Successive Peruvian administrations have ignored both the law and the spirit of these international agreements by pursuing an aggressive agenda of natural resource extraction, together with large-scale agribusiness, hydroelectric and road-building projects. The consequences for Indigenous territories and livelihoods have been severe: forced displacement and pollution are among the most visible. Instead of offering any form of redress, the country’s highest authorities have openly branded Indigenous Peoples obstacles to national economic progress.

The situation is further exacerbated by the fact that extractive expansion has gone hand in hand with the steady erosion of the already fragile land rights recognised under the only Peruvian law on the matter: the Native Communities Act, first enacted in 1974. Within this political, legal, economic and social landscape, Indigenous Peoples have begun processes to reclaim what they call their integral territory. These efforts reflect both a recognition of the limitations of the current legal framework and a renewed vision of their right to the lands they inhabit. But what, exactly, is meant by integral territory?

The Notion of Integral Territory

For decades, the territorial space of Indigenous Peoples was understood simply as a particular plot of land sufficient for subsistence and to be titled in their name. The 1974 Native Communities Act was based on this idea. Today, however, the concept of integral territory embraces the full spectrum of relationships that an Indigenous People maintains with its environment, especially as perceived from within their own worldview – one that often differs markedly from the reductionist vision of land as merely a space for food production.

Integral territory covers the practical, emotional and cognitive exchanges between people and their environment, which sustain the productive and reproductive needs of a community, always in line with its cultural priorities. It also encompasses the kinship, social and political bonds within an ethnic group, which enable it to make appropriate use of the opportunities offered by the surrounding biosphere. Moreover, it incorporates the history of a people’s presence in the areas it currently occupies – or once did – documented both through written records and oral tradition.

On the other hand, the concept of integral territory encompasses what is referred to as symbolic ecology—that is, the Indigenous perception of the biotic and abiotic factors of the environment, which often diverges from the conventional duality between nature and culture. This perspective allows Indigenous Peoples to meet not only their material needs but also those described as metaphysical (in philosophical terms) or spiritual (in religious terms). Finally, it also includes the social, political and legal conditions—both individual and collective—of spatial occupation, together with the processes, expectations, transformations and conflicts that such occupation entails.

Self-demarcation and Mapping

As the Indigenous Peoples of the north-western Peruvian Amazon no longer place their trust in the State, they are now seeking the necessary support for their cause abroad. They have found it in the unprecedented development of international law on Indigenous Peoples—although this framework only conceives of the notion of a people as a subject of rights. Native communities have no equivalent in contemporary international law: the 2007 United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) is explicit in this respect. Indeed, the most important legal element of the UNDRIP is the right to self-determination, which pertains to the people as a whole rather than to a part thereof, such as a single community.

Self-determination allows an Indigenous People to freely determine their political status and system of representation. Regarding territory—which under UNDRIP refers to the traditional lands they occupy or have occupied—Indigenous Peoples are entitled to manage their resources freely and to use them according to their practices, tenure systems and internal norms. Yet the prospect of States fostering the self-determination of the Indigenous Peoples within their borders, as envisaged by UNDRIP, remains far removed from reality.

For this reason, some Indigenous Peoples—particularly in the north-western Peruvian Amazon—have begun to define their territoriality, the boundaries of their land and its political status for themselves. Constituting themselves as an Indigenous People, defining their territory, negotiating it with neighbouring peoples and other affected groups, deciding on the type of ownership to be adopted, and regulating territorial governance are all ways of exercising self-determination. This is a responsibility that lies with each Indigenous People.

The Right to Map Their Own Territories

Achieving recognition from the national State and the international community is an objective that the Indigenous movement itself must pursue. It is the regional, national and international Indigenous organisations that must claim and exercise the right to self-determination, with the support of those institutions in international law tasked with monitoring the implementation and development of the fundamental rights enshrined by the United Nations.

In earlier times, Peruvian Indigenous Peoples—like most Indigenous Peoples across the Americas—did not even have a basic declaration. Nor did they have their territorial space demarcated, or even an approximate map indicating their location. In many cases, the last reliable maps depicting the territorial space of an entire Indigenous People, where they exist at all, date back to the colonial period and were produced by missionaries or colonial administrators.

There is even a map that brings together all the Indigenous territories of the region. It represents the outcome of arduous negotiations across hundreds of meetings and assemblies, many of them interethnic, to establish territorial boundaries by mutual agreement.

There is even a map that brings together all the Indigenous territories of the region. It represents the outcome of arduous negotiations across hundreds of meetings and assemblies.

In recent years, the landscape has shifted. Following the pioneering efforts of the Kandoshi people, other peoples of north-eastern Amazonia have embarked on similar processes—demarcating their own territories, carrying out anthropological studies and developing legal arguments to uphold the notion of integral territory. Then the Kandoshi, the Achuar, Shapra, Shiwilo, Kukama and Shawi peoples took up the task. Later, the Awajún and Wampís followed.

Regional organisations such as the Coordinadora Regional de los Pueblos Indígenas (CORPI) have promoted these mapping initiatives, mobilising both human and material resources to see them through. Today, there is even a map that brings together all the Indigenous territories of the region—and it is no ordinary map. It represents the outcome of arduous negotiations across hundreds of meetings and assemblies, many of them interethnic, to establish territorial boundaries by mutual agreement.

A Historic Moment

Among all the Indigenous Peoples of the region that have begun territorial self-demarcation, the Wampís were the first to take the next step: the creation of Peru’s first Autonomous Indigenous Government. In November 2015, more than 300 representatives of 85 Wampís communities declared themselves a nation, adopting a constitutional charter known as the Statute of the Wampís Nation. The statute defined a territorial perimeter of around 1.3 million hectares and established the organs of government.

Once their authorities were elected, the first ordinance was issued as an act of governance. This ordinance focused specifically on the indivisibility of the Wampís territory, which cannot be fragmented—either into communities, or ecological zones, nor under any other classification. This step represented a qualitative leap in the long history of Indigenous politics in the Peruvian Amazon. For the first time, an Indigenous People was exercising its right to self-determination through a sovereign act.

The Wampís are not alone on this path: neighbouring Indigenous Peoples such as the Kandoshi and the Awajún, to name just two, have also undertaken the same transition. It is still too early to know what future awaits these new autonomous governments and others that may yet be established. The stance of the Peruvian State—and that of international institutions—remains uncertain at this formative stage. What is undeniable, however, is that we are witnessing an historic moment in the struggle of the Indigenous Peoples of the Americas.

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The training of Indigenous Agroforestry Agents is designed to ensure that Indigenous Peoples themselves take control of managing their territories. Much of this work focuses on practical initiatives within Indigenous Lands: promoting local development with an emphasis on food sovereignty and agroecology; conserving natural resources; protecting forests; raising community awareness of socio-environmental challenges; carrying out territorial monitoring and surveillance; and implementing health, education, cultural and productive programmes aimed at diversifying food sources and expanding socio-economic alternatives.

Within this process, Indigenous Cartography has become an essential tool in the training of Agroforestry Agents, as mapping provides a means to (re)imagine and understand geographical space and the organisation of territories.

The Making of Maps

In Indigenous Cartography classes, a wide range of papers is used for map-making: Canson, Arches, wood, sulphite and card of various sizes. This provides Agroforestry Agents with greater freedom to give form to their geographical knowledge. Large sheets are especially valued, as they allow for clearer and more detailed representation of information. From the very beginning of this practice, the joy Indigenous participants take in drawing has been evident, with maps brought to life through the generous use of colours. In Indigenous societies, art permeates every aspect of life, and this too is reflected in their maps, many of which stand as true works of art.

The arts have always held a privileged place in the curriculum of Agroforestry Agents, and in cartography classes particular attention is paid to the artistic dimension of map-making. A variety of materials is therefore provided, including coloured pencils, tempera, watercolours, Indian ink and crayons (the latter accompanied by vegetable oils to dissolve the wax on the paper). Yet, because of their simplicity and low cost, 12-colour markers remain the most widely used tool.

Completing a mental map of an Indigenous Land on card often takes more than two days. In many cases, the Agroforestry Agents continue their work after class hours, often late into the night.

Completing a mental map of an Indigenous Land often takes more than two days. In many cases, the Agroforestry Agents continue their work after class hours, often late into the night.

Before the creation of each map begins, there is a discussion on how best to work with the sheet of paper. Students are guided on where to place the title and the legend, with the aim of organising the space so that all the necessary information can be included. Efforts are also made to structure the drawing on the page, although the Agroforestry Agents often end up doing this in their own way. Map construction starts with pencil and eraser and is then finalised by outlining the figures with Indian ink pens or fine-tipped black ballpoint pens, which give greater emphasis to the shapes. Once the map has been drawn, the colouring begins: first following the colours established in the Indigenous legend and later allowing room for free creative expression.

Time management is a crucial aspect of the process. As the Agroforestry Agents aim to produce work that is meticulous, polished and rich in detail and information, maps require considerable time to complete. This refinement mirrors the care and beauty that Indigenous peoples dedicate to producing the artefacts of their culture. Completing a mental map of an Indigenous Land on card often takes more than two days. In many cases, the Agroforestry Agents continue their work after class hours, often late into the night. At other times, depending on the size of the map and the number of agents involved in its production, it may take more than four days to finish.

The Aesthetics of Indigenous Cartography

Agroforestry Agents are encouraged to name the maps they produce, with titles written either in their Indigenous language or in Portuguese. The concepts behind the Indigenous legend are discussed, applying the colours agreed upon by Indigenous teachers—the same ones used in geography teaching materials in schools. Since the agents already understand the meanings of the symbols representing the features on the map, the creation of the legend itself is left open to their interpretation. Discussions also address the identification of Indigenous methods of orientation—sunset, sunrise, waterways and celestial bodies—while incorporating Western conventions such as cardinal points and the compass rose.

Indigenous maps are bilingual, produced in both Indigenous languages and Portuguese. Newly-coined terms in the Indigenous language are often debated among the agents until consensus is reached. The Huni Kuĩ refer to the map as mae dami, meaning “drawing of the land”, and also use maewã tanati, or “large space with abundant information”. For agroforestry system maps, they use bai hanu mibã tibi husia (“path of mixed plants”), and later coined mibã haya txakama (“existence of many different plants”), still used today to translate “Agroforestry System”. The word for “legend” is unãti, meaning “sign”, “mark” or “clock that tells the time”.

At the start of the cartography classes, particular emphasis is placed on creating neologisms in Indigenous languages, generating new terms that are incorporated into the maps and thus contribute to the conceptual construction of the work. A map in the Indigenous language not only facilitates understanding among its creators but also among other Indigenous communities. Being written in their own language—rather than that of the coloniser—it becomes an ethnic and political marker, affirming both culture and minority languages. It also serves as a means of understanding power relations and domination: a way to decolonise oppressive ideologies.

The Map as Indigenous Art

In Indigenous societies, art plays a central role in shaping cultural identity. In the case of Indigenous maps, attention is drawn to the composition of colours, the fluidity of the forms, and their aesthetic qualities. This notable sense of beauty is believed to stem from the joy these “new cartographers” experience while drawing. The art of map-making is characterised by naturalness, originality, simplicity, freedom, and informality, as academic techniques such as perspective, formal composition, and standardised use of colour are absent. This allows for the recording of a vision of the world—a social experience that reflects Indigenous knowledge and skill, both in the visual arts and in understanding local ecosystems and biodiversity.

Imbued with artistic expression, these maps reveal Indigenous thinking about territory and land. They also carry a political dimension, as they are continuously created and reworked over the years, a dynamism that mirrors and expresses the lives of the Agroforestry Agents themselves. Some maps even feature letters shaped like animals, people or plants, and edges decorated with arches and arrows. Other groups, such as the Ashaninka, incorporate designs inspired by their traditional clothing.

In summary, Indigenous maps are unique works that reflect the inspiration of their creators. They are rarely mere geographical representations: they are accompanied by a range of personal meanings and symbols. Decorative elements play a symbolic role in much of Indigenous cartography. For example, around the borders of the maps, Agroforestry Agents include kene kuĩ (“true drawings”): traditional geometric designs representing ancestral knowledge passed down through the generations and taught to Huni Kuĩ women by the boa. These motifs depict elements of nature such as animals and plants and are found not only in body painting but also in textiles, ceramics, basketry, benches and ornaments—and today they can also be seen on the walls and floors of their homes.

Images that Symbolise Hope

Over time, the distinctive style of each Indigenous people becomes increasingly apparent in the production of their maps. Each group possesses its own aesthetic, stylistic tendencies, and unique line work. The different styles—Huni Kuĩ, Noke Koī, Yawanawa, Manxineru, or Ashaninka—are easily recognisable. As with paper drawings, the graphic art of these maps reflects Indigenous conceptions of the universe, while simultaneously reaffirming ethnic identity and demonstrating a fundamentally aesthetic sensibility.

Maps produced by Agroforestry Agents are remarkable for combining aesthetic and political dimensions. The striking beauty of Indigenous maps can sometimes obscure their recognition as political instruments, leading them to be seen merely as works of art. Yet the political dimension is evident in the linguistic aspect, with legends and titles written in Indigenous languages. This also appears in the demands made to the State, fostering political dialogue with both national and international society. Furthermore, it is present in claims related to land, healthcare, natural resource conservation, and the recognition of cultural identity.

Indigenous maps convey meanings, knowledge, and assertions. Beyond serving as tools for internal community use, they also function as instruments for engagement with modern Western society. These maps are not static: each is not simply a finished product but the outcome of an ongoing process of dialogue involving Indigenous communities, their advisors, neighbouring populations, and the Brazilian State. In this sense, the maps are also visions of a different future—symbolic images of hope for a more just, plural, and inclusive country.

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

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

The Tagaeri and Taromenane in Ecuador

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Struggle Against Oil Exploitation in Yasuní

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

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

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

The State’s geographical Inaccuracy

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

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

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

The ruling of the Inter-American Court of Human Rights

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

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

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

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

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

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

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There, they endured a system of exploitation, discipline and subjugation in exchange for meagre wages. When they returned from the harvest, these small sums allowed them to buy clothes, tools and utensils in the shops of Las Lomitas and nearby towns. Yet when they attempted to return to their ancestral lands, they were confronted by criollos (non-Indigenous settlers) who sought to dispossess them. Allied with the authorities, the settlers pressured the Pilagá to relocate to the Bartolomé de las Casas Mission (130 kilometres away). Alternatively, they were forced into two agricultural and livestock colonies established in 1936, also located in militarised zones under military surveillance and control.

