The forced disappearance of Brooklyn Rivera raises several questions. First, from a personal dimension: where is the Ta Upla, and how is he? Second, from a collective dimension, regarding the future of the Indigenous and Afro-descendant Peoples, and their collective rights over land, territory, natural resources, self-determination, resistance and democratic space in Nicaragua. Finally, there is a global dimension that leads us to question the capacity of the international human rights system to prevent the progressive erosion of fundamental rights in contexts of democratic closure.

A Leader of the Regional Indigenous Movement

Brooklyn Rivera Bryan is a historic leader of the Miskitu people who, for more than five decades, has dedicated his life to the recognition and defense of the historical and ancestral rights of Indigenous and Afro-descendant Peoples at the national level and throughout Latin America. In doing so, he has become one of the leading figures of the indigenous movement in Nicaragua. As a leader of the indigenous organization YATAMA (Yapti Tasba Masraka Nanih Aslatakanka), he has played a fundamental role in the defense of territorial rights, political autonomy and cultural identity on the Caribbean Coast.

In 1960, Brooklyn began his trajectory as a defender of collective rights on the Caribbean Coast. During the 1980s, he became a central figure in the Miskitu indigenous resistance (the so-called “indigenous contra”) in the context of Nicaragua’s internal armed conflict. This period was marked by serious human rights violations against indigenous communities: forced displacement, widespread violence, and military operations such as the notorious “Red Christmas.” To this day, these events are remembered in collective memory and continue to be denounced by indigenous organizations as grave human rights violations that remain in total impunity.

Consequently, his political trajectory is closely linked to the process of recognizing the existence of Indigenous and Afro-descendant Peoples in Nicaragua’s Political Constitution of 1987. He later became one of the visible faces of the struggle for and achievement of regional autonomies, established under the Autonomy Statute of 1987 — one of the most important advances in the recognition of the rights of Indigenous and Afro-descendant Peoples in Central America.

The Leader Who Fought for Political Participation

After the end of the armed conflict, Rivera played a key role in the transition from armed struggle to institutional political participation for Indigenous Peoples within the Nicaraguan democratic system, consolidating YATAMA as the principal indigenous political force on the Caribbean Coast. A landmark moment came in 2005, when the organization obtained a historic and unprecedented ruling from the Inter-American Court of Human Rights, recognizing the violation of the right to political participation of Indigenous Peoples following their exclusion from the 2000 municipal elections. Nevertheless, more than 20 years after that decision, the Nicaraguan State has not fully complied with the measures ordered by the inter-American tribunal.

In 2007, Rivera was elected as a member of the National Assembly through a political alliance between YATAMA and the Sandinista National Liberation Front (FSLN). This agreement included legislative and administrative initiatives for the recognition and protection of indigenous rights on the Caribbean Coast and throughout Nicaragua. However, the political relationship deteriorated due to non-compliance with the demarcation of communal lands, the regional autonomy framework and allegations of electoral irregularities. While Rivera was stripped of his legislative seat in 2015, he was again elected as a deputy in 2016 for the Autonomous Region of the North Caribbean Coast under the YATAMA indigenous party banner. In 2021, he was once again elected for the 2022–2026 legislative term, reaffirming the indigenous communities’ support for his leadership and legacy.

Brooklyn Rivera’s trajectory reflects not only the story of a political leader, but the evolution of the struggle of the Indigenous Peoples of the Caribbean Coast and Nicaragua for the recognition of their rights, their autonomy and their cultural survival in an adverse political context. His leadership has been shaped by distinct phases that mirror the country’s history: armed resistance, demands before international bodies, participation in dialogue processes, and the forging of political agreements. Throughout it all, Brooklyn Rivera has pursued the legitimate historical aspirations of the Indigenous and Afro-descendant Peoples.

The Arbitrary Detention and Forced Disappearance

Brooklyn Rivera’s last public statement was delivered in April 2023, during the 22nd session of the United Nations Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues in New York. On that occasion, the leader addressed the Forum as a parliamentary representative and principal leader of the Miskitu people, referring to advances achieved in international and national law, as well as setbacks in local implementation due to a lack of political will by States: “The grave situation of dispossession of territories, the plundering of ancestral assets, the dismantling of traditional structures, the replacement of indigenous authorities and the destruction of the natural environment. To this must be added the increase in human rights violations against leaders and defenders.”

In retaliation, the Government of Nicaragua denied him re-entry into the country. After spending several weeks in exile, he decided to return and announced this through a video published on social media in June 2023: “I had no intention of staying outside. For that reason I had to travel by other routes and later through the Mosquitia territory, which, it should be noted, spans two countries: Honduras and Nicaragua. Moving among my people, both in the north and in the south, I managed to enter the country and have been in the Nicaraguan Mosquitia for a week.” The Ta Upla emphasized that this territory does not belong to just one country and that peoples have a tradition of exchange, family ties and cultural and social activities with the Miskitu people living in Honduras as well. “For us, there are no borders,” he concluded.

On September 29, 2023, Rivera was arbitrarily detained by the National Police at his home in the city of Bilwi, where he had traveled to be with his people. Since then, he has been in a state of forced disappearance.

On September 29, 2023, Rivera was arbitrarily detained by the National Police. Since then, he has been in a state of forced disappearance.

Despite the immigration ban imposed by Nicaraguan authorities, Brooklyn Rivera’s entry into Nicaragua did not constitute an illegal act, but rather the exercise of fundamental rights recognized both by constitutional law and by international human rights law and the rights of Indigenous Peoples. ILO Convention 169, the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples and the American Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples are clear in recognizing that cross-border Indigenous Peoples may freely carry out their exchange activities.

Months later, on September 29, 2023, Rivera was arbitrarily detained by the National Police at his home in the city of Bilwi, in the Autonomous Region of the North Caribbean Coast, where he had traveled to be with his people. The Government subsequently cancelled YATAMA’s legal registration (without due process); the organization’s assets were seized; and its officials, members, family members and community members were persecuted. Since then, Brooklyn Rivera has been in a state of forced disappearance.

The Silence of the Nicaraguan Government

Thirty months have passed since the arbitrary detention of Brooklyn Rivera. There is still no official information about his state of health and his whereabouts — two practices prohibited by international human rights law. The absence of timely information constitutes a violation of basic international standards, including those established by the American Convention on Human Rights and the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples.

The Inter-American Human Rights System and the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights (IACHR) granted precautionary measures in October 2023. Four months later, in February 2024, the Inter-American Court of Human Rights issued provisional measures in favor of Brooklyn Rivera and required the State of Nicaragua to “immediately proceed with his release and adopt the necessary measures to effectively protect his life, personal integrity, health and personal liberty.”

All human rights mechanisms have been activated at the international and regional level. Meanwhile, the Nicaraguan Government continues to remain silent.

All human rights mechanisms have been activated at the international and regional level. Meanwhile, the Nicaraguan Government continues to remain silent.

In parallel, various international bodies have expressed concern over Brooklyn’s disappearance and have requested detailed official information to determine his whereabouts: the Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR), the Group of Human Rights Experts on Nicaragua (GHREN), the UN Working Group on Enforced or Involuntary Disappearances, Amnesty International, and indigenous peoples’ organizations and leaders from all continents.

All human rights mechanisms have been activated at the international and regional level. Meanwhile, the Nicaraguan Government continues to remain silent. International law holds that States have special obligations when it comes to the protection of human rights defenders and representatives of Indigenous Peoples — particularly when their work is linked to the defense of territory and natural resources, when there is a risk that their disappearance has political motivations, or when their absence may have a disproportionate effect on the collective representation of their peoples, as this case suggests.

Violations of the Rights of Indigenous and Afro-descendant Peoples

Over the past decade, the situation of the individual and collective rights of Indigenous and Afro-descendant Peoples in Nicaragua has deteriorated in a progressive and sustained manner. This deterioration affects fundamental rights such as land and territory, self-determination, life, personal integrity and autonomy. It is also closely linked to the systematic invasion of indigenous territories, the increase in violent conflicts with settlers, illegal mining and timber trafficking, as well as the closure of civic spaces and the establishment of an authoritarian model of control in the country.

This situation has generated a permanent climate of violence, insecurity and displacement in indigenous communities, disproportionately affecting populations in vulnerable situations, such as women, girls, older persons and persons with disabilities. In this regard, between 2020 and 2023, at least three massacres were recorded against Miskitu and Mayangna communities located in the Bosawás Biosphere Reserve, in the Autonomous Region of the North Caribbean Coast: in the communities of Alal (2020), Kiwakumbaih (2021) and Wilu (2023). These armed attacks resulted in at least 20 indigenous people killed, as well as reports of torture, sexual violence, burning of homes, forced displacement and an unprecedented humanitarian crisis.

In Nicaragua, there have been reports of political interference through the imposition of communal authorities aligned with the ruling party and the creation of parallel governance structures in the territories, which weaken traditional forms of authority.

In Nicaragua, there have been reports of political interference through the imposition of communal authorities aligned with the ruling party and the creation of parallel governance structures in the territories.

In parallel, there is a pattern of repression and criminalization against indigenous leaders, territorial authorities, human rights defenders and religious leaders. These actions include arbitrary detentions, forced disappearances, acts of intimidation and other repressive measures aimed at weakening community leadership. This context reinforces the perception that Rivera’s detention may have a chilling effect on other leaders.

There have also been documented measures such as arbitrary entry bans, de facto exile, cancellation of documents, deportations and other forms referred to as “civil death,” which seek to exclude indigenous leaders from political and social life. The situation also reflects serious impacts on the right to self-determination and the indigenous autonomy regime. Reports have emerged of political interference through the imposition of communal and territorial authorities aligned with the ruling party, as well as the creation of parallel governance structures in indigenous territories, undermining traditional forms of authority.

