Panama's indigenous people see Redd over UN forest conservation scheme
Indigenous groups have rejected UN forest plan as attempt to colonise them, as tensions over land management grow
Embera Indians in the village of Mogue, in the Darien region of Panama. Photograph: Gilles Mingasson/Getty Images
A few years ago, Mario Degaiza worked in construction in Panama
City, where he learned Spanish and, for a while, was excited by the
hustle and the bustle of urban life. But the 36-year-old Embera Indian
says he is far happier now he has returned to his home village of
Marraganti and the tropical forest that surrounds it.
"The forest is our mother," he says while tucking into a bowl of rice and fried plantains in a traditional one-room and wall-free house built on stilts to keep floods and snakes at bay. "But it is still beautiful, it is ours and we have to look after it because without it we are nothing."
Marraganti nestles beside a river within the most impenetrable part of Panama's jungle-covered Darien province that borders Colombia and is the only part of the Americas without a stretch of the Pan-American highway. Darien is now getting a reputation as a quagmire for the UN's climate change amelioration scheme Redd+ (reducing emissions from deforestation and forest degradation).
The national co-ordinating body of Panama's seven indigenous groups, known as Coonapip, this year withdrew from negotiations on how to apply the scheme in Panama. The groups allege that the emerging plan was turning into an underhand effort to weaken indigenous control over their land and chip away at resistance to potential exploitation of resources, from wood to oil.
"We thought Redd was going to help us strengthen our rights over our territories because no one looks after the forests like we do," says Coonapip leader Betanio Chiquidama, who on Friday will outline the reason for the withdrawal at an event in New York to coincide with the UN permanent forum on indigenous issues. "It sought to do the opposite and we have lost all trust in the UN."
Gabriel Labbate, the UN's regional co-ordinator of Redd+, says he believes Coonapip's withdrawal had more to do with demands for more money and internal indigenous politics over who controlled which projects. But he is wary of reducing the problem to competition over international resources. "It fits into the more complex context of the conflicts between the indigenous groups and the government in Panama, which goes much further than just Redd," he says.
A spokesman for the government environment agency – the third major party in the talks – did not respond to questions.
Whatever triggered the breakdown in negotiations, it is hard to imagine a thriving Redd+ programme in Panama without the participation of Coonapip and the indigenous communities it represents. According to an unpublished study by Gerardo Veragara of McGill University in Canada, 54% of Panama's mature forest cover lies either within the five legally established indigenous territories, or in land claimed by indigenous communities outside these areas.
Villages like Marraganti, deep in the established Embera territory, are models of the way in which indigenous culture, community life and sustainable forest management are intertwined, though the evident poverty qualifies this idealised vision.
Over the past few years, a sustainable community forestry project (that only operates during the January to March dry season) has provided funds for the gradual replacement of the wooden stilts holding up the houses with concrete columns, and palm thatch roofs with corrugated iron, but progress is slow.
The situation in Marraganti – surrounded by a wilderness that hides not only numerous undiscovered species but drug traffickers, people smugglers and Colombian guerrillas – raises questions as to what extent the indigenous love of the forest might wane if the village were less isolated. But Arimae, another Embera community located just off the final stretch of the Pan-American highway, suggests not necessarily.
In Arimae, the houses built at floor level, along with the teenagers hanging out at a small shop selling junk food, suggest a weakening of tradition, but the tie to the forest remains tight. It is particularly evident in the anger expressed at the "invaders" eating into their territory.
"We have a limit on how much of the forest we can clear to cultivate our crops, but the invaders cut it down without any respect and do terrible damage," says Belia Opua, as she washes clothes in the river.
The typical pattern is for poor non-indigenous farmers from elsewhere in Panama to occupy forest land, which they farm for domestic consumption before selling up their deforested plots. These end up as part of large cattle ranches or, more recently, plantations of non-native teak.
The indigenous leaders believe powerful people are pushing this process on, but even if this is not true, the "invaders" represent a vision of land management that sits uneasily with indigenous tradition.
"If we don't cut down the forest, we cannot support our families," says Melquiades Velasquez, who is in a legal battle to get the title to land also claimed by Arimae. "The indigenous people don't cut down so much because they are lazy, but it's not my problem if they don't want to work and want to die of hunger."
Coonapip paints the world view they see hidden behind Redd+ as different. "It is a new form of colonisation," says Hector González, the organisation's lawyer. "The government has always seen the land solely from a commercial point of view, and the UN doesn't understand the indigenous issue."
Such claims have thrown even the idea of a Redd+ mechanism in Panama into crisis, with a group of external experts investigating whether the UN has violated the human rights of the indigenous population.
Whatever they conclude, it will take a lot to rebuild relations to the point where the scheme can get back on track and provide support for indigenous communities to continue their way of life.
