The Political Ecology of Indigenous Territorial Struggles in the Darién

The Political Ecology of Indigenous Territorial Struggles in the Darién, Panama: Land Invasions, Partial State Recognition, and Racialized Discrimination in the Emberá - Wounaan Collective Land Struggle

Marie - Line Sarrazin

A thesis submitted in conformi ty with the requirements for the degree of Masters of Arts Department of Geography and Planning University of Toronto

Marie - Line Sarrazin

Masters of Arts

Department of Geography and Planning University of Toronto

2015 Abstract

By studying the case of land invasions on t he Collective Land of Arimae and Emberá Puru, this thesis examines the material and symbolic conflicts underpinning the struggle for the recognition of indigenous collective lands in the Darién province of Panama. D ata was collected primarily through semi - structured interviews and participant observation over a three - month period in

Arimae in 2014. I argue that land invasions on indigenous territories are facilitated by the State’s ambivalence in the recognition o f indigenous territorial rights, by discours es that devalue indigenous culture s and practices, and by the corruption of local State institutions. These element s, coupled with land invasions, promote internal rule violation and leadership cooptation in Arimae, which weaken community governance instit utions. Yet, many community members retain a strong desire to fight for a legal recognition of their territory in order to halt land invasion s , to protect the forest, and to secure the future of the ir children .

L’ é cologie Politique des Luttes Territoriale s Au tochtones dans le Dari én, Panama: Invasions des Terres, Reconnaissance Partielle de l’ É tat, et Discrimination Raciale dans la Lutte des Terres Collectives Emberá - Wounaan

Marie - Line Sarrazin

Maîtrise ès arts

Département de Géographie et Urbanisme Université de Tor onto

2015 R é sum é

P ar l ’ é tude de cas des invasions des terres de la Ter re Collective d’ Arimae et Emberá Puru, ce mémoire examine les conflit s matériaux et symboliques qui sous - tendent la lutte pour la reconnaissance des Terres Collectives autochtones dans l a province de Darién au Panama. Les données furent principalement recueilli es au moyen d’entrevues semi - structurées et d’observation participative sur une période de trois mois à Arimae en 2014. Je soutiens que les invasions des terres autochtones sont fac ilitées par l’ambivalence de l’État dans la reconnaissance des droits territoriaux autochtones , par des discours dévaluant les cultures et pratiques autochtones ainsi que par la corruption des institutions étatiques locales. Ces éléments, combinés aux inva sions, promeuvent la violation des règles internes et la cooptation des chefs à

Arimae, ce qui fragilise les institutions de gouvernance communautaire. Malgré tout, plusieurