie at the heart of our economy, food and well-being.

Today, there is an urgent need to rethink health and education in order to strengthen the autonomy of the Gunadule people. Although significant progress has been made in the education of Guna professionals, these efforts have not been sufficient to achieve self-determination, as they have strengthened the state model rather than our own Guna systems. Current health and education models impose a colonial and Eurocentric vision of state control. These systems disregard Gunadule sacred medicine and ancestral knowledge. This is why our Gunadule people must come together and engage in dialogue to create our own systems of health, education and territorial governance. These must be grounded in Guna wisdom and in the spirit of the historic struggle of 1925.

Negsedi Igala and Muubilli: Territorial and Marine Autonomy

Guna autonomy is the outcome of a historical process of struggles, negotiations and peace agreements rooted in the history of the Gunadule people. It was consolidated in 1925 in defence of their identity, spirituality and the mola (the traditional dress of Guna women), in response to the Panamanian government’s policies of forced assimilation at the time. In terms of self-government, the Guna General Congresses are the highest political, administrative, cultural and spiritual authorities. They are responsible for controlling resources, regulating agriculture, planning investments, and managing land use within the comarca.

Our understanding of Muubilli (marine autonomy) is based on a holistic vision: the sea is not merely a boundary but a vital extension of Mother Earth. It is an indivisible part of the Guna identity, livelihoods and ancestral way of life. Responsibility for exercising this autonomy lies with the Maritime Transport Secretariat of the Guna General Congress, which coordinates navigation and commercial activities within the marine territory. Tourism activities, including cabins, boats and guides, likewise operate under the rules of the Guna Congress and local authorities. The same applies to community conservation rules and seasonal bans on the artisanal fishing of spiny lobster, king crab and queen conch, which are intended to prevent exploitation by external actors.

However, defending the marine territory remains one of the main challenges facing Gunadule autonomy. In 1987, the Guna General Congress proclaimed the land and marine territory the Kuna Yala Biosphere Reserve and World Heritage Site, but the Panamanian State did not recognise Muubilli in its entirety. Instead, under legislation adopted in 1994, it designated only part of the Narganá corregimiento as a Protected Wilderness Area, leaving the Gunadule people’s holistic conception of their marine territory without recognition.

Threats and Challenges to Autonomy

As in other territories across Latin America, large-scale infrastructure projects are the primary threats to the island region of Gunayala. The authorisation agreement for one of the projects, the ARCOS-1 submarine fibre-optic cable, is currently under review. While this project exclusively benefits international companies, Guna communities still lack access to the internet. At the same time, the Guna General Congress has authorised a consultation process within the communities on the Colombia–Panama Electricity Interconnection Project, which would run both by sea and over land and forms part of a binational government project. The consultation is being conducted in exercise of the right to self-determination and in accordance with the Guna people’s own rules. Its purpose is to inform the communities so that they can reach a final decision.

Two roads are also planned: one between Mordi and Sasardi Muladub, linked to the electricity interconnection project; and another from Usdub-Ogobsuggun to Wala-Nurra, promoted by several communities and which could affect the local ecosystem. Finally, a growing number of yacht and sailing-boat operators are monopolising marine tourism. All of these projects are being examined and debated by the Guna authorities, who are assessing whether they are compatible with their own rules and with the preservation of Gunayala’s territory.

A second challenge is population growth. There is currently a lack of physical space on the islands, compounded by the challenges of waste management and protecting marine reefs.

A second challenge is population growth. There is currently a lack of physical space on the islands, compounded by the challenges of waste management and protecting marine reefs.

In terms of the challenges facing autonomy, the most pressing is climate change. Rising sea levels have made it necessary to plan the unprecedented relocation of island communities to the mainland, as in the case of Gardi Sugdub. Similarly, the community of Ugguba had to be relocated to another part of the coast because of flooding and the impact of waves. In response, we have developed the Gunayala Strategic Plan (PEGY), which brings land and sea together with the aim of consolidating the Gunayala Biosphere Comarca.

A second challenge is population growth. There is currently a lack of physical space on the islands, compounded by the challenges of waste management and protecting marine reefs. The Guna people are also experiencing a steady outflow of community members to cities outside the territory due to the lack of employment and educational opportunities suited to the realities of the comarca. Finally, the Guna must prepare new generations to navigate the modern world through Intercultural Bilingual Education, without losing their roots in the Gunadule people; educate young people to defend Guna autonomy; promote the responsible use of artificial intelligence (AI); and foster agricultural production and sustainable artisanal fishing in order to achieve food sovereignty.

