csq-493 by Cultural Survival

Cultural Survival

BRAZIL IS INDIGENOUS LAND

SEPTEMBER 2025 VOLUME 49, ISSUE 3

BOARD OF DIRECTORS

PRESIDENT

Kaimana Barcarse (Kanaka Hawai’i)

VICE PRESIDENT

John King

TREASURER

Steven Heim

CLERK

Nicole Friederichs

Marcus Briggs-Cloud (Maskoke)

Keith Doxater (Oneida)

Kate R. Finn (Osage)

Laura Graham

Richard A. Grounds (Yuchi/Seminole)

Page 14

Edson Krenak (Krenak)

Lyla June Johnston (Diné/Tsétsêhéstâhese)

Stephen Marks

Mrinalini Rai (Rai)

Jannie Staffansson (Saami)

Stella Tamang (Tamang)

FOUNDERS

David & Pia Maybury-Lewis

Cultural Survival Headquarters

2067 Massachusetts Ave. Cambridge, MA 02140 t 617.441.5400 f 617.441.5417

www.cs.org

Cultural Survival Quarterly

Managing Editor: Agnes Portalewska

Contributing Arts Editor: Phoebe Farris (Powhatan-Pamunkey)

Copy Editor: Jenn Goodman

Designer: NonprofitDesign.com

Cultural Survival Quarterly (ISSN 0740-3291) is published quarterly by Cultural Survival, Inc. at PO Box 381569, Cambridge, MA 02238. Periodical postage paid at Boston, MA 02205 and additional mailing offices. Postmaster: Send address changes to Cultural Survival, PO Box 381569, Cambridge, MA 02238. Printed on recycled paper in the U.S.A. Please note that the views in this magazine are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent the views of Cultural Survival.

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View writers’ guidelines at our website (www.cs.org) or send a self-addressed, stamped envelope to: Cultural Survival, Writer’s Guidelines, PO Box 381569, Cambridge, MA 02238.

On the cover: Indigenous leaders from different communities of Bahia during protests in the city of Salvador, Brazil.

Photo by Joa_Souza.

www.cs.org

Donors like you make our work around the world possible. Thanks so much for being part of Cultural Survival!

23 The Ancestral Struggle of Retomadas

Chief Nailton Pataxó (Pataxó) has led the Pataxó Hã Hã Hãe Peoples in reclaiming their lands.

24 The Power of Radical Hospitality in Confronting Destruction in the Jequitinhonha Valley

Edson Krenak (Krenak)

An interview with Weibe Tapeba (Tapeba).

20 Living Heritage

Newiwe Top’Tiro (Xavante), Aptsi’ré Waro Juruna (Juruna/Xavante), and Roiti Metuktire (Kayapó/Mebengôkre/ Juruna)

The legacy of Indigenous leaders through the voices of their descendants.

A dialogue with Cleonice Pankararu Pataxó (Pataxó) and Ângela Maria Martins de Souza (Quilombola).

25 Plants Are Life, Health, and Knowledge

Carmem Cazaubon

A spotlight on Indigenous Youth Fellow João Felipe Yawanawá da Silva (Yawanawá).

12 Climate Change All the Frost Melts

26 Keepers of the Earth Fund Grant Partner Spotlight

Koibatek Ogiek Women and Youth Network

28 Staff Spotlight

Ñushpi Quilla Mayhuay Alancay (Quechua Kolla)

Guatemala’s National Law Is No Excuse for Ignoring Human Rights

29 Bazaar Artist

Elizabeth Durazno (Kichwa Cañari) & Warmi Muyu Collective

Brazil Is Indigenous Land

Halito akana (Hello friends),

As the world turns its attention to Belém do Pará, Brazil, the host site for the 30th Conference of the Parties on the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC COP30) and home to many Indigenous Peoples, including Mundu ruku, Xipaya, Parakanã, Xikrin, Mebêngôkre, Tupinamba, among others, we are reflecting on the origins of Cultural Survival. In the 1950s and ‘60s, Cultural Survival’s founders, David and Pia MayburyLewis, were working with the Xavante and Xerente Peoples in the remote savannah of Mato Grosso, Brazil. They witnessed the “opening up” of the Brazilian interior and Amazonian regions and the devastating effects on Indigenous communities and wanted to “bear witness to a genocidal threat, to make the world aware of this process of destruction, and to try to stop it.” In 1972, David and Pia, along with Harvard colleagues Evon Vogt, Jr., and Orlando Patterson, started Cultural Survival with the goal of raising money for projects to support the Xavante Peoples. Today, their foundational mission is powerfully amplified through Cultural Survival as an Indigenous-led organization with 50 staff in 19 countries, working in solidarity with Indigenous Peoples around the world.

dialects, whose tremendous contributions to the health of Mother Earth are essential to the survival of humanity and the web of life. Indigenous Peoples have successfully fought for their rights to land, cultural lifeways, and autonomy to be protected in Brazil’s Federal Constitution. Barriers to implementation include a lack of demarcation, disputes over Indigenous territories, and new legislation and frameworks such as the “Marco Temporal” (time limit), which undermine secured rights and traditional stewardship. Indigenous people continue to face violence associated with territorial conflicts, deforestation, and mining. Edson Krenak (Krenak), writes more about these issues in his feature article.

CULTURAL SURVIVAL STAFF

Aimee Roberson (Choctaw & Chickasaw), Executive Director

Mark Camp, Deputy Executive Director

Avexnim Cojtí (Maya K’iche’), Director of Programs

Verónica Aguilar (Mixtec), Program Associate, Keepers of the Earth Fund

Edison Andrango (Kichwa Otavalo), Indigenous Rights Radio Program Assistant

Mishelle Calle, Bazaar Program Assistant

Carmem Cazaubon, Capacity Building Program Assistant

Miguel Cuc Bixcul (Maya Kaqchikel), Accounting Associate

Jess Cherofsky, Advocacy Program Manager

Geovany Cunampio Salazar (Emberá), Panama Advocacy Coordinator

Michelle de León, Grants Coordinator

Roberto De La Cruz Martínez (Binnizá), Information Technology Associate

Danielle DeLuca, Senior Development Manager

Georges Theodore Dougnon (Dogon), Capacity Building Program Assistant

David Favreau, Logistics and Operations Assistant

Shaldon Ferris (Khoisan), Indigenous Radio Program Coordinator

Sofia Flynn, Accounting & Office Manager

Nati Garcia (Maya Mam), Capacity Building Manager

Cesar Gomez Moscut (Pocomam), Community Media Program Coordinator

Byron Tenesaca Guaman (Kañari Kichwa), Fellowships Coordinator

Alison Guzman, Donor Relations Coordinator

Yet, while Indigenous leaders, communities, and allies work unceasingly to secure and defend the rights of Indigenous Peoples with important achievements at the international level and in a few countries, Indigenous Peoples continue to face stark realities as their rights continue to be ignored and eroded. As we witness a global retreat from multilateralism and a rise of authoritarian regimes, governments and corporations around the world are racing to develop and extract resources from Indigenous territories.

This issue of the CSQ brings our focus back to Brazil and the voices of Indigenous leaders working to make Indigenous rights a reality. The integrity and biodiversity of Brazil’s rainforests and other ecosystems are stewarded by more than 300 Indigenous Peoples speaking over 270 languages and

Host of the 1992 Earth Summit, where the UNFCCC, the Convention on Biological Diversity, and the Convention to Combat Desertification were born, Brazil has played a foundational role in international environmental diplomacy. As the world falls behind on commitments to limit climate change, Brazil has a unique opportunity and responsibility to lead the world in promoting pathways for justly and equitably achieving the goals of the Paris Agreement through the UNFCCC’s Just Transition Work Program. To be successful, this must include protection of Indigenous Peoples’ rights, safeguarding of ecosystems, and explicit protections against destructive activities carried out in the name of the transition.

Cultural Survival will be at COP30 to follow the negotiations and uplift Indigenous voices that are bringing light to critical issues and pushing governments to do the right thing. Join us in our efforts to support and amplify the voices of Indigenous Peoples who safeguard knowledge systems, languages, and lifeways, and are leading the way to healing and securing a sustainable future for Mother Earth and all of us for generations to come. Please give generously at www.cs.org/donate.

Hטchi yakoke li hoke (I thank you all so much),

Aimee Roberson (Choctaw and Chickasaw), Executive Director

Emma Hahn, Development Associate

Belen Iñiguez, Publications Distribution Assistant

Natalia Jones, Advocacy Coordinator

Mariana Kiimi (Na Ñuu Sàvi/Mixtec), Advocacy Associate

Dev Kumar Sunuwar (Koĩts-Sunuwar), Community Media Program Coordinator

Rosy Sul González (Kaqchikel), Indigenous Rights Radio Program Manager

Marco Lara, Social and Digital Media Coordinator

Kevin Alexander Larrea, Information Technology Associate

Maya Chipana Lazzaro (Quechua), Bazaar Vendor Coordinator

Jamie Malcolm-Brown, Communications & Information Technology Manager

Candela Macarena Palacios, Executive Assistant

Ñushpi Quilla Mayhuay Alancay (Quechua/Kolla), Advocacy Coordinator

Edson Krenak Naknanuk (Krenak), Lead on Brazil

Diana Pastor (Maya K’iche’), Media Coordinator

Guadalupe Pastrana (Nahua), Indigenous Rights Radio Producer

Camila Paz Romero (Quechua), Keepers of the Earth Fund Program Assistant

Ilenia Perez (Guna), Panama Advocacy Coordinator

Agnes Portalewska, Senior Communications Manager

Tia-Alexi Roberts (Narragansett), Editorial & Communications Assistant

Elvia Rodriguez (Mixtec), Community Media Program Assistant

Mariana Rodriguez Osorio, Executive Assistant

Carlos Sopprani, Human Resources Associate

Thaís Soares Pellosi, Executive Assistant

Abigail Sosa Pimentel, Human Resources Assistant

Candyce Testa (Pequot), Bazaar Events Manager

Sócrates Vásquez (Ayuujk), Program Manager, Community Media

Miranda Vitello, Development Coordinator

Candy Williams, Human Resources Manager

Pablo Xol (Maya Qʼeqchiʼ), Design and Marketing Associate

INTERNS

Candela Biset, Mirabel Ashu, Daniel Chindoy, Esénia Bañuelos, Lucas Kasosi, Sabina Candusso, Diego Nervi, Diana Martinez

Australia | Rio Tinto Grants Traditional Owners Control Over Mining

JUNE

Rio Tinto has signed a landmark co-management deal with the PKKP Aboriginal Corporation, giving Traditional Owners legal authority over mining decisions on their lands, setting new industry standards for cultural heritage protection and corporate accountability.

Pacific Islands | Melanesian Nations Propose IndigenousLed Ocean Reserve

JUNE

The Solomon Islands and Vanuatu have launched a plan to create the Melanesian Ocean Reserve, the world’s first Indigenous-led ocean reserve, spanning over 6 million square kilometers.

India | Indigenous Communities Halt $434M Solar Project in Assam

JUNE

The Asian Development Bank cancelled a $434 million solar park in Assam after protests from Karbi, Naga, and Adivasi communities. The project threatened 20,000 families and violated constitutional land protections and FPIC protocols.

Canada/India | UNESCO Appoints Indigenous Co-Chairs

JUNE

UNESCO named Amy Parent (Nisga’a) from Canada and Sonajharia Minz (Oraon) from India as co-chairs of a new

Indigenous knowledge research chair. Their focus includes revitalizing endangered Indigenous languages, promoting data sovereignty, and linking Traditional Ecological Knowledge to climate resilience through rematriation and culturally grounded research governance.

Finland | Sami SelfGovernance Reform Passed

JUNE

After 14 years of delays, Finland has passed a major reform of the Sami Parliament Act, strengthening Indigenous selfgovernance by tying voter eligibility to Sami linguistic heritage and mandating state consultation.

Indonesia | Merauke Food Estate Condemned for Displacing Indigenous Communities

JUNE

The UN has condemned Indonesia’s Merauke food estate project for displacing over 50,000 Indigenous Papuans, clearing 109,000 hectares without consent, and using military intimidation.

Nepal | Supreme Court Ruling Mandates Full Enforcement of Indigenous Rights Treaties

JUNE

In a historic decision setting a new legal precedent for Indigenous sovereignty in South Asia, Nepal’s Supreme Court has ordered the government to align national laws with ILO Convention 169 and the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples.

Colombia | Ruling Protects Amazonian Communities from Mercury Pollution

JULY

Colombia’s Constitutional Court ordered the suspension of new gold mining licenses in the Yuruparí region after ruling that mercury pollution threatens the health, food systems, and cultural survival of 30 Indigenous communities. The court mandated urgent government action, Indigenous participation, and international cooperation to restore

contaminated rivers and uphold ancestral rights.

U.S. | Yurok Tribe Reclaims

17,000 Acres

in Historic Landback Deal

JUNE

In California’s largest landback deal, the Yurok Tribe has regained 17,000 acres along the Klamath River, completing a 47,000-acre restoration effort. The reclaimed land, including sacred Blue Creek, will be managed as a salmon sanctuary and forest.

