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By: Petra Kelly-Voicu
Living in the Tz’utujil Maya community of Santiago Atitlán, Guatemala, I’ve learned a lot about the delicate balance between indigenous livelihoods and nature, and the role of outsiders in the picture. My husband’s aunt, a Tz’utujil local with over a decade of experience in social work, would often comment on foreigners’ strange habits when it comes to environmentalism and social work. “Tell me, have you ever planted a tree before?”, she once asked me. “No, I have not,” I admitted. “See, that’s what I don’t understand. Foreigners always say, ‘you should stop doing this, you should stop doing that,’ in the name of environmental protection. But they never plant trees. We always plant trees with our schools, because we’ve always had a relationship with nature. So why do foreigners insist on telling us how to protect nature?” Her words reminded me of the many conflicts between externally-led environmentalism and indigenous communities that I have learned of over the years. At its worst, where large-scale and government-backed projects clash with indigenous rights, the phenomenon has fittingly been dubbed “eco colonialism”. One stark example lies on the other side of the country, in the Q’eqchi’ Maya territory surrounding Semuc Champey — a turquoise cascade of pools and surrounding forest that is one of Guatemala’s most popular tourist destinations. In 2005, Guatemala’s National Congress designated Semuc Champey as a protected natural area, placing it under the management of the National Council for Protected Areas (CONAP). But this decision was made without consulting the Q’eqchi’ people, who had inhabited and cared for the forest for centuries. The move would restrict the Q’eqchi’s land rights and access to sacred sites in the area. And while the government promised 30% of tourist revenue to be allocated to the Q’eqchi’ communities, the community has failed to receive any such benefits ten years later. In 2015, part of the Q’eqchi’ community reasserted control over Semuc Champey in peaceful protest. One year later, they were forcefully and violently displaced by the military and National Police. When the Q’eqchi’ people have successfully managed and protected the forest for centuries, why does conservation have to mean impeding their rights to their ancestral lands? Back on Lake Atitlán – home of the Tz’utujil people – eco colonialism comes in the form of a controversial government-supported wastewater cleanup project that has similarly caused widespread outcry from the Tz’utujil community. Led by environmental NGO Asociación Amigos del Lago de Atitlán, this project proposes the construction of a “megacolector” to divert wastewater from the lake for use in large-scale agriculture, in a bid to reduce water pollution. But the Tz’utujil people, who view the lake as their grandmother, fear that this could mean privatization of the lake’s waters. These fears are further augmented by the involvement of several elite Guatemalan interests in the plan, and what Tz’utujil leaders denounce as extractive plans for the watershed. The government’s support for this project in the name of “clean water” is especially ironic given its long-standing inaction on illegal tilapia farms polluting the lake — farms that Tz’utujil authorities have repeatedly demanded be removed in order to protect the lake’s ecosystem. After years of being ignored, the community took matters into their own hands this week and dismantled the farms themselves. These struggles in Semuc Champey and Lake Atitlán reflect a recurring global pattern: indigenous peoples have long been among the world’s best protectors of nature, yet their voices are often ignored in the decisions that shape their land’s future – while government and elite interests benefit. But if research shows that conservation works best when led by local communities, then conservation must start with listening. Environmentalism cannot come at the expense of Indigenous rights. It’s time to elevate the voices of those who have protected these lands for centuries—and challenge the assumption that outsiders always know best. References
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By: Kentrell Williams
I’m Kentrell, a student who cares deeply about the environment and human rights. I believe real sustainability must be rooted in justice and led by the people who know the land best. In Brazil, the Amazon rainforest is often seen as the lungs of the Earth, but for many Indigenous communities, it’s more than that. It’s their home, their culture, and their way of life. Sadly, these communities have become the victims of eco colonialism, where companies and governments use environmental excuses to take land and resources without consent. They claim to be “going green,” but the results tell a different story. A major example is the role of large corporations like Cargill, a US based agricultural company. Cargill has been connected to massive deforestation in Brazil, especially in the Amazon and Cerrado regions. They say they’re committed to sustainable farming, but their actions often show otherwise. Forests are cleared to grow soybeans or build transportation systems like railroads, and Indigenous communities are pushed out or ignored in the process. What’s worse is that this is done under the label of “development” or “climate progress.” One Indigenous group deeply affected by this is the Munduruku people in northern Brazil. Their land has been targeted by big projects like hydroelectric dams and industrial farming. These developments destroy the forest and pollute rivers that families rely on. And while the companies say these efforts help the planet, they rarely speak to or listen to the people already living there. This is the heart of eco colonialism. It looks like progress but repeats the same harm Indigenous people have been facing for generations. Despite this, the Munduruku and other Indigenous groups are not staying silent. Activists like Beka Saw Munduruku are leading efforts to protect their land and speak up on the global stage. She even traveled to the US to confront the Cargill MacMillan family directly. According to The Guardian, Beka delivered a letter asking them to stop destroying the Amazon rainforest and to take responsibility for the damage their company has caused (Lakhani, 2023). Her message is clear. Stop destroying the rainforest in the name of profit and start respecting the people who’ve protected it for centuries. This situation in Brazil shows us that true environmental justice must include Indigenous voices. It’s not just about planting trees or cutting emissions. It’s about making sure the people most affected by climate change and land loss are at the center of the conversation. If we want a better future, we have to stop treating Indigenous land as empty space and start seeing it as sacred and protected. Sources:
By: Imran Abdurashed
Imran is a student who cares about the planet, Human rights, and making sure people are heard and respected. In the Amazon rainforest in Peru, the Asháninka people have lived for generations. They use the land to hunt, fish, farm, and keep their culture going. But now they are getting pushed out by the government and big environmental groups. These groups are turning parts of the forest into protected areas and say it is to help fight climate change. But they are not asking the Asháninka what they think, even though it is their land. This is what people call eco colonialism. It is when people try to protect nature by taking over Indigenous land without permission. On the outside it sounds like a good thing, like saving the planet, but it is really just another way of ignoring the people who have always lived there. The Asháninka are not destroying the rainforest. They have been taking care of it for a long time. Now they are being treated like a problem for just living how they always have. Even with all this going on, the Asháninka are standing up for themselves. A leader named Ruth Buendía has been fighting for her people’s rights. She helped stop a huge dam project that would have flooded their land. She works with a group called CARE that supports Indigenous communities who want to protect the land in their own way. That means they decide what happens, not people from far away. This shows that not every green project is actually good. Just because something is called eco friendly does not mean it is fair. If we really care about the planet, we also have to care about the people who protect it every day. Sources:
By: Ismahan Salat
Ismahan Salat is a college student interested in environmental issues and social justice. She enjoys learning about how different communities are affected by climate change and conservation efforts. When people talk about saving the environment, it usually sounds like a good thing. But for many Indigenous communities in Latin America, these so-called green efforts are actually harming the people who have protected nature the longest. This is what is known as eco-colonialism, when governments, corporations, or even environmental groups push out Indigenous people in the name of conservation. One example of this is happening to the Asháninka people in Peru. The Asháninka live in the Peruvian Amazon and have always taken care of their land in sustainable ways. But when the government created Otishi National Park, it overlapped with Asháninka territory. The park is meant to protect biodiversity, but now the Asháninka face restrictions on things like farming, hunting, and fishing, even though they have done those things for generations without harming the forest. Tourists and researchers can go into the park, but the Indigenous people who live there are not allowed to use it freely anymore. That is just not right. This is a clear example of eco-colonialism. These conservation projects might look good on paper, but they ignore the rights and voices of Indigenous people. It is like their knowledge does not count. The Asháninka do not see the forest as a place to be preserved by outsiders. It is their home, their culture, their way of life. They do not need anyone to tell them how to take care of it. Still, the Asháninka are speaking up. One leader, Ruth Buendía, helped organize against a huge dam project that would have destroyed their land. She worked through an Indigenous-led organization called CARE and got international support to stop it. She even won the Goldman Environmental Prize in 2014. Her story shows the power of Indigenous resistance and how they are not just protecting their rights, they are also protecting the planet. This situation makes us question how we define sustainability. A lot of people think it means planting trees or keeping humans out of wild spaces. But real sustainability has to include justice for Indigenous communities. If we are not centering the people who already live in balance with nature, then what are we really protecting. Sources
By: Abre Olson
Abre is a student and writer based in Seattle, passionate about climate justice, Indigenous sovereignty, and storytelling as a tool for change. In the heart of the Ecuadorian Amazon lies Yasuní National Park, one of the most biodiverse regions on Earth and home to Indigenous communities like the Waorani and Kichwa. For years, these communities have lived in deep relationship with the land, protecting it not only as a source of life but as a sacred space. Yet, in the name of “green development,” their sovereignty has been repeatedly undermined.The Ecuadorian government, backed by international interests, has promoted oil extraction in Yasuní as a necessary step toward economic growth and energy transition. Despite the park’s protected status, over 148 new gold mining concessions were granted in the Napo province since 2020. These projects, often justified as part of a broader “green” agenda, contaminate rivers and destroy ecosystems that Indigenous communities depend on for survival. As Kichwa activist Leonardo Leonel Cerda Tapuy explains, “If our water is contaminated, it is a certain death for us and our families”. This is eco-colonialism in action: environmental policies and extractive projects imposed without Indigenous consent, often under the guise of sustainability. The irony is stark—while the global North touts renewable energy and conservation, the burden of resource extraction falls on Indigenous lands in the global South.But resistance is growing. The “Sí al Yasuní” campaign, led by Indigenous activists, successfully pushed for a national referendum to halt oil drilling in the park. This historic vote, held in August 2023, marked the first time a country decided the fate of a biosphere through direct democracy. Meanwhile, Indigenous leaders like Mamá Mercedes Tunubalá Velasco in Colombia are advancing “planes de vida”—life plans rooted in ancestral knowledge that offer alternatives to capitalist development models. These movements challenge mainstream ideas of sustainability by centering Indigenous worldviews that value harmony with nature over profit. They remind us that true climate justice must include Indigenous autonomy, not just carbon offsets and conservation zones.Eco-colonialism isn’t just about environmental harm—it’s about erasure. But Indigenous communities across Latin America are refusing to be erased. They are organizing, resisting, and reimagining futures where life—not extraction—is the measure of progress. By: Sheila Meshell
Sheila Meshell is a passionate advocate for environmental justice and Indigenous rights in Guatemala. As a writer and community voice, she sheds light on the struggles faced by her people—amplifying stories of resilience, resistance, and renewal in the face of climate change, deforestation, and displacement. Through her work, Sheila bridges ancestral wisdom with urgent calls for action, honoring the land and the lives it sustains. The Struggle for the San Marcos River: Eco-colonialism and the Mayan Q’eqchi’ in Guatemala. The San Marcos River, a vital water source for the Mayan Q’eqchi’ community in Alta Verapaz, Guatemala, is under severe threat. This threat isn’t simply environmental; it’s a clear manifestation of eco-colonialism, where the pursuit of economic development, often framed as environmentally friendly, dispossesses Indigenous communities and undermines their traditional ways of life. The situation involves the Q’eqchi’ people, who have relied on the San Marcos River for drinking water, irrigation, and cultural practices for generations. Their traditional land management has ensured the river’s health and sustained their community. However, this is disrupted by the expansion of the hydroelectric industry. Several hydroelectric dam projects are planned or in progress along the river, threatening to alter its flow, reducing water availability for downstream communities, and damaging the surrounding ecosystems. These projects are often backed by national and international corporations, with limited or no meaningful consultation with the Q’eqchi’ communities. Eco-colonialism is there; in a way, these projects are framed and presented as “green energy” solutions, contributing to climate change mitigation. However, this narrative ignores the devastating consequences for the Q’eqchi’, whose rights are violated and whose ancestral relationship with the river is disregarded. The “green” label obscures the underlying power dynamics, where the interests of large corporations and the state supersede the rights and needs of the Indigenous population. The project mirrors past colonial practices: external forces exploiting resources and displacing Indigenous peoples without their free, prior, and informed consent. The Q’eqchi’ are not passively accepting this. They actively resist these projects, organize protests, and engage in legal battles, demonstrating their determination and resilience. Their resistance involves mobilizing their community, seeking support from national and international organizations, and highlighting the cultural and spiritual significance of the river. They advocate for alternative sustainable development models that respect their traditional knowledge and rights. Their struggle demonstrates the crucial role of Indigenous-led resistance in challenging eco-colonial practices. This case starkly challenges the dominant narrative of “sustainability.” While potentially generating renewable energy, the hydroelectric projects fail to acknowledge the profound social and environmental costs. The Q’eqchi’ struggle exposes the fallacy of “green growth” when it disregards the rights and well-being of Indigenous communities and undermines their traditional ecological knowledge. True sustainability demands a paradigm shift that prioritizes Indigenous rights, respects conventional environmental understanding, and actively dismantles the systems of eco-colonialism that fuel such destructive projects.
By: Zubeyr Mohamed
Zubeyr Mohamed is a student based in Seattle who is looking to complete his studies at South Seattle College and transfer to the University of Washington. He is a big soccer and basketball fan. In Brazil, indigenous peoples have been the victims of eco colonialism, especially in the Amazon rainforest, as a result of deforestation. One example is when an indigenous activist named Beka Saw Munduruku went to Minneapolis, Minnesota, to send a letter to Cargill-MacMillan family to stop profiting from the destruction of the Amazon rainforest. She is a member of the Munduruku indigenous community that lives in northern Brazil and is part of a campaign by a non-profit environmental organization that is trying to make the Cargill-MacMillan family end their destruction of the Amazon rainforest. The family owns Cargill, which is a grain trader and meat producer accused of being involved in the destruction of the Amazon rainforest as well as human rights abuses. The current project that the family is involved is a railroad, which would carry soya from Cerrado south of the Amazon. The railroad is linked in studies to harms that indigenous peoples and leads to deforestation and creates carbon emissions. The example of Cargill shows how eco-colonialism works as non-indigenous corporations such as Cargill profit from the deforestation of the Amazon rainforest and creating carbon emissions as well as doing land grabs. All the effects of eco-colonialism have an impact on indigenous people Cargill has claimed that it will not do deforestation in the Amazon and Cerrado and in its supply chain in the near future.Companies such as Cargill that do eco-colonialism often claim that they will stop deforestation and that their practices are environmentally friendly. It shows how the idea of green growth is a rhetorical mask that is used to mask to continue their projects of eco-colonialism. Indigenous peoples in the region, such as the Munduruku, have been doing resistance against eco-colonialism for years. For example, Beka, when she was 12, helped her father to stop the construction of a hydroelectric dam that threatened their land and other indigenous lands. These campaigns have been continuing to force companies to stop their participation in the deforestation of the Amazon rainforest. The examples shown of deforestation and the exploitation of the Amazon show how eco-colonialism poses a threat to the environment and indigenous peoples. It also shows that protecting the environment must include cooperation with indigenous peoples as they are among the most affected my it. The future of our planet must be for the benefit if all people on this planet.