Proof of Life for Brooklyn Rivera

The arbitrary detention and forced disappearance of indigenous leader Brooklyn Rivera is a reflection of the deterioration of respect for human rights and the collective rights of Indigenous Peoples in Nicaragua. Through violence against communities and the persecution of their leadership, the Nicaraguan Sandinista regime seeks to weaken the mechanisms that protect their territories, their forms of political, social and cultural organization, and their traditional ways of life, by making leaders and representatives disappear.

The actions of the international community and human rights bodies must be directed toward demanding that Nicaraguan authorities provide proof of life of Brooklyn Rivera, his immediate and unconditional release, the restoration of his fundamental rights and respect for the political rights of the YATAMA organization, as the legitimate organization of the Indigenous and Afro-descendant Peoples. Likewise, the respect for individual and collective human rights in Nicaragua must be guaranteed.

The case of Brooklyn Rivera has become a symbol of the current challenges faced by Indigenous and Afro-descendant Peoples in Nicaragua. And, in particular, it is an affront to the human rights mechanisms at the international and regional level.

The post The Forced Disappearance of Brooklyn Rivera: Repression Against Indigenous Peoples in Nicaragua Intensifies appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

When Valentina asserted her right to contact a lawyer, the officers dismissed the request, claiming that it was “not a search, but an inspection.”  The raiders demanded passwords to access her electronic devices – phones, laptops, external drives – requests she refused. The operation lasted four hours and ended up with the confiscation of all her devices.

Valentina was among the fortunate ones: she avoided detention and managed to leave the country soon after. Since then she has been active in denouncing what she sees as a campaign of repression against Indigenous Peoples in Russia which echoes the prosecution of Indigenous leaders under Stalin’s dictatorship in the first half of the 20^th century.

From Indigenous Peoples Rights Defender to Political Prisoner

The raids ended in the arrest of two activists. One of them is Daria Egereva, a Selkup woman from western Siberia, whose case has stirred indignation across Indigenous networks internationally. Authorities accuse her of “belonging to a terrorist organization,” charges widely considered fabricated. By criminalizing peaceful activism, the authorities seek to erase narratives that depart from state-sanctioned discourse. If convicted, Daria faces up to 20 years in prison, a penalty that, given the widely documented brutality of the Russian prison system, could effectively amount to a life sentence.

Daria has a long history in the defense of Indigenous Peoples’ rights. Following in her mother’s footsteps, she began to get involved in this field when she was a university student. For more than two decades, she worked tirelessly to empower Selkup and other Indigenous youth across Russia: she encouraged them to be proud of their cultural heritage, to understand and claim their rights, and to participate in the global Indigenous movement. For many young activists, Daria became a role model and mentor – an example of leadership rooted in the community.

In the last decade, Daria has established herself as one of Russia’s most recognized Indigenous representatives in global climate and biodiversity processes. As a technical expert on climate change, she held leadership roles in the International Indigenous Peoples’ Forum on Climate Change (IIPFCC) and, from 2023 served as one of its co-chairs. She also contributed actively to the Local Communities and Indigenous Peoples Platform (LCIPP) under the UNFCCC, the Convention on Biological Diversity (CBD), the Expert Mechanism on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (EMRIP), and the UN Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues (UNPFII).

The arrest of Daria Egereva signals a worrying trend: the use of Russia’s anti-extremism and anti-terrorism legislation to crack down on independent civil society, including the Indigenous movement.

Daria’s arrest signals a worrying trend: the use of anti-extremism and anti-terrorism legislation to stifle independent civil society.

Despite her extensive work internationally, Daria remained deeply connected to her own community. For years, she has been a strong advocate for the protection of Selkup culture and the implementation of Indigenous Peoples’ rights recognized in Russian law. Her efforts included promoting the use of the endangered Selkup language as the language of instruction in schools, supporting networks of Indigenous women entrepreneurs, and strengthening community involvement in decisions that affect their territory, culture and livelihoods.

Nothing in Daria’s activities suggests promotion of violence or subversive actions. On the contrary, she engaged constructively with authorities at the local level, and internationally she spoke in the very same UN mechanisms and processes in which the Russian government itself participates. The critical difference is that Daria represented an independent voice – one that challenged the idyllic image of Indigenous well-being promoted by Russian authorities and their proxies. Her arrest signals a worrying trend: the use of Russia’s anti-extremism and anti-terrorism legislation to crack down on independent civil society, including Indigenous movements.

When the only voice is that of the State

The December raids were not an isolated event, but part of an ever-escalating architecture of repression against Russia’s Indigenous Peoples. After a brief period of liberalization and democratization from the late 1980s through the early 2000s – during which an independent Indigenous movement flourished – authorities began tightening control in the 2010s. This shift accelerated dramatically after President Putin’s decision to invade Ukraine, a move that has had devastating consequences for Indigenous communities, many of which lost large proportions of their young men to frontline mobilization.

In this increasingly authoritarian climate, independent Indigenous activists face surveillance, legal harassment, and constant pressure to disengage from international human rights mechanisms. It is not coincidental that the 17 December raids followed shortly after Daria Egereva and several other Indigenous activists returned from the UN Climate COP in Brazil. The scale, timing, and coordination of the operation point to a deliberate effort to eliminate the last remaining spaces for autonomous Indigenous organizing. The result was immediate. Many activists are keeping a low profile or leaving the country. Those who remain are forced into an impossible choice: silence and compliance with state authorities, or criminalization.

The president of the Russian Association of Indigenous Peoples of the North (RAIPON) explicitly refused to show solidarity with the activists whose homes were raided and repeated the official line that insinuates their alleged involvement in extremist activities.

The president of RAIPON refused to show solidarity with the raided activists and repeated the official line that insinuates their alleged involvement in extremist activities.

As independent Indigenous voices are silenced, the Russian Association of Indigenous Peoples of the North (RAIPON), controlled by the Russian government, emerges as the dominant voice or, rather, the only officially permitted voice of the country’s Indigenous Peoples. The leadership of RAIPON, selected since 2013 under government supervision, maintains close ties with large extractive companies, including Nornickel, one of the world’s most polluting industrial conglomerates whose activities have long been contaminating Indigenous lands and waters, and destroying Indigenous livelihoods in Russia.

In line with the government, RAIPON never criticizes state policies or corporate abuses that affect Indigenous communities. In a statement released six weeks after the December raids, the president of RAIPON explicitly refused to show solidarity with the activists whose homes were raided and repeated the official line insinuating their alleged involvement in extremist activities, a move that shocked many Indigenous leaders internationally.

The final blow?

For those who saw their homes invaded, their devices seized and their loved ones detained, this was more than a legal operation – it was a message. As noted by Saami leader Valentina Sovkina, the Russian authorities have opted for particularly harsh methods to silence Indigenous rights activists who peacefully defend their ancestral environment, livelihoods and culture.

The December 17 raids might well be remembered as the moment when the independent Indigenous movement in Russia was brought to the brink of extinction. However, the courage of those who continue to speak out, whether from exile or under threat in their own country, reminds us that the struggle for the rights of Indigenous Peoples in Russia is not over. Their voices, though persecuted, remain a vital part of the global human rights community.

Due to the political context in the country, the authors prefer to remain anonymous.

The post Silencing Indigenous Voices in Russia: Raids on Defenders and the Eradication of Indigenous Activism appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

Rather than delivering genuine emissions reductions at source, these mechanisms enable major polluters to continue their activities while purchasing carbon credits generated elsewhere, particularly in forested and biodiverse regions. Under this logic, forests, rivers and territories inhabited by Indigenous Peoples are no longer treated as spaces of life, memory and self-determination, but are instead reframed as tradable climate assets within a global market.

This process entails a renewed form of commodification of nature, whereby the carbon stored in these territories is assigned an economic value, typically determined outside the communities themselves. International studies on Ecuador warn that, alongside programmes such as Reducing Emissions from Deforestation and Forest Degradation (REDD+) and results-based payment schemes, a range of mechanisms has taken shape that draws territories into systems of control, monitoring and carbon-related conditionalities, without addressing the underlying structural drivers of deforestation and the climate crisis.

A sophisticated form of dispossession

Although framed as opportunities for conservation or finance, carbon credits tend to generate unequal power relations, opaque contractual arrangements, restrictions on customary territorial use and new pressures on community governance. Ecuador’s rapid opening to these markets has unfolded in a context marked by regulatory gaps, limited public debate and clear state contradictions—such as the persistence of fossil fuel subsidies alongside the promotion of climate offsetting mechanisms. This tension reveals that the aim is not to transform the model that drives territorial destruction, but rather to render it compatible with emerging “green” business opportunities.

In recent years, the Ecuadorian government has been putting in place a series of instruments to position the country within carbon market and climate offsetting frameworks. Notably, this includes the creation of the Ecuador Zero Carbon Programme (PECC) through a ministerial agreement, designed as a voluntary scheme enabling companies and institutions to measure, reduce and offset their carbon footprint. In parallel, the State maintains an official system for certifying carbon footprint reductions and has reinforced its technical framework through specific regulations governing the programme’s implementation, as well as the establishment of a Strategic Committee on Carbon Footprint.

Appropriation now extends beyond land, oil, minerals and timber to encompass the capacity of forests to absorb carbon. This represents a more sophisticated form of dispossession, in which the language of climate action and finance masks new forms of intervention in these territories.

Carbon markets do not constitute a just response to climate change, but rather an extension of the same colonial and extractive model.

This trend is further reinforced by the promotion of REDD+ mechanisms and results-based payments in forest areas, alongside regulatory steps enabling the national authority to register mitigation projects that generate carbon credits under market-based mechanisms linked to Article 6 of the Paris Agreement. From a critical standpoint, these measures suggest that the State is not only advancing climate governance policies, but also reconfiguring its institutional framework to facilitate the country’s integration into a carbon market that turns pollution, conservation and territories into objects of certification, offsetting and trade.