Hungry, ill, and persecuted by pervasive violence, the Pilagá converged on La Bomba from surrounding settlements, seeking the aid of a healer, Luciano Córdoba (Tonkiet), whose powers offered relief from the wounds of economic exploitation and colonisation. In the colonial imagination of the criollos, however, this gathering of Indigenous people was first cast as an “irreducible” group of unusual size, then as a potential threat, and finally as the pretext for a military assault.

A National and Colonial Massacre

Before the massacre, the authorities had urged the Pilagá to disperse and resettle in Bartolomé de las Casas. After the massacre they managed to confine the survivors there where they were subjected to exploitation under conditions akin to slavery. Plantation, missionaries, economic exploitation and military surveillance together constituted a network of colonial spaces that formed the basis of a broader structure of violence.

In the years that followed and while the events remained largely concealed from the rest of Argentine society, the Indigenous people relied on their own social mechanisms to cope with the damage. Many distanced themselves from “life as it was before” and embraced Evangelical Christianity, through which they processed their trauma and sought refuge from State harassment. During the 1990s and 2000s, various initiatives emerged across the Chaco demanding memory, truth and justice, in the wider context of national transformation and the constitutional recognition of Indigenous Peoples in the region and in Argentina.

Rincón Bomba challenges the notion of the massacre as an isolated, singular event in time and space. On the one hand, it belongs to a continuum of violence. On the other, its spatial imprint is dispersed and far-reaching. Both dimensions point to the collective nature of the harm: temporally by revealing the multiple generations that have endured this violence and its legacies; and spatially, by exposing the broad geographic scope of its impact.

A Foretold Massacre

The first major outbreak of violence recorded in the twentieth century occurred with the attack on Fort Yunká in 1919, which resulted in the Pilagá suffering a harsh—albeit misdirected—reprisal [1]. The field diary of Swedish officer Gustav Emil Haeger, who conducted an expedition to the Gran Chaco in 1920, documents the case of the settler Anselmo Calermo, described as “an old friend”, who, after being “driven away by the Pilagá” from the Cañada de Descanso, turned to Fort Chávez and instigated a military expedition against Nelagadik and his people—highlighting the collusion between the military and criollo cattle ranchers [2].

Anthropologist Jules Henry recounts further army attacks in 1933, during which several Indigenous people were killed and others forcibly relocated some 50 miles west of their traditional “communities” [3]. In 1935, hundreds of Pilagá who had fled to Paraguay to escape Gendarmerie assaults sought refuge at the El Toba Mission, under the protection of missionaries who would later establish the Pilagá Mission [4]. Between 1937 and 1939, testimonies from Anglican missionaries at the Pilagá Mission indicate that “clashes between the Pilagá, the army, cattle ranchers and settlers were commonplace” [5].

Recognizing themselves as “Argentines” for having collaborated with the army and having acted as border guards, the Pilagá maintained confrontations with their traditional enemies, the Nivaĉle and the Maká, who had been converted by the war into Paraguayans.

Recognizing themselves as “Argentines” for having collaborated with the army, the Pilagá maintained confrontations with their traditional enemies, the Nivaĉle and the Maká.

Missionaries also documented how Indigenous people faced systematic violence at the hands of Paraguayan soldiers. Among these assaults were two massacres: one in April 1937 which claimed the lives of six Indigenous people and another in 1938 which killed seven more [6]. Meanwhile, criollo settlers also killed Pilagá with impunity, accusing them of cattle theft. When anthropologist Alfred Métraux travelled through the area in 1939, he encountered a landscape of “decay and death”; smallpox was rampant, conflicts with the army were constant, and the settlers occupied Indigenous lands. During the 1930s, in the context of the Chaco War, the Pilagá also suffered violence from Paraguayan soldiers [7].

At the same time, having been recognised as “Argentine” for collaborating with the army and serving as frontier guards, the Pilagá continued to confront their traditional enemies, the Nivaĉlé and the Maká, who had been incorporated into Paraguayan forces by the war. According to Dr Anne Gustavsson, a Social Anthropology scholar, prior to 1947 a dozen Pilagá men, led by Sedaakie’n and Peletooe’n, went clam-gathering north of Laguna Yema and were ambushed by criollo settlers, who, in collusion with the police, deceived and massacred them. Only Sedaakie’n and Peletooe’n managed to escape. After this “clam-gatherers’ massacre”, the site came to be known as “Pozo Quemado” due to the traces of fire left behind [8].

Mapping the Massacre

Let us also broaden the perspective geographically. The Gendarmerie attack at Rincón Bomba did not take place at a single location, but across a series of sites. On the afternoon of October 10, 1947, Squadron 18, divided into two groups, opened fire on an indeterminate number of Indigenous people who had gathered at La Bomba [A]. In the preceding days, the Pilagá had been disarmed by the same gendarmes, who sought to “demobilise” them and force them into submission.

On October 11 and in the following days, the attacks continued as the Pilagá attempted to flee. Most headed north, without water or food, enduring long nocturnal marches while hiding in the bush. On several occasions, they were forced to abandon their youngest children. At Pozo de los Chanchos Panorí, two children were attacked by a patrol, and two young people fleeing with the group of Desade’en were killed by gunfire [B]. On the lands of landowner Esteban Curesti at Campo del Cielo, a woman named Seecholé and her family were detained all day in 40-degree heat without water. The gendarmes separated a girl from the group, and the squadron’s second commander, Aliga Pueyrredón, raped her [C].

In Pozo del Tigre, the gendarmes found a couple, burned them alive, and executed a girl with a gunshot to the head. On October 13 and 14, the gendarmes caught up with the Piakqolek group fleeing towards Navagán, detained three individuals, and executed them in front of the entire group.

In Pozo del Tigre, the gendarmes went from house to house searching for fugitives: they found a couple, burned them alive, and executed a girl with a gunshot to the head.

In El Descanso, near Pozo del Tigre, Panorí’, two more children and over fifty people were detained in an animal corral [D]. In La Alcoba, near El Descanso, three elders were tied to a tree and burned alive [E]. In Pozo del Tigre, the gendarmes went from house to house searching for fugitives: they found a couple, burned them alive, and executed a girl with a gunshot to the head [F]. On October 13 and 14, the gendarmes caught up with the Piakqolek group fleeing towards Navagán, detained three individuals, and executed them in front of the entire group [G].

The Dasae’en group, which had fled north after the La Bomba massacre, was intercepted by the Gendarmerie near La Lagunita following denunciations by criollo settlers; a woman was wounded there [H]. Near the Paraguayan border, seven people were killed [I]. On October 16 a Junker aircraft that had taken off the previous day from the El Palomar base in Buenos Aires strafed several Indigenous people with a machine gun [J]. In El Cuervo, Oñedié was captured, taken to Fort La Soledad, and subsequently sent to Colonia Muñiz [K]. Confidential Document No. 1047 recorded 15 deaths in a supposed confrontation without judicial verification or any record of the fate of the bodies [L].

Following the repression many Pilagá surrendered to the authorities. At first, they were rounded up in Pozo del Tigre and then taken to the station from where they were transported by train to Estanislao del Campo, and subsequently by truck to Bartolomé de Las Casas and Francisco Muñiz [M]. There, they were forced to work without pay under the mission system until at least February 1948 [22]. An agricultural-style settlement was established under the administration of “Cacique Coquero” with a government promise to grant land titles and develop a population centre for the Pilagá survivors of the massacre [N].

Disputes over Recognition, Restitution, and Reparation

In the years that followed, collective gatherings—including Evangelical assemblies—were nearly prohibited and, even throughout the 1950s, remained subject to police harassment. In later decades, under closer State supervision, the legal registration of Indigenous churches served as a form of protection.

Some families who had taken refuge in the bush gradually returned to their settlements, increasingly limiting their movement within traditional hunting, fishing, and foraging territories, which were progressively appropriated by cattle ranchers. Others resettled in communities such as Namqom in Formosa, far from their ancestral lands and largely inhabited by the Qom, their traditional rivals. In all cases, the Pilagá adopted a more sedentary way of life and reduced mobility between communities.

In 2019, the judiciary acknowledged the responsibility of the National State for the massacre and emphasised the collective dimension of the harm. The Pilagá Communities Federation maintained that the reparations remain insufficient and that the usurped territories must be included.

In 2019, the judiciary acknowledged the responsibility of the National State for the massacre and emphasised the collective dimension of the harm.

In 2007, the Argentine judiciary authorised excavations at the site where the massacre began, which until then had been used as the shooting range of the National Gendarmerie in Las Lomitas, on lands that had been appropriated. Other excavations uncovered three mass graves and human remains. In 2019, the judiciary acknowledged the responsibility of the National State for the massacre and emphasised the collective dimension of the harm. Since then, the Pilagá Communities Federation, the main advocates of the legal claim, maintained that the reparations remain insufficient and that the usurped territories must be included.

The current political climate in Argentina offers little hope for guaranteeing Indigenous territorial rights. Even more concerning is a territorial survey law unimplemented for 20 years that has left Indigenous communities in a situation of clear legal vulnerability, amid a context in which the national government seeks to further advance an extractivist economic model. The restitution of territories seized through violence from Indigenous communities remains, as it always has been, an unfinished task.

The post Cartographies of Disaster and Memory: The Pilagá and Colonial Violence appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

However, today the livelihoods of most communities are threatened by the overexploitation of natural resources, agricultural expansion, road construction, infrastructure projects, and other industrial-scale activities that alter their environments. These extractive projects jeopardise their survival, making it essential to have tools that strengthen governance and autonomy in the defence of their territories and natural resources.

The experience we wish to share in this article is a collaborative work carried out by the authorities of the Multiethnic Indigenous Territory (TIM): the Autonomous Indigenous Government, the Subcentral of Indigenous Councils, and the Subcentral of Women. This synergy, combined ancestral knowledge with new mapping technologies, resulted in the creation of an Atlas and a set of cartographic tools designed to optimise governance and reinforce autonomy.

A Territory Where Five Peoples Coexist

The Multiethnic Indigenous Territory is located in the Bolivian Amazon, in the so-called Llanos de Mojos—the third most important seasonally flooded savannah in South America. The TIM was officially recognised as an Indigenous territory by Supreme Decree 22,611, following the first march led by the Indigenous Peoples of the Lowlands in 1990. It is called “Multiethnic” because the territory comprises 28 communities belonging to five Indigenous Peoples: Mojeño Ignaciano, Mojeño Trinitario, Movima, Yuracaré, and T’simane. In this way, TIM exemplifies harmonious coexistence between diverse ethnic groups and nature.

In 2010, a Gathering of Corregidores (the highest territorial decision-making body) decided to begin establishing an autonomous government in the Multiethnic Indigenous Territory, as provided for in the Political Constitution of the State. The complex process began with fulfilling multiple requirements, including participatory drafting and approval, at several levels, of a statute that sets out the rules of the new Indigenous government. What makes the TIM Indigenous Autonomy unique is that it is established over the entirety of the ancestral territory titled as collective lands, unlike the other eight recognised Indigenous autonomies to date, whose territorial jurisdictions correspond only to former municipal boundaries.

By using “talking maps” and satellite imagery, sites of importance to each community and people have been georeferenced, with their various uses across the territory carefully documented.

By using “talking maps” and satellite imagery, sites of importance to each community and people have been georeferenced, with their various uses across the territory carefully documented.

After 13 years of lengthy procedures led by the Subcentral of Indigenous Councils and the Subcentral of Women, autonomy was finally achieved on 1 March 2023 with the adoption of Law No. 1497, which established the Territorial Unit of the Multiethnic Indigenous Territory (TIM). In November of the same year authorities that formed the new Autonomous Indigenous Government officially took office.

Since 2020, the Legal and Social Support Organisation (ORE) has been collaborating with TIM authorities, providing support in the management of shared natural resources, forest conservation, and monitoring and control systems. Within this framework of joint work with Indigenous organisations and authorities, environmental, geographic, demographic, and cultural maps have been produced. By using “talking maps” and satellite imagery, sites of importance to each community and people have been georeferenced, with their various uses across the territory carefully documented.

The Use of Cartography in TIM Governance

This initiative has enabled the creation of an Atlas of the Multiethnic Indigenous Territory, providing essential tools for territorial and environmental management. The atlas offers detailed information about the “Territorial Unit,” including its location, area, boundaries, and constituent communities, as well as physical, geological, and hydrographic features. In addition, through extensive collaboration with communities, social data has been updated, covering access to health and education at all levels, alongside an assessment of strengths and weaknesses to support the exercise of these fundamental human rights.

The atlas functions as both a visual and political instrument, designed not only to record land use and distribution but also to strengthen cultural identity and preserve historical memory. The maps combine ancestral knowledge with modern technologies, producing a dynamic representation that respects traditions while addressing contemporary needs. They also feature a historical map, narrated by the communities, showing the location of Jesuit reductions established in the 1600s. Furthermore, the atlas identifies areas that, centuries later, were exploited by logging companies but have now been restored to the Indigenous Peoples of Mojos.

Users can view territorial boundaries while monitoring hotspots in real time—a feature that proves crucial during fire season in August, September, and October, at the end of the dry season.

Users can view territorial boundaries while monitoring hotspots in real time—a feature that proves crucial during fire season, at the end of the dry season.

This historical and cultural mapping holds great significance in dual aspects of territorial governance. Internal governance entails taking control of one’s own affairs: the effective exercise of collective rights concerning territorial management, the functioning of local institutions, systems for distributing resource benefits, inter-community agreements, and the resolution of internal conflicts. External governance, on the other hand, involves legitimising these representative structures to outside actors, strengthening them to develop coherent policies and engage effectively with those seeking to influence decision-making within the territory.

Access to cartographic information is not limited to a physical atlas. Interactive maps have also been developed and are accessible via the TIM governance website. This tool allows authorities, community members, students, and the general public to create their own maps online through an intuitive geo-visualiser, offering layers of geographic, environmental, and social data. Users can view territorial boundaries while monitoring hotspots in real time—a feature that proves crucial during fire season in August, September, and October, at the end of the dry season.

A Conservation Area that Strengthens Culture

One key aspect of territorial management and governance was the development of zoning through a long and participatory process with communities. Six land-use zones were mapped: bodies of water, pampas, savannahs, grazing land, agricultural land, forests for traditional use, and a conservation area. Building on this zoning, on 26 November 2022, during a Gathering of Corregidores, the Subcentral of Indigenous Councils and the Subcentral of Women proposed the creation of the “Loma Santa Conservation Area.”

During the Jesuit reductions, the ancestral inhabitants of Gran Mojos moved in search of an ideal location deep in the forest—free from disease and human exploitation, where peace and abundant food could be found. They named this place “Loma Santa.” Centuries later, on 3 October 2024, the Autonomous Indigenous Government of TIM enacted Autonomous Law No. 003/2024, establishing a Conservation Area of Historical, Cultural, Social, and Spiritual Heritage under the name “Loma Santa,” thereby formalising the decision taken by the Gathering of Corregidores two years earlier.

This conservation area is the first Indigenous protected area created in the Bolivian Amazon. Cartography shows that “Loma Santa” is part of an important conservation mosaic linking protected areas and Indigenous territories and is connected to the extensive Vilcabamba-Amboró biodiversity corridor, which stretches across the central region of the country and extends into Peru. The TIM’s location is also highlighted as part of a globally significant wetland, the RAMSAR Site “Río Matos.”

Cartography: A Tool for Indigenous Autonomy

In recent years, TIM has faced various threats, ranging from the exploitation of its natural resources to climate-related events such as fires and floods. Access to accurate and up-to-date information allows timely decision-making and the protection of the territory. In response to these challenges, a Territorial Monitoring and Control System has been developed to safeguard common natural resources, monitor environmental changes, and strengthen Indigenous governance in the face of external pressures.

Territorial mapping by the Indigenous Peoples of Bolivia represents an act of recovery and reaffirmation of the lands they have traditionally inhabited. For decades, resource exploitation has caused the displacement and social and cultural disruption of these communities. In this sense, the process of land titling has sought, to some extent, to repair that damage.

Cartographic tools, therefore, are merely static representations of geographic reality but are dynamic expressions of historical events and political decisions made by Indigenous Peoples. They aim to illustrate situations, disseminate information, and reaffirm the rights of Indigenous Peoples over their territory, its biodiversity, and other elements of the natural environment.

The post Cartography as a Tool for Indigenous Governance in the Multiethnic Indigenous Territory appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

What remains is not just degrading the ecology but also damaging Mapuche culture. The disruption affects other species as well as the life and care of the Mapuche people for all living beings and all life in küme mongen. This paper is part of an ongoing conversation about how participatory mapping is used in Wallmapu. The authors have worked with Williche communities for more than 10 years and have recently carried out a similar mapping process in the Araucanía region.

Systematizing territorial invasions and mapping hope

The loss of water, forests, and community is not accidental. It is part of the state’s extractive policies that benefit corporations and the elite. By mapping these territorial invasions, communities can document damage, share their history, and strengthen strategies for defending their territories. Maps allow people to communicate more rapidly in order to respond to Western colonial processes. It also supports Mapuche efforts to protect the rivers and halt development projects in their territories.

This process of countermapping official maps is a helpful tool to recover histories and memories. Mapuche communities have used these maps as part of their resistance. Maps help support legal actions and protect cultural uses of territory and their geographies. Maps help tell people about their territory when this is not easy to understand. These defense strategies are technical and also communicational.

The very process of creating the maps has been a fundamental part of these efforts, as can be seen in the map submitted to the Environmental Court of Chile.

Mapping Dispossession: History of Displacement

Mapping can also help communities remember and understand past violence. In 2016, a meeting was held with community members and ancestral authorities in Caunahue during a trawün (“Mapuche assembly”). Previous maps showing local threats highlighted the need to explore the deeper history of land and water appropriation.

We brought three key materials to the trawün: enlarged maps from a 1990 book by Molina et al.; a timeline of historical laws related to land loss; and excerpts from a 1996 historical study by Vergara et al., based on archival documents and oral testimonies about dispossession in the region. At that same trawun, elders looked at arrows drawn on the maps and remembered how families were forcibly relocated. These maps helped them recall how certain places become cultural and spiritual resguardos.

Later that day, while sharing mate, one elder said, “Religion came with the forts.” This comment showed that mapping was more than just a technical task, as the elder understood the arrival of the Catholic Church as part of a colonial history. They also used books to date the stories of dispossession and violence passed down through families. This helped to confirm oral histories for future education and legal processes.

Mapping Threats: Ongoing Colonization

In Wallmapu territory, there are ongoing threats that can be located using GPS, drones, and satellite imagery. Investment or extractive projects strategically use these technologies and maps to appropriate land and water, dispossessing communities, often without their agents having lived in or visited the territories. By creating their own maps, communities can take ownership and identify what might be taken from afar. This is an important tool to understand how the outsider looking to profit from their territory makes decisions.

Mapping work with Mapuche communities helped resist major projects, such as hydroelectric plants and high-voltage power lines. These efforts brought together the Mapuche alliance, Alianza Territorial Puelwillimapu, and the Chilean civil society movement, Futrono Sin Torres.

Another emblematic case was the resistance to the Norwegian company SN Power’s hydroelectric mega-project, which the Mapuche communities managed to halt thanks to the maps produced collectively. The use of maps enabled communities to organize support, gather signatures, and coordinate actions between groups. After meeting nearly monthly for a year, they had produced nine versions of the same map with all the forms of invasion.

All the mapped economic development projects were situated on fundo land —lands granted to Chilean and German settlers from the 1850s to the early 20^th century.