Colombia | Landmark Ruling Against Mercury Pollution

JULY

Colombia’s Constitutional Court ruled in favor of 30 Indigenous communities in the Amazon, ordering a halt to new gold mining in Yuruparí due to mercury contamination. The decision marks a historic precedent for environmental justice and protection of ancestral knowledge.

Americas | States Obliged to Protect Human Right to a Stable Climate

JULY

On July 3, the Inter-American Court of Human Rights ruled that States and corporations have binding obligations under international law to address the climate crisis as a human rights emergency.

Ecuador | New Bill Threatens Indigenous Rights

JULY

Indigenous groups and allies urge rejection of Ecuador’s proposed bill to privatize Protected Areas, which would exclude Indigenous consultation and endanger ancestral lands and isolated communities.

Thailand | Landmark Law Protects Indigenous Lifeways

AUGUST

Thailand passed the Bill on the Protection and Promotion of the Way of Life of Ethnic Groups to safeguard the rights, traditions, and cultural practices of Indigenous and ethnic communities.

Photo by Dev Kumar Sunuwar.

In Nepal, the Supreme Court has ordered the alignment of national laws with ILO 169 and UNDRIP.

ADVOCACY UPDATES

Ecuador: Ministry of Environment Eliminated JULY



On July 24, Ecuadorian President Daniel Noboa signed Executive Decree No. 60 to eliminate the Ministry of Environment, Water and Ecological Transition and merge it with the Ministry of Energy and Mines. The measure was taken as part of the implementation of the Administrative Efficiency Plan, an austerity measure that seeks to modernize the State through the elimination of other ministries and a mass dismissal of civil servants. The move affirms extractivist interests over the protection of the environment and the lives of Indigenous Peoples, promoting mining activity that is already overconsuming and contaminating water and local biodiversity, affecting the health of thousands of people.

Brazil: Bill Weakens Protections for Natural Reserves and Demarcated Indigenous Territories

JULY

On July 17, the Brazilian Federal Congress passed by majority Bill 2.159/2021, or as Indigenous Peoples call it, PL da Devastaçao (the Devastation Bill). The bill aims to dismantle environmental licensing, leading to deregulation and weaker protections, especially for Indigenous territories. Up to 32% of Indigenous lands and 80% of Quilombola territories with open demarcation processes will be affected, in addition to Indigenous Peoples in Voluntary Isolation. Projects considered to have indirect socioenvironmental impacts will move forward without Indigenous Peoples’ Free, Prior and Informed Consent. They could also undermine other rights to their lands, territories, and resources. Corporate accountability can be reduced by renewing licenses without conditions, discouraging liability for reparations, and compromising due diligence standards. Looser environmental regulations also risk predatory occupation, which will increase pollution and deforestation. As Brazil is set to host COP30 in September, the bill discredits its environmental leadership and weakens the possibilities of Indigenous advocacy and climate governance.

Bolivia: CERD Urges Compliance with Consultation Rights

JUNE

In June, the Totoral Chico Community, part of the Ayllu Acre Antequera, rejected a sham consultation for the signing of a mining contract by La Salvada Mining Company, demanding compliance with CERD recommendations. In November 2023, Cultural Survival

Cultural Survival’s Advocacy Program launches international campaigns in support of grassroots Indigenous movements as they put pressure on governments and corporations to respect, protect, and fulfill the rights of their communities.

and Bolivian partner organization Qhana Pukara Kurmi submitted an alternative report on the situation of Indigenous rights to the Committee on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination (CERD) in. In its concluding observations issued, CERD expressed its concern over allegations of violating the constitutional right to prior consultation in the Ayllu Acre Antequera, and in its recommendations to the Bolivian State, emphasized the right to consultation and consent.

Nepal: Cultural Survival and Partners Submit Report to Universal Periodic Review

JULY



Cultural Survival, together with six partner organizations from Nepal, submitted an alternative report for Nepal’s assessment at the 51st Session of the Universal Periodic Review process. Indigenous Peoples in Nepal continue to face systemic discrimination, despite constituting a significant portion of the population and being recognized in the constitution. They are excluded from decision-making processes and are severely underrepresented in governance, while their perspectives and languages are unrepresented in the education system and their traditions are criminalized. Indigenous Peoples also face exclusion in the implementation of climate change policies and violation of their right to Free, Prior and Informed Consent in large-scale development projects, leading to land dispossession and further marginalization.

Panama: Indigenous Peoples Face Repression After Opposing New Legislative Reforms

APRIL



Since late April, amid a wave of social movements rejecting several legislative reforms imposed by the State, including the reopening of metallic mining and agreements with foreign powers that would affect the country’s sovereignty, Indigenous Peoples have once again been the target of disproportionate institutional violence that violates their rights. The Ngäbe-Buglé and Emberá Peoples suffered an escalation of repression in their communities, including arbitrary searches, detentions without due process, and excessive use of force. The Panamanian government has violated numerous international norms, including temporarily suspending habeas corpus in the province of Bocas del Toro. Cultural Survival reaffirms that social protest is not a crime, and that Indigenous Peoples have the right to demonstrate freely when their territories, autonomies, cultures, and lives are in danger.

FROM INDIGENOUS LANDS TO DESERT SANDS A CURATOR’S COMPELLING VISION FOR THE SHARJAH

As the Arabian Peninsula continues its ascendance as a global hub for the arts—marked by an ever-expanding array of museums, cultural institutions, and performance venues, with festivals and art fairs abounding throughout—the Emirate of Sharjah, U.A.E., leads the way in celebrating Indigenous contemporary art and artists. This year’s “Sharjah Biennial 16: to carry” featured more than 40 such artists from every continent and across 5 distinct curatorial programs, the majority presented in that of Megan TamatiQuennell (Ātiawa, Ngāti Mutunga, Kāti Māmoe, Ngāi Tahu, Waitaha), a preeminent curator and scholar of Māori and (other) Indigenous contemporary art. Cristina Verán recently spoke with Tamati-Quennell.

Cristina Verán: Your career is marked by visionary leadership that continues to steward, galvanize, and elevate the continued rise of Indigenous contemporary art and artists, both in Aotearoa/New Zealand and internationally. How did this bring you to Sharjah?

Megan Tamati-Quennell: This story goes back to London in 2018, when a major exhibition, “Oceania,” was presented at the Royal Academy of Art. It was a kind of ethnographic, anthropological show of taonga—“cultural treasure” that has whakapapa (genealogy) and is imbued with mana (power and prestige), along with some contemporary art from the Pacific region.

Curators Nicholas Thomas and Peter Brunt included a special piece in it that I had bought for the collection at Te Papa Museum in New Zealand: a red Steinway piano carved by Māori artist Michael Parekōwhai into a work he called “He Kōrero Pūrakau mo Te Awanui o Te Motu: Story of a New Zealand River”—a piece now understood as taonga, that I’d been asked to look after as its kaitiaki (guardian).

I delivered a paper about it for London’s Royal Academy of Art and, from that, its director invited me to speak at a cultural summit in Abu Dhabi the following year. It was there and then that I first met Sheikha Hoor Al Qasemi, President

of the Sharjah Art Founda tion. She, in turn, invited me to speak at the Foun dation’s annual March Meeting.

CV: Did she have some familiarity with and interest in Māori art at the time?

MTQ: Yes. She mentioned wanting to bring two Māori artists, Robin Kahukiwa (Ngāti Porou/ Te Aitanga-a-Hauiti/ Ngāti Kōnohi/ Te Whānau-a-Ruataupare/ Ngāti Porou) and Kahurangiariki Smith (Te Arawa/ Rongow hakaata/ Te Aitanga-a-Māhaki) for the next Sharjah Biennial, and asked if I could connect her with them.

Some time after, Hoor reached out again to say that she was going to Sydney for a meeting of the International Biennial Association and would like to stop over in New Zealand. Happily, I organized an itinerary and did studio visits with her up and down the country. She fell in love with the work of Emily Karaka (Ngāti Tai ki Tāmaki/ Ngati Hine/ Ngāpuhi), an artist who, in a career spanning 60 years or so, had never had either a major solo exhibition or even a survey show. Hoor proposed that we do a project together focused on Emily’s art and her practice, an extraordinary opportunity.

We got on very well, and when I mentioned that there were certain things I’d really been wanting to do but couldn’t, as a curator in New Zealand, Hoor offered me the platform to do them for the Biennial.

CV: How did your vision for this come together, and what would you describe as a central thread connecting all of its parts to the eventual whole?

MTQ: I wanted something that would speak to the commonalities found among all of humanity, but especially those shared by Indigenous Peoples—being in relationship with land and place, over time. For most of the artists, Sharjah was far from home, and they’d had limited prior engagement in and with the Middle East. Key questions

Cristina Verán

Megan TamatiQuennell.

Image courtesy of Sharjah Art Foundation. Photo by Danko Stjepanovic.

I asked of myself and the others then, in the planning, included: What are one’s responsibilities while in somebody else’s land? How does this land inform how we operate?

CV: By what criteria did you consider and ultimately finalize who, what, and from where to include?

MTQ: What it came down to was just choosing artists with whom I felt some kind of synergy. Some I’d worked with for 30 or more years, and so already had a real engagement with their practice. Others I hadn’t yet worked with, but had always wanted to. I was especially interested in artists who’d not been featured in Biennials before and did not yet have a big profile.

CV: Please share some examples where the land/place connection was most apparent and meaningful, and what inspired your linking of specific artists and places together.

MTQ: I chose a building that’s known in Sharjah as the Flying Saucer to present the work of Australian artist Daniel Boyd (Kudjala/ Ghungalu/ Wangerriburra/ Wakka Wakka/ Gubbi Gubbi/ Kuku Yalanji/ Bundjalung/ Yuggera/ Ni-Vanuatu) because I was interested not only in his paintings, but his architectural interventions, both conceptually and spatially, critiquing different knowledge systems, all kinds of things. Pairing this with the sound installation “Ngā Mata ō Hina” by Maori musician Mara TK (Ngāi Tahu, Ngāti Kahungunu, Tainui) not only added to Daniel’s work, it enhanced the space itself.

Then, with Raven Chacón (Diné)—whose practice, focused on song and sound, has long interested me—we set his sound installation out in the desert at a long-abandoned Bedouin village built in the 1970s, known as Al-Madam. Its story paralleled his own community’s experience in the U.S. with government-imposed housing. After visiting the place to spend time reading the landscape and learning more about the cultural context and politics of it all, he decided to create this new work with a group of Bedouin musicians as a way to put them back into that desert landscape.

CV: What are some further highlights of your Sharjah program?

MTQ: There are so many I could speak to, really. Australian artist Yhonnie Scarce (Kokatha, Nukunu) was one of the first I thought about. Her installation, “Operation Buffalo,” was a commentary on nuclear colonization in the Pacific. There’s also the photography of Maori artist Fiona Pardington (Ngāi Tahu/ Kāti Māmoe/ Ngāti Kahungunu), the installation “Purapura Whetū” by Saffron Te Ratana (Ngāi Tūhoe), the film “Whakamoemoeā” I commissioned from Fijian artist Luke Willis Thompson.

I should also mention Albert Refiti (Samoan), a New Zealand-based academic and architect, whose installation “Vānimonimo” comprised an entire room filled with his extraordinary drawings with hundreds of little notations that mark the gatherings of people and ceremonies and such. Each was articulated and manifested through a whole knowledge system to do with the vā, which, in Samoan culture, refers to the sacred space and relationships between things and also between people.

Top, left to right:

“Veritas” by Kaili Chun (Kanaka ‘Ōiwi, Hawai’i).

CV: The closing for the Biennial’s “April Acts” program featured an exquisitely ethereal music performance, “Ihi: Awa Herea (Braided Rivers.)” How did it all come together?

MTQ: I really wanted to do something special with Mere Boynton (Te Aitanga a Mahāki/ Ngāti Oneone/ Ngāi Tūhoe), an extraordinary opera singer, and Parekōwhai’s red piano—something that concert pianist Liam Wooding (Te Atihaunui a Pāpārangi, Ngāti Tuera and Ngāti Hinearo) had always wanted to play. The three of us had several collaborative Zoom meetings to work through ideas, to include both European and Indigenous songs. I thought it important to bring together these two Māori performers through this to have, I suppose, the final say of the program.

Cristina Verán is an international Indigenous Peoplesfocused specialist researcher, educator, advocacy strategist, network weaver, and mediamaker, as well as an adjunct faculty at New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts.

“Purapura Whetū” by Saffronn Te Ratana (Ngāi Tūhoe, Aotearoa).

“Te Ao Hurihuri” by Michael Parekōwhai (Ngāriki Rotoawe/ Ngāti Whakarongo, Aotearoa).

Bottom:

“Operation Buffalo” by Yhonnie Scarce (Kokata/ Nukunu, Australia)

INDIGENOUS WATER DEFENDERS IN ECUADOR

Take on a Canadian Mining Giant

In front of the Dundee Precious Metals entrance, police demand everyone get back into the vehicle. Although this is a public road, the police order the group of Indigenous locals to leave.

Brandi Morin (CREE/IROQUOIS)

The morning mist clings to the rolling hills of páramo de Kimsakocha as a dozen water defenders approach the chain link fence marking the entrance to what could become Ecuador’s next major gold, copper, and silver mine. The stunning, high-altitude landscape north of Cuenca in Ecuador’s Azuay province is home to four rivers that converge and flow through the valleys, nourishing farms, villages, and the city below.

“This is our ancestral land. We have the right to be here,” says Hortencia Zhagüi, who represents the Kimsakocha Women’s School of Agroecology, as she edges past a security guard. The guard shouts warnings about trespassing, but the group moves forward undeterred, their footsteps barely audible against the soft moss underfoot.

The water defenders walk several kilometers while the security guard follows at a distance, recording their every move. They eventually arrive at a small clearing where an Ecuadorian flag they installed months earlier still flaps proudly in the mountain breeze. The panorama is breathtaking—rolling emerald hills stretching toward the horizon, the land spongy with moisture, small creeks threading through the terrain, and water bubbling up from the moss beneath their feet.

“Look at this,” says Koldo, a member of a grassroots group called Community Water Systems of Tarqui and

Victoria del Portete, kneeling to scoop a handful of berries from a low-growing shrub. “The páramo gives us medicine, food, and most importantly, water. How can they put a price on this?”

The group spreads blankets on the ground and arranges their picnic of locally grown potatoes, cheese, corn, chicken, and fruits, sharing everything communally in the shadow of their flag. As they eat, they discuss strategies to protect this ecosystem from Canadian mining company Dundee Precious Metals, which plans to develop the underground Loma Larga gold mine here.

”We have already said no three times,” says Koldo. “In 2011, 2019, and 2021, we held consultations. Each time, our answer was clear: no mining in our páramo. Yet, they keep trying to push this project through.”

After the meal, the group stands quietly for a moment, taking in the landscape they’ve fought to protect for over two decades. Then they begin their trek back toward the entrance, stopping at a small creek that cuts through the moss. They join hands in a circle, bowing their heads in a ceremony asking for protection of this sacred place. Their prayer is interrupted by the sound of an approaching truck. Two police officers step out, ordering the group to leave immediately. “You are trespassing on private property,” one officer announces firmly.

The water defenders comply, but without hurry. They gather their belongings with deliberate calm, occasionally stopping to point out plants or water features to each

other as they walk. The police and security guard follow closely behind, escorting them to the gate.

Multiple attempts to contact Dundee Precious Metals for comment on this story were made, including visiting the company’s office in Cuenca in person, however, interview requests were declined. Dundee Precious Metals has not publicly addressed the concerns raised by community members.

A ticking time bomb

What these water defenders are fighting against is no small threat. According to a 2022 independent review, the proposed Loma Larga gold mine represents a “ticking time bomb” for arsenic contamination in the region. The páramo de Kimsakocha, a high-altitude wetland ecosystem, plays a crucial role in providing fresh water to the entire region, including the city of Cuenca.

Zhagüi, who also represents the Board of Potable Water Administrators, a community group dedicated to preserving clean water, explains the profound connection between the communities and this land. “This wetland has sustained our communities for generations,” she says. “The water that springs from here flows to our crops, our animals, and our homes. Without clean water, we have nothing—no food, no health, no future.”

In October of 2024, Zhagüi was part of a delegation of Ecuadorian Indigenous women and rights defenders who traveled to Canada to voice concerns about ongoing trade negotiations between the two countries. During meetings with government officials, parliamentarians, and Indigenous leaders in Toronto, Ottawa, and Montreal, she warned about the devastating impact the proposed mine would have.

During that trip, she said, “We came to Canada to speak out against Canada-Ecuador free trade, given the lack of respect for life, for nature’s fragile ecosystems and the beings who depend on them in Ecuador. The FTA (free trade agreement) would open the doors to uncontrolled mining, which would cause massive environmental

destruction, affecting sensitive ecosystems and depleting water sources that we’ve protected for 30 years now.”

Despite the serious concerns raised in Canada, the Loma Larga project continues to be promoted by both governments.

The guardian of the water

Just over the mountain valley behind Zhagüi’s home in Tarqui, Ecuador, fresh sources of water drain down into the village—water that could be contaminated if mining begins in the páramo.

At 65 years old, Zhagüi has spent her life growing food and raising farm animals on this land that has sustained her family for generations. “I work in agriculture, livestock, I work raising small animals. I have some potatoes planted up there. I also have barley cultivation, oats,” she says. Gesturing proudly to her vegetable garden, she adds, “I have carrots, lettuce, cauliflower, radish, celery, cabbage, all the vegetables. Here, when you plant, everything grows.”

Flag put up by local communities to call on the Ecuadorian government to protect the site.

Bottom right: The community gathers around a small river to thank the Earth and gather strength to continue the fight to preserve the water and the páramo.

Bottom left: Dundee Precious Metals prevents access to the páramo without the local population’s consent. In the past, locals had unrestricted access, as Ecuadorian law protected it as a nature reserve.

Left: Eating traditional pambamesa, a communal meal.

Center: A wire mesh gate blocks access to this ecosystem in the middle of the páramo. A guard insists that the group turn back.

Right: Suzana, a páramo and water defender, harvests wild blueberries.

Inside her modest kitchen, after serving a meal of roasted cuy (guinea pig), chicken soup, and vegetables from her garden, Zhagüi sits at her wooden table, eyes glistening with tears of both sadness and determination as she describes the daily labor her life requires, and the unending battle to defend her way of life.

“It’s very hard because you have to dig, remove the grass, fertilize, prepare the fertilizer. For example, I wake up every morning at 5 a.m. to milk the cattle. Giving water and grass to the cattle, cutting and throwing oats if needed, and moving the cattle when necessary—I do it all. It’s an ongoing struggle for us—we need water for our daily tasks on the farm,” she explains.

As a representative of the Kimsakocha Women’s School of Agroecology and the Board of Potable Water Administrators of Victoria del Portete and Tarquí, Zhagüi has been at the forefront of resistance against mining projects for decades. Her voice breaks as she speaks of the threats to her homeland. “I will never get tired of saying that we have a very difficult life, very hard. Before, we used to live well and peacefully, we never imagined that we would face this problem. This problem isn’t just mine; it affects all the communities that depend on the water sources originating here in QuimsaCocha.”

She says the visit to Canada was disappointing. “They didn’t take us into account. They listened, but they claimed to have presented a different perspective, where, to them, our páramos were just dry mountains, making exploitation more justifiable.” Her voice rises with indignation. “So, it was for us, especially for me, outrageous to hear such nonsense, which is not true, as you can see—these páramos are life for us; they are our nature. Humanity and life hold no value for these companies when they seek to exploit.”

Despite multiple community consultations rejecting mining in the region, the pressure from corporations and government continues. “We have tried everything we could,” Zhagüi says, tears streaming down her cheeks. “We went to the capital and we did everything in our power, but there’s no way to stop them. They continue toward

exploitation. The Ecuadorian and Canadian governments support the miners as we become weaker in the face of this situation. That’s why we say: The only thing left for us is to surrender—but we would rather die first. That’s all we expect now; there’s nothing else to be done.”

The fight has created deep divisions within onceunited communities. “There is already division between our communities, our neighbors. We have completely divided, because [some] support [mining],” she explains. “They claim that nothing [bad] will happen, that exploitation will be done with high technology. This has been said: Nothing will happen, so there is no need to fear. That’s why I’m desperate—there’s so little time left. They’re just waiting for an opportune moment to begin the exploitation.”

Zhagüi doesn’t believe these reassurances. “Those who support mining don’t stand with us. Of course, they will feel the consequences once the water starts to become contaminated, and the diseases will follow. But for those of us who don’t support mining, it is a very desperate situation.”

Zhagüi’s determination to resist remains unwavering, even in the face of potential violence. “In our fight to resist, we will not peacefully accept [the mining companies] to enter and exploit our land. No! We have to fight back, even if it’s using stones as a weapon, in order to defend ourselves. We can’t just accept them.”

Zhagüi is keenly aware of what might happen when the mining companies move from exploration to exploitation.

“As the mining companies will need electricity, they will have to widen the roads. At that moment, they will begin exploitation, bringing in heavy machinery. At that precise moment we have to be steadfast and not allow them to enter.”

The consequences could be dire.“They will take us prisoners. They will kill us, because they shoot bullets straight to the body. We already saw it during the exploration stage,” Zhagüi says, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Imagine what exploitation will bring—for us, the only option left will be to resist. We are not going to give

up. We must give our lives, that’s what I believe. It’s the only thing left for us.”

Despite this grim outlook, Zhagüi expresses gratitude for those who stand in solidarity with their struggle. “I appreciate that there are still people in the world who stand in solidarity, fighting for those who have no voice. We live far away, we can’t reach the government, we are on the outskirts, but we continue to fight.”

As the afternoon light fades across her garden, Zhagüi points to the mountains where the water begins its journey to her home. Her voice trembles with emotion. “It’s sad. It’s unfortunate that in 30 years of struggle we have not been able to solve anything. We can neither be at peace, nor be free, nor finally declare that our land and páramos are completely safe from mining, untouchable and free from exploitation.”

The most painful part is the sense of time running out. But even in her desperation, Zhagüi finds some hope in faith. “Hopefully, with God’s will, it will never come to that. That’s why I say, God comes first. And after God, we as humans must find the strength to face this situation.”

Recalling a recent sighting of mining equipment, her voice breaks again. “The other day, heavy machinery arrived in Zamora. We were scared and desperate. Seeing those massive machines and enormous trucks driving down these roads was overwhelming. In our desperation, we started asking, ‘What do we do now?’”

For Zhagüi and many other women in the community, the fight is deeply personal. “That’s our struggle, our suffering—especially for us as women and mothers. We stand at the forefront, living daily with our hands in the water.”

Growing tensions: violence against water defenders

Not far from Zhagüi’s home lives Fanny Paute, a 62-yearold farmer who embodies the escalating human cost of this environmental struggle. Seated at her kitchen table, her face still visibly bruised, Paute recounts a recent violent attack she experienced for opposing the mining project. “This struggle has been going on for about 30 years,” she explains, her voice breaking and tears welling in her eyes. “We’ve been fighting for water all this time.”

On March 6, while checking on her animals in her field, Paute says she encountered a woman known locally as “Miss Minera”—a nickname for residents who support the mining project. This chance encounter quickly escalated. “I went out to see a little animal I have, and I went out with my daughter-in-law,” Paute recalls, touching the discolored marks on her face. “We saw this lady… we already know her, that she’s a miner.”

What happened next still haunts her. After a brief interaction that brought police to the scene, Paute returned to her field after the officers left. That’s when she was suddenly attacked by a group of pro-mining women.

“We were attacked, beaten. As you can see, my face is still bruised,” she says, tears now streaming down her cheeks. “They insulted us with harsh words. They took out scissors, hit us with a lock. The mother came with a big rock, and the other daughter also had a rock to hit us.”

Paute was not alone in suffering the attack—her daughter, daughter-in-law, and another water defender named Carmen were also assaulted. The physical wounds are healing, but the emotional trauma remains raw.

“Pain,” she says, when asked about the impact of the attack, her hands trembling. “A physical pain, but a pain filled with a lot of anger. Because we are not doing anything wrong when we defend the water. It’s not just today or yesterday, it’s been for many years. And they, in just a minute, come out, grab us, and beat us.”

The attack on Paute represents a troubling escalation in a conflict that has primarily been waged through legal battles and peaceful protests. For the water defenders, this increasing hostility only underscores the high stakes of their struggle and the powerful interests aligned against them.

Despite filing legal charges against her attackers, Paute fears this violence is just the beginning as tensions escalate between those defending water and those supporting mining interests.

When asked if she believes the violence will increase if mining operations begin, her determination shines through her tears: “We will have to keep fighting and see what happens. But there won’t be another time, because now, we will have to fight harder.”

Brandi Morin (Cree/Iroquois) is an award-winning journalist reporting on human rights issues from an Indigenous perspective. Over the past year, with funding from Cultural Survival, she has travelled repeatedly to Ecuador reporting on the impact of Canadian mining projects on the Indigenous Peoples who live there. To access more reports, visit: cs.org/brandimorin.

Two tanks belonging to Dundee Precious Metals.

Inter-American Court of Human Rights judges during the hearing to review the Indigenous community radio stations case.

GUATEMALA’S NATIONAL LAW

Is No Excuse for Ignoring Human Rights

Cesar Gomez (MAYA POCOMAM, CS STAFF)

States “cannot invoke their domestic law to avoid fulfilling international obligations,” emphasized Judge Ricardo Pérez Manrique of the Inter-American Court of Human Rights in his ruling on Kaqchikel Maya Indigenous Peoples of Sumpango et al. vs. Guatemala, during a hearing on May 23, 2025. The case, brought by Cultural Survival and Guatemala-based Asociación Sobrevivencia Cultural, submitted with support from Suffolk University Law School’s Human Rights and Indigenous Peoples Clinic, was originally filed on September 28, 2012, arguing that Guatemala’s telecommunications law excludes Indigenous Peoples from accessing their own forms of media via community radio. Judge Pérez pointed to examples of the States of Argentina, Chile, Costa Rica, Ecuador, Panama, and Peru, “which have complied with judgments without the need for prior laws.”