Strengthening the House

Indigenous autonomy remains a powerful force. In the case of the Gunadule people, it has been said that the time has come to embark on a new Bila (revolution), no longer through arms but through words, history and wisdom. As Guna elders say: “Anmar Bila Nongi Uroe” (“Our struggle will be through wisdom”). At this stage, resistance is shifting from physical confrontation towards the defence of territory through knowledge, education, community organisation and political action, while preparing new generations to preserve Gunadule autonomy.

The main challenges facing Gunayala’s autonomy today are clear: defending Muubilli, protecting ancestral knowledge and wisdom, and strengthening Negsedi. In the face of these challenges, we say that Bila Igar (the path of war) lives in the spirit of every Gunadule: it is in the body, in the blood and in the fabric that continues to guide the defence of the life, territory and autonomy of the Gunadule people.

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Camilo Niño Izquierdo (CNI): Autonomy is one of the principles and legal standards governing the rights of Indigenous Peoples, and it encompasses several spheres. For millennia, we have struggled to have our differences recognised and made legally binding on the Colombian State. To speak of autonomy is to speak of being Indigenous within our own spaces, within our territories. Autonomy is what sustains the survival and continuity of our peoples. And within those “territories of our own” lies the fundamental right of Indigenous Peoples to full recognition, which remains incomplete today. Territory is the right that underpins all other rights: without it, none of the others could be possible. It is there that our knowledge systems exist, that our spiritual and cultural practices are exercised, and that our governance, our own government, health and education exist.

LGS: The 1991 Constitution provided significant recognition of this autonomy. More than 30 years later, what is happening in practice?

CNI: Colombia made significant progress with the 1991 Constituent Assembly. Indigenous Peoples emerged as key actors, and this was reflected in the recognition of territories, the constitutional protection of resguardos, the creation of Indigenous territorial entities, political participation, and the incorporation of international standards that form part of the bloque de constitucionalidad [body of constitutional law/constitutional block]. Colombia enshrined rights to the fullest extent. But how much progress has actually been made? In territorial matters, progress had already been made before 1991, because the resguardo predates the Constitution. It was during the 1980s that the largest amount of territory was recognised under this legal framework. Since then, more resguardos have been recognised, but over smaller areas of land: more resolutions, fewer hectares. So, more rights were enshrined, but in practice titled territories are still not fully protected.

LGS: So where does the gap lie between constitutional recognition and effectively exercising rights with relation to such recognition?

CNI: We could speak of two major challenges that have yet to be overcome: on the one hand, institutional adaptation and, on the other, the regulatory changes needed to streamline procedures. But behind both lies political will. One example of regulatory adaptation is the amendment of Decree 2164 of 1995, which for 30 years governed the establishment, expansion and legal regularisation of resguardos through procedures that slowed the process down. We spent more than five years discussing amendments to it. The decree that replaced it, Decree 1392, was signed on 22 December 2025, but in order to implement it, the National Land Agency (Agencia Nacional de Tierras) must issue its internal guidelines. In practice, these guidelines determine what a community is required to provide. It is now August 2026 and we have still not been able to discuss them. Moreover, this is sometimes where additional requirements end up being introduced that are not provided for in the decree.

As for institutional adaptation, the National Land Agency has a Directorate for Ethnic Affairs, but no Indigenous sub-directorate. This Directorate serves both Indigenous Peoples and Afro-descendant communities in addition to being responsible for land acquisition. Given the way the requirements are currently designed, it is much easier today for a private individual to acquire a property through the Agency than it is for an Indigenous People. It seems as though an additional burden is imposed when it comes to us.

LGS: Can effective autonomy exist without legal certainty and genuine control over territory?

CNI: There can be no autonomy without territory. Legal certainty goes beyond holding title. The National Land Agency grants title to a collective territory by means of a resolution issued following the completion of an entire procedure. That resolution is registered with the Superintendency of Notaries and Registration (Superintendencia de Notariado y Registro), but this does not mean that the territory is comprehensively protected. The best-known example is that of the Nukak people, who have a territory recognised by the State and a resolution granting them rights to it, but are unable to exercise those rights because other actors are exerting influence over the territory. Similarly, in Putumayo, territory was recognised for the Inga people, but not a single Inga person lives there: they were displaced, and others now occupy the territory. This is why we insist that territories must be comprehensively protected.

LGS: Indigenous territorial entities are one of the most concrete expressions of this autonomy. Are they an end point or a tool within a broader process?

CNI: Colombia has a historical debt. The Constitution established that Indigenous territorial entities must be created and, until that happened, Transitional Article 56 was included to allow for their gradual development. Thirty-four years later, their implementation has still not been resolved. There has been progress. Decree 1953 of 2014, which emerged from a mobilisation, enables Indigenous Peoples to directly administer resources from the General System of Participations, removing them from the municipalities, which previously received the funds and entered into agreements with the resguardos. Last year, following a major national mobilisation led by Amazonian peoples, eight Indigenous territorial entities became a reality, in addition to one in La Guajira. The aim is for Indigenous Peoples to exercise their autonomy and governance and receive direct funding, subject to the same oversight as any other territorial entity. For me, this is a starting point rather than an end point. This was already set out in the Constitution 34 years ago: it is a development of the bloque de constitucionalidad [body of constitutional law], not the work of any particular government. The decrees create the territorial entities, but they do not specify when or how they will become operational. That is the challenge.

LGS: A single territory may be subject to various powers and jurisdictions, concerning the surface, the subsoil, a protected area or a mining title. What happens to autonomy when decision-making is fragmented in this way?

CNI: Recognition goes beyond the granting of title, because recognition is often given without being binding in practice. Furthermore, municipalities do not recognise the status of resguardos, because it is very difficult for a local authority to recognise another authority at the same level. And an Indigenous authority, in addition to being recognised as such under customary law, must complete the required procedure with the municipal authorities and be registered with the Ministry of the Interior. Without this, Indigenous authorities cannot be officially recognised. Then there is the issue of mining and energy concessions. The clearest example is Putumayo: it has the highest number of applications for the expansion, establishment and legal regularisation of resguardos, for the protection of ancestral territories and for land restitution, while at the same time also having the highest number of applications for mining and energy exploration and exploitation. When these interests collide, what is defined as the national interest usually prevails.

LGS: And what happens in the case of National Natural Parks?

CNI: A resguardo does not protect the subsoil; the only legal designation that protects the subsoil is that of a National Natural Park. It is as though we lived within just two metres: we can look around a little and downwards, only as far as the ground beneath our feet, but no further. And it is there, beneath our feet, that the resources over which the State grants concessions are found. We argue that there must be comprehensive protection of the airspace, the electromagnetic spectrum used for communications and the subsoil. That is why autonomy is limited: it extends only as far as others allow it to. In territories that overlap with parks, any activity undertaken by Indigenous Peoples requires certification that it does not interfere with the park’s mandate. This entails a loss of autonomy, even when we are referred to as co-managers. Some of our Indigenous brothers and sisters are critical of the National Natural Park designation, while others see it as an opportunity because it has helped to protect territories. This is the case of Yaigojé Apaporis, where the Constitutional Court upheld the park and halted the Cosigo mining project, and of the Sierra Nevada, where National Natural Park status helped to stop the dam planned at Los Besotes. The U’wa Nation, by contrast, is calling for the park to be abolished.

LGS: The new government has announced plans to reverse the establishment of Indigenous territorial entities, while public discourse has portrayed them as “federated territories” or as a threat to the country’s unity. How do you view this situation in terms of Indigenous autonomy?

CNI: There is great concern. In law, there is a principle of progressivity and non-regression. There is a lot of noise in the media and not enough effort to explain what these entities actually are. It is being said that Indigenous territorial entities will become separate governments, as though a State within the Colombian State were being created. There are actors fuelling this misinformation and pushing this narrative. The reality is that recognising these entities and bringing them into operation is an obligation of the State. It is already established in the Political Constitution; it is nothing new. To abolish this form of territorial organisation in a State with 115 Indigenous Peoples, which recognises and protects ethnic and cultural diversity, would be to violate the Constitution itself.

Meanwhile, the government is already repealing existing measures: it revoked the resolution that established a protection reserve for the La Baja micro-watershed, outside the Santurbán páramo, as well as other measures issued by the Ministry of Labour that recognised labour rights. Many measures relating to Indigenous Peoples were adopted towards the end of the previous presidential term, and this raises concerns about the protection of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, where more than 1.5 million hectares were set aside for protection from mining and hydrocarbon activities. There were also reports that the country might withdraw from International Labour Organization Convention No. 169, which enshrines the fundamental right to prior consultation.

LGS: Have you seen any willingness on the part of the current government, at least to sit down and engage in dialogue?

CNI: So far, the government has not approached us; they are only now appointing directors and deputy directors. But consulting Indigenous Peoples on the National Development Plan is an obligation of the State, and that means we have to sit down together. The National Commission for Indigenous Territories provides a forum for this dialogue, and we are ready to engage. Otherwise, we will pursue other avenues to assert our demands. We have always sought dialogue and agreement, but we have also pursued the full exercise of autonomy and mobilisation. Everything we have achieved has been the result of a historical struggle. We have survived for more than 500 years and have come to understand that governments are temporary, while the State endures. And it is worth being clear about the figures: today there are 974 Indigenous resguardos, covering more than 35 million hectares. We face four years in which we will have to defend what we have achieved. A government can repeal a measure, but it cannot erase years of struggle.

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