From this perspective, carbon markets do not constitute a just response to climate change, but rather an extension of the same colonial and extractive model. Appropriation now extends beyond land, oil, minerals and timber to encompass the capacity of forests to absorb carbon. This represents a more sophisticated form of dispossession, in which the language of climate action and finance masks new forms of intervention in these territories. For this reason, the debate on carbon must move beyond the economic benefits it promises and instead centre on its impacts on the autonomy, self-determination, collective rights and territorial sovereignty of Indigenous Peoples, who have historically safeguarded these ecosystems.

Debating carbon markets from the territory

These global dynamics take on concrete form within territories, where their impacts and tensions become increasingly visible. Although the issue features prominently in international climate forums—such as the Conferences of the Parties (COPs) and other spaces linked to the Convention on Biological Diversity (CBD)—very little, if anything, is discussed at the territorial level, particularly with the communities that mitigate greenhouse gas emissions on the front lines. In response to this gap, in February 2026 representatives of grassroots communities from the Kichwa Nation of Pastaza convened a space for critical reflection on carbon markets in the city of Puyo, Pastaza Province, in the central Ecuadorian Amazon.

This international event was convened by Pastaza Kikin Kichwa Runakuna (PAKKIRU) and the Kichwa Institute of Biotechnology Sacha Supai (IQBSS), in coordination with the International Work Group for Indigenous Affairs (IWGIA) and Paz y Solidaridad, and brought together Indigenous leaders who shared experiences from Bolivia, Guatemala, Costa Rica and Colombia. Through this exchange of knowledge among Indigenous Peoples and organisations from Mesoamerica and South America, the initiative sought to strengthen capacities to build and exercise sovereignty, while resisting alignment with colonial agendas that impose policies in contexts shaped by unequal power relations.

Carbon markets are seen as a form of contemporary extractivism that threatens forests, where more than 25,000 Kichwa inhabitants sustain an ancestral system of control and stewardship over the Amazonian lowlands.

Carbon markets are seen as a form of contemporary extractivism that threatens forests, where more than 25,000 Kichwa inhabitants sustain an ancestral system of control and stewardship over the Amazonian lowlands.

Among the key premises emerging from the meeting—which brought together more than 80 Indigenous leaders from across the territories—participants concluded that carbon markets constitute capitalist and hegemonic strategies that undermine territories and Indigenous ways of life. In the case of Ecuador, carbon markets are seen as a form of contemporary extractivism that threatens forests, where more than 25,000 Kichwa inhabitants sustain a long-standing, ancestral system of control and stewardship over the Amazonian lowlands. This perspective is politically and ideologically grounded in the philosophy of Sumak Kawsay and its four pillars: Sumak Ayllu [harmonious community life], Sumak Allpamma [balanced relationship with the land], Sumak Mirachina [collective flourishing] and Sacha Runa Yachay [forest-based knowledge].

This position brings into focus at least three central tensions: the struggle over territorial control, the imposition of market logics on Indigenous ways of life, and the persistence of power asymmetries in climate governance. Convened as a space for reflection to critically examine carbon markets and other forms of climate finance affecting territories, the meeting underscored the central role of Indigenous Peoples and organisations in strengthening and sustaining autonomous territorial agendas.

Indigenous voices

In Ecuador, agendas around carbon markets are being shaped through participatory processes grounded in ancestral knowledge and the philosophy of Sumak Kawsay. The Yanapak Kuraka (Vice-President) of the Kichwa Nation of Pastaza, Pashpanzhu Vitery, reflected at the close of the workshop: “It is essential, as our ancestors have done, to create spaces for dialogue where we can inform ourselves and listen to technical experts, in order to develop positions against these extractivist policies that seek to control and manage the resources of Indigenous territories.”

Linking current carbon market proposals to historical cycles of dispossession, and highlighting the continuity of extractive patterns in new forms, Pashpanzhu Vitery concluded: “Members of our ayllukuna [Indigenous kinship-based communities] have long heard how our grandparents had to survive, struggle and sustain resistance in the face of successive waves of plunder. I recall many stories of exploitation—from rubber to mining and oil—and we hope that carbon markets will not become a new strategy of neo-colonisation.”

“While 70 per cent of the best-preserved lands are Indigenous territories, the resources generated for climate change mitigation do not reach Indigenous Peoples”, said Leónidas Iza.

“While 70 per cent of the best-preserved lands are Indigenous territories, the resources generated for climate change mitigation do not reach Indigenous Peoples”, said Leónidas Iza.

Among the invited speakers and high-level participants was Leonidas Iza, former president of CONAIE and current president of Ecuarunari, the Andean regional branch of the Indigenous Movement representing Kichwa peoples of the highlands. “Those behind carbon markets are the very same industries responsible for pollution; it therefore becomes a closed circuit controlled by the same companies,” the leader stated, echoing the concerns raised by participants.

Throughout his intervention, Leonidas Iza underscored the contradiction between the central role of Indigenous Peoples in conserving territories and their exclusion from the economic benefits generated by climate mechanisms: “While 70 per cent of the best-preserved lands are Indigenous territories, and grassroots communities are those who best understand the care and protection of nature, the resources generated for climate change mitigation do not reach Indigenous Peoples. We are now discussing how to access financial resources and losing sight of the broader horizon of our struggles. We are no longer debating our collective rights, such as self-determination, but rather market logics imposed by capital.”

Beyond carbon: challenges for territorial autonomy

After three days of debate, a set of strategic lines emerged which, rather than forming a closed agenda, reflect evolving horizons shaped from within the territories: the need to strengthen community dialogue, political advocacy, organisational coordination, self-sustained economies and Indigenous communication.

Firstly, participants underscored the importance of sustaining spaces for dialogue rooted in community assemblies as the primary arenas for deliberation and decision-making, incorporating culturally grounded tools that ensure understanding, participation and ownership at the territorial level. At the same time, the need to reinforce alliances and coordination processes across different scales was emphasised, in order to consolidate shared positions among peoples and organisations, as well as to expand networks of collaboration beyond national borders.

The challenge lies not only in accessing the economic benefits of climate mechanisms, but in defining the conditions under which these do not undermine self-determination.

The challenge lies not only in accessing the economic benefits of climate mechanisms, but in defining the conditions under which these do not undermine self-determination.

In the sphere of political advocacy, participants emphasised the urgency of expanding Indigenous Peoples’ participation in decision-making spaces, both nationally and internationally, in order to advance their own agendas and demand compliance with collective rights recognised in international instruments. At the same time, the importance of consolidating self-sustained economies rooted in territorial practices—such as chakras (traditional Indigenous agroforestry system), community-based tourism and ancestral medicine—was reaffirmed as a foundation for self-governance and effective autonomy, independent of conditional financing schemes.

Finally, the need to strengthen Indigenous communication systems was highlighted, enabling the articulation of networks across territories, the visibility of key issues, and the continuity of processes of analysis and decision-making within Indigenous organisations themselves. In this context, the challenge lies not only in accessing the economic benefits of climate mechanisms, but in defining the conditions under which these do not undermine the autonomy, self-determination and the distinct ways of life of Indigenous Peoples.

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Under these conditions, Indigenous women face heightened risks of gender-based violence, such as harassment, sexual violence and intimidation. However, survivors often face difficulties in accessing justice. They encounter discrimination, language barriers, limited legal support and a lack of information about their rights. As a result, many perpetrators are never held accountable, and Indigenous women are left without the support or remedies they need.

Violence against women in Asia

A tragic example occurred in 2025 in the Chittagong Hill Tracts of Bangladesh. An Indigenous schoolgirl was gang raped while returning home from her classes in the Guimara area. When communities protested to demand justice, three Indigenous youths were shot and killed by the army, and four others were injured. After the shooting, Indigenous-owned shops were looted and burned, and nearby homes were damaged. This incident shows the serious risks communities face even when they demand justice peacefully. Violence discourages survivors, and intimidation discourages their communities from demanding accountability.

In my own community in Okinawa, Japan, we live with the burden of a strong United States military presence. Over the years, many women, from young children to elderly women, have experienced sexual violence linked to military personnel. Some victims have even been murdered after being assaulted. Many rape cases are not prosecuted, and some victims withdraw their complaints because seeking justice can be extremely difficult.

In other countries in the region, armed conflicts in Cambodia, Myanmar and Thailand also expose Indigenous women to high levels of domestic violence, rape and human trafficking. These risks are worsened by poverty and limited access to education. Another example comes from land struggles in Indonesia: Indigenous Batak women have faced harassment and violence while resisting land grabbing by a pulp and paper company operating on their ancestral territory.

The role governments must play

To address these challenges, governments must strengthen legal and institutional systems that protect the rights of Indigenous women. Justice systems must be accessible and culturally appropriate for communities. Recognizing multiple legal systems, including Indigenous justice mechanisms, can help ensure that Indigenous women are able to seek justice through processes that respect their cultures, while upholding national and international human rights standards.

Governments must also support and empower Indigenous women’s organizations so they can participate in legal processes and advocate for their communities. Preventing gender-based violence must be a priority. Governments need to enforce stronger laws and policies to protect Indigenous women and girls, especially in areas affected by militarization and resource extraction. Survivors must have access to safe spaces, healthcare, mental health services and legal assistance so they can report violence safely and pursue justice.

Accountability is also essential. Governments, corporations and other actors operating in Indigenous territories must be held responsible for human rights violations. Indigenous women who defend their lands and communities often face threats, harassment and violence. Authorities must adopt a zero-tolerance approach to attacks against Indigenous women human rights defenders. Violations must be investigated, perpetrators prosecuted and victims provided with fair and culturally appropriate reparations.

Notes to improve access to justice

In addition to justice, Indigenous women must have access to meaningful reparations. These should address both economic and social harms, including compensation for lost livelihoods, support for healthcare and education and, where possible, the restitution of lands and resources. Supporting Indigenous women’s organizations and community initiatives is also essential, because Indigenous women play a central role in protecting their communities, cultures and environments.

It is necessary to understand that achieving justice requires addressing the root causes of violence and marginalization. Governments must recognize the rights of Indigenous Peoples to their lands, territories and natural resources, and ensure that development projects respect the principle of Free, Prior and Informed Consent.

Finally, governments must understand that Indigenous women must also be included in decision-making at all levels, from local governance to national policy discussions. Their leadership and knowledge are essential to create policies that truly reflect the needs and experiences of Indigenous communities.

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For Indigenous Samburu, Borana, Rendille, Ogiek, Turkana, Elmolo, Pokot, and Sengwer women –many living hundreds of kilometers from courts, police posts, or health facilities– justice is rarely found in formal institutions. Instead, it is often negotiated under a tree, where elders prioritize clan harmony over a survivor’s dignity, healing, or rights. In these informal systems, women’s testimonies are minimized, violence is normalized, and perpetrators walk free. For Indigenous women and girls, silence is not a choice: it is enforced.

When Violence Meets Silence

In many pastoralist communities, survivors of rape or sexual abuse are still forced into so-called “compensation marriages”, where a girl is handed to the perpetrator’s family as settlement. Others are pressured to withdraw cases in the name of family honor or clan unity. Reporting violence is further complicated by geography: the nearest police station may be 70 to 120 kilometers away, with no transport, no fuel, and no guarantee of being heard. At times, local authorities intervene to suppress reporting, arguing that formal justice “destroys families”. What is destroyed instead is trust, safety, and the futures of girls.

To confront this reality, the Samburu Women Trust (SWT) established a Women’s Digital Centre, a modest but transformative space equipped with computers, internet access, phones, and documentation tools. For the first time in their lives, women and girls in remote villages can report cases promptly, document violations, and produce evidence required by the justice system without travelling for days. The center has become a lifeline for survivors trapped in cycles of violence.

The road to justice remains long and fragile. Survivors often walk for days across difficult terrain, carrying the trauma they have endured and facing intimidation from the perpetrators’ families.

The road to justice is long and fragile. Survivors walk for days, carrying the trauma they have endured and the intimidation of the perpetrators’ families.

SWT also created the Naramat Indigenous Women Arboretum, a sacred healing space rooted in land, culture, and collective care. Under the shade of indigenous trees, women gather for trauma healing, reflection, and solidarity. Here, stories once whispered in fear are spoken aloud with courage and the support of other women who have suffered similar experiences.

Still, the path to justice remains long and fragile. Survivors often walk for days through harsh terrain, carrying trauma and facing intimidation from perpetrators’ families. By the time they reach a police post, evidence may be compromised, files may disappear, and cases collapse. It is important to note that these are not isolated stories: they are the daily realities of Indigenous women across Kenya.

Bringing Justice Closer to the Villages

For over a decade, the Samburu Women Trust and the Indigenous Women Council (IWC) have walked alongside women and girls, crossing dry riverbeds, hills, and dusty roads, to close a justice gap that continues to widen. Our work is not only about awareness; it is about transforming power, restoring confidence in institutions, and ensuring women can speak without fear. Our approach is grounded in five interconnected pillars:

1. Community Legal Empowerment. We train Indigenous women paralegals who accompany survivors through every step of the justice process: reporting cases, understanding their rights, gathering evidence, and navigating police and court systems. As trusted daughters of their communities, these paralegals make justice more accessible and culturally grounded.

2. Challenging Harmful Elders’ Justice Systems. We engage male elders in order to confront mediation practices that treat rape or sexual abuse as negotiable family matters resolved through the transfer of livestock. Through sustained dialogue and training, more elders are now referring criminal cases to the formal authorities.

3. Safe Spaces for Girls. Under acacia trees and in village circles, SWT organizes girls’ leadership forums where girls learn about bodily autonomy, self-confidence, and their right to say no to female genital mutilation and forced marriage. These spaces nurture informed and courageous girls who know their rights.

4. Survivor-Centered Response. We collaborate with health facilities, police, local chiefs, and gender desks to ensure survivors receive medical care, psychosocial support, and legal follow-up. Our team accompanies girls from filing police statements to standing before magistrates, advocating for timely and child-sensitive justice.

5. National and Global Advocacy. Through the Indigenous Women Council, we elevate village realities to national, regional, and international platforms, advocating for gender-responsive justice systems, mobile courts, accountable policing, and recognition of Indigenous land and resource rights that shape women’s safety.

The Long Journey toward Justice

A mother from Narasha village told us sadly, “My daughter’s justice is 75 kilometers away.”Her words capture a painful truth: justice is shaped by geography, poverty, gender, power, and survival. Through sustained community engagement and survivor accompaniment, Samburu Women Trust has reopened stalled investigations, prevented forced marriages, supported girls through trials, and secured convictions in cases once silenced. Each case sets a precedent. Each voice breaks the silence for many others.

Change is emerging. Elders are increasingly referring cases to the police. Girls are refusing female genital mutilation and reporting threats. Women are organizing and demanding accountability. Chiefs and police officers are becoming more responsive as awareness grows. But the journey is far from over. Access to justice for Indigenous women and girls requires investment in mobile courts, functioning police posts, safe shelters, and culturally responsive, gender-sensitive services. Community actors, paralegals, women leaders, and traditional authorities must be recognized as equal partners.

Most importantly, Indigenous women and girls must remain at the center of all solutions. They are not only survivors; they are leaders, advocates, and architects of a more just future. For us at Samburu Women Trust and Indigenous Women Council, this work is more than advocacy – it is a lifelong commitment. We carry their stories. We push their cases. We stand with those who survive. And, in the territories, we walk long distances so that justice can finally reach the last woman in the last village.

The post Voices from remote villages in Kenya: access to justice for Indigenous women and girls appeared first on Debates Indígenas.

The so-called “war on drugs” is a security strategy declared in 2006 by then-President Felipe Calderón Hinojosa, aimed at attacking and weakening drug cartels through the use of the Armed Forces. However, this strategy has only increased the criminalisation and imprisonment of Indigenous people and represents a continuation of the colonial project through territorial dispossession, the disruption of communities, and systematic violence against marginalised populations. This process has forcibly displaced Indigenous people from their communities, relocating them to distant prisons, where they experience both isolation and physical and symbolic violence.

Indigenous women in detention face specific forms of intersectional violence before, during, and after their incarceration. Although only 5 per cent of the 13,985 women held in state and federal prisons have been officially identified as Indigenous, this is widely considered an undercount, as many Indigenous women are not recognised as such because they no longer speak their languages. According to the National Chamber of Human Rights, among the women whose ethnic affiliation has been recorded, 43 per cent were detained for drug-related offences, euphemistically known as “crimes against health.”

Their incarceration allows the Mexican State to present statistics showing that it is “doing something” against drug trafficking, without damaging the interests of organised crime networks. In fact, imprisoning Indigenous women involved in small-scale drug dealing or the cultivation of natural drugs has not contributed to reducing the impacts of drug trafficking networks. Rather, it leaves their children vulnerable, perpetuating cycles of cultural uprooting and youth recruitment into organized crime groups.

The Imposition of Colonial Law

Over seventeen years of work in carceral spaces, supporting Indigenous women in the writing of their life stories, we have documented that before, during, and after their detention, Indigenous women have suffered racist violence ranging from harassment and discrimination, separation from their children, physical torture, and sexual violence. The occupation of indigenous lands through the construction of prison complexes has been accompanied by the domination of their bodies through police violence.

Judicial racism operates exogenously (outside the judicial institutions) by concentrating militarisation and security strategies in poor, racialised regions inhabited by Indigenous peoples. At the same time, endogenously,  we mean within the justice system that reproduces racist and patriarchal prejudices in its treatment of Indigenous women, who often lack translators and are unaware of their right to a public defender. Moreover, the enforcement of criminal justice in Indigenous territories represents the imposition of colonial law over Indigenous jurisdictions, in violation of the Indigenous and Tribal Peoples Convention, ILO Convention 169, and the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples.

Historically, the imprisonment of Indigenous men and women represents a continuation of colonial practices that impose the law of the colonizer in place of Indigenous forms of justice. It is not only problem of the overrepresentation of poor, racialised bodies in prisons, but the imposition of a punitive system that does not respond to the traditional forms of conflict resolution historically developed by the Indigenous Peoples of Mexico. In this way, Indigenous women imprisoned at the Federal Social Rehabilitation Centre (Cefereso 16), Mexico’s largest high-security women’s prison, have been displaced from their territories and condemned by a colonial justice system that has systematically violated their rights.

Michapa: Rehabilitation Centre or Colonial Enclave?

Over the Indigenous and peasant territory of Michapa rises the Federal Social Rehabilitation Centre No. 16: Mexico’s first and only high-security women’s prison. The centre was built by Grupo Inbursa, owned by the magnate Carlos Slim, under a public-private partnership scheme, and, like many prisons in Mexico, it was established on the lands of Indigenous Peoples. Today, the descendants of the Tlahuica people are small-scale farmers cultivating subsistence crops and tropical fruits on ejido (collectively owned) and communal lands. On these lands, vegetation was cleared to construct a vast prison complex stretching for over a kilometre of frontage, intruding upon the landscape along the isolated road from Amacuzac to Michapa.

The prison’s punitive economy commodifies confinement: the private sector is responsible for designing, building, equipping, and maintaining the facility, while the State, as the service’s client, pays for its full capacity—2,528 cells—whether occupied or not. At the same time, a prison-based textile maquiladora or sweatshop has been established, using cheap labour without employment benefits and using infrastructure subsidised by the State. Workers are paid 250 pesos per week (approximately USD 14.57) through an internal points system redeemable in prison stores, reminiscent of the colonial “tiendas de raya” or “company stores” on the exploitative haciendas during the dictatorship of Porfirio Díaz (1876–1911).

