For two decades, I have worked at the intersection of Indigenous rights and environmental justice, advocating for my people and many others across Indonesia and Southeast Asia.
Over the years, I have witnessed firsthand how Indigenous Peoples’ voices continue to be sidelined within the very movements that claim to support us. This marginalisation of Indigenous self-representation is not only pervasive but deeply embedded in the way the environmental and human rights movements operate, particularly within the Global North.
The paternalistic “big brother, little sister” approach, which many of these movements adopt, reflects a form of cognitive colonialism that has long prevented true partnership and collaboration between Indigenous Peoples and the organisations that seek to work with us.
The environmental and human rights movements have long positioned themselves as protectors of Indigenous communities, often framing our struggles as something too complex or too burdensome for us to manage on our own. This attitude manifests in what I call the “big brother, little sister” dynamic, where well-intentioned but ultimately paternalistic organisations from the Global North take the lead in “helping” us—speaking on our behalf, framing our issues, and deciding which aspects of our struggles deserve the world’s attention.
In theory, this might sound like support, but in reality, it is just another form of colonialism. It is cognitive colonialism—an insidious belief that Indigenous Peoples are incapable of representing themselves or articulating their own concerns effectively. This mindset assumes that Indigenous communities are perpetually in need of external leadership, incapable of developing their own strategies or wielding their own power within global movements.
I have sat in many international forums, watching as our issues are framed through the lens of outsiders — outsiders who decide what is important, what is actionable, and what is too complicated. It is disheartening to see the persistence of this patronising attitude, one that reflects the same colonial mindsets that have long sought to dominate and control Indigenous peoples. Despite the decolonisation rhetoric that permeates much of the discourse today, many organisations continue to treat Indigenous Peoples as subjects to be represented rather than as equal partners with agency and expertise in our own struggles.
The Influence of Orientalism
At the root of this “big brother, little sister” approach lies a deeply entrenched form of Orientalism — a framework that still shapes how the Global North views Indigenous communities. Orientalism, as famously articulated by Edward Said, describes the way Western societies have historically constructed a simplistic, exoticised image of the “East,” – or South in this case – projecting their own fantasies and biases onto other cultures. While Said’s work focused on the Arab world, the same process of exoticisation has long been applied to Indigenous Peoples across the globe, including in Southeast Asia and the Pacific Islands.
Even within the environmental and human rights movements, Orientalist tropes persist. Indigenous Peoples are still seen as “exotic”—valued for our outward appearance, our traditional dress, our rituals, and our “connection to nature.” These superficial markers become the focus of attention, while our political struggles and the complex realities of our daily lives are pushed to the background.
I cannot count how many times I have seen my people represented in international campaigns through a romanticised lens, where the visual representation is all about feathered headpieces, colourful beads, and ceremonial costumes. These images may be eye-catching, but they serve to exoticise and oversimplify who we are. They reduce our identities to something consumable, something digestible for a global audience, while ignoring the intellectual, political, and spiritual depth of our communities.
This exoticisation is not harmless. It creates a barrier to real understanding and real collaboration. It reinforces the idea that Indigenous Peoples are “other,” that we are somehow outside the modern world, that we need to be protected rather than engaged with as equals. When organisations prioritise the visual or aesthetic aspects of our identity over our capacity for self-representation, they strip us of agency. They fail to acknowledge that we are not just symbols of nature or cultural heritage; we are political actors with a deep understanding of our own struggles and a right to speak for ourselves.
Language Barriers, Technological Divides, and Knowledge Gaps
Much of the marginalisation of Indigenous self-representation is framed around practical concerns, such as language barriers, technological divides, and knowledge gaps. These are often presented as justifications for why Indigenous communities “need” external representation, but in reality, they are symptoms of a deeper issue — the failure of the Global North to create inclusive spaces that allow for meaningful Indigenous participation.
It is true that language barriers can be a challenge, especially in international forums where English is often the dominant language. It is also true that many Indigenous communities face technological divides, with limited access to the internet or modern communication tools. And yes, there are knowledge gaps — differences in how Indigenous Peoples and Western institutions approach issues like conservation, development, and governance. But none of these challenges justify the continued marginalisation of Indigenous voices.
The language barrier, for example, is not insurmountable. It is a question of resources and willingness. If the global environmental and human rights movements were truly committed to Indigenous self-representation, they would invest in translation services, capacity building, and digital access. They would not frame the lack of English proficiency as a reason to speak on our behalf, but rather as an opportunity to support Indigenous leaders in becoming more directly engaged in international dialogues. The fact that this investment has not been made on a large scale speaks volumes about where priorities lie.
Similarly, the technological divide is not a permanent obstacle. Indigenous communities have been incredibly resourceful in adapting to new technologies when given the chance. The real issue is that many Global North organisations see this divide as a reason to keep control of decision-making processes, rather than as a challenge to be addressed collaboratively. It is easier, after all, to maintain power when the “little sister” is dependent on her “big brother” to navigate the complexities of digital communication and international advocacy.
The same goes for knowledge gaps. There is a pervasive belief within the Global North that Indigenous knowledge is somehow “primitive” or incomplete, that we need to be educated or enlightened before we can fully participate in global movements. This is a deeply colonial attitude, one that fails to recognise the depth, sophistication, and relevance of Indigenous knowledge systems. Our knowledge of our lands, our ecosystems, our governance structures is not inferior—it is different, and it is rooted in centuries of experience and observation. The failure of Global North organisations to value and integrate this knowledge on equal terms is a form of cognitive colonialism, one that reinforces the notion that Indigenous Peoples are not yet ready to take up their rightful place in global advocacy.
The Myth of the “Big Brother” Protector
The “big brother, little sister” dynamic is often justified under the guise of protection. Global North organisations present themselves as protectors of Indigenous Peoples, arguing that we need their expertise, their resources, and their platforms to fight the battles we are facing. They position themselves as allies, standing in solidarity with us against exploitation, environmental destruction, and human rights abuses.
But this framing is problematic because it reinforces the very power dynamics that keep us marginalised. It suggests that Indigenous Peoples cannot stand on our own, that we need the paternalistic guidance of the Global North to navigate the complexities of global advocacy. This “protection” often comes at a cost—the cost of our autonomy, our self-representation, and our ability to define our own struggles.
I have seen this play out time and again in international campaigns. Indigenous communities are invited to participate, but only in a limited capacity. Our role is to provide the “local perspective” or to be the “face” of the campaign, while the strategy, the messaging, and the leadership remain firmly in the hands of Global North organisations. We are consulted, but not empowered. We are included, but only on their terms. This is not partnership — it is tokenism, and it perpetuates the same colonial power dynamics that these organisations claim to oppose.
At its core, the marginalisation of Indigenous self-representation within the environmental and human rights movements is about power and control. Global North organisations are reluctant to give up the power they hold over Indigenous struggles because doing so would mean relinquishing control over the narrative, the resources, and the direction of the movement. It would mean acknowledging that Indigenous Peoples are not passive recipients of aid or protection, but active agents in their own right, capable of leading their own movements and defining their own futures.
The “big brother, little sister” dynamic is a way of maintaining this power imbalance. By positioning themselves as the protectors and representatives of Indigenous communities, Global North organisations retain control over the narrative. They get to decide which issues are prioritised, how they are framed, and what solutions are pursued. Indigenous voices are included, but only insofar as they align with the agenda set by the Global North.
This power dynamic is not just harmful — it is counterproductive. Indigenous communities have a wealth of knowledge, experience, and expertise that could significantly strengthen global environmental and human rights movements if only we were given the space to fully participate. Our struggles are not just local issues—they are global issues, and our perspectives are essential to finding real solutions. But as long as Global North organisations continue to marginalise Indigenous self-representation, they will continue to miss out on the valuable insights and leadership that Indigenous communities can offer.
This brings us back to the question of cognitive colonialism. The “big brother, little sister” approach is not just a symptom of paternalism — it is a form of intellectual domination, a refusal to recognise the intellectual and political capacities of Indigenous Peoples. It is a way of maintaining control over the narrative by framing Indigenous communities as incapable, dependent, and in need of external guidance. And as long as this dynamic persists, true decolonisation will remain out of reach.
Representativism and the Neocolonialism of Indigenous Representation
This is where we arrived at “representativism” — a concept that, on the surface, appears to offer Indigenous Peoples a voice but, in practice, reinforces a neocolonial framework. The term “representativism” refers to the practice of having non-Indigenous individuals or organisations act as representatives for Indigenous communities, often in global forums, campaigns, or decision-making processes. This is a common occurrence within the environmental and human rights movements, where Indigenous Peoples are frequently “represented” by well-meaning allies from the Global North.
While these allies often have good intentions, representativism is inherently problematic because it continues the colonial practice of speaking for Indigenous Peoples rather than allowing us to speak for ourselves. In doing so, it perpetuates a power imbalance in which Indigenous communities are deprived of their agency and control over their own narratives. This practice is particularly insidious because it is often framed as a form of support, when in reality, it is a form of control.
To understand why representativism is so problematic, we need to look at its historical roots. During the colonial era, Indigenous Peoples were often deemed incapable of governing themselves or making decisions in their own best interest. Colonial powers appointed representatives — often outsiders or local elites aligned with colonial interests — to speak on behalf of Indigenous communities. This practice was not just about governance; it was also about controlling how Indigenous Peoples were portrayed to the outside world.
Today, representativism takes on a different form, but the underlying logic remains the same. Many Global North organisations position themselves as “representatives” of Indigenous communities in international spaces, arguing that they are better equipped to navigate complex political and legal systems, or that they have the resources and platforms needed to amplify Indigenous voices. But this approach strips Indigenous communities of their right to self-determination. It assumes that we are not capable of representing ourselves or that our voices need to be filtered through the lens of more “sophisticated” actors before they can be taken seriously.
This practice is particularly damaging because it reinforces the idea that Indigenous Peoples are dependent on external actors for legitimacy and recognition. When we are “represented” by non-Indigenous allies, it sends a message to the world that we cannot stand on our own, that we need others to speak for us in order to be heard. This is a form of intellectual and political colonisation, one that perpetuates the same power dynamics that have long kept Indigenous Peoples marginalised.
One of the most frustrating aspects of representativism is that it is often presented as a form of inclusion. Non-Indigenous organisations argue that by representing Indigenous communities, they are giving us a seat at the table. But this is a false promise. True inclusion means allowing Indigenous Peoples to represent themselves, to set their own agendas, and to speak in their own voices. Representativism, by contrast, offers only the appearance of inclusion while maintaining control in the hands of non-Indigenous actors.
I have seen this dynamic play out in countless international forums. Indigenous communities are invited to participate, but only in a limited capacity. Often, a few token Indigenous representatives are included, but they are outnumbered by non-Indigenous allies who claim to speak on behalf of Indigenous interests. These allies are the ones who draft the resolutions, shape the narratives, and lead the discussions, while Indigenous participants are relegated to a supporting role.
This is not true representation; it is tokenism. It allows Global North organisations to claim that they are inclusive, while continuing to control the direction and outcomes of the movements they are leading. It also creates a situation in which Indigenous voices are filtered through non-Indigenous actors, who may not fully understand the complexities of our struggles or may have their own agendas that do not align with our needs and priorities.
One of the reasons representativism persists is because many non-Indigenous allies see themselves as “experts” on Indigenous issues. They have studied our cultures, our histories, and our struggles, and they believe that this knowledge gives them the authority to speak on our behalf. But no amount of academic expertise can substitute for lived experience. Indigenous communities are the true experts on our own lives, and we do not need outsiders to tell our stories or advocate for our rights.
This is not to say that non-Indigenous allies have no role to play in the movement. On the contrary, there are many ways that allies can support Indigenous struggles without taking on a representative role. They can provide resources, amplify our voices, and work alongside us as partners. But the key is that they must be willing to step back and allow Indigenous communities to lead. They must recognise that their role is not to represent us, but to support us in representing ourselves.
Unfortunately, many non-Indigenous organisations are unwilling to relinquish the power and control that comes with being the “expert” on Indigenous issues. They may genuinely believe that they are helping, but in reality, they are reinforcing the same colonial power dynamics that have long oppressed Indigenous Peoples. This is why representativism is so dangerous — it allows Global North organisations to maintain control over Indigenous struggles, even as they claim to be supporting Indigenous self-determination.
The Illusion of Decolonisation
In recent years, there has been a growing discourse around decolonisation within the environmental and human rights movements. Many organisations now talk about the need to “decolonise” their work, to include Indigenous voices, and to acknowledge the colonial histories that have shaped global power dynamics. But too often, this rhetoric of decolonisation is just that — rhetoric. It is not backed up by real action or meaningful change.
One of the clearest examples of this is the ongoing struggle for direct funding mechanisms for Indigenous communities. For years, Indigenous organisations have campaigned for the right to receive funding directly, rather than having it filtered through non-Indigenous intermediaries. This is a critical issue because funding is power. When Indigenous communities are forced to rely on non-Indigenous organisations to access funding, it limits our ability to set our own agendas and prioritise our own needs.
Despite the clear demand for direct funding mechanisms, many Global North organisations have been slow to act. They argue that Indigenous communities are not yet ready to manage large sums of money, or that we lack the capacity to navigate complex financial systems. This is another form of representativism — it assumes that Indigenous Peoples are incapable of managing our own resources and that we need external actors to do it for us.
But the reality is that Indigenous communities have been managing complex systems of governance, resource distribution, and social organisation for centuries. We are more than capable of managing our own funds, and the insistence that we are not ready is just another example of the paternalistic attitudes that pervade the environmental and human rights movements. It is a way of maintaining control over Indigenous struggles, even as these organisations claim to be supporting our self-determination.
The failure to implement direct funding mechanisms is just one example of how the rhetoric of decolonisation is often hollow. Many organisations talk about decolonising their work, but very few are willing to take the concrete steps necessary to make it a reality. They may include Indigenous voices in their campaigns, but they are not willing to relinquish control over the decision-making process. They may use the language of decolonisation, but they continue to operate within a colonial framework that prioritises their own power and influence.
This is why I call it “fake decolonisation.” It is a way for Global North organisations to appear progressive and inclusive without actually changing the underlying power dynamics that keep Indigenous Peoples marginalised. It allows them to maintain control over Indigenous struggles while giving the illusion that they are supporting Indigenous self-determination.
The real work of decolonisation requires more than just including Indigenous voices in existing structures — it requires dismantling those structures altogether and building new ones that are led by Indigenous Peoples. It requires recognising that Indigenous communities are not just stakeholders in the global environmental and human rights movements — we are leaders. We have our own knowledge systems, our own governance structures, and our own visions for the future. We do not need to be “included” in someone else’s movement — we need to lead our own.
But this kind of real, meaningful decolonisation is threatening to the status quo. It challenges the power and control that Global North organisations have long held over Indigenous struggles. It requires them to step back and allow Indigenous communities to take the lead, even if that means losing some of their influence and authority. And for many organisations, that is a step they are not yet willing to take.
The struggle for direct funding mechanisms is just one example of the broader fight for Indigenous self-determination within the environmental and human rights movements. It is a fight that has been going on for more than two decades, and while there have been some victories, progress has been painfully slow. It has taken years of advocacy, negotiation, and campaigning to convince Global North organisations that Indigenous Peoples have the capacity to manage our own funds and govern ourselves.
This long road to change is frustrating, but it is also a reminder of the deep-seated colonial attitudes that still persist within these movements. It is not just a matter of resources or logistics—it is a matter of power. Global North organisations are reluctant to give up the power they hold over Indigenous struggles because doing so would mean relinquishing control over the narrative, the resources, and the direction of the movement.
But the longer these organisations hold on to their power, the more they hinder the progress of Indigenous self-determination. We do not need intermediaries to speak for us or manage our resources. We have the capacity, the knowledge, and the expertise to lead our own movements and govern our own communities. The real work of decolonisation requires acknowledging this truth and taking concrete steps to dismantle the systems of representativism and paternalism that continue to dominate the environmental and human rights movements.
The Persistence of Orientalism and Exoticism in Representativism
A major factor contributing to the persistence of representativism within the Global North environmental and human rights sectors is the exoticism and orientalism that continue to frame Indigenous Peoples as objects of fascination rather than as agents of change. The tropes of the “noble savage” or the “spiritual guardian of the earth” continue to be pervasive. These images are not just patronising, they are actively harmful because they reduce Indigenous Peoples to symbols, stripping us of our agency in the eyes of global movements.
When Indigenous Peoples are portrayed through these romanticised lenses, it becomes easier for external organisations to justify the need for representativism. The logic goes something like this: Indigenous communities are beautiful, sacred, and deeply connected to nature, but they are not equipped to engage with the complexities of global advocacy. This is the same cognitive colonialism we discussed earlier — it positions Indigenous Peoples as inherently incapable of fully participating in the modern world.
Representativism thrives on this exoticism. When Indigenous Peoples are reduced to symbols of resistance or environmental stewardship, it makes it difficult for us to be seen as complex, multifaceted communities with our own governance systems, political goals, and leadership structures. Instead, we are treated as mascots for global movements, there to provide a moral backdrop for non-Indigenous-led campaigns.
This is not to say that our connection to the land is not a fundamental part of our identity — it is. But that connection is not all we are. We are nations, with centuries of history, with economies, governance structures, laws, and, yes, political ambitions. When Global North organisations engage with us as if our only role is to provide spiritual guidance or act as caretakers of the environment, they are engaging in a form of exoticism that ultimately marginalises us.
Another common justification for representativism is the idea that Indigenous Peoples lack the capacity to engage in complex advocacy work, manage large sums of funding, or navigate international legal systems. This argument is deeply flawed because it sets up a false binary: either Indigenous communities are fully capable of operating in the same ways as Global North organisations, or they are incapable and therefore in need of representation.
This binary fails to recognise the structural barriers that Indigenous communities face—barriers that have been put in place by colonial powers and perpetuated by modern states. These include language barriers, the technological divide, and systemic exclusion from decision-making spaces. These challenges are real, but they are not insurmountable, and they certainly do not justify the continuation of representativism. In fact, the only way to address these barriers is to dismantle the systems that have been built to exclude us and to support Indigenous-led efforts to overcome them.
Capacity-building is often cited as the solution to this problem, but too often, capacity-building initiatives are led by non-Indigenous organisations that dictate the terms of engagement. These programs are rarely about transferring real power to Indigenous communities. Instead, they are about teaching Indigenous Peoples how to operate within the frameworks established by Global North organisations. This is yet another form of cognitive colonialism — it assumes that the only way for Indigenous communities to be “ready” is to conform to Global North standards of governance, advocacy, and financial management.
But what if the problem isn’t our capacity, but the frameworks themselves? What if Indigenous governance systems, economic models, and ways of engaging in advocacy are simply different, and those differences should be respected and embraced? Indigenous communities around the world have been governing ourselves for centuries, long before the imposition of colonial rule. We have our own ways of managing resources, resolving conflicts, and organising politically. The idea that we need to be “taught” how to engage in advocacy or governance is paternalistic and rooted in colonial thinking.
As I mentioned above which one of the most glaring examples of representativism in action is the issue of direct funding for Indigenous organisations. Despite decades of advocacy, the vast majority of funding for Indigenous Peoples is still channelled through intermediaries — often large, Global North-based NGOs. These organisations claim that Indigenous communities are not yet ready to manage large sums of money, or that direct funding would create logistical challenges.
But this argument is simply another manifestation of the “big brother, little sister” dynamic. It assumes that Indigenous communities are not mature enough to handle the responsibilities that come with direct funding. This is not only false, it is also deeply condescending. Indigenous organisations have been calling for direct funding for years, arguing that we are fully capable of managing our own resources and that the current system of intermediaries only serves to perpetuate the power imbalance between the Global North and Indigenous communities.
The resistance to direct funding is not just about capacity — it is about control. By acting as intermediaries, Global North organisations maintain control over Indigenous struggles. They decide which projects get funded, which communities are supported, and which issues are prioritised. This gives them an enormous amount of power, and it is power that they are reluctant to give up.
Moreover, the current funding model often requires Indigenous organisations to tailor their projects to fit the priorities of Global North funders. This leads to a situation in which Indigenous communities are forced to conform to external agendas rather than pursuing their own goals and priorities. This is a form of neocolonialism — it allows Global North organisations to continue to dictate the terms of Indigenous struggles, even as they claim to be supporting Indigenous self-determination.
