The morning sun filters through the jungle canopy as brothers Freddy and Marcos Ankuash walk along a slope behind the ecological tourism center in Maikuaints territory.
Here, deep in the Ecuadorian Amazon, they’re about to engage in an ancestral Shuar ritual. They’re careful and deliberate as they handle tobacco leaves grown in their own jungle gardens — not the processed tobacco of the outside world, but a sacred plant their people have cultivated for generations.
Rolling the fresh green leaf that’s been soaking in water, they extract its pure liquid essence. This is tsaank, or liquid tobacco, a medicine their ancestors have used since time immemorial. Each man takes turns bringing the leaf to his nostril, inhaling the potent liquid with practiced reverence. The effect is immediate — a sharp clarity that opens not just the sinuses but the spirit.
For the Shuar, this is not a recreational act but a spiritual practice, a way to strengthen both mind and body. The tobacco clears their thoughts, bringing focus and power to their words and intentions. It’s also medicine — good for headaches, for protection.
With minds sharpened by the tobacco, walking along the jungle slope as the Sellama Akus River rushes below, Freddy begins to speak. “Welcome, this is our house. As you can see, the sky is our roof, the earth is our bed, the jungle is our blanket, and this is our mountain. We were born here, we are from here, and we can’t leave our jungle, because if we disconnect, the Shuar will cease to exist.”
A helicopter’s harsh drone cuts through the jungle sounds, and both men pause, waiting for it to pass. When it does, Freddy continues, “Nowadays, the [Ecuadorian] state’s strategic policies always come, in what terms? In terms of plundering us, in terms of stealing from us, coming in through the window. Not coming through the front door; any ordinary person who comes, always knocks on your door and says, may I enter? They say hello to you. But in this case, that is not true.”
As they walk, Freddy reaches for the tobacco leaf again, taking another medicinal sniff before speaking. “All the state’s strategic projects come in through the window. When I leave the window open to receive the fresh air from my jungle, the thief enters through there. And then he wants to leave through the door, that’s wrong. What I mean by this is, there are laws where the state must always carry out prior, free and informed consultation.”
His voice grows stronger with the tobacco’s clarity. “So, they come to kill us legally.” The river seems to rush louder as he speaks. “The defense of the territory, the defense of life, the defense of our existence, of our history, of our identity, and the place of origin from which we are born will be carried out in accordance with the law of the Shuar Arutam people.”
“I’m doing the same action that the system does. And when one does those things, they tell us that we are a subversive group, we are an armed group, we are violating rights, we are pressuring the people.” He stops walking for a moment, shaking his head firmly. “No. The State knows very well that with these laws and corrupt policies that are coming, they are coming to kill us. So, how am I supposed to react?”
The morning air grows warmer as they continue along the slope, their path well-known to them since childhood. “What I mean is that today we are going to exhaust all the tools, diplomacy, spokespersons, sending letters, making them listen. But if they continue without listening to us, we will make other decisions where I would not like to have enemies, I do not want to have enemies,” Freddy says.
“I want to share this, which is the jungle, which is the air, which is life. But the outside world will ask, how will it develop, how will there be development and growth?” Another helicopter passes overhead, its intrusive noise a stark reminder of his words.
“They will always focus on economic development. Why don’t they focus on educational development, the development of science, knowledge, principles? They always want money, but they don’t want to see the well-being of the people, the health of the people, the health of a country.”
Gesturing to the teeming life all around them — the ancient trees, the rushing water, the wild orchids clinging to bark — he continues, “So, the conquest they are working on today at the global level is one of the economy. For what purpose? To gain power. When they gain power, they want to make us slaves, as they did in previous years, more than 500 years ago.”
Marcos, who has been listening intently, takes a sniff of tobacco before sharing his perspective. “I am very moved by the tragedy that is happening with the Canadian transnational company. And my heart aches because I have seen in Warints how our people are treated, how they discriminate against our people. Humiliating them with crumbs, with meals, with money, with cars and saying that this is development. In this way, people are humiliated.”
His voice grows stronger as they walk. “And they see something positive when in reality it is something negative because we are not used to handling the dollar, so our people are driven by material things. It is alcohol, vice, drug addiction that exists in Warints. It hurts me a lot because my people cannot live that way.”
‘A symbol of war’
Miles away in the city of Puyo, in Ecuador’s Pastaza province, a bout of torrential rain falls steadily. Zenaida Yasacama tells stories about her life growing up deep in the Amazon rainforest. Born in the Kichwa community of Pakayaku, her childhood was shaped by the rhythms of the jungle. She learned to navigate the twisting rivers by canoe from an early age, paddling through sun and storm, understanding the water’s moods and the forest’s whispers. These weren’t just travels — they were lessons in resilience, each journey building the strength that would later serve her as CONAIE’s first woman vice president.