• Jo Tuckman travelled to Panama with Coonapip
"The forest is our mother," he says while tucking into a bowl of rice and fried plantains in a traditional one-room and wall-free house built on stilts to keep floods and snakes at bay. "But it is still beautiful, it is ours and we have to look after it because without it we are nothing."
Marraganti nestles beside a river within the most impenetrable part of Panama's jungle-covered Darien province that borders Colombia and is the only part of the Americas without a stretch of the Pan-American highway. Darien is now getting a reputation as a quagmire for the UN's climate change amelioration scheme Redd+ (reducing emissions from deforestation and forest degradation).
The national co-ordinating body of Panama's seven indigenous groups, known as Coonapip, this year withdrew from negotiations on how to apply the scheme in Panama. The groups allege that the emerging plan was turning into an underhand effort to weaken indigenous control over their land and chip away at resistance to potential exploitation of resources, from wood to oil.
"We thought Redd was going to help us strengthen our rights over our territories because no one looks after the forests like we do," says Coonapip leader Betanio Chiquidama, who on Friday will outline the reason for the withdrawal at an event in New York to coincide with the UN permanent forum on indigenous issues. "It sought to do the opposite and we have lost all trust in the UN."
Gabriel Labbate, the UN's regional co-ordinator of Redd+, says he believes Coonapip's withdrawal had more to do with demands for more money and internal indigenous politics over who controlled which projects. But he is wary of reducing the problem to competition over international resources. "It fits into the more complex context of the conflicts between the indigenous groups and the government in Panama, which goes much further than just Redd," he says.
A spokesman for the government environment agency – the third major party in the talks – did not respond to questions.
Whatever triggered the breakdown in negotiations, it is hard to imagine a thriving Redd+ programme in Panama without the participation of Coonapip and the indigenous communities it represents. According to an unpublished study by Gerardo Veragara of McGill University in Canada, 54% of Panama's mature forest cover lies either within the five legally established indigenous territories, or in land claimed by indigenous communities outside these areas.
Villages like Marraganti, deep in the established Embera territory, are models of the way in which indigenous culture, community life and sustainable forest management are intertwined, though the evident poverty qualifies this idealised vision.
Isolated communities
Small plots producing rice, maize, yams and plantains allow for little more than domestic consumption. Traditional plant-based medicine cannot fully substitute for absent health services, nor rich local culture and tradition for good schools. The two-hour trip in a dug-out canoe to the nearest road link may be picturesque, but a way out of the community by land would make life easier.Over the past few years, a sustainable community forestry project (that only operates during the January to March dry season) has provided funds for the gradual replacement of the wooden stilts holding up the houses with concrete columns, and palm thatch roofs with corrugated iron, but progress is slow.
The situation in Marraganti – surrounded by a wilderness that hides not only numerous undiscovered species but drug traffickers, people smugglers and Colombian guerrillas – raises questions as to what extent the indigenous love of the forest might wane if the village were less isolated. But Arimae, another Embera community located just off the final stretch of the Pan-American highway, suggests not necessarily.
In Arimae, the houses built at floor level, along with the teenagers hanging out at a small shop selling junk food, suggest a weakening of tradition, but the tie to the forest remains tight. It is particularly evident in the anger expressed at the "invaders" eating into their territory.
"We have a limit on how much of the forest we can clear to cultivate our crops, but the invaders cut it down without any respect and do terrible damage," says Belia Opua, as she washes clothes in the river.
The typical pattern is for poor non-indigenous farmers from elsewhere in Panama to occupy forest land, which they farm for domestic consumption before selling up their deforested plots. These end up as part of large cattle ranches or, more recently, plantations of non-native teak.
The indigenous leaders believe powerful people are pushing this process on, but even if this is not true, the "invaders" represent a vision of land management that sits uneasily with indigenous tradition.
"If we don't cut down the forest, we cannot support our families," says Melquiades Velasquez, who is in a legal battle to get the title to land also claimed by Arimae. "The indigenous people don't cut down so much because they are lazy, but it's not my problem if they don't want to work and want to die of hunger."
Coonapip paints the world view they see hidden behind Redd+ as different. "It is a new form of colonisation," says Hector González, the organisation's lawyer. "The government has always seen the land solely from a commercial point of view, and the UN doesn't understand the indigenous issue."
Such claims have thrown even the idea of a Redd+ mechanism in Panama into crisis, with a group of external experts investigating whether the UN has violated the human rights of the indigenous population.
Whatever they conclude, it will take a lot to rebuild relations to the point where the scheme can get back on track and provide support for indigenous communities to continue their way of life.
• Jo Tuckman travelled to Panama with Coonapip
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