To enter Michapa is to traverse a territory of oppression. Before arrival, mobile signals are lost, and temperatures of over 40°C turn access into an exercise in endurance. A succession of more than twenty checkpoints form part of a strict bureaucratic-punitive labyrinth, where extreme control functions as punishment for those attempting to enter. Symbolic violence is manifested in the monochromatic, mechanical, and arid architecture, where carefully controlled vegetation greets external visitors, while the areas inhabited by women deprived of liberty contain only synthetic grass that simulates life—as if the denial of life were part of the punishment. This territory constitutes the daily reality for the prison population.

Cell Block 6.1

The conditions of torture, isolation, and lack of medical care experienced by inmates have been identified as primary factors contributing to the deterioration of their mental health. These conditions have reached an unsustainable point, pushing the emotional balance of the women to the extreme and resulting in a distressing and alarming number of suicides: 20 cases recorded in the last two years, up to January 2026. Specifically, the transfers of inmates from other detention centres since 2022 have been cited as a significant factor underlying this wave of suicides, a concern also noted by the National Human Rights Commission and the Federal Institute of Public Defence.

Among the population who have been transferred are Indigenous women from various regions: Mayas from Quintana Roo; Otomís from the States of Mexico and Hidalgo; Nahuas from Guerrero, Morelos, and Puebla; Mixtecas and Chatinas from Oaxaca; Yaquis from Sonora; Wirrarikas from Zacatecas; and one Afro-Guerrerense woman. Following the 2020 detention of Afro-Amuzga human rights activist Kenya Hernández, the Indigenous women of Michapa, guided by her leadership, requested a special Cell block where they could live together and preserve their cultural practices. As a result, Cell Block 6.1 became a multi-ethnic community comprising 18 Indigenous women, detained for federal offences ranging from theft and participation in organised crime to minor offences such as fraud or the falsification of documents.

The continuum of violences has marked their lives since childhood now also includes the violence of the colonial State that uses the prison as a form of control and dehumanization.

The continuum of violences has marked their lives since childhood now also includes the violence of the colonial State that uses the prison as a form of control and dehumanization.

As most of the women were accustomed to living in close contact with nature, the prison space itself constitutes a form of violence: they are confined in a grey concrete cell block. It is a circular structure, with cells arranged around a central space where all activities take place, from meals and training sessions to personal hygiene in the showers. The entire Cell block is completely covered in concrete, leaving the Indigenous women without even a single patch of earth to step on. Something as elemental as feeling the soil beneath one’s feet is deeply longed for by these women, who dream of and write about the land, rivers, trees, and all the natural surroundings of their home communities.

Alongside the isolation from their communities, punitive measures such as total solitary confinement continue to be used as forms of control over the prison population. During the three years we worked in this detention centre, we witnessed one case in which a resident of Cell Block 6.1 was beaten, bound by hands and feet, and held in isolation as punishment for her “misconduct.” The continuum of violence that has marked their lives since childhood now includes the legitimised violences of a colonial State, which uses the prison as a means of control, dispossession, and dehumanisation.

Writing as Resistance: Totoltin and Dissenting Voices

In the face of this colonial system of control, the multi-ethnic community has developed its own strategies of collective resistance, creating networks of care. Through the space opened by collective reflection in the Reborn in Writing workshop, the women of Cell Block 6.1 were able to share their stories, get to know one another, and reflect each other’s experiences, engaging in processes of individual and collective healing through writing and the dignification of their memories.

The Hermanas en la Sombra Editorial Collective entered Michapa in 2023 to deliver this workshop across several cell blocks, based on the Identity Writing methodology, which we have developed over seventeen years of work in carceral spaces and systematised in Reborn in Writing: Manual for Feminist Intervention in Spaces of Violence. This methodology represents an exercise in reconstructing subjectivity, enabling women to recover their own voice and denounce structural logics of oppression, affirming themselves as individuals with history, memory, and agency. Engaging with writing also serves as a political tool, allowing Indigenous women to challenge the ways they are represented in official narratives, which reduce them to mere numbers and offences.

Little by little, memories were released through writing, many of them surrounded by violence and oppression, both in their life trajectories and in the remembered histories of their ancestors and their communities.

Memories were released through writing, many of them surrounded by violence, both in their own lives and in the remembered histories of their ancestors and their communities.

Through the written word, the women of Cell Block 6.1 explored, week by week, the themes of the manual: racism, classism, androcentrism, sorority, and misogyny; the myths of romantic love; life stories and the body; autonomy; and transformative and healing writing. These processes of dialogue and writing were accompanied by songs, rituals, readings, and exercises of introspection and reconnection with themselves. In each session, we reflected collectively on life experiences, listening to and recognized ourselves in each other. Gradually, memories were released through writing, many of them shaped by violence and oppression, both in their own life trajectories and in the histories of their ancestors and communities.

In the book we published Totoltin: Palomas. Writings by Indigenous Women Prisoners in Michapa (2025), Nido recalls her childhood in the Sierra of Sonora and relives the displacement she experienced with her Yaqui family in order to access public education: “The day came to start primary school. I remember the first day well; it was enough to present myself in the hand-embroidered outfit my mother had made me for them to laugh and say I was Indigenous and that the city girls did not understand my language. Gradually, hatred took hold of me, and to this day I drag that chain. Many times they call me ‘Indian,’ ‘shitty Indigenous,’ or sometimes ‘the idiot.’”

Authors—Giving Birth to Their Stories and Pain

After the conclusion of the writing workshop, the texts were digitised, marking the start of a second phase aimed at materialising these stories in the book Totoltin: Palomas. Writings by Indigenous Women Prisoners in Michapa. The texts were selected and edited by the authors themselves. In addition, they handcrafted the endpapers, learned bookbinding techniques, and poured their hearts into every stage of the process. As several of the 18 participants spoke their mother tongues—mainly Nahuatl, Chatino, Maya, and Zapotec—but were unable to write them, most of the texts were written in Spanish. Some explained that they no longer spoke their languages because racism and discrimination had forced them to forget. In her text “I Grew Up”, Lucía Ramírez, a Nahua woman from Tatahuicapan de Juárez, recounts the hardships and deprivations of her childhood:

Nej ni guella ken inon pelotzit zit cuak illek qui mel cajtek (I grew up like little puppies abandoned by their mother),
noselti (alone), nictemo ken nia ni isatotik (trying to figure out how to survive).
Ne niteki pano nochipa aun quej poins ni ciahuia pues alla ni llole catca (I worked, always getting very tired because I was still so small).

In the final sessions, the women reflected on the transformative process they had experienced and its impact during the workshop. Leticia Pérez, a Nahua woman from Puebla, expressed: “I see the book as something we all gave birth to together, something we have been working on for months and that is now going to be released—yes, it’s going to come out, comrades! It represents our stories, but also what we have suffered. I don’t know how you will see it, but for me, we all gave birth to it together.” The collective birth metaphor shared by “Mamá Lety” illustrates how writing strengthens community bonds and connection. By recognising themselves as authors—giving birth to their stories and pain, reframed, collectivised, and materialised in the book-object, they construct memories narrated in their own words, imbued with poetic, political, and emotional power.

It is within the prison, a hostile space designed for control, that writing emerges as a symbolic womb from which resistance and community are produced and “born.” Writing allows the imagination of forms of subjectivity not defined by the punitive logic of the State, but by the capacity to create, narrate oneself, resist, and reaffirm oneself as an individual with history, memory, and agency. Through it, the authors of Totoltin share collective memories portraying the conditions of violence, exclusion, oppression, and dispossession faced by Indigenous women in twenty-first-century Mexico.

Final Reflections

Prisons continue to function as instruments of punishment, control, and territorial dispossession of Original Peoples across the Americas. In this sense, Totoltin: Doves. Writings by Indigenous Women Prisoners in Michapa can be considered part of the archives of Indigenous resistance, and specifically of Indigenous women. The continuity of the colonial project in the Americas has been denounced through various textual strategies, ranging from political manifestos to songs, chronicles, and poetry. The silence of complicity has been broken, and nothing can silence these voices.

These denunciations also include testimonies of the diverse forms of resistance that women have developed to defend life and build community, even in contexts where the violences of colonial States isolate them through laws that justify the seizure, displacement, and dispossession of their territories. We hope that this text echoes their call to tear down the walls of these colonial enclaves, disguised as Social Rehabilitation Centres. As Yanetzin Marcelo describes in the poem that gives the book its title, it is a call to continue resisting collectively:

Dear Doves,
Build your nest and groom yourselves
Protect yourselves alone and in a flock
You are strength, will, courage, and life
Resist dying within those cells
Write, love, sing, and dance
And always stay in the air

Totometzinti
Xmotlahpialikan
Xmonapalokan
Nehuame maka xmikan
Xkelnamikan nimochikawalis
Xpatlanikan, xmititikan, xmotlasohtlakan
Nochipa xnemikan

(Yanetzin Marcelo, Poem Palomares–Totohmetsinti)

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This daily reality unfolds where traditional gender roles intersect with the unique circumstances of pastoralist life. Pastoralist communities care for vast rangelands and sustain food systems built on generations of knowledge about livestock, mobility, and communal land use. Their contributions to food security and the environment are significant, albeit under-documented, yet opportunities to participate fully in economic and political life are often limited.

For women in these communities, the challenges are even greater: expectations around household and family responsibilities, limited access to education, remote locations, and minimal representation in decision-making all make it harder to have their voices heard. Together, these factors create a gap in access to justice that is shaped by culture and tradition as well as by structural obstacles.

External Pressures and Land Insecurity

Although it might not seem relevant, distance is a major barrier, as courts and administrative offices are far from rural pastoralist communities and costly to access. Legal systems are complex, operate in unfamiliar languages, and exclude women with limited literacy. Even when these barriers are overcome, patriarchal norms restrict women’s ability to assert claims. Harmful practices including early and forced marriage, widow disinheritance, and gender-based violence further limit access to justice. While dispute resolution prioritises social harmony, it often leaves women vulnerable and reinforces existing power imbalances rather than providing impartial protection.

These barriers are compounded by external pressures. Climate change, expanding conservation areas, commercial agriculture, and infrastructure development increasingly encroach on pastoralist grazing lands. As competition over land intensifies, disputes multiply. Despite their central role in managing households, food security, and livestock-related labour, women are rarely consulted (or compensated) in negotiations when land is lost. Their exclusion from land governance deepens economic insecurity and weakens their ability to claim their rights, reinforcing cycles of vulnerability.

Rights enshrined in global instruments or national laws have little meaning if women do not understand them, have limited access to them, or cannot safely exercise them in their own communities.

Rights enshrined in global instruments or national laws have little meaning if women do not understand them or cannot safely exercise them in their own communities.

For pastoralist women themselves, justice is understood far more broadly than legal redress alone. It is about being respected within the family, listened to by elders, and recognised by state authorities regardless of gender, ethnicity, literacy, or mobility. For them, justice means protection from violence, secure access to land and livestock, and the ability to participate in decisions that shape community futures. It also means accountability and knowing that harm will not be dismissed as a private matter or absorbed quietly in the name of tradition.

International norms support this vision. The UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples affirms Indigenous Peoples’ rights to self-determination, land, and participation in decision-making, and explicitly recognises Indigenous women’s rights to equality and freedom from violence and discrimination. Yet the distance between international commitments and lived reality remains vast. Rights enshrined in global instruments or national laws have little meaning if women do not understand them, have limited access to them, or cannot safely exercise them in their own communities.

Grassroots Holistic Solutions: Pastoral Women’s Council

Bridging the justice gap requires approaches that are culturally grounded, locally led, gender-balanced, and attentive to the everyday realities of pastoralist life. This is where grassroots organisations play a critical role. The Pastoral Women’s Council (PWC) is an organisation representing more than 8,000 pastoralist women in northern Tanzania that demonstrates how access to justice can be strengthened from the ground up. Rather than treating women as passive beneficiaries, PWC operates on the premise that pastoralist women are rights-holders and agents of change. This initiative for access to justice, with a gender equity approach aimed at Indigenous Peoples, promotes:

Developing Voice and Agency: Through locally rooted dialogue and leadership training, women gain the confidence and skills to speak publicly, negotiate within households, and engage traditional leaders and government officials. This agency is evident in community-based action on land rights, where women facing displacement from tourism-related investments have helped shape more equitable outcomes through direct participation in multi-stakeholder dialogue. The women leaders have successfully challenged land dispossession, asserted inheritance rights, and intervened in cases of domestic violence, contributing to shifts in community perceptions about who has the authority to speak and to decide.

Leadership and Decision-Making: When women occupy decision-making positions, locally or nationally, issues affecting women and families are more likely to be raised, debated, and addressed. PWC’s work becomes particularly visible when women enter formal leadership spaces. Fifteen years ago, only three pastoralist women were elected as Village Chairs. Now that number is 18, with a further 1,400 such pastoralist women in decision making positions in village governing bodies. Alongside individual achievement, this increase in leadership equity signals a transformation in social norms and political inclusion.

Gender-Based Violence Prevention and Norms Change: Addressing gender-based violence requires both prevention and comprehensive responses. PWC works with women and men to challenge harmful norms that normalise abuse, while also strengthening referral pathways to health, legal, and protection services. Engaging men as allies is a deliberate strategy, recognising that lasting change depends on transforming collective attitudes, not simply supporting individual survivors.

Legal Literacy and Paralegal Support: Many pastoralist women are unaware of the rights afforded to them by law or how these intersect with customary practices. PWC’s Women’s Rights and Leadership Forums (WRLFs) translate legal concepts into local languages and real-life scenarios, enabling women to understand land laws, marriage regulations, and protections against gender-based violence. Knowledge thus becomes a tool of empowerment, reducing reliance on male intermediaries and increasing women’s confidence in asserting their claims. To further decentralise access to justice, PWC trains community-based paralegals, often women from the communities themselves, who provide basic legal guidance, mediate disputes, and connect survivors of violence to formal institutions. In areas where lawyers and courts are distant, these paralegals serve as trusted entry points into the justice system. Their presence helps demystify legal processes and ensures that women are not navigating them alone.

Land Rights and Economic Empowerment: Land and economic security are essential to women’s access to justice. Without secure land rights, women’s bargaining power remains limited. PWC thus supports marginalised women to obtain Certificates of Customary Rights of Occupancy, formalising land claims while addressing gender-based exclusion. Via Village Community Banks (VICOBA), women build savings, access loans, and develop financial literacy, later progressing to formal microfinance through partners such as Engishon Microfinance Ltd. Economic independence thus reduces vulnerability to exploitation and strengthens women’s capacity to challenge injustice.

Justice as Collective Transformation

By way of example, in 2025, Vaileth Elias and Sarah Oltetia were elected as councillors, roles traditionally dominated by men. In a recent PWC “Local to Local Dialog” training session, Vaileth shared her experience: “I received training at a very early stage [in my leadership journey] and have seen great benefits from it. This gave me the courage to run for leadership alongside four men. It was a tense time and even the men seemed confused. Eventually, I was announced the winner by a large margin.”  This gaining of confidence and agency was confirmed by Sarah: “I now know how to call a meeting, whom to invite, and how to train people so that they clearly understand what I am communicating”. She continued, “Where I am today, serving as a Councillor, is truly because of the education I received through PWC.”

Despite their proven impact and scalable models, organisations such as Pastoral Women’s Council face significant structural barriers, particularly in mobilising financial and technical resources. Global climate, conservation, and land-rights funding rarely reaches Indigenous and local women-led organisations directly, undermining sustainability and limiting institutional growth. If equitable access to justice for Indigenous pastoralist women is a genuine priority, funding architectures must change. Direct, long-term, gender-responsive financing is not charity: it is a strategic investment in effective, sustainable, locally legitimate justice systems.

In conclusion, the experience of pastoralist women in Tanzania challenges narrow definitions of justice. Laws and courts matter but they are insufficient without cultural legitimacy, economic security, and women’s leadership. Justice emerges when women can speak, communities recognise their authority, and institutions respond to lived realities. The work of PWC, and the solidarity expressed by its members and allies, demonstrates that integrated approaches, combining legal literacy, leadership development, economic empowerment, and community advocacy, can address the root causes of injustice. Equitable access to justice is ultimately about power: who holds it, who shares it, and who can claim it.

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For women, this alienation has gender-specific consequences. Traditionally, Indigenous women have enjoyed a relatively high status due to their role in production, ecological knowledge, and family economy, which are built on CPRs. Indigenous women of North-East India have thus participated in decision-making and are economically active agents as long as land is managed by the community. When these systems are disrupted through land alienation, development-induced displacement, legal assimilation with the dominant society, and market interventions, Indigenous women experience a disproportionate loss of status, agency, and access to justice.

Justice for Indigenous women must, therefore be located at the intersection of collective rights, livelihood security, gendered power relations, and self-determination. The loss of CPRs, the imposition of individualised legal regimes, and development-induced displacement have disproportionately undermined Indigenous women’s rights. A re-conceptualisation of the notion of justice is therefore necessary that prioritises sustenance-based rights, gender-sensitive reforms of customary laws, and meaningful recognition of Indigenous legal systems.

Collective Rights and the Question of Justice

The Indian debate on whether communities should be recognised as “tribal” or “Indigenous” is not merely semantic.  The term “tribe”, as used in the Indian constitution, refers to a community with shared culture and social organisation. It thus situates these communities within a welfare and development paradigm, while not acknowledging their historical prior occupancy. The term “Indigenous,” on the other hand, is grounded in international law and emphasises original habitation, self-determination, collective rights, and sovereignty over land, forests, and natural resources. This term refers to a rights-based political identity tied to historical continuity.

The Indian State, however, does not recognise any community as Indigenous; it classifies them all under the caterory of “tribal”. While “tribal” recognition limits justice to redistributive and compensatory measures, “Indigenous” recognition extends it to historical, territorial, and restorative justice. Indigenous Peoples perceive themselves as distinct “peoples” possessing collective rights rooted in their historical, cultural, spiritual, and territorial relationships. Their rights are not limited to individual entitlements but include collective rights over land, resources, and governance systems. These collective rights are essential for maintaining intergenerational continuity of culture, law, and livelihood.

However, the imposition of private or individual property regimes through colonial and postcolonial legal frameworks and capitalist notions of development has undermined the collective land rights of tribal and Indigenous communities. The legal system in India does not recognise CPR as the Indigenous Peoples’ sustenance. The denial of their right over CPR leads to land alienation and impoverishment. Such a framework is particularly ill-suited to Indigenous societies that have traditionally held and managed land and other resources collectively. Justice in this context means recognition of Indigenous Peoples’ collective rights and their authority over sustenance systems.

Gender Implications, Customary Law and Formal Law

Indigenous communities in Northeast India have traditionally governed themselves through customary laws that prioritised equitable distribution, sustainable management of resources, and intergenerational equity. Women enjoyed a relatively high (although not equal) status because of their role in managing the family economy. However, the imposition of individual property has converted community land into state property and recognised ownership largely through individual pattas (legal individual ownership land document), usually vested in “male heads of households”. As CPRs are alienated, Indigenous women increasingly lose access to the economic and social spaces that sustained their status.

This legal shift transfers power from the community to a male elite and marginalises women from decision-making. The State and market institutions further intensify this process by granting loans, subsidies, and benefits only to individual landowners, reinforcing male control and accelerating class formation within the communities. As a result, women lose their economic roles, social autonomy, and authority, leading many to even internalise ideologies of female subordination. The encounter between customary and formal law is thus not a neutral transition but an unequal process that deepens gender injustice. 

While externally imposed models of development often deepen gendered inequalities, meaningful gender justice is more likely to emerge when customary institutions themselves are reformed in ways that protect women’s rights.

Gender justice is more likely to emerge when customary institutions themselves are reformed in ways that protect women’s rights.

Indications show that modernisation without safeguards or preparation strengthens male domination by introducing individual land ownership and intensifying male control over resources. It also results in class formation in their traditionally egalitarian societies. For example, among the matrilineal Garo of Meghalaya, financial schemes for State-supported rubber plantations required individual land titles in the name of male heads of households. This affected community ownership since a few powerful individuals monopolised land and it weakened women’s role.

There are also instances that benefit women and arise from  customary systems themselves. The reforms proposed by the Paite Tribal Council to recognise daughters’ inheritance rights demonstrate the possibility of aligning tradition with gender justice. Taken together, these experiences underscore that while externally imposed models of development often deepen gendered inequalities, meaningful gender justice is more likely to emerge when customary institutions themselves are reformed in ways that protect women’s rights.

Development, Displacement, and the Feminisation of Injustice

Development-induced displacement constitutes one of the gravest barriers to justice for Indigenous Peoples in general and Indigenous women and girls in particular. Dams, mining, and industrial expansion have primarily targeted the CPRs that form the backbone of Indigenous livelihoods. Large-scale acquisition of tribal land for development projects has resulted in widespread impoverishment.

In this regard, a significantly higher proportion of Indigenous displaced persons become landless compared to non-indigenous groups. Furthermore, territorial encroachment has devastating social consequences for Indigenous Peoples, such as marginalisation, destitution, and loss of identity and culture. In India, while around 25 percent of displaced cultivators become landless after displacement, this figure exceeds 50 percent among Indigenous and Dalit displaced persons.

Displacement thus goes beyond reproducing pre-existing inequalities; it actively feminises injustice by dismantling the material, social, and cultural bases that sustain Indigenous women’s dignity and rights.

Displacement feminises injustice by dismantling the material, social, and cultural bases that sustain Indigenous women’s dignity and rights.  

While displacement impoverishes entire communities, its consequences are markedly gendered. Displacement erodes not only women’s material security but also their social status. The loss of CPRs deprives women of their status as economic contributors and social actors, thus reducing many to unpaid domestic roles and intensifying their dependence on men. Alongside this, women internalise the ideology of subordination and, as livelihoods collapse, they are often pushed into low-paid, insecure work.

For their part, girls are often withdrawn from school to contribute to household survival, perpetuating cycles of poverty and female exclusion. Justice mechanisms rarely account for these impacts because they focus narrowly on individual compensation rather than collective and social loss. Development-induced displacement thus goes beyond reproducing pre-existing inequalities; it actively feminises injustice by dismantling the material, social, and cultural bases that sustain Indigenous women’s dignity and rights.

Towards Justice for Indigenous Women

Ensuring access to justice for Indigenous women and girls in Northeast India requires a fundamental reorientation of legal and policy frameworks. First, Indigeneity must be defined in terms of sustenance rather than chronology. The protection of Indigenous rights  depends on recognising CPRs as the foundation of Indigenous culture. Second, customary laws must be accorded due recognition and interpreted to address gender inequity. While the uncritical revival of tradition risks reinforcing the patriarchy, reform grounded in Indigenous values of equity, sustainability, and community welfare can strengthen women’s rights.

Third, access to justice must be expanded beyond courts to include culturally appropriate dispute resolution mechanisms, legal literacy, and participatory governance structures that ensure women’s representation. Modernisation of their customary law would be a step in this direction. Finally, justice for Indigenous women must acknowledge their agency. Despite structural constraints, Indigenous women remain central to ecological knowledge, resource management, and community resilience. Recognising and strengthening this agency is essential not only for gender justice but also for sustainable development and democratic governance in the region.

What this means is that access to justice for Indigenous women in Northeast India is inseparable from struggles over land, livelihood, self-determination, and identity. The erosion of community-based sustenance systems, combined with the imposition of individualised legal regimes, has produced intersecting forms of injustice that affect women disproportionately. Addressing this injustice requires recognising collective rights, restoring control over CPR, and reforming both formal and customary laws through a gender-sensitive lens. Only by centring sustenance, dignity, and agency can justice become meaningful for Indigenous women in the Northeast and in the rest of India.

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The CHT Accord of 1997, a peace treaty signed between the Indigenous movement that had led the resistance since 1974 and the ruling government party, included provisions to resolve land conflicts between Indigenous Peoples and settlers and to demilitarize the CHT by removing over 230 temporary army camps, among others. Had the CHT Accord been fully implemented by successive governments, the military occupation and settler expansion could have been halted. However, the lack of political will of successive governments to implement the Accord has resulted in a continuation of de facto military rule in CHT.

There is a symbiotic relationship between military occupation and settler expansion. Settlers rely on military protection to claim, retain and expand land ownership, while the military, with the aim of consolidating and retaining its power in CHT, depends on settlers who act as the civilian props for the military and, at times, as instruments against Indigenous resistance. In this context, when sexual violence against Indigenous women or girls is perpetrated by Bengalis, the military –in conjunction with the State institutions and other state agencies– systematically tries to protect the perpetrators.

A Repeating Pattern: the Lack of Police Cooperation

The steps for covering up crimes of sexual violence follow a recurring pattern, especially for cases that spark public outrage. And cases that gain a greater degree of national and international visibility are often the least likely to result in justice for the victims. Paradoxically, the more attention these cases receive, the more intensive the efforts of the State agencies to shield the perpetrators. In a few extreme cases, such efforts culminate in communal attacks on Indigenous Peoples by the settler Bengalis, resulting in deaths and destruction. Drawing upon four notorious sexual violence cases from the past decade, the subsequent analysis illustrates the processes by which justice is denied to the Indigenous victims.

Firstly, when family members of victims attempt to file complaints of sexual violence allegedly perpetrated by settlers, the officers in charge almost invariably show reluctance to receive them. After much persuasion and persistence, when police eventually agree to receive or file a case, critical information (such as eyewitness accounts or specific details that are crucial for future investigation) is often omitted or misrepresented. This is done intentionally to leave space for doubt and to enable the fabrication of an alternate narrative that will ultimately shield the perpetrators from accountability.

When two Marma sisters went to seek medical care at the district hospital for injuries they sustained after being allegedly raped by two soldiers, the law enforcement agencies unlawfully arrested.

When two Marma sisters went to seek medical care for injuries they sustained after being allegedly raped by two soldiers, the law enforcement agencies unlawfully arrested.

In September 2025, a 12-year-old Indigenous Marma schoolgirl stated that she had been raped by three settler Bengalis. According to her father, when he went to file a complaint, the police pressured him to describe perpetrators as “three unidentified men”, despite having eyewitness accounts of three Bengalis following her before the incident. Following the rape and murder of a Chakma woman in February 2014, her husband provided the names of three suspects based on eyewitness accounts. The police deliberately omitted those names when drafting the case and, without informing the changes to the husband (who was illiterate), police obtained his signature on the document the next day.  

In May 2025, the district commissioner and police questioned whether any crime had even been committed when an indigenous Khyang woman was brutally murdered after an alleged rape, despite having clear evidence of homicide. Her dead body was found stripped naked, the skull crushed. In their press release, police left out a crucial eyewitness account of her being harassed by three Bengalis a day earlier. In 2018, when two Marma sisters went to seek medical care at the district hospital for injuries they sustained after being allegedly raped by two soldiers, the law enforcement agencies unlawfully arrested and held them in an abandoned ward in that same hospital for more than three weeks.

Manipulation of Medical Evidence and Institutional Complicity

Forensic medical examinations are essential in substantiating cases of sexual assault. After filing cases, if public demonstrations demanding justice and condemnation from civil society have already occurred, the medical authority delays in producing the reports and they will eventually most likely return a negative result. In the two Marma sisters’ case, the initial medical report that was prepared and submitted in due time was withheld by the law enforcement agencies, and, two weeks later, a new second report with a negative result was produced by another medical examiner. 

Medical examiners risk serious retribution if they refuse to manipulate reports. On one occasion, a false accusation of corruption was even suddenly made against the examiner a few days after he had produced the first medical report. This ruined his medical career in the public sector. This false case thus simultaneously functioned as a method of punishment for his non-compliance, as coercion to maintain his silence on the ongoing rape case and as a warning to other medical examiners of the consequences of failing to comply.

Medical examiners risk serious retribution if they refuse to manipulate reports. On one occasion, a false accusation of corruption was even suddenly made against the examiner a few days after he had produced the first medical report.

Medical examiners risk serious retribution if they refuse to manipulate reports.

The report on the Marma schoolgirl was withheld for several days. The strictly confidential medical report on this minor girl, containing her photo and personal information, was leaked to, and widely shared on, settler-run online media outlets and a few popular news media outlets even before it had been handed over to police by the hospital authority. It is notable that, in the days leading up to this, settler organizations staged a series of demonstrations asserting that no rape had occurred, indicating their apparent foreknowledge of the report’s predetermined outcome. 

The information in the report had visibly been tampered with. The date of examination was written over with a new date, and was signed by the examiners with the previous date. By doing so, inconsistencies in information could not be avoided. No relevant authority undertook any investigation into the unauthorized disclosure of the confidential report or the discrepancies therein.

Narrative Control through Media

In recent years, mainstream media, online news portals and social media platforms have been extensively used to propagate narratives that delegitimize Indigenous Peoples’ demands for justice. While Indigenous protests receive minimal media coverage, settler organization-led counter demonstrations are extensively reported. Additionally, the media function as pro-military propaganda instruments. At the same time, scores of settlers run online news portals and social media platforms that spread false news about Indigenous resistance. This campaign aims to present Indigenous Peoples as anti-State forces and Indigenous rights defenders as separatists.      

In this context, when Indigenous Peoples intensify their demands for justice for crimes committed against women and girls, a coordinated campaign is launched to shift public debate from justice for victims to doubt as to the intention of the Indigenous protests. Generating a negative medical report is therefore essential in promoting the narrative that “Indigenous separatists” use false rape accusations to create agitation against the military and settler Bengalis with the aim of destabilizing the region.  

It can be fairly stated that the very structure that systematically provides impunity to perpetrators of sexual violence also ensures impunity for the subsequent violence inflicted upon Indigenous communities seeking justice.

It can be fairly stated that the very structure that systematically provides impunity to perpetrators of sexual violence also ensures impunity for the subsequent violence inflicted upon Indigenous communities seeking justice.

In extreme cases, communal attacks on Indigenous communities are orchestrated to intimidate, to reinforce the propaganda narrative and to divert attention away from demands for justice. In the 2014 rape and murder case of the Chakma woman, settlers launched a series of communal attacks on Indigenous villagers using rumors about a missing Bengali child. In the case of the Marma schoolgirl, attacks and arson swept across the district for two days, killing at least three and injuring scores of Indigenous people, as well as destroying property. There are strong allegations that the military backed these attacks and fired on the Indigenous villagers. These attacks followed the same pattern of spreading rumors about Indigenous aggression against settler Bengalis while the coordinated use of social media amplified their impact.   

No investigations into communal attacks were launched by the authorities in either of these two cases. Conversely, in the case of the Marma girl, false charges were brought against more than a dozen Indigenous youth under several laws, including the Special Powers Act, a draconian law frequently used to suppress Indigenous Peoples. It can be fairly stated that the very structure that systematically provides impunity to perpetrators of sexual violence also ensures impunity for the subsequent violence inflicted upon Indigenous communities seeking justice.

This article synthesizes testimonies from Indigenous rights defenders working in the Chittagong Hill Tracts, along with reports from documented sources.

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Indonesia’s Indigenous women experience disproportionate levels of discrimination. More than one in three Indigenous women is raped during their lifetime, with maternal mortality rates higher than the national average. In Nepal and India, Indigenous women face caste-based violence while, in Bangladesh, Indigenous women are often targeted because of their distinct physical features and religious beliefs.

Indigenous women are also the disproportionate victims of human trafficking. A study by the National Human Rights Commission of Nepal showed that 49 % of the women survivors of  trafficking are Indigenous, followed by Dalit at 15 %. Madhesis account for 6 % and other ethnicities constitute the remaining 29 %. Indigenous Peoples, Dalits, and Madhesis are the most socially, politically, and economically marginalised and excluded communities in Nepal. Access to justice for victims of trafficking remains almost impossible. 

State violations and access to justice

In some countries such as Bangladesh and Myanmar, there is simply no access to justice but rather absolute impunity. While courts are known for setting the jurisprudence in India, in cases of human rights violations, prosecution of the perpetrators requires prior authorization from the government. Under Section 197 of the Criminal Procedure Code and Section 6 of the Armed Forces Special Powers Act of 1958, prior authorization is required from the executive authorities for the prosecution of public servants and law enforcement personnel.  In armed conflict situations, this authorization is often denied and access to justice thus effectively denied. 

In Nepal, Indigenous women were the victims of sexual violence during the Maoist conflict. In 2019, the UN Human Rights Committee (HRC) issued a landmark decision in the case of an Indigenous girl who was the victim of rape, torture and forced labour in 2002. At the age of 14, she was arrested by the Armed Police and the Royal Army and forced to work in the barracks on the construction of a temple. Over that time, she was raped multiple times and subjected to other forms of sexual violence, torture and inhuman treatment. Following the rape, she was not able to urinate and was bleeding profusely and yet received no medical assistance. The Major who raped her threatened to kill her if she told anybody about what had happened.  

In war-torn Myanmar, women have been targeted by the military. In March 2023, Free Expression Myanmar (FEM) reported that more than 300 women and girls, including nurses, students, teachers, activists, and others, had been killed since the coup. Further, the military had used sexual violence as a systematic weapon to punish pro-democracy protesters who were detained: 17 women and girls were raped and killed. In addition, the military junta had arrested 16,432 people, of whom 3,434 were women, and military prison staff often torture female political prisoners. As Myanmar is not party to most international human rights conventions, victims do not have access to justice.

Violence from the majority society

Across the Asian region, Indigenous women face violations from the majority non-Indigenous communities because of their distinct identities, cultural practices and religious beliefs. In most Asian countries, disaggregated data on violence against Indigenous Peoples is not collected, thereby making it impossible to understand the real scale of the violence. Specific laws are consequently not enacted to address access to justice. 

India has enacted progressive laws by making sexual offences specific crimes under the 1989 Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities Act). Article 3 criminalizes “words, acts or gestures of a sexual nature towards a woman belonging to a Scheduled Caste or a Scheduled Tribe, knowing that she belongs to a Scheduled Caste or a Scheduled Tribe” with fines and prison terms of no less than six months and up to five years. However, the crimes continue to take place: 1,137 cases of rape of Indigenous women in 2020, 1,324 in 2021 and 1,347 in 2022. Nevertheless, there is no denying that the law does provide the basis for access to justice.

India ha promulgado leyes progresistas al tipificar los delitos sexuales como crímenes específicos en el marco de la Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities) Act de 1989. El artículo 3 criminaliza “palabras, actos o gestos de naturaleza sexual dirigidos contra una mujer perteneciente a una casta o tribu registrada, a sabiendas de que pertenece a una casta o tribu registrada”, con multas y penas de prisión no inferiores a seis meses y que pueden extenderse hasta cinco años. Sin embargo, los delitos continúan ocurriendo: 1.137 casos de violación de mujeres indígenas en 2020; 1.324 en 2021; y 1.347 en 2022. Aun así, no puede negarse que la legislación proporciona una base para el acceso a la justicia.

In Bangladesh, access to justice for sexual violence cannot be contemplated. Sexual predators are often posted to the Chittagong Hill Tracts region inhabited by Indigenous Peoples.

In Bangladesh, access to justice for sexual violence cannot be contemplated. Sexual predators are often posted to the Chittagong Hill Tracts region inhabited by Indigenous Peoples.

In Bangladesh, protesting rape committed by members of the majority Muslim community often leads to direct attacks from the State agencies upon the Indigenous Peoples. In 2025, three Indigenous youths were shot dead and four others injured by Bangladesh Army personnel in the upazila of Guimara, in the Chittagong Hill Tracts, while protesting the alleged gang rape of an Indigenous schoolgirl. After the shooting, many Indigenous shops were looted and set on fire at Ramesu while nearby houses were also vandalised.

In Bangladesh, under such circumstances, access to justice for sexual violence cannot be contemplated. Sexual predators are often posted to the Chittagong Hill Tracts region inhabited by Indigenous Peoples. On 25 February 2021, Abul Hasnat Mohammad Sohel Rana was jailed in a case filed of sexual harassment of an Indigenous student. After being released, he rejoined the school, which prompted protests. On 20 September 2024, Rana was beaten to death for allegedly raping an Indigenous student belonging to the Tripura community on the school campus but his killing led to another massive assault on Indigenous Peoples in the neighbourhood.

Violations within the community and Indigenous women’s access to justice

Indigenous women also face barriers to accessing justice within their own cultural practices. Inheritance is a critical issue.. As recently as 2025, the Supreme Court of India held that denying a female heir her right to property only exacerbates gender discrimination and that the law must eradicate this practice. Consequently, as per Article 14 of the Constitution relating to the right to equality, the Court determined that both a tribal woman and her legal heirs (her children) are entitled to an equal share in the ancestral property.

Among the Indigenous Chakma community, a Customary Law has been in place since 2014 by which certain people can be declared “Ek Goshchey”, meaning that no other members of the community are allowed to mix socially with the family. These “customs” are often invoked by self-proclaimed patriarchs to violate the rights of Indigenous women and girls. In several rulings, the Tripura High Court ruled the practice of declaring Ek Goshchey or the imposition of social boycotts by the Tripura Rejyo Chakma Samajik Parishad (Tripura State Chakma Social Council) to be unconstitutional.  

Across the communities, Indigenous women face a systematic denial of access to power. In Nagaland, men opposed the 33% reservation for women in the local government bodies, preventing elections from being held for 20 years. Elections were finally held on 26 June 2024, in compliance with a Supreme Court Order.

Digital abuses against Indigenous women and girls 

Violence in the real world is replicated on social media. As the digital space now plays an important role in modern society, Indigenous women and girls face increased risk of online hate and serious online harm at much higher rates than the general population. As many countries are still in the process of developing laws relating to cyber abuse, Indigenous women and girls remain largely beyond effective legal protection and access to justice.

The multiple forms of violence experienced by Indigenous women in Asia reveal a structural pattern of intersectional discrimination that combines gender, ethnic identity, tradition, religion and caste. Impunity, driven by a lack of political will, consolidates a context in which access to justice is the exception rather than the rule. Even where progressive legislation or landmark judicial rulings exist, their implementation faces deep resistance, both within state institutions and within the patriarchal structures of their communities.

In this context, it is essential to adopt comprehensive approaches that guarantee protection of the individual and collective rights of Indigenous women in Asia, while strengthening their political participation, economic autonomy and community leadership. This entails reforming discriminatory legal frameworks, collecting data on violence against Indigenous women, and ensuring culturally appropriate justice mechanisms. Without full recognition of their rights to land, inheritance, their bodies and their voices in the public sphere, it will not be possible to build democratic, plural and egalitarian societies.

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