CONAIE (Confederation of Indigenous Nationalities of Ecuador / Confederación de Nacionalidades Indígenas del Ecuador) is Ecuador’s largest and most influential Indigenous organization. Founded in 1986, it represents 14 Indigenous nations and 18 Indigenous peoples across Ecuador’s coast, highlands, and Amazon regions.
The streets of Puyo have become small rivers, the rain a reminder of what’s been missing during the months of drought that brought Ecuador to its knees. The current energy crisis, with its punishing blackouts, stands as a serious warning of what Yasacama has been saying all along about protecting natural resources. “This struggle of Indigenous Peoples against extractivism has been going on for hundreds of years. Our struggle has been in the streets because the governments in power have not listened. They have murdered us. They have violated us. We as Indigenous Peoples have an analysis; we have our worldview and our way of organizing. That’s why we have been able to defend the territory until now.”
A truck splashes through a puddle on the nearby street, its sound mixing with the drumming rain as Yasacama speaks about decades of broken promises. “They have never respected our rights, that’s why we are growing stronger in the fight, in defense [of our territory]. To tell you a little about what has happened in the Ecuadorian Amazon, for more than 50 years the territory of Indigenous Peoples in the north of the Amazon has been exploited.”
Her voice takes on an edge of controlled anger. “In these more than 50 years, governments have talked about development, but each development has been a setback, an abandonment of Indigenous Peoples, where our territories serve only as an extractive business.”
Through the intensifying rain, Yasacama’s voice doesn’t waver, matching the weather’s crescendo. Behind her words lies a half-century of devastation in Ecuador’s northern Amazon — a catastrophe that began with Texaco (now Chevron) in the 1960s and continued with state oil company PetroEcuador. More than 16 million gallons of crude oil spilled into the Amazon rainforest, along with 18 billion gallons of toxic wastewater dumped into rivers and streams. The results were devastating: widespread cancer clusters, birth defects, miscarriages, and the decimation of Indigenous Peoples including the Cofán, Siona, Secoya, Kichwa, and Huaorani.
Entire communities were displaced as their water became undrinkable, their fish toxic, their hunting grounds destroyed.
“This has been caused by oil extraction,” Yasacama continues, her voice heavy. “And we are increasingly abandoned, full of illnesses, cancer and countless diseases, abandoned in education, in health, in social matters and with an economic crisis in those sectors that should today be more developed than any city because they are around these oil wells.”
The rain drums against the leaves behind her, each drop now a promise of relief for Ecuador’s parched hydroelectric reservoirs. Yet this same rain that might end months of blackouts also carries decades of toxins through the soil in oil-affected regions, where crude pools still bubble up from the ground, where children still swim in contaminated waters, where Indigenous women still draw water from polluted streams because they have no choice.
“Today we feel contaminated, destroyed. Everything has been a struggle for us, and now we have to face the national government, the public force that should provide security to the citizens and not the destructive companies that are damaging our territory, but that are threatening our lives, and that for us is painful.”
Her long black hair catches drops of rain as she leans forward, speaking specifically about the Shuar. “What’s happening in the Shuar territory is a serious situation. We have been able to go to those places as leaders, but our security is in danger. We are being persecuted, we are being threatened for defending life.”
Her dark brown eyes widen with an intensity that’s fierce and unwavering. When she speaks, her eyes flash with determination.
“So, at this moment our territories are threatened in Morona, Santiago, Zamora, Chinchipe here in the center of the Ecuadorian Amazon, we are also threatened with the eleventh oil round, and also mining, as in the north of the Ecuadorian Amazon. As vice president of CONAIE, I fulfill the mandate of the people, which is: no to oil, mining, timber extractivism or any other activity that destroys the territories of Indigenous Peoples and their life.”
In the fall of 2024, Yasacama joined other Indigenous leaders, including Fanny Kaekat from the Shuar Arutam People, in traveling to Canada to denounce the proposed free trade agreement between Canada and Ecuador. Their mission was clear: to make Canadian politicians and citizens understand how this deal would accelerate environmental destruction and human rights violations in their territories.
The delegates’ warnings were echoed by major Canadian organizations. Amnesty International Canada Secretary General Ketty Nivyabandi emphasized Canada’s obligation to ensure its trade agreements don’t undermine human rights, particularly those of Indigenous Peoples and marginalized communities. “Amid widespread human rights violations in Ecuador, particularly in mining-affected communities,” Nivyabandi warned, “we are deeply concerned that Canada-Ecuador trade negotiations and promotion of more Canadian mining in Ecuador threaten to make a bad situation worse.” The organization called for an independent human-rights impact assessment, a demand that has gone unheeded.
Stuart Trew from the Canadian Centre for Policy Alternatives cut to the heart of the economic reality behind the deal. “The Noboa and Trudeau governments’ commitment to concluding an ‘inclusive’ trade deal this year rings hollow,” he explained. “The planned agreement is… clearly aimed, instead, at boosting Canadian mining and agricultural interests in Ecuador while locking in unpopular economic reforms benefiting Ecuadorian elites.”
The new free trade agreement was signed earlier this month, with both countries touting its environmental and human rights protections as meaningful. “It will ensure that labour rights remain protected, reflecting our shared human rights values,” said Mary Ng, Minister of Export Promotion, International Trade and Economic Development, at the time.
Yasacama’s voice takes on a different tone as she speaks of the jungle’s abundance and urges the world to understand its integral role in sustaining life. “In our jungle the wealth is everywhere. The pharmacy is there. We don’t go to the pharmacy to buy [medicine]. We use our natural medicines. We go to the river to fish. We catch healthy fish. We don’t go to the market. We go hunting because the Indigenous Peoples live from hunting and fishing, so our health will always be good because we eat the healthiest food, we also breathe pure air and there is no contamination.”
Her expression hardens. “But these mining companies from Canada are violating without consultation the territories of peoples and nations. The government in power negotiates behind our backs, and we are being criminalized, violated, killed — they make us disappear.
Indigenous Peoples are being sacrificed. Our territories are being sacrificed. We can no longer allow this to happen.”
The reality of Ecuador’s political direction under President Daniel Noboa casts as dark a shadow as the storm clouds in Puyo. At just 37, Ecuador’s youngest-ever president carries on his family’s powerful business legacy. His father, Álvaro Noboa, built an empire primarily based on banana exports through Corporación Noboa, now one of Ecuador’s largest business conglomerates with interests in shipping, banking, and other sectors.
The irony of Noboa’s pro-mining stance is striking given that Ecuador is the first and only country to enshrine the Rights of Nature in its constitution. Since 2008, Ecuador’s constitution has recognized nature, or Pachamama, as having the inalienable right to exist, persist, maintain and regenerate its vital cycles. Rivers, forests, and mountains are legally recognized as living entities with rights to be protected — a revolutionary legal framework that emerged from Indigenous cosmovision and years of advocacy.
Yet the younger Noboa, who swept into power in late 2023 promising jobs and security, seems to be steering away from this constitutional commitment. After declaring a “war on drugs” that has militarized the country, he has positioned himself as an enthusiastic supporter of mining expansion, personally attending mining industry conferences in Canada and promoting Ecuador as an investment destination for companies seeking copper, gold, and other minerals branded as “transition materials” necessary for green energy technology.
His administration’s rapid embrace of the Canada-Ecuador Free Trade Agreement and aggressive courtship of international mining companies, with promises of security and stability for their investments, signals a presidency that prioritizes resource extraction over constitutional protections for nature and Indigenous rights to their territories.
A federal election was held earlier this month, in which Noboa and challenger Luisa González received nearly identical shares of the vote. The country is now headed for a runoff in April to determine a winner.
With his leadership at stake, Noboa’s vision of development through extractive industries is under more scrutiny than ever. Critics say it is in direct contradiction, not only with the sustainable alternatives proposed by Indigenous leaders defending their territories, but with Ecuador’s own groundbreaking constitutional commitment to protecting nature’s rights.
A team of lawyers from the Pontifical Catholic University of Ecuador’s Center for Human Rights and Environment is mounting a significant legal challenge in support of the Maikuaints community. They are pursuing a Protection Action — a unique legal mechanism in Ecuador that can be used to defend both the rights of nature and fundamental human rights — against both Solaris Resources (featured in part one) and the government.
Beyond the courtroom, these lawyers are working to internationalize the Shuar’s struggle, communicating with United Nations Rapporteurs and global advocacy organizations to amplify Indigenous voices and concerns. In a Zoom interview, lawyer René Gálvez cuts through the political rhetoric surrounding Noboa’s militarization of the country. “The government declared war on the cartel, but it’s a big lie to justify the criminalization of people,” he explains. “The government has used this argument to activate the army, and the police, in extraordinary situations. Anyone who gets in their way.”
Gálvez’s assessment of systemic corruption is equally blunt. “It’s a common situation here. These Canadian companies, they do the same things that Ecuadorian companies do. They pay people off, play people against their relatives.” His words offer a glimpse into how foreign mining companies seamlessly integrate into existing patterns of corruption and community division.
In 2023, Maikuaints women, led by historical leader Josefina Tunki, established a blockade against company vehicles, forcing Solaris to resort to helicopter transport.
The company’s response was to exploit existing organizational structures, co-opting leaders within the Inter-Provincial Federation of Shuar Centres (FICSH) to undermine resistance from the Pueblo Shuar Arutam (PSHA). This strategy culminated in violence between pro and anti-mining groups outside FICSH offices in Sucúa during local elections in April of 2024.
The situation represents a direct challenge to Shuar self-determination. While PSHA, established in 2006, had worked harmoniously with FICSH for nearly two decades, Solaris disrupted this unity through what PSHA President Jaime Palomino calls “strategies of division and rupture of the social fabric.”
A significant turning point came in March 2024, when PSHA formally declared its autonomy from FICSH following unauthorized mining agreements signed by former FICSH president David Tankamash. However, historical Shuar leader Domingo Ankuash, known for his strong opposition to extractive projects, was elected to replace Tankamash as FICSH president soon after, signaling a potential return to unified resistance against mining incursions.
A 2024 PSHA declaration firmly rejects Solaris’s attempts to legitimize their presence and demands both Ecuador and Canada respect Indigenous rights and sovereignty. As Palomino states, “PSHA does not sell its territory! PSHA did not negotiate with the foreign Canadian company Solaris-Lowell!”
‘If they want to kill me, then let them kill me’
In a large oval hut in Maikuaints, where afternoon sunlight filters through wooden panels in dusty beams, Numii Antun, 34, sits with his back against the wall, a small mirror in one hand and a black crayon in the other. With precise, practiced movements, he draws ancestral patterns across his face — lines that echo the mountain ranges of his jungle home.
“The paint I wear on my face right now is a symbol of war,” he states with quiet intensity. “When our grandparents were going to have a dialogue in the community or they were going to talk about a very sensitive issue, they painted themselves black. Or when they went to war they painted themselves black so that the enemy would not recognize them and would not be able to see their weak point.”
Numii represents a bridge between ancient Shuar knowledge and modern scientific resistance. As a paraecologist trained by Professor Mika Peck from the University of Sussex, who has been conducting research in Maikuaints for three years, Numii combines traditional ecological knowledge with scientific monitoring methods. This innovative “paraecologist” approach empowers local community members like Numii to defend their territories through both scientific data and legal frameworks, while maintaining their cultural connections.
“This work,” Numii says, his painted face catching the light, “it has given me the kindness to treat all living beings that exist on Earth well — to take care of them, to protect them.”
From his family settlement of Caramte Nunca — the land of dreams — Numii serves as both guardian and guide. When visitors come, he proudly dons traditional Shuar clothing and jewelry, carries his spear, and demonstrates their way of life: fishing by hand in the rivers, tending to crops of peanuts, yuka, cassava, potatoes, plantain, bananas, pineapple, papaya and watermelon. His eyes shine with delight when sharing these aspects of his culture.
But today, as he completes the war paint, his expression turns serious. Taking a deep breath, he speaks with the certainty of someone who has thoroughly considered the weight of his words: “As long as I’m alive, I’ll have to fight to the death. There is no longer any solution [to the Solaris mining project], it’s time to act. Our grandparents used to say: if they want to defeat me, then they will have to kill me, because if this isn’t solved, we will have to act for ourselves, with our own justice.”
“Yes, I’m willing to give my life for my territory,” Numii continues, his black-painted face solemn. “Because if I allow this to happen within my territory, everything will change, everything will end, it will no longer be as it is in this natural state — everything that exists in the flora and fauna will be extinguished if we allow this, the water sources will be contaminated, the environment will be contaminated, animals will become extinct due to pollution.”
As a member of the Indigenous guard, Numii knows every contour of the surrounding jungle, every hidden path, every medicinal plant. His role bridges multiple worlds — one day guiding visitors through traditional Shuar lifeways, the next collecting scientific data as a paraecologist to defend his territory through legal channels. The paint on his face marks him as both guardian and scientist, protector and educator.
Setting down his mirror, he speaks directly, his words carrying both warning and sorrow: “And this is a clear message for companies that are positioned in any country in the world, if they destroy nature, they will exterminate our world.” He pauses, the afternoon light casting shadows across the ancestral patterns on his face. “Once this company withdraws, I will say to them not to come back ever, ever, because sooner or later there could be more issues, even gunshots.”
His voice softens slightly but maintains its resolve. “We don’t want that to happen. We are all brothers in spirit, we are all brothers as our Creator has made us. But we have promised with our hand on our breast, on our hearts and we have said: we will defend our territory until the day that death comes to us.”
The sunlight has shifted in the hut, but the lines of war paint remain stark against his skin – mountain ranges drawn in preparation for a battle he hopes will not come, but for which he stands ready.
‘If they want to kill me, then let them kill me’
At 5 a.m. in her home in Maikuaints, Kaekat sits at a small round table crafted from local palm wood, the early morning darkness still heavy outside. Like most Shuar families, hers rises at 4 a.m. to work in the fields before the day’s heat arrives. She has just served a breakfast of boiled plantain, eggs from her chickens, and fresh pineapple from her garden. As a matriarch, mother, and land defender, her words carry both strength and deep concern.
The sound of another helicopter breaks the dawn silence, drawing a frown. “These helicopters that pass by don’t let us live in peace and tranquility,” she says. “We are very concerned about what is going to happen over time and how this community is going to be impacted. Our community is going to become a mining camp area.”
Her resistance has made her a target. “Since I started speaking in Canada, and for a long time, people have always said, ‘Fanny has to be shut up,'” she explains. “They [the company Solaris] even offered to take me to Canada and give me a job, but I declined. I said I could find my own job.” With quiet defiance, she adds, “How can an enemy take me?”
The threats extend beyond her to her family. “When I go out, my family is not calm — they are worried. And when my husband goes out I can’t be calm, because he is also threatened with being kidnapped… even killed, because he is a leader, he is also part of the guard.
“Yet she remains resolute: “But even if they offer us thousands of dollars, we are defending our home. That connection we have here, it can’t be broken.”
Perched high on a hillside overlooking Maikuaints, community leader Domingo Antun sits on a log carefully positioned to survey his people’s territory. From this vantage point, 15,000 hectares of pristine jungle unfold below and stretch to the horizon. The air fills with the distinct calls of the Amazon: the melodic whistles of the Andean Solitaire, the sharp “kree-kree” of Yellow-tailed Orioles, the rapid-fire “tok-tok-tok” of a Pale-tailed Barbthroat hummingbird punctuates the chorus.
“We don’t recognize the concessions granted by governments, the environmental permits issued by the ministries, that for us is unconstitutional, it’s illegal,” Antun says.
He gestures across the landscape, mapping out the threat. “We are within the concession areas, there are nine concessions. Of the nine concessions, four are active and doing drilling studies over 1000 to 1500 meters.” The rumble of mining trucks breaks the peace of the community below.
His expression hardens. “They expect to break our will, or that we will accept what they offer, but we are not going to allow it. As long as I’m a leader, I will not allow it. They only want to surprise us with public force, with armies. The military is a terrorist group recognized legally by the state. Why? Because they come with weapons, we have seen them, we have confronted each other, they come with weapons and are legal terrorists.”
As the sun sets behind him, casting long shadows across the territory he has sworn to protect, Antun’s final words carry both warning and resolve: “I don’t run at all, and if they want my land, then they have to come and take it away from me. I’m not scared at all.
If they want to kill me, then let them kill me.”
The struggle in Maikuaints reflects a familiar pattern of resource colonialism, but with a troubling new twist. As 2025 begins, Solaris Resources, valued at just under $700 million, abandoned its Canadian headquarters following the federal government’s resistance to a $130 million investment from Chinese mining giant Zijin Mining. The company’s strategic retreat from Canada — moving its headquarters to Quito and installing a new CEO in Switzerland — signals not an end to conflict, but its evolution.
The irony is sharp: while Canada’s government blocks Chinese investment at home, the damage of Canadian junior mining practices has already been done in Ecuador. These companies, following a playbook refined on Indigenous territories within Canada’s borders, excel at fracturing communities, undermining traditional leadership structures, and creating internal conflicts that can last generations. The same tactics used against the Wet’suwet’en and other First Nations — dividing communities, bypassing traditional governance, criminalizing land defenders — have been exported to the Amazon, a kind of corporate colonialism that paves the way for larger players.
With Solaris now potentially opening doors for further Chinese investment in Ecuador, the stakes grow even higher. China’s track record of human rights violations in resource extraction, from Tibet to Africa, suggests an even more aggressive approach to community resistance. Their development model often involves rapid resource extraction with minimal regard for environmental or human rights concerns, backed by significant state power.
Yet in the face of this uncertainty, the Shuar’s resolve remains unshakeable. As their leaders have made clear, this is not merely about protecting land — it’s about preserving a way of life, a culture, a future. For the Shuar Maikuaints, there is no Plan B, no other home to retreat to. Antun’s words echo from his hilltop perch: they will defend their territory until death, if necessary, because without their jungle, there is no Shuar people.