In 2021, the Inter-American Court of Human Rights declared the Republic of Guatemala “internationally responsible for the violation of the rights to freedom of expression, equality before the law, and participation in cultural life” of Indigenous Peoples. The historic decision came after decades of activism by members of the Indigenous community radio movement in Guatemala fighting for their freedom to operate radio stations and broadcast information in Indigenous languages to and from their communities.

In Guatemala, Indigenous community radio stations have still not been legalized almost 30 years after this right was guaranteed in the Guatemalan Peace Accords. They continue to operate in a legal gray zone that has led to frequent persecution and criminalization by mainstream media conglomerates, the National Police, and politicians.

Guatemala hosted the 176th regular session of the Inter-American Court of Human Rights from May 19–23, 2025, convening public and private hearings to monitor judgments in cases involving the State of Guatemala. In its ruling on Indigenous community radio stations, the court evaluated four reparations: 1) The freedom to operate Indigenous community radio stations; 2) Adaptation of regulations to recognize and regulate Indigenous community radio stations; 3) Cessation of criminal prosecutions of radio operators; and 4) Elimination of convictions for use of the radio spectrum.

David Dávila Navarro of the Presidential Commission for Peace and Human Rights stated that the basis of the Court’s ruling is the absence of regulations that legally recognize Indigenous community radio stations. While President Bernardo Arévalo has issued orders to comply with the resolution, community radio stations have repeatedly demonstrated the State’s lack of political will to implement them.

Freedom to Operate Indigenous Community Radio Stations

Community radio operators asserted that the State has failed to comply with Resolution 4, which requires it to provide frequencies to four Indigenous community radio stations while a more specific law is approved. Anselmo Xunic (Maya Kaqchikel), a representative of Radio Ixchel and the community radio movement, said that the Ministry of Communications offered an agreement to assign two frequencies of the national radio station TGW, but the community radio stations rejected the proposal due to several limitations. First, the use of the frequency was for one year with the option to renew it for another year; however, there was no obligation for the Ministry of Communications to sign the extension. Second, Xunic says,

the frequency considered for one of the stations of the Mam People of Todos Santos, Huehuetenango, is currently occupied illegally by another party, and the Telecommunications Superintendency does not have the capacity to clear the frequency. Third, the document contains several clauses limiting freedom of expression.

Adriana Sunun (Maya Kaqchikel) of the Mayan Lawyers Association of Guatemala asked the Court to call on the State to take action and legally protect the four community radio stations until regulations are adopted. Likewise, she emphasized, the communities should be able to operate on the frequencies they have long been operating on without interference and without fear of criminal prosecution.

Adapting Regulations to Recognize and Regulate Indigenous Community Radio

The few proposals put forward by the State do not reflect the spirit of the Court’s ruling. Community radio bill (5965), presented to Congress a month after the ruling was announced, did not consult with Indigenous communities and contains several ambiguities, including the process for granting frequencies, says Amy Chavarro of Suffolk University Law School’s Human Rights and Indigenous Peoples Clinic.

Given the lack of additional proposals from State institutions, the community radio operators proposed that the bill be analyzed, amended, and adapted to the criteria of the ruling. They also requested that the judiciary urge the State to establish a dialogue with the Board of Directors of Congress, a proposal that was positively received by representatives of the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights.

Cessation of Criminal Prosecutions of Radio Operators

“My perception is that [the MP] will not issue an instruction decriminalizing actions against community radio stations,” says Cristian Otzin (Maya Kaqchikel) of the Mayan Lawyers Association of Guatemala, responding to Public Ministry representative Estuardo Ávila’s comment that the State has not considered it necessary to issue a specific instruction to refrain from pursuing criminal proceedings, despite the ruling being unequivocal in stating that community radio stations are not committing crimes. Ávila says that no raids are being carried out on community radio stations. However, this does not guarantee that they will not happen in the future, Sunun counters, making it necessary to have in writing the Public Prosecutor’s commitment to refrain from further criminalization of communities and community radio stations. She adds that nothing has changed in the Public Prosecutor’s Office since the ruling; the prosecution against the illegal use of radio frequencies remains in force, and the State’s proposed solutions do not truly ensure compliance with the resolution.

Expungement of Convictions for Use of the Radio Spectrum

Mario Ellington from the Indigenous Peoples Secretariat of the Judicial Branch reported at the hearing that the Supreme Court deemed that expungement of convictions is not within its jurisdiction, arguing that legal reforms are necessary to annul them, and that such reforms are the responsibility of the Congress. Ultimately, he says, “it leaves the victims in the same situation as before the ruling.”

Otzin thinks the representatives of the judicial branch are not fully apprised of the ruling, which mandates the annulment of open trials against community communicators. While the Human Rights Ombudsman’s Office has informed the Court of the request made to the president of the judicial branch to expunge the convictions, and radio operators have made multiple requests to meet with criminal court judges to define a path to expungement of the convictions, there has been no response. The plaintiffs were emphatic during the hearing in requesting a one-month deadline for the establishment of a working group with the judges.

Ellington says that the School of Judicial Studies has been instructed to make all judges, magistrates, sentencing courts, and appeals chambers aware of the verdict.

Plaintiff’s Demands

Given the State’s demonstrated lack of political will, the complainants requested that the Court call on the State to: a) Adopt affirmative actions that allow the four communities to freely operate their community radio stations; b) Establish a dialogue with the Board of Directors of Congress to analyze and approve Initiative 4087; c) Implement the monitoring of the radio spectrum to obtain real data on FM frequencies; d) Order the Public Ministry to issue an instruction ordering prosecutors to refrain from raiding community radio stations; and e) Mandate the Supreme Court to establish a working group to resolve the commutation of sentences for those who have been wrongfully prosecuted, as well as set deadlines for compliance monitoring hearings.

The High Commissioner for Human Rights, as an observer, is awaiting the final ruling of the Inter-American Court of Human Rights, which will publish the official resolution in the next few months.

Left to right: Amy Chavarro, attorney for the case from Suffolk University, and Adriana Sunun (Maya Kaqchikel), advisor to the Indigenous community radio stations in Guatemala.

ALL THE FROST MELTS

Kseniia Bolshakova (Dolgan) is an Indigenous language activist and decolonial writer from the Russian Arctic. In her writing in her native Dolgan language, she relives with her community, time and again, the piercingly familiar trials experienced by Indigenous Peoples around the world. The clash between traditional lifeways and colonial modernity, as well as the impacts of climate change, force Indigenous individuals to choose between safeguarding cultural identity and day-to-day survival. It is this acute, fleeting, and intangible moment that Bolshakova captures in her autofiction. The following is a chapter from All the Frost Melts. Bolshakova is a 2023 Cultural Survival Youth Fellow. To read more of her writing, find her on Instagram at @haka.huruksut.

A SPLIT SECOND

BY Kseniia Bolshakova (DOLGAN)

IAntlers flounder in the snow. The lasso digs into the body. Alyosha the herder is dragging Ksusha the reindeer fawn along the ground. I twist and buck. Scratched raw by the snow, my cheeks burn. Finally, I wriggle free and run to my antlers. My brother gathers up the

lasso and starts chasing after me, whooping. He tosses the lasso toward me, but I dodge the loop. The reindeer watch with astonishment this little human fawn with heavy antlers, wearing a coat, hat, and boots all of reindeer skin.

The young men are getting ready to go ice fishing. We younger kids have begged to come along. For this occasion Grandpa has harnessed us his best lead reindeer from the family herd. Content, we head in for some tea.

We never drink “plain tea.” I lay a fried grayling out on a piece of newspaper and stuff my face with the tender white meat. A tiny fish spine pokes into my throat. I grab a piece of bread and swallow the soft white part along with the bone. They’ll figure it out in my stomach. That’s what Grandpa says when he’s dipping boiled reindeer meat into sweetened condensed milk.

The young men are leaving the camp with three reindeer teams. The four of us clamber onto our sledge. Our team driver Uybaan pokes the reindeer butts with his pole. But the lead reindeer is in a bad mood, he keeps taking off to the right and leading his partner back to the herd. We’re going in circles in one place. And this is the best lead reindeer! Uybaacha goes over to the reindeer team and tugs on the stubborn guy’s harness. It’s not clear what he’s so riled up about.

“Come here!”

“Araaa! What’s this?”

Chuprin family roaming the Popigay tundra.

It wasn’t our lead reindeer! The guys switched him out while we were having tea. We yelled after the dirty thieves that they should give our reindeer back. But all we heard in response was brazen guffawing. Well, thank you very much! And who needs you anyway! We get to go to the ice-rink instead! True, we don’t actually have a rink, but on the far side of the baloks there’s a pond just right for ice skating.

II

Our fab four is all kitted out. Alyosha has a shovel, Andreika and Uybaan have some thin plywood, and I have real mittens! Last year I had a fur coat with closed sleeves, no hand openings. Not even a separate thumb area. I was walking around like a fingerless little penguin. But now my sleeves are open on one side like a grown-up’s.

We mark out a square, and each of us takes a corner and starts clearing the rink. Making good use of my mittens, I quickly turn into a snowman. Spent, Alyosha collapses on the cleared half.

It’s time to test the ice. I tug up the ties on my fur boots. I wind the deerskin bands tightly around my ankles. The boots are sewn from reindeer shin skins. The upper parts have fur on the outside while the soles have fur on the inside. They can slide along better than any skates.

Andreika gets a running start and slides off on the fur knees of his extra-tall fur boots. Uybaacha, belly down on a piece of plywood, crashes his head into the snowy sides of the rink. We fall all over each other, laughing.

The neighbors turn on their generator. The smell of gas calls us back to the camp. Aunt Tatyy plugs the DVD player into the TV. “Strong tea, my dearest tea,” I sing, filling up the mugs.

We are transported into a different life. It doesn’t matter that we know the movie by heart already. Over the course of two hours we race around in cars, climb to the top of a skyscraper, get lost in a sea of people and lights. And then it’s time to come back from that incredible world to our home. Where all we have is snow.

The gusty wind pushes me along insistently. The vortex whirls the snow up around the dogs, curled up into little balls. The reindeer, huddled close together, get covered in snowdrifts. The heavy pitch dark of the tundra bears down on our tiny camp. I find refuge from the darkness and cold in our small but sturdy balok.

III

What has become of my friends and my people now? Modern life has changed the Dolgans’ values and needs. The labor of the reindeer herders has been devalued. And few people are now willing to suffer the travails of tundra living for a mere pittance. The young people either go on

living in the village, where they have houses, electricity, shops, at least some internet connection, or they take off for the city. They spend their lives doing senseless work that requires no skills or knowledge, just eats away their strength and the years of their lives.

Young Dolgans live the life of ordinary Russians, in apartment buildings, far from their families and Tribespeople, our native tongue, and tundra. Do they still feel like Dolgans? Are they raising their children as Dolgans? And who is to blame for this?

Snowmobiles that have replaced the reindeer. The dismantling of the collective farms and divvying up of reindeer shares in the ‘90s. Or, actually, the creation of the collective farms. Collectivization, Sovietization, Russification. Alcoholicification. Or maybe it goes even deeper.

Maybe the people to blame are not those who tried to build our life for us: carting our children off to boarding schools, creating reindeer herding brigades instead of family-based nomadic practices, enforcing game and fish quotas on our natural riches.

Maybe the guilty ones are those who baptized us left and right, denigrated our faith in the protector spirits, skinned us for pelts, and Siberia’s other “gifts.” How else did we end up as wandering aliens on our own land, as minorities dependent on state welfare?

My home village of Popigai stands by the river of the same name, which leads to the Popigai crater. This “star wound,” opened by a crashed meteorite, gushed out a rain of diamonds. But the rain anointed the heads not of Dolgans, but of the industrialists divvying up the entrails of our earth. We live in poverty and debt. The only difference is that earlier the debt books were held by merchants, and now what’s owed for groceries is jotted down in debt registers by village shop owners.

The one thing the Dolgans still have is reindeer. Reindeer herding died out for the Upper Dolgans back in the ‘70s. The Lower Dolgans are selling their herds to reindeer herders in the neighboring Anabar ulus in Sakha Republic, or just killing their reindeer for meat. Do we have a future? Or just a fleeting present and a past melting in the tundra distance?

English translation by Ainsley E. Morse.

Njuku Zharkov getting his son used to the saddle.

BRAZIL IS INDIGENOUS LAND

Pataxó and Pankararu Peoples prepare a spiritual ceremony with shamans and Encantados (sacred entities). This ritual serves as preparation, invocation, purification, and welcoming of visitors.

Cinta Vermelha Indigenous Land, Jequitinhonha Valley, Brazil.

Edson Krenak (KRENAK, CS STAFF)

Of Brazil’s more than 8 million square kilometers, approximately 14% are identified as Indigenous lands, either already demarcated or in the process of being recognized. However, it is important to highlight that most of the biodiversity, water, minerals, and wildlife—recognized by science or not—are protected by Indigenous Peoples, the guardians of forests, fields, and rivers. Brazil is home to more than 300 Indigenous Peoples and about 270 native languages are spoken, reflecting vast cultural and linguistic diversity. Indigenous lands go beyond maps or borders: they are territories of life, historical and ancestral, pillars of the physical and spiritual existence of the peoples that today the Brazilian State, and the world, calls Indigenous Peoples.

The relationship of Indigenous Peoples with the environment is not one of domination, but of reciprocity, care, and belonging. This worldview is the key to solving the global climate, food, and water crises. It is also the reason why Indigenous Peoples, not only in Brazil, but around the world, occupy a central role in the debates at the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) COP30 to be held in Belém, Pará, November 10-21, 2025.

The UN Climate Conference is not the only forum

recognizing the importance of Indigenous Peoples, but it is at this historic moment that Indigenous Peoples’ participation needs to transform into full recognition of the diversity of Indigenous identities, concrete resources of the prosperity and abundance of the world, and effective decision-making power of democratic strength and self-determination. The maxim spread in the streets, “Brazil is Indigenous land,” is not a metaphor, but a historical, political, ecological, and social truth. In this special edition, we cover the themes, challenges, and opportunities of this Indigenous Brazil, considering three distinct realities of these Peoples: the invisible guardians, the warriors on the frontlines, and those who are often forgotten, typically left out of Indigenous public policies and only recently included in the Brazilian census—urban Indigenous Brazil.

The Invisible Guardians: Peoples in Isolation and Initial Contact

According to the International Working Group on Indigenous Peoples in Isolation and Early Contact, throughout the Amazon at least 189 groups and Peoples are living in voluntary isolation or initial contact. Yet, only 60 are recognized by the State. These Peoples, referred to as PIACI, are the most vulnerable human communities on Earth. They have chosen to live far from state interference and industrial and capitalist society, maintaining a relationship of total dependence on the land. However, they are under serious threat.

Photo by CS Staff.

Illegal mining, deforestation, and violent incursions by criminal groups, religious missions, and urban development projects have violated their territories. Despite constitutional protections in Brazil, many of their lands remain undemarcated, and because they are invisible to the State, enforcement is weak or nonexistent. These Peoples have no voice in climate forums—but recognizing their existence, their right to live there, and protecting their territories are powerful forms of climate action. Their lands are vast carbon sinks, biodiversity sanctuaries, and living examples of the balance between humans and nature. At COP30, Brazil and the international community must recognize the protection of the PIACI as a human rights obligation and a climate imperative.

The Frontline Defenders: Demarcated Territories, Territories of Life

A large portion of Brazil’s recognized Indigenous Peoples live in territories already claimed or demarcated, or at least in the process of studying and formalizing their lands. These lands—often secured through decades of struggle— are more than political spaces. They are systems of governance, spirituality, and ecological intelligence; they are territories of life. Here, communities manage agroforests, protect water sources, preserve seeds, and transmit ancestral knowledge.

But life in these territories is under siege. Invasions by land grabbers, illegal loggers, and gold miners are common, and the presence and impact of medium- and largescale mining and agribusiness have posed an incalculable threat to the environment and human health for decades. Government negligence, legal setbacks, and climate impacts, from droughts to extreme heat, compound the problem. Even so, these communities are leading the way. Many have developed Territorial and Environmental Management Plans, offer proven conservation models, and demand direct access to climate finance to strengthen their autonomy. These territories are not just protected areas—they are living climate solutions.

Indigenous Peoples in Urban Contexts and Peoples on the Move

The 2022 census revealed something striking: the Indigenous population is more urban than rural—approximately 53.97% live in urban areas. This number could increase if we consider populations on the move and migration due to violence and environmental impacts. More than a third of these people live outside officially recognized territories. These communities are often rendered invisible by the State, their identities are questioned, and their rights denied. Yet, they are deeply engaged in the struggle for recognition and land. They are a bulwark against the criminal legacy of colonization.

Urban Indigenous Peoples are artists, educators, politicians, healers, lawyers, and activists, rebuilding

territorial connections through cultural centers, legal advocacy, and storytelling. They remind us that territory is not just geography—it is memory, language, ritual, and belonging. Their struggle expands the definition of what counts as Indigenous land and who counts as Indigenous. All of Brazil is Indigenous land.

The Climate Struggle and the Legal Threat

What unites these three realities is not only a shared history of resistance, but a shared vision: that life is sacred, the earth is alive, and justice must be territorial. Reforestation and land reclamation stand as their core demands, but their demands go beyond inclusion—they seek a transformation in how we relate to the planet.

However, while Indigenous Peoples continue to present clear, rights-based solutions, the Brazilian State remains immersed in legal battles that threaten its existence. One of the most alarming is the Marco Temporal (Time Frame), a legal argument that claims Indigenous Peoples have rights only to the lands they physically occupied in 1988— ignoring histories of displacement, violence, and forced removal. Although recently rejected by the Supreme Federal Court, the concept continues to reappear in legislative proposals that could be even more catastrophic, such as the Devastation Bill (2159/21), undermining constitutional rights and leaving Indigenous communities vulnerable and the environment exposed to exploitation and destruction. Stronger legal mechanisms are urgently needed not only to guarantee land rights, but to enforce them, protect defenders, and ensure the full implementation of Free, Prior and Informed Consent in all decisions affecting Indigenous territories.

At the same time, we must reject false climate solutions that treat Indigenous territories as mere carbon reserves or mineral banks. From REDD+ schemes that ignore communities to so-called “green” mining projects created to satisfy the ever-increasing demand for technology that devastate lands while claiming sustainability, these models exploit Indigenous knowledge and resources without recognizing Indigenous sovereignty. The promises of the Just Transition have left forest communities behind in negotiations for a cleaner, safer world. The consequences are all too familiar: wealth and resources are extracted, waste is left behind, rivers are contaminated, and communities are abandoned and concentrated in wealthy countries, especially Europe and the United States, while poverty and inequality exist in formerly colonized countries.

These are not just environmental crimes. They are extensions of colonial patterns that continue to sacrifice Indigenous life in pursuit of short-term profit. If COP30 means anything, it must be the moment we end this hypocrisy and align climate finance, governance, and policies with justice and self-determination. Brazil is Indigenous land. It is time for the climate regime to recognize who truly speaks for it.

Sineia do Vale, Co-Chair

FROM COMMUNITY-BASED RESEARCH TO THE INTERNATIONAL INDIGENOUS CAUCUS FOR

COP30 IN BRAZIL

Sineia do Vale (Wapichana), also known as Sineia Wapichana, began her career in 1992 in Brazil at the age of 17, when she was invited by her uncle Clóvis to work as a secretary at the Indigenous Council of Roraima (CIR). There, she attended community assemblies and strategic meetings of the more than 200 Indigenous Peoples of Roraima, especially concerning activities related to land demarcation, such as the Raposa Serra do Sol. This direct experience with leaders and organizational processes laid the foundation for her work to this day.

Do Vale’s work in the environmental field began in 1998, during one of the worst droughts in Roraima. She worked on an emergency project called “Droughts and Burns,” implementing water supply and seed recovery initiatives in the communities despite having no prior training. From then on, she pursued a career focused on land and environmental management, and in 2006 she became an environmental manager.

In 2009, do Vale coordinated the creation of the CIR’s Department of Land and Environmental Management, integrating Traditional Knowledge with emerging issues such as climate change and REDD+, a climate mitigation framework developed by the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC) that aims to encourage developing countries to reduce greenhouse gas emissions and deforestation.

One of the milestones of this work was the training of Indigenous Environmental Agents, initiated through a partnership with the Brazilian Institute of the Environment. This training was adapted with its methodology specifically for Indigenous people, allowing agents to produce reports on territorial invasions and environmental degradation. After the federal program was suspended, CIR partnered with other organizations under her leadership to continue training agents.

Do Vale also led the creation of the Indigenous Community Brigades and contributed to developing participatory methodologies for Land and Environmental Management Plans. Beginning in 2011, CIR developed the first Plans in the Serras and Lavrado regions with strong community involvement. To date, CIR has implemented 27

(Life Plans)—local Indigenous mechanisms for coping with and adapting to climate change, developed using their methodologies, without external

For do Vale, implementing Life Plans means realizing the communities’ dreams of managing and protecting their territories. “When we implement the [Territorial and Environmental Management Plans] in Indigenous lands, where the Life Plans were created, we are implementing the actions communities need to continue protecting and caring for their territories,” she says.

The creation of the Land and Environmental Management Plans also coincided with the formulation of the National Policy for Territorial and Environmental Management of Indigenous Lands. Do Vale participated in the public consultations and advocated for policies to anchor the CIR’s experiences, with robust participation from local communities. In 2015, she joined the Brazilian Policy for Territorial and Environmental Management of Indigenous Lands Steering Committee, coordinating the Climate Change Technical Chamber. She is also a member of the Indigenous Committee on Climate Change, an initiative of the Brazilian Indigenous movement.

Do Vale’s entry into the international arena began in 2011, when she participated in her first COP in Durban, South Africa. Since then, she has remained active in international advocacy, connecting community realities with the multilateral climate decisions being made by highlighting the importance of Indigenous Traditional Knowledge, community participation, and grassroots training. Undeterred by the linguistic challenges of international work, she attends long negotiation sessions with the support of translators, observing how Indigenous Peoples from different regions of the world and other allies strive to guarantee Indigenous Peoples’ rights in UN spaces.

Today, do Vale is Co-chair of the Indigenous Peoples Caucus of the UNFCCC, to which she was nominated by the Coordination of the Indigenous Organizations of the Brazilian Amazon with broad support from the international Indigenous movement. She emphasizes that her presence in this space is not a quest for power, but for qualified political advocacy with Indigenous diplomacy and

collective strategies. The Caucus is a space built by Indigenous Peoples with representatives from the world’s seven sociocultural regions, united by the struggle for rights and recognition in the UNFCCC processes.

“My participation as Co-chair for Latin America and the Caribbean in the Indigenous Caucus is, for me, much more about bringing the experience I’ve gained from a collective process that was built from the ground up, from the community level,” do Vale says. “And through the Caucus, we can collectively bring the interests of Indigenous peoples into these spaces that are so far removed from the realities of our communities.”

For the upcoming COP in Belém, Pará, do Vale highlights the strategic opportunity to ensure a qualified Indigenous presence in the Blue Zone, where central and decisive negotiations on the global climate issue take place. She advocates for Indigenous lands to be included as a contribution to Nationally Determined Contributions to combat climate change, in addition to demanding direct funding for initiatives based on Indigenous knowledge. Topics of priority include climate finance, climate justice, loss and damage, REDD+, carbon markets, Just Transition, Indigenous Traditional Knowledge in collaboration with western science, and recognition of the role of Indigenous communities in maintaining biodiversity and climate balance.

“In our work, we bring together Indigenous knowledge with emerging issues. Over time, new topics kept appearing—first climate change, then REDD, and later all these other mechanisms that began to merge with the knowledge Indigenous Peoples already have about how to care for communities and the environment. Everything is connected to nature: to water, to crops, to medicinal plants, and to how we are able to work with these new topics. These are our own methodologies—they are not written anywhere. They are built through lived experience. We bring a training methodology that I always say is the best: co-creation. We don’t bring anything ready-made. All of our training is always built together with the Indigenous agents,” do Vale says.

Do Vale expects the COP in Brazil to deepen the listening of Indigenous voices and advance the implementation of concrete public policies based on Life Plans, strengthening local action with international support. She is convinced that Indigenous action in these spaces must be collective, political, and connected to territorial realities, and that Indigenous diplomacy is fundamental to ensuring effective progress in global climate processes.

This article is based on an interview with Sineia do Vale by Edson Krenak and Patricia Zuppi; see the full interview at www.cs.org/csq.

The beautiful Amazon Rainforest.

Photo by CS Staff.

AN INDIGENOUS LEADER AND ACTIVIST FROM NORTHEAST BRAZIL DEFENDING INDIGENOUS HEALTH

Edson Krenak (KRENAK, CS STAFF)

Weibe Tapeba (Tapeba) is part of the Indigenous leadership of the Tapeba Peoples, originally from the municipality of Caucaia, Ceará in the northeast region of Brazil. He is a professor and lawyer currently serving as Special Secretariat for Indigenous Health (SESAI) at the Ministry of Health, where he is responsible for coordinating and implementing the National Indigenous Health Policy— a program that aims to assist approximately 800,000 Indigenous people from the 305 recognized Indigenous Peoples in Brazil through primary care services and comprehensive Indigenous health services. He is one of several Indigenous leaders in the Northeast that Cultural Survival has partnered with since the COVID-19 pandemic. Cultural Survival recently spoke with Tapeba about the challenges and changes in Indigenous health after years of intense struggles, particularly those under the Bolsonaro administration (2019-2022).

Edson Krenak: How did you come to take over SESAI? What was the state of Indigenous health?

Weibe Tapeba: I took over SESAI in early January 2023 after the election of President Lula, succeeding the administration of former President Bolsonaro. The situation in Indigenous health was one of complete neglect. Budgets were reduced, there was a lack of staff in the intermediate sector and health professionals in the final areas, precarious infrastructure in most Indigenous villages, a scenario of collapse in access to drinking water in the communities, institutional isolation, and guidance for the institution not to invest in unapproved areas.

During my administration, we restored the capacity to carry out construction work on health units and basic sanitation in the villages. We have increased the number of health professionals and are increasing the budget every year, from R$1.6 billion in December 2022 to over R$3 billion in 2025. We approved the first resolution on Indigenous health in the history of the World Health Organization under Brazil’s leadership and decided to propose a new, more effective Indigenous health policy based on the comprehensive care guideline.

EK: How does SESAI serve the different regions, considering the unique challenges of such a vast territory?

WT: Our intention is that SESAI, starting in 2026, will operate with the effective participation and responsibility of municipalities and states. [In a] break with the current model, which is limited to primary healthcare for Indigenous Peoples, our intention is to include specialized care services, including medium and high complexity services, in the policy so that Indigenous people, when they leave their territories, can receive care that respects their specific cultures, traditions, and needs. The need to review normative acts will be necessary so that the Unified Health System can also incorporate issues related to the valorization of Indigenous medicines and the holders of Traditional Knowledge of the Indigenous territories themselves.

EK: How can we ensure equality of care and resources while ensuring the continuity of services?

WT: Regarding funding, we are preparing the first National Indigenous Sanitation Program, which is expected to be launched at COP30, as a tool to ensure the universalization

Weibe Tapeba Photo courtesy of www.gov.br.

of basic sanitation in Indigenous territories in Brazil. Currently, approximately 65% of Indigenous villages lack access to drinking water, a fact that causes Indigenous communities to suffer from numerous health problems. We are also seeking new sources of funding. During our administration, we have already accessed resources from the Growth Acceleration Program and the Development Support Program, expanded parliamentary amendments for Indigenous health, established partnerships with several state governments and cooperation agencies, and are submitting projects to the National Bank for Social Development through the Amazon Fund and establishing a partnership with FORCEN [Fund for Structural Convergence of the Southern Common Market]. Our intention is to ensure that Indigenous health has the budgetary resources to change the reality in all Indigenous territories in Brazil.

EK: What is the role of local leadership and governance in Indigenous health policies in partnership with SESAI? WT: The importance of Indigenous governance is a reality in President Lula’s administration, which created the Ministry of Indigenous Peoples, the first Indigenous ministry in the history of the Republic, and appointed an Indigenous person to the presidency [Joenia Wapichana] of the National Foundation for Indigenous Peoples, the institution responsible for coordinating Brazilian Indigenous Policy, and our Secretariat of Indigenous Health. In these three main areas, Indigenous specialists are part of the teams, formulating actions, programs, and policies for the inclusion and promotion of Indigenous Peoples’ rights, as well as the appreciation of Indigenous Health Agents.

We are proposing to the Brazilian government a public selection process to strengthen management in the 34 Special Indigenous Health Districts, our decentralized regional units spread throughout Brazil that are responsible for implementing Indigenous health policies. We are also changing the hiring model for the entire Indigenous health workforce in the villages, moving away from hiring private entities that previously contracted health professionals. We are replacing these entities with the Brazilian Agency for Support to the Management of the Unified Health System, an agency created by the government whose objective is to strengthen Indigenous health. Under this project, we expect to train more than 20,000 Indigenous health workers and regulate the professional categories of more than 7,000 Indigenous health agents and sanitation agents.

We also expect to value Indigenous care, which includes the central role of Indigenous medicines and the holders of Traditional Knowledge. We understand that the diversity of cultures and knowledge needs to interact and integrate the practice of care in our health facilities. The support of prayer houses, delivery rooms, and other facilities should be understood as health facilities that can receive public funding.

EK: What actions is SESAI taking to care for the mental health of Indigenous Peoples?

WT: SESAI is developing a Psychosocial Program for Indigenous Health to propose suicide prevention measures, harm reduction in the territories, and strategies to mitigate harm resulting from the use of alcohol and other drugs in Indigenous villages. The program should include the coordination of the existing psychosocial network, professional training, and the incorporation of spiritual care measures and Indigenous medicines.

Currently, approximately 65% of Indigenous villages lack access to drinking water, a fact that causes Indigenous communities to suffer from numerous health problems. We are also seeking new sources of funding.

EK: The Yanomami Peoples’ crisis has been an open wound for decades, marked by invasions by gold miners and State neglect, among other things. Yanomami leader Davi Kopenawa warns that the destruction of the forest is also damaging the mental, spiritual, and physical health of his people. How has SESAI acted to address the Yanomami issue?

WT: Regarding the Indigenous health situation in the Yanomami Indigenous Territory, it is important to emphasize that we are facing the first Public Health Emergency of National Importance within an Indigenous territory in Brazil’s history. The Yanomami Indigenous Territory is the largest in Brazil, with almost 10 million hectares, larger than dozens of countries around the world. Access to the territory is almost entirely by air. The Yanomami population is made up of 33,000 people spread across 380 communities, many of which are recently contacted. Early in our efforts, we identified a shortage of healthcare professionals and medical equipment, high mortality rates, a malaria outbreak in dozens of communities, and socially determined diseases such as tungiasis and river blindness spreading throughout the territory. Food insecurity resulting from the mining invasion [caused] severe malnutrition, which impacted the Yanomami’s productive capacity, [along with] mercury contamination of rivers and a wave of violence in the territory sponsored by miners and organized crime. Our efforts resulted in an increase from 690 existing professionals to 1,800, including specialist physicians. We went from just 4 doctors to 47. We built or renovated 23 new Indigenous health units. We implemented Telehealth in 5 regions of the territory. We expanded connectivity and photovoltaic energy in health units, combined with the efforts of other government agencies responsible for malnutrition in the area, which resulted in the removal of over 90% of the miners, the delivery of food baskets and support for productive projects, and the reopening of Indigenous schools.

LIVING HERITAGE

THE LEGACY OF INDIGENOUS LEADERS THROUGH THE VOICES OF THEIR DESCENDANTS

More than a resistance, the Indigenous movement is inspired by strong community and family ties. It is strengthened collectively with new languages, knowledge, and forms of political action. Newiwe Top’Tiro (Xavante/A’uwẽ Uptabi), Aptsi’ré Waro Juruna (Juruna/ Xavante), and Roiti Metuktire (Kayapó/Mebengôkre/ Juruna) are three of the countless young activists and leaders of the Indigenous movement. In a recent conversation with Cultural Survival, we asked them about the heritage and legacy of the ancestral struggle that brought us here, about the transmission of values, memories, and strategies of struggle between generations, and about dreams, a central institution for many of our Peoples, in building an ancestral future.

Newiwe Top’Tiro (XAVANTE)

Newiwe Top’Tiro is the daughter of Hiparidi Top’Tiro, the renowned A’uwẽ-Xavante leader celebrated for his tireless defense of the Cerrado biome and his powerful international advocacy. She is now an archaeology student driven by her desire to research and reclaim the ancestral sites of her Peoples in the heart of Brazil.

It took me a while to understand how the movement worked and what my father really did. He always told stories about my grandfather [Sibupa], about his journey through the city, and especially about the power our family name carried. He and my mother

always did their best to ensure my sister and I had a good education and went on to higher education, and that was our focus until we were about 15. From that age onward, we began to interact more with the Indigenous movement and see the scale of this universe and what my father was involved in. I knew what was going on from the top down, and I saw my father at meetings and on trips, but not the depth and scope of what he accomplished. I always saw him as a strong man and admired him. He always told many stories interspersed with jokes. I now view him with great respect, as an incredible man and warrior, as a friend and advisor on our journey.

The struggle of the previous generation was undoubtedly great. They faced countless challenges so that today we can be recognized and heard. I know my father suffered greatly when he left the village to enter university at a time when few Indigenous people occupied these spaces. There was a greater openness [then] to entering politics and the media, drawing attention to the importance of protecting our lands and culture. They faced tough battles and much suffering so that my generation could occupy the spaces we have today and have an active voice within the movement.

I believe that the Indigenous movement is still constantly evolving and always will be. As time passes, changes occur, and this is reflected in us as well. Although there are fundamental principles for which we continue to fight, it is clear that many transformations have already occurred.

Newiwe Top’Tiro

Hiparidi Top’Tiro

Photo courtesy of Newiwe Top’Tiro.

Photo by Jamie Malcolm-Brown.

One of these important advances is the strengthening of women’s active role in the movement. Increasingly, strong women are gaining prominence and occupying leadership positions. I proudly mention my aunts, Bernardina, Berenice, and Tstsina, admirable women whose work deserves full recognition. Perhaps I don’t feel “responsible” to do the same; no one does anything alone in the Indigenous movement. For me, it’s not just about resistance, but also a gesture of gratitude for everything my People and my village have done for me. I will do whatever I can to contribute and raise awareness, both on behalf of my People and in support of the Indigenous movement as a whole.

Regarding my father’s influence, I constantly think about how I can seize the opportunities that arise to continue on this path. The course I’m taking today and the projects I’ve participated in are examples of this. I’m very proud of my roots and want to expand the reach of the Indigenous movement and invite others to learn about and connect with this struggle. And I’m not just talking about non-Indigenous people, but also about relatives who haven’t yet actively participated.

I’m noticing that more and more young people are becoming interested in actively participating in the Indigenous movement, bringing to the forefront debates that previously weren’t as widely discussed. One of the most important resources we have at our disposal today is social media, and it’s wonderful to see how we’re occupying these spaces strategically and creatively.

I’m happy to see that through these platforms, we’re able to show who we truly are and deconstruct the stereotypes imposed by non-Indigenous perspectives. We’re using digital tools not only to communicate, but also to affirm and empower ourselves and connect with other realities. I’m also struck by the growing number of young Indigenous communicators—people who use their cameras, cell phones, and creativity to record, narrate, and share their experiences, cultures, and struggles. This has had a significant impact both within and outside our communities.

I know there’s an expectation that we be active within the movement, but in my case, I’ve never been forced into anything. My father never forced me; he simply showed me, through example and words, how we can contribute to improving our village, strengthening our bonds, and communicating with other Peoples. He always encouraged us to use whatever we choose to do, whether it’s study, a career, or a project, as a way to move forward, always keeping our family in our hearts, regardless of distance, just as my mother also taught [us]. This support inspires me greatly.

I see that the Indigenous movement is on a good path, and I know [my parents] are proud of it—not only of what we do, but of the way we manage to honor what we were taught, looking to the future without forgetting where we came from.

Aptsi’ré Waro Juruna (JURUNA/XAVANTE)

Aptsi’ré Waro Juruna is the son of the late Xavante chief Mário Juruna, the first Indigenous person to hold a parliamentary seat in Brazilian history. He is currently a student at the University of Brasília, where he is pursuing a double degree in Social Sciences and Anthropology. He also works as a collaborator and political supporter for the Xavante Warã Association, and holds a Fellowship with the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights.

Since my early childhood, I have observed the passage of many Indigenous leaders from many Peoples of Brazil, non-Indigenous leaders from the national political scene, and also Indigenous leaders from other countries who frequented our home. Many came to meet my father, and others to continue various activities aimed at Indigenous Peoples. During this same period, they recounted, as was customary, the origin of the traditional, strong political lineage of our Aptsi’ré family—Aptsi’ré was my father’s grandfather—which permeates among the A’uwe Xavante to this day. This process has remained in my memory, as I was able to have contact with people from diverse cultures around the world who frequented our home.

As a child, I didn’t fully grasp what was happening, but in my perception it was something very natural and even commonplace. However, as the years passed, I gained a true understanding of my family nucleus. I also learned through newspaper clippings, television news, and history books that recounted my father’s great historical feats in favor of the Indigenous struggle. This was very moving for me, and continues to be so.

We cannot disregard the sense of cultural authenticity of older generations and their understanding of the external attacks that surrounded them, or their alliances of struggle and mobilization with other Indigenous Peoples from Brazil and other countries that also experienced similar situations of injustice and violence. This relationship needs to be monitored as closely as possible, and this requires that we, the current generation of Indigenous Peoples, continue to provide access to tools and mechanisms for protection of our rights to other relatives who

Aptsi’ré Waro Juruna

Mário Jurunapage

Photos courtesy of Aptsi’ré Waro Juruna.

still have limited or no access to this type of information. Therefore, I believe our role is to bring workshops and training in various areas to the villages in social areas such as education, health, politics, land rights, and culture, so that they can have a better understanding and dimension of such situations.

In my view, anyone who has real access to this information is obligated to pass it on to other groups that do not have this access. Such information must be conveyed in a reliable manner and [made available] in the languages of these Peoples who are being attacked by policies that aim for cultural assimilation of our cultures and territories. This legacy carries a great deal of responsibility and, at the same time, a certain naturalness when you realize that through your actions, you can help many other people you might never meet. [As the saying goes in Brazil], “If you have greater access to water, you are obliged to quench the thirst of others who don’t have access to water.”

We must remain strong with our cultures and customs in a single movement, aiming for the collective good and the preservation of our ways of life, and, consequently, that of our ancestral territories. Because that is where our strength comes from: it comes from nature, and we belong to it and protect it.

Roiti Metuktire (KAYAPÓ/MEBENGÔKRE/JURUNA)

Roiti Metuktire lives in the Capoto/Jarina Indigenous Territory in Mato Grosso. He is the son of Bedjai Txucarramãe, an important leader of the Kayapó people, and Darayo Ware Juruna (Juruna), from the Xingu territory.