These maps helped leaders explain and analyze how these projects were affecting their land and to depict the cumulative impacts of this model.

One of the printed maps, produced collectively, depicts two “horseshoe”-shaped zones related to land and water use. The outer horseshoe comprises conservation areas that still permit hydroelectric and aquaculture projects (the farming of aquatic species, plants, and animals). The inner horseshoe contains the actual hydroelectric and aquaculture projects, located downstream within the outer zone. While the outer area protects water through native forests, it also supports the internal economic development of aquaculture and hydroelectric power. These maps helped leaders explain and analyze how these projects were affecting their land and to depict the cumulative impacts of this model.

The Mapuche people also developed a map showing títulos de merced (granted land), formally registered Indigenous communities, bodies of water, and non-consumptive water rights (hot spots), alongside the layers mentioned previously. This initial “threats” map was used to visualize all the projects (see the map on the defense of the transmission line and Florín). All the mapped economic development projects were situated on fundo land —lands granted to Chilean and German settlers from the 1850s to the early 20^th century.

Geographies of Protection: Maps of Hope and Defense

Mapuche geography and territorial resistance can be mapped, and these maps can support Indigenous rights. Maps bridge epistemic divisions: judges, policy makers and international audiences need to better understand how Indigenous rights are being violated to support justice. Mapping hope also involves mapping rivers. They worked with artists and ancestral communities to interpret Mapuche geography and revise these maps with communities. Rivers, which both divide and unite territories, must remain free in order to live.

The map produced by Sergio Iacobelli was developed during the 2019 mapping of the Pilmaiquén territory. For 15 years, these communities have been in conflict with a hydroelectric project being carried out by Statkraft, a company owned by the Norwegian state. The consent process was opaque and misleading, and some families were bribed, fostering a distrust that persists to this day. Consequently, three maps were created to support their case before the Environmental Court of Chile. In addition, three extensive unstructured interviews were conducted with ancestral leaders of the territory to draft a report for the Second Environmental Court of Chile.

For this case, two maps were created, one of them produced together with the ancestral authorities of Pilmaiken, showing the healing relationships with the Ngen Kintuantee (the spiritual guardian). The map was produced in order to argue that the ‘area of influence’ determined by the consultancy company for the hydropower project was incorrect. The case of Pilmaiken territory reached the Chilean Supreme Court and sought international mediation via the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD). Today, the Los Lagos hydropower project is near completion, although water has still not been allowed to enter the project due to ongoing administrative processes connected to the Indigenous consultation.

How methodological perspectives travel

In 2025, together with members of Mapuche communities, work began on counter-mapping and conducting interviews focused on the connection between body and territory (what they refer to as “from body and territory”) in the Araucanía. Jointly, they used countermapping to document not only the environmental damage but also the lived histories of how territories have changed, stories of resistance, and the politics of what is made visible or invisible.

Each territory teaches us something. Each one is different, with its own history, politics, and geography. In every place, communities shared their knowledge by drawing their symbols and stories onto the maps. They mapped grief and displacement but also care and resilience.

Through this work, they came to see mapping not as a tool for controlling land but as a relational method rooted in memory and guided by the living territory, the Mapuche people themselves.

It was through this approach and practice that the work became a source of guidance and support. Their collaborative and horizontal research in Puelwillimapu, conducted alongside Mapuche-Williche communities, has inspired a rethinking of research practices and intellectual work at a time when approaches that genuinely respect Indigenous knowledge and ethics are increasingly sought. Moreover, the geographies explored and the analyses proposed provide a framework for better understanding both systems of violence and the ways in which communities resist.

Participatory mapping as living testimony

Mapping is more than a representation; it is a political, cultural and spiritual practice. In Wallmapu, mapping shows dispossession but also what lives and what resists. Mapping remains a double-edged sword depending on who wields it: a tool for territorial dispossession or a tool for exercising Indigenous rights. It must be done carefully, in trust with collaborators.

Through participatory mapping, maps can become spaces of memory, collective analysis and strategic planning. We learned together that mapping is remembering, imagining and defending past, present and future. Maps can facilitate knowledge passing between generations. Youth are drawn to maps, and elders can share knowledge via maps.

Working with artists and researchers together can be beneficial for the defense and communication of Indigenous rights. This tool can easily be shared with communities as a training method to build capacity with which to confront state institutions and transnationals. People working with this mapping tool must be respectful of territorial and local knowledge.

People working with this tool must also follow territorial protocols about what needs to be seen and what cannot be disclosed. Indigenous communities must revise and decide what is mapped, and how.  Lastly, participatory mapping must be reciprocal. In the face of extractivism, this tool works as a living testimony and a gesture of hope to build better presents and futures.

The post Mapping living geographies and hope in Wallmapu appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

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

Sumak Kawsay: Core Pillars and Way of Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

Technical Capacities for Monitoring Life Spaces

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

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

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

Two Experiences Strengthening Territorial Management

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

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

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

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

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

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

Conclusions and Future Challenges

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

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

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

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

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