By: Hamdi Elmi
Hamdi Elmi is a student passionate about learning different environmental justice issues and advocating Indigenous rights. In southeastern Amazon, Ecuador, the Shuar Nation has lived on the land they call home for countless generations. The people of the Shuar nation have always existed in relation to the rivers, mountains and plants that share one of the most biodiverse ecosystems on the planet. Everything that makes up their homeland sustains and supports them and it also includes the cultural and spiritual practice of place-based existence learned from their ancestors. Sadly, the Shuar Nation is facing extreme danger. In recent years the Ecuadorian government has attempted to advance large-scale mining on Shuar territory. These investments are typically proposed by foreign companies and marketed as the country’s “green development” objectives, when in fact extraction of metals is required for technologies associated with green initiatives like electric cars or solar panels. For the Shuar, these projects lead to destruction of their land. They have been removed from their lands, their communities have been disrupted and their forests have been depleted without appropriate consultation or consent. This is an instance of eco-colonialism, where environmental practices are a rationalization for the imposition of control over Indigenous lands.Governments and corporations may say they are promoting sustainability, but they don't recognize the rights and voices of the people who tended these forests before there were programs for "conservation." Some communities from the Shuar have even been violently evicted in a militarized way (see the Unrepresented Nations and Peoples Organization). In response, many members of the Shuar are organized and resisting.Cultural Survival, an organization of Indigenous peoples, describes how the Shuar are utilizing legal recourse, international advocacy, and community organizing to protect their land. The Shuar is demanding compliance with international law related to Indigenous rights, namely the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, which maintains Indigenous peoples' rights to consenting freely to all decisions about development on their land prior to actually developing it. What is happening in Shuar territory challenges standard definitions of "green." A project cannot be sustainable if it violates the dignity of those who have cared for the land. Indigenous communities like the Shuar offer real models of environmental stewardship, models based on balance, respect, and responsibility. External Sources:
By: Ryan Arik
Ryan is a computer science student at South Seattle College who aims to apply their technical skills to create systems that amplify community voices and help solve critical environmental challenges. In Panama, a battle is unfolding over the future of the Indio River, pitting the demands of global commerce against the survival of local communities. To solve the water shortages threatening the Panama Canal—a crisis intensified by climate change—the government plans to build a dam, flooding 4,600 hectares of land. This project is a stark example of eco-colonialism: when environmental or climate-driven initiatives, often framed as progress, are executed at the expense of local and Indigenous peoples’ sovereignty, land, and way of life. The Panama Canal Authority (ACP) presents the Indio River reservoir as a necessary adaptation to secure the canal's operations. However, as journalist Mary Triny Zea reports, this solution would displace thousands and submerge the homes, farms, and cultural sites of a population of 12,000. For these communities, the project is not progress; it is an existential threat. Their resistance is visible in hand-painted signs declaring, “Rivers without dams, living towns.” Resident Elizabeth Delgado, who supports her family of nine through subsistence farming, captures the community’s fear: "We make our living off the land." They are being asked to sacrifice their entire livelihood for a canal from which they receive no benefit. This is not a new story. The proposed flooding of the Indio River basin echoes the uncompensated evictions for the creation of Gatún Lake in 1912, a historical trauma that fuels today’s resistance. This pattern—displacing communities for large-scale infrastructure projects—is the core of eco-colonialism. The government’s claims of dialogue and community support are contradicted by the people themselves. Abdiel Sánchez, a young Indigenous resident, directly refutes the ACP’s assertion that 90% of the community is in favor, exposing the vast gap between the official narrative and the reality on the ground. The conflict on the Indio River forces a critical question: whose sustainability is being prioritized? When “green” solutions require the erasure of a people’s world, they perpetuate the same colonial logic that created the climate crisis in the first place. True climate justice cannot be achieved by sacrificing local communities for the convenience of the global economy. It must be rooted in respecting the rights, histories, and self-determination of the people who have stewarded the land for generations. Source:
By Marique B. Moss (Miriguá Miásh, "Woman in the Water") - Hidatsa/Dakota; African American