SThe occupation of Indigenous people in political decision-making spaces in the government and in their grassroots organizations in Brazil and internationally is a reflection of this positive change. Our definitive insertion into these spaces where we previously did not exist, and being represented in these spaces, is a fundamental and necessary strategy for the continuation of our struggle.

Despite having cultures different from other Indigenous Peoples, the link that connects us with other Peoples and cultures is our confrontations with policies that aim to diminish our human rights as Indigenous Peoples. The struggle we face will continue with our children, our grandchildren, and with the future generations yet to come who are being prepared to occupy these positions. The Indigenous struggle will not end as long as there are Indigenous people who still do not know how to fight for their rights.

ince my youth, I have been guided by Traditional Knowledge and the example of my parents’ struggle, especially regarding the defense of the land, culture, and life of Indigenous Peoples. My journey is marked by deep respect for ancestral roots and an ongoing commitment to environmental protection.

Since 2006, I have been involved in the activities of the Raoni Institute, from volunteer to Territorial Management and Protection Coordinator. In this position, I have played a fundamental role in strengthening monitoring and surveillance actions in the defense of Indigenous territories, supporting communities in protection strategies against invasions and deforestation, and other external and internal threats such as climate change.

In addition to my technical work, I am recognized as an Indigenous activist committed to environmental causes and the protection of the rights of Indigenous Peoples. I participate in forums, meetings, and political articulations at the local and national levels, bringing the voice of the Kayapó and other forest Peoples to decision-making spaces.

My dedication reflects the continuity of a historic struggle and the hope for a future where Indigenous territories are respected and preserved as living heritage sites of humanity. I am inspired by the struggle of my great uncle, Chief Raoni, a leader who always used these wise words: “We breathe the same air, we drink the same water, so it is our duty to take care of what we have so we can have a forest for our children and grandchildren.” With this thought, he expressed to the world his concerns about human-caused changes to the earth and what could happen if we don’t take care of it.

I am inspired by the respect my great uncle earned throughout his life of struggle. He fought so hard for Indigenous Peoples to be respected. Even though it was often difficult and many people didn’t understand his concerns, he never gave up and always maintained his strong spirit. He urged Indigenous Peoples to be more united, and it’s my duty to carry on his legacy.

Roiti Metuktire Photo by Kokomeket Kayapo.

Bedjai Txucarramãe, far right. Photo by Ludio Sousa Barros.

Chief Nailton

Pataxó

THE ANCESTRAL STRUGGLE OF RETOMADAS

AND THE OUTSTANDING LEADERSHIP OF THE PATAXÓ HÃ HÃ HÃE PEOPLES

Chief Nailton Muniz Pataxó (Pataxó/Tupinambá), warrior shaman, is one of the most emblematic leaders of the Indigenous movement in Brazil, especially in Bahia. His life story is inextricably intertwined with the trajectory of resistance, reoccupation, and territorial affirmation of his People on the CaramuruCatarina Paraguaçu Indigenous Land in the municipality of Pau Brasil, southern Bahia.

Chief Nailton is more than a chief: he is an ancestral voice of the Retomadas (Reclaimed Lands), a link between the Elders’ memories, the Encantados (Enchanted Lands), and the future of new generations. He spent his childhood surrounded by traditional farming practices and community life. He lived in São Paulo for a few years, having been expelled from his land by landowners with State support. Upon his return to Bahia, guided by his family, he began a new phase of political articulation with the Pataxó Peoples and direct engagement in the struggle for territory, dignity, and existence.

In the 1980s, Chief Nailton became a leading figure in the fight to reclaim the ancestral Pataxó territory. Alongside his family and other leaders, he promoted the occupation of Fazenda São Lucas, where they would resist for 17 years, facing violent reintegration, threats, and criminalization from the judicial system. He also led repossessions in several regions in the state of Bahia, one of the most violent toward Indigenous Peoples in the country. Even in the face of State-sanctioned police brutality and persecution by landowners, the Pataxó did not back down.

Chief Nailton was also active in national Indigenous mobilizations. His leadership contributed to the recognition of Indigenous Peoples as subjects of rights in the 1988 Constitution—one of the most significant historical achievements of the Brazilian Indigenous movement and a milestone in the global history of Indigenous struggles.

The year 2012 marked the great victory of Chief Nailton’s struggle and that of the Pataxó People with the consolidation of the recovery of the Rio Pardo territory, a process that led the Supreme Federal Court to finally rule on the title nullification lawsuit. “The Supreme Court only confirmed what we had already done,” Chief Nailton said.

Chief Nailton also works tirelessly on the political and spiritual development of young people, training the youngest so they can become warriors and organizers like

him. This pedagogy of struggle and reclaiming has strengthened the Pataxó youth to continue occupying, denouncing, and caring for the territory.

A figure of determination, Chief Nailton carries deep pain from the recent death of close relatives, especially his sister and the shaman Nega Pataxó, who were shot by farmers on the Inhuma Farm during a reclamation in 2024. Chief Nailton was injured in the attack, and upon recovering and mourning his sister, he struck his spear on the ground and declared, “This is Indigenous land! Farmers will not return here!”

Chief Nailton embodies the wisdom of Elders and the strength of those who never surrendered. He is a living example that reclaiming is not just occupying: it is re-existing, with dignity, in time and territory.

Photo courtesy of Chief Nailton Muniz Pataxó.

THE POWER OF RADICAL HOSPITALITY IN CONFRONTING DESTRUCTION IN THE JEQUITINHONHA VALLEY

In this dialogue, Cleonice Pankararu Pataxó (Pataxó), leader of the Cinta Vermelha Village, and Ângela Maria Martins Souza (Quilombola), leader of Quilombo Mutuca, speak about their struggle against lithium mining and the defense of their territories in the Jequitinhonha Valley. As a feminine force, radical hospitality comes from women—especially Indigenous and Quilombola women—who welcome and resist simultaneously. They take care of the land, the people, and the memory. Even suffering from exploitation and violence, they continue to make room for others, without losing their strength or their cultures.

Cultural Survival: What is “radical hospitality?”

Cleonice Pankararu Pataxó: Radical hospitality has been a reciprocal practice of Indigenous Peoples and traditional communities for a long time. It’s a resistance, a condition, and an important instrument for us. We have this ability to unite to resist or to divide to resist. Right now, in our territory, we [are hosting] our Xukuru, Kariri, and Aranã relatives. They arrive, we receive them, and they help us in a certain way.

Ângela Souza: From the perspective of the Quilombola community, as a movement, radical hospitality is a political gesture of resistance and affirmation of collective life. Hosting is welcoming without turning the other into a foreigner; it is sharing food, territory, and ancestral memory, reaffirming that the land is a place of encounter, not exclusion. Radical hospitality opposes the colonial and capitalist [ethos] that commodifies hospitality, transforming it into service. Hosting is an act of collective care that strengthens bonds of solidarity and expands networks of resistance in the face of structural racism, patriarchy, and the advance of agribusiness and mining over territories. We have faced the advance of lithium mining since 2020 in the Jequitinhonha Valley and the Mutuca de Cima territory, a Quilombola territory. These enterprises enter with a fallacy of employability, with profits often benefiting foreign companies and investors to the detriment of local communities. Their impact has caused irreversible environmental and social damage. As a network of resistance—radical hospitality within our community—we have carried out projects to fight against the destruction of the environment and against the mining industries that directly affect the Quilombola territory.

CS: How has resistance created alliances between Quilombola and Indigenous communities?

CPP: This action against lithium mining was only possible because we received collaboration and support, like food, publicity material, and support from Indigenous comrades, from Cultural Survival and other institutions representing Quilombas, and even universities. We, Peoples of traditional communities, Indigenous Peoples, people who are excluded, discriminated against, who suffer racism—these practices of colonialism fall on all of us, because our worldview is different. It is a worldview of collectivity, cordiality, and hospitality, which differs from the practices of the colonizer and the explorer. That’s why alliances are very important. We have been making alliances since the invasion of Brazil.

AS: Resistance against mining and other forms of colonialism has strengthened alliances between Quilombola and Indigenous communities, as both face similar threats: the invasion of their territories, environmental destruction, and the violation of their ways of life. These meetings have been configured as spaces of radical hospitality, where welcoming means recognizing in the other an ally in the struggle for land, for good living, and for the safeguarding of ancestral memories. The partnership with Cultural Survival supports projects by Quilombola and Indigenous communities in defense of territorial rights and community management of natural resources.

CS: What changes are essential for these communities to thrive together?

AS: Profound structural changes are necessary. The first is the full guarantee of territorial rights, ensuring that our territories are not violated by mining, agribusiness, or projects that degrade the environment. Strengthening public policies that recognize traditional knowledge, ensure food sovereignty, and promote solidarity economy models that respect our ways of life is essential. Another fundamental change [must be] the political and social recognition that Quilombolas and Indigenous people are guardians of the land and biodiversity, and that their care practices cannot be treated as obstacles, but as viable and necessary alternatives to a sustainable future.

CCP: Our resistance against mining has shown that we must strengthen alliances. Radical hospitality is the basis for resisting and for thriving. It is in reciprocity and collectivity that we can protect ourselves and think about the future.

Cleonice Pankararu Pataxó.

Ângela Souza

Top photo by Paulo Henrique Figueiredo.

Bottom photo courtesy of Ângela Souza.

PLANTS ARE LIFE, HEALTH, AND KNOWLEDGE

THE ROLE OF FOOD SOVEREIGNTY IN THE BRAZILIAN AMAZON

João Felipe Yawanawá da Silva (Yawanawá), also known as Tuata, comes from a family of traditional farmers and healers. He carries his family’s legacy through his work with traditional medicines and agriculture, receiving inspiration for his art and strength for his work from nature. Tuata is a 2024 Cultural Survival Indigenous Youth Fellow.

The Yawanawá Peoples live on the Gregório River Indigenous land at the headwaters of the Gregório River, located in the municipality of Tarauacá, Acre, in the Brazilian Amazon. “We are known as the ‘peccary people.’ In our language, yawa is the porcupine of the forest, the peccary, and nawa means people. There are currently around 1,300 of us. We are always gathered together, working collectively,” Tauta says.

Together with his family, Tuata is the founder and leader of the Emâ Vena Center, which was born from a collective dream. In the Yawanawá language, Emâ Vena means “new place,” a fresh start, the beginning of a new life and time. It is also the name of Tuata’s Fellowship project.

Having learned from his grandfather the joys of planting, finishing, and hunting in his traditional territory and the value of providing food to family and community, Tuata realized there was an urgent need for greater food sovereignty among the Yawanawá Peoples. The large distances between his territory and the few surrounding cities, combined with transportation challenges and dependency on foreign food sources, motivated him to connect to his tradition and start working the land.

Tuata started by focusing on fruits and vegetables— crops through which food autonomy could be achieved. Among the trees planted were banana, lemon, orange, avocado, tangerine, and papaya. He also planted peppers and local species such as cupuassu, cassava, and açaí berry. Tuata oversaw all steps of the project, which involved selecting planting areas, preparing the soil, laying the beds, gathering seedlings, planting, and taking care of the young plants. “I learned a lot about how to allocate the funds and plan the activities. It was a challenge, and I felt a great responsibility. We succeeded through hard work and respect, learning and growing with each other,” he says.

While Tuata led most of the activities, friends and family members were also deeply involved. The community was

drawn together by a common goal, understanding that the benefits from the work would be shared by all.

Nature was a constant inspiration for Tuata, but it also posed his biggest challenge. In 2024, the Amazon faced its worst-ever rainfall deficit, so significant that the main rivers in the Amazon basin had their lowest levels in history. Tarauacá spent the entire year in drought, registering some of the most extreme levels recorded in the Amazon region.

This acute drought, understood as a product of climate change and deforestation, coincided with the early phases of the Emâ Vena project, when the plants were at their most vulnerable. Tuata watched his first seedlings suffer from these harsh conditions, and many were lost. He says that his initial enthusiasm was shaken, but through dedication, collaboration, and hard work, they overcame the challenge. “It was so dry, even the fish in the river died. But some plants resisted, and that was beautiful,” he recalls.

Though his fellowship project has concluded, Tuata is motivated to continue the work. “My desire is to continue planting more and having more trees. This is what I envision for my life here, for my home, for my family, and my community—to have fruit and food not only for me, but for all of those who come to our house and our village; to take from our land, our home, and offer to our family, our children.”

Tuata also dreams of reforesting his territory with native trees and beginning a nii pei (medicinal plants) garden, guaranteeing the cultural maintenance of both the plant species and the Traditional Knowledge around these medicines. “The nii pei take care of our body, health, and spirit. Without health, we can’t look after our families and our forest. It’s very important knowledge for our Peoples and it must continue to be passed on to younger generations.”

Carmem Cazaubon (CS STAFF)

Seedlings arriving at the village.

Inset: João Felipe Yawanawá da Silva.

Photos courtesy of João Felipe Yawanawá da Silva.

OGIEK WOMEN Keepers of the Mau Forest and Defenders of Food Sovereignty

The Ogiek Peoples in Kenya have historically inhabited the Mau Forest Complex, the largest forest in East Africa, which constitutes not only their ancestral home but also a vital source of sustenance and spirituality.