The fight for direct funding is a fight for autonomy. It is a fight for the right to manage our own resources, set our own agendas, and govern ourselves without interference from external actors. And it is a fight that Indigenous communities are fully capable of winning — if only we are given the chance.
As someone who has been in this fight for over two decades, I have witnessed the slow, grinding progress toward securing direct funding mechanisms for Indigenous organisations. Every victory has been hard-won, and the obstacles we face are both numerous and entrenched.
One of the greatest barriers we face is the paternalism that remains deeply ingrained in Global North organisations. Despite years of advocacy and the countless examples of successful Indigenous-led initiatives, there is still a pervasive belief that we need to be “monitored” or “guided” by non-Indigenous intermediaries. This paternalism is often masked as concern — concern that we may not have the financial systems in place, concern that we might be vulnerable to corruption, concern that we may not use the funds in the most “effective” way.
But who gets to define what is effective? Whose standards are we being held to?
These questions are at the heart of the struggle for direct funding. Global North organisations often impose their own standards of effectiveness, efficiency, and accountability on Indigenous communities, without taking into account our own values, governance structures, and priorities. This is not just a technical issue — it is a political one. It is about who gets to define the terms of engagement and who holds the power in the relationship between Indigenous communities and the global funding ecosystem.
The slow pace of change is also a reflection of the broader reluctance within Global North organisations to relinquish control. While many of these organisations talk about the need to decolonise their work, few are willing to take the concrete steps necessary to make that happen. Decolonisation is not just about including Indigenous voices or acknowledging the harm caused by colonialism — it is about transferring power and resources to Indigenous communities so that we can lead our own movements and govern our own affairs.
This reluctance is particularly evident when it comes to funding. Many Global North organisations are happy to fund Indigenous projects, but only if they can maintain control over how those funds are used. They set the priorities, the metrics of success, and the reporting requirements, all of which are designed to ensure that Indigenous organisations operate within the frameworks established by the Global North. This is not decolonisation — it is a continuation of the same colonial power dynamics that have long kept Indigenous Peoples in a position of dependence.
The insistence on maintaining control over funding is also a reflection of a broader lack of trust in Indigenous communities. Despite all the rhetoric about Indigenous capacity-building and self-determination, there is still a deep-seated belief that we cannot be trusted to manage our own resources. This lack of trust is a form of systemic racism — it assumes that Indigenous communities are inherently less capable or less honest than their Global North counterparts.
But this is a narrative that we must continue to challenge. Indigenous communities have been managing complex systems of governance, resource distribution, and economic organisation for centuries. We are more than capable of managing our own funds, and we have proven time and again that we can do so in a way that is transparent, accountable, and effective. The real challenge is not our capacity — it is the willingness of Global North organisations to recognise and respect our autonomy.
At the heart of this debate is the myth that decolonisation can be achieved without the transfer of resources and power. Many Global North organisations are happy to talk about the need to decolonise their work, but they stop short when it comes to actually relinquishing control over the resources that sustain the movement.
True decolonisation requires more than just symbolic gestures — it requires a fundamental shift in the way resources are distributed and power is exercised. It requires recognising that Indigenous communities are not just stakeholders in the global environmental and human rights movements — we are leaders in our own right. We have our own knowledge systems, our own governance structures, and our own visions for the future. And we do not need to be “represented” by anyone else.
But this kind of real, meaningful decolonisation is threatening to the status quo. It challenges the power and control that Global North organisations have long held over Indigenous struggles. It requires them to step back and let Indigenous communities take the lead, not just in rhetoric but in practice. This shift in power dynamics is not something that can be easily accepted by organisations that have long positioned themselves as the gatekeepers of funding, knowledge, and advocacy.
When decolonisation is discussed in these circles, it often remains at the level of discourse — a buzzword to demonstrate political awareness or to tick a box on a strategic plan. But true decolonisation involves much more than using the right terminology or increasing Indigenous representation on boards and panels. It requires a radical rethinking of how resources are allocated and who holds decision-making power.
In practice, this means relinquishing control over funding. It means recognising that Indigenous communities are the best-equipped to decide how resources should be used in their own territories, and that they do not need to adhere to Global North frameworks to be successful. It also means understanding that Indigenous self-governance is not something to be “developed” or “built” by external actors—it already exists, and it must be respected.
The Resistance to Change and Our Long Road
Despite the growing discourse around decolonisation, real change has been slow. The resistance to direct funding and Indigenous-led governance is a testament to how deeply ingrained colonial power structures remain within the environmental and human rights movements. These structures are not just about money — they are about who gets to set the agenda, who decides what issues are prioritised, and who is seen as a legitimate actor in the global struggle for justice.
This resistance is often framed in terms of “pragmatism” or “realism.” We are told that while the idea of direct funding is noble, it is not yet practical due to logistical challenges, financial accountability concerns, or capacity issues. But these are excuses, not reasons. The real issue is that Global North organisations are reluctant to give up their position of authority. They are reluctant to accept that Indigenous Peoples do not need to be managed, represented, or guided by external actors.
In many ways, this resistance is a form of fear. It is a fear of losing control, a fear of being made irrelevant, and a fear of confronting the uncomfortable truth that the Global North has long benefited from the subjugation and marginalisation of Indigenous Peoples. For centuries, colonial powers extracted resources from Indigenous lands while simultaneously denying Indigenous Peoples the right to govern themselves. Today, many Global North organisations continue to extract value from Indigenous struggles—whether that value is financial, moral, or political—while maintaining control over the narrative.
This is why the fight for direct funding is not just about money — it is about power. It is about who gets to define the terms of engagement, who holds the reins of decision-making, and who is seen as the legitimate voice of the struggle. And until Indigenous communities are given the autonomy to lead their own movements, this power dynamic will remain unchanged.
One of the most frustrating aspects of this struggle is the way that Global North organisations have co-opted the language of decolonisation without committing to the necessary structural changes. Decolonisation has become a buzzword, a way for organisations to signal their political awareness without actually relinquishing any of their power.
We see this in the way that Global North organisations increasingly talk about “Indigenous leadership” while continuing to dictate the terms of that leadership. They invite Indigenous representatives to sit on advisory boards or participate in consultation processes, but they rarely give those representatives real decision-making power. They may fund Indigenous-led projects, but they often require those projects to conform to Global North standards of governance, accountability, and success.
This is not true decolonisation — it is a form of performative allyship that allows Global North organisations to maintain control while appearing to support Indigenous self-determination. It is a way for these organisations to absolve themselves of the responsibility to make real, meaningful changes to the way they operate.
The co-opting of decolonisation language also serves to dilute the radical potential of the concept. Decolonisation is supposed to be about dismantling colonial power structures and transferring autonomy and resources to Indigenous communities. But when Global North organisations use the term without making any substantive changes to their practices, they strip the concept of its revolutionary potential. It becomes just another tool in the toolkit of global advocacy, rather than a call to fundamentally reshape the power dynamics that have long marginalised Indigenous Peoples.
The fight for Indigenous autonomy, both in terms of self-representation and direct funding, is far from over. It is a struggle that requires constant vigilance, as the forces of representativism, paternalism, and neocolonialism are deeply entrenched. But it is also a fight that Indigenous communities are well-equipped to win. For centuries, we have resisted the forces of colonialism, and we have maintained our cultures, our governance systems, and our ways of life in the face of enormous pressure to assimilate.
The key to this struggle is recognising that Indigenous Peoples are not passive recipients of aid or representation—we are active agents of change. We do not need to be led, guided, or managed by anyone else. We have our own solutions, our own strategies, and our own visions for the future. What we need is for the global environmental and human rights movements to step back, relinquish control, and support us on our own terms.
This means more than just providing financial support—it means trusting Indigenous communities to manage those resources in ways that align with our own values and priorities. It means recognising that our governance systems, while different from those of the Global North, are no less legitimate or effective. And it means accepting that the fight for Indigenous rights is not something that can be won by Global North organisations—it is a fight that must be led by Indigenous Peoples themselves.
The road ahead is long, but it is one that we are ready to walk.
Indigenous communities around the world have proven time and again that we are capable of leading our own movements, governing our own lands, and managing our own resources. The only thing standing in our way is the persistence of colonial power structures within the global environmental and human rights movements.
And it is these structures that must be dismantled if we are to achieve true self-determination. Long live, Decolonisation!!!
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