Conservation in this country did not start with care. It started with control. The first parks and projects were about removing us, taking our homes, our fields, our hunting grounds, and calling that "protection." From Yellowstone to the Missouri River, the idea of wilderness was built by erasing Indigenous nations and pretending the land had always been empty (Gilio-Whitaker, 2019). That mindset, this eco colonialism, still shapes how laws and policies are written today. I carry that history with me as a woman from the Mandan, Hidatsa, and Arikara Nation. My people have always lived with the Missouri River. For generations, we farmed the rich bottomlands that fed our families and supported our trade. Our Four Sisters, corn, beans, squash, and sunflowers, held our culture together. They carried our economy, our ceremonies, and our teachings. The river valleys and the wide plains hold our history. These are the places where our ancestors built their homes, planted their fields, and learned to live in balance with the earth. That balance was broken by projects like the Garrison Dam. Built between 1947 and 1953, it was presented as progress, a way to prevent flooding and generate power. But progress came at our expense. More than 150,000 acres of farmland, cottonwood forests, and wildlife habitat were flooded to create Lake Sakakawea. Entire villages were displaced, and the river's natural cycles were destroyed (Lawson, 2009). Cities and industries downstream gained the benefits, while our economy, culture, and way of life were left underwater. This is what eco colonialism looks like. Federal laws like the National Environmental Policy Act and Antiquities Act are often used without our consent, restricting how we hunt, gather, or hold ceremony on lands that were once ours. Even when laws require consultation about cultural sites, the process often becomes a checkbox exercise rather than meaningful consent (Wilkins & Lomawaima, 2001). Today, this is how we are fighting eco colonialism: by pushing for laws that recognize our relationships to land and water. In Aotearoa (New Zealand), the Whanganui River has been granted legal personhood, reflecting the Māori belief that the river is an ancestor and cannot be owned (Charpleix, 2018). It means the river can be spoken for, represented in court, and even sue those who harm it, treated as a living relative rather than a resource to be used up. That model shows what it could look like if our Missouri River, which holds the same importance to us, was truly protected under law. The 1851 Fort Laramie Treaty guaranteed our people 12.5 million acres, but executive orders systematically reduced this to less than one million acres by 1910, all in the name of "conservation" (Treaty of Fort Laramie, 1851; Kappler, 1904/1972; Prucha, 1994). When the Flood Control Act of 1944 authorized the Pick Sloan Missouri Basin Program, Congress never consulted us, treating our homeland as empty space to flood (Lawson, 2009). The harms of eco colonialism reach far beyond the land and water. It endangers our women and girls, who face the violence of border towns and the crisis of Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women (Deer, 2015; Lucchesi & Echo-Hawk, 2018). Resource extraction brings transient workforces, leading to trafficking and violence as "man camps" form around oil fields and pipeline routes. Environmental policies that open our territories to extraction create the conditions for this violence against our people. But we are not only surviving. We are rebuilding and fighting back through environmental law, policy, and land based practice. We are demanding free, prior, and informed consent for every project that touches our lands and waters, following frameworks established in the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (2007), which calls for Indigenous nations to have final authority over projects that impact their homelands and waters. We are using these frameworks to challenge violations when agencies fail to assess how regulations impact our treaty rights. We partner with Native land trusts to keep stewardship in our hands. Our Natural Resources Department protects tribal lands, our Energy Division oversees oil and gas activity, and our Tribal Park spans 2,100 acres of Badlands, preserving landscapes, wildlife, and culture. The MHA Nation Interpretive Center carries our languages and stories forward alongside this work. And as an agricultural people, we are planting the seeds that kept our culture alive, reclaiming our role as environmental stewards. Through networks like the Indigenous Environmental Network and Land Back initiatives, we are showing that Traditional Ecological Knowledge represents thousands of years of living with and protecting these ecosystems (Berkes et al., 2000; Whyte, 2013). To move beyond eco colonialism, conservation must shift from control to relationship (Schlosberg & Carruthers, 2010). Land and environmental decision making power must be returned to tribal nations. Consent must be real, treaties must be honored, and Indigenous environmental stewardship must be trusted and supported. We are planting, we are protecting, and we are leading. The rivers, the plains, and the forests will not be saved by removing us. They will be saved because we are still here. Hiraaguca hiro Mahahgua'ac! We are still here! References
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