However, in recent decades, the Ogiek have faced numerous challenges that threaten both their territory and their traditional way of life. The systematic loss of their ancestral lands and the denial of their right to selfdetermination have profoundly weakened their cultural, social, and spiritual practices. This situation has jeopardized the intergenerational transmission of knowledge, especially related to environmental conservation and food sovereignty.

In recent years, the plight of the Ogiek People has begun to receive international attention. A major turning point was the historic ruling by the African Court on Human and Peoples’ Rights in favor of the Ogiek, which declared their forced eviction from the Mau Forest unlawful. This decision recognized the fundamental role that Indigenous

peoples play as custodians of local ecosystems and reaffirmed the need to respect their territorial and cultural rights.

Despite many obstacles, the Ogiek have developed community-based strategies to address these adversities, focusing especially on revitalizing their autonomy and cultural practices. Ogiek women have played a central and transformative role in this process, leading actions focused on protecting, recovering, and transmitting ancestral knowledge related to food, land, and biodiversity.

An example of these efforts is the “Seeds of Change: Enhancing Climate Resilience and Adaptation for the Ogiek Indigenous Peoples” project, an initiative of the Koibatek Ogiek Women and Youth Network (KOWYN) supported by Cultural Survival’s Keepers of the Earth Fund program. This project has successfully materialized a deeply rooted community approach, merging Indigenous Traditional Knowledge with practical, sustainable solutions adapted to a local context.

As part of this initiative, KOWYN carried out significant activities at the Seguton and Sabatia primary schools, planting more than 500 fruit trees. These trees, in addition to serving as living symbols of resilience and hope, transformed empty school grounds into future food forests. Their production will contribute to school feeding programs and serve as a teaching tool to promote environmental education among children and youth. Work was also strengthened with various Ogiek women’s groups, including Poror, Kwomberiet, Tabut Visoi, and Tachasis. With their active participation, family gardens incorporating composting systems were established, significantly improving nutrition, food security, and household self-sufficiency.

“We have always known how to grow our food, but we were losing that knowledge. Now, with the seed bank and the trainings, I feel like we are reclaiming what was ours. I All

photos by Koibatek Ogiek Women and Youth Network.

Nataly Domicó (CS INTERN)

Activities conducted by the "Seeds of Change" Project, supported by KOEF.

plant knowing that these seeds are ours to protect,” says Rebecca Chelangat, a member of the Tachasis women’s group.

The training offered within the KOWYN project provided practical tools in organic farming, composting, intercropping, and traditional seed conservation. This led to the creation of four demonstration gardens and the production of more than 100 seedlings that were subsequently planted in Ogiek homes. In addition, a systematic process of documenting local indigenous seeds was initiated to establish a community seed bank. These actions strengthen food security and family health, while also revitalizing ancestral knowledge systems, increasing climate resilience, and empowering women as guardians of the Ogiek People’s food culture and biodiversity.

Native seeds represent the food genetic heritage of Indigenous Peoples. However, one of the colonial strategies —which persists under the current industrial agricultural model—has been precisely to weaken this heritage by encouraging deforestation, promoting monocultures, contaminating soils with agrochemicals, and displacing traditional diets with ultra-processed foods, which seriously affect the health and autonomy of communities.

At Cultural Survival, we strongly support initiatives that promote the recovery of native and natural foods, framed within processes of self-determination, territorial autonomy, and cultural revitalization. As stated in a 2024 issue of Semillas Magazine: “Native seeds are the foundation of Peoples’ sovereignty and territorial and food autonomy. Recovering and protecting them safeguards ancestral knowledge, cultural identities, and communities’ livelihoods.”

The KOWYN project reaffirms the relevance of community-based approaches centered on Indigenous knowledge and values. Its implementation has promoted the active participation of Ogiek Elders, women, youth, and children, strengthening their sense of belonging, collective memory, and cultural pride. Through actions such as seed conservation, community agriculture, and sustainable environmental management, the Ogiek People demonstrate that it is possible to resist, heal, and rebuild the community fabric from their own roots.

The valuable experience of the KOWYN project invites us to remember that sustainability and climate resilience are not built solely on modern technologies, but on the recognition and strengthening of ancestral knowledge that has cared for the land for generations. The work they carry out in recovering their seeds, their food, and their autonomy is not only a local strength— it teaches us a lesson about the importance of honoring cultural diversity, protecting biodiversity, and defending the right of Peoples to decide about their territories and their lives.

In a world marked by climate change, the food crisis, and the loss of identity, the process that the Ogiek women have been undertaking invites us to reflect on the way we inhabit the planet and to understand that, in the native seeds they have recovered and safeguarded, hope and the possibility of building a more just future that respects the rights of Indigenous Peoples and their self-determination also germinate.

In 2024, the Koibatek Ogiek Women and Youth Network received a Keepers of the Earth Fund (KOEF) grant to support their work. KOEF is an Indigenous-led fund within Cultural Survival designed to support the advocacy and community development projects of Indigenous Peoples. Since 2017, KOEF has supported 440 projects in 42 countries through small grants and a wrap-around approach totaling $2,667,147.

The Keepers of the Earth Fund (KOEF) awards grants of up to $12,000 USD, which go directly to traditional Indigenous communities, collectives, organizations, and governments to support their self-designed development projects based on Indigenous values. Predicated on the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, Cultural Survival uses a rights-based approach in our grantmaking strategies to support grassroots Indigenous solutions through the equitable distribution of resources to Indigenous communities.

DEFENDING THE RIGHTS OF INDIGENOUS PEOPLES AND THE FIGHT FOR IDENTITY

Ñushpi Quilla Mayhuay Alancay, Advocacy Coordinator

Identity

I am Kolla on my mother’s side and Quechua on my father’s side. I was fortunate to grow up in a family with pride in our identities, worldview, and philosophy of life without feeling shame, violence, or persecution. My name in Quechua, “Ñushpi Quilla,” means “Little Moon.”

Community

I grew up with a collective community philosophical understanding, from harmonious coexistence and in reciprocity with my other siblings: human beings, plants, animals, rivers, mountains. In my first year of life, I took part in the haircutting ceremony called Sucharrutuy. Every year in the month of June we hold our Inti Raymi ceremony, and every August we make our offering to Pachamama.

Activism

My Elders were part of historic political, social, and cultural movements in Argentina. Thanks to them, I belong to the generations whose rights are recognized by the Argentine state—rights for which we continue to fight and work so they are effectively applied. I had the opportunity to accompany my parents in various activities and events at the local, national, and international levels in the struggle for our rights. My convictions were also shaped by marches and protests alongside retirees, workers, teachers . . . taking to the streets to demand and defend social and collective rights.

Heritage and Interests

I am the daughter of Indigenous artists. My parents introduced me to our culture through music, dance, singing, and poetry, understanding art as a tool for political and social transformation. I grew up in a wonderful artistic and cultural environment full of incredible teachers, transmitters of stories, realities, and critical thinking. Being the daughter of Indigenous artists with clear convictions and a conscious political stance on the meaning of art, culture, and our identity shaped part of who I am and the decisions I make. My mother and my father, Anahí Alancay and Miguel Mayhuay, are, and will always be, my guides in life.

Studies and Professional Life

I studied law, which comes from a western framework. However, I am an Indigenous lawyer who fights for the recognition of our rights, legal systems, and forms of governance from a social, political, empathetic, community-centered, and accessible perspective. In all my training, I have developed and forged from respect and responsibility toward my identity, the struggle and resistance of my ancestors, and my Indigenous siblings.

Recognition of Indigenous Women

I believe that every Indigenous woman is a source of inspiration and a reference point for struggle and resistance. Our historic and contemporary women leaders possess a strength that inspires; examples include Micaela Bastidas, Rigoberta Menchú, Luzmila Carpio, Bartolina Sisa, Berta Cáceres, and Aimé Painé. We are recognized as guardians of nature, bearers of our cultures, defenders of the land. However, being an Indigenous woman today means constantly putting our lives and physical integrity at risk.

Joining the Cultural Survival Family

I am passionate about history, cultural relationships, the revaluation of our worldviews and identities, and Cultural Survival’s international advocacy and publications. I wanted to be part of Cultural Survival’s Advocacy Program because it represented everything I wanted: to work with Indigenous communities from all over the world, carry out local and international advocacy, interact with international human rights and Indigenous Peoples’ organizations, develop comprehensive defense strategies, and carry out our work with respect for and in guarantee of Indigenous Peoples’ right to self-determination. And I did it!

Vision for the Future

Recently, I succeeded in having the University of Cuyo approve a change in the wording of the graduation oath so that it reflects my Indigenous identity and culture: “Do you swear by Pachamama and Jatun Taita Inti, by the memory of your ancestors, by the National Constitution, the rights of Indigenous Peoples, and by your honor?” In the coming years I want to develop and apply my knowledge in different international human rights protection systems and foster dialogue and learning with Indigenous leaders from Abya Yala and the world.

Ñushpi Quilla Mayhuay Alancay, far right, with parents.

ART, CULTURE, AND ENVIRONMENTAL JUSTICE

ELIZABETH DURAZNO

Lucas Kasosi (MAASAI, CS INTERN)

Elizabeth Durazno (Kichwa Cañari), an artisan from Río Blanco, Molleturo parish in Ecuador, is an active force in the Warmi Muyu Collective. Through her art, Durazno challenges the forces threatening her community’s culture, land, and future. As a creator and advocate, she uses weaving as a medium for both expression and resistance, blending traditional techniques with a commitment to sustainability and cultural strengthening.

Durazno’s work isn’t just about crafting jewelry or textiles; it’s about weaving resilience. Each piece, from woven purses to ceremonial necklaces, carries deep spiritual meaning and reflects a culture deeply connected to the land. Her creations are more than beautiful objects: they are declarations of cultural survival in the face of colonialism, environmental degradation, and the commodification of Indigenous identity.

able living practices. “We didn’t just want to say no to mining extractivism. We wanted to present an alternative,” she says. This effort aims to reconnect with their land, protect its resources, and create a vision for the future rooted in respect for the environment.

Durazno’s artistic process begins with a deep connection to the land and represents a blending of Traditional Knowledge and modern living, where the bounty of nature is connected with the needs of contemporary life. “Our process is to collect seeds or fibers, which we call the threads of the territories,” she explains. “We mix them with those from the territory and the city, because there are things that can’t be found in the fields.”

Using sacred materials like wool, jute, and the cabuya plant, Durazno’s creations reflect the Andean landscape. “We give each product a name. We think about nature and we are making the product identified with each plant,” she says. Every item is a living embodiment of her People’s connection to the earth.

For Durazno, art is not just creation, it is a form of resistance. Her community faces severe threats from the expansion of mining in Ecuador’s Azuay province, which has devastated ecosystems and contaminated water sources. “My community is located south of the city of Cuenca in the Azuay province of Ecuador. It’s directly in the Páramo, which is home to wetland ecosystems and biodiversity,” she explains. “However, there’s also already some impact, because the mining project was located there. Our community was destroyed, as were the ecosystems, with significant loss of water sources.”

The Warmi Muyu Collective, founded in 2018, a project of Sinchi Warmi, reflects Durazno’s commitment to community empowerment. Despite initial challenges, the collective flourished, fueled by the collective will of the women who planted the seeds of their future. Warmi Muyu is a combination of warmi (woman) and muyu (seed), signifying the collective’s commitment to nurturing culture. Women are the foundation of the collective, ensuring that the work reflects not just creativity, but resilience. Their catalog, “Mujer Páramo,” is not just a collection of art—it is a manifesto asserting that women are the guardians of the land and its future.

Durazno’s participation in the Cultural Survival Bazaar gives the Warmi Muyu Collective visibility. But for her, the Bazaar is more than just an opportunity for recognition. It is also a place to connect with artisans from over 50 countries. “It’s not just a market; it’s a space to share strategies, raise awareness, and speak directly with community creators and advocates,” she says.

Through the seeds she pierces and the fibers she twists, Durazno is weaving far more than earrings and bags. She is weaving resistance, memory, and a future where Indigenous women and their communities are empowered through culture, not erased by extractivism. “When we create, we are not just making a product,” she says. “We are telling the story of our ancestors, our land, and our future. We are weaving a tapestry of resistance, love, and hope.” Durazno and the Warmi Muyu Collective represent a vision where art, culture, and environmental justice go hand in hand.

Join us at the Cultural Survival Bazaars on December 13-14, 2025: Cyclorama, Boston, MA and December 20–21, 2025: WaterFire Arts Center, Providence, RI. bazaar.cs.org

A planned gift of any amount is a powerful way to help sustain Cultural Survival’s vital work for future generations.

Indigenous wisdom teaches that for every action we take, we should consider its impact on seven generations forward. By including Cultural Survival in your estate plans, your gift can have a lasting impact. Your legacy can help advance our programs in areas such as women and youth empowerment, climate change solutions, lands and livelihoods, language revitalization, and community media. With your support, Cultural Survival continues to amplify Indigenous voices, uphold collective rights, and ensure that communities have the tools and resources to shape their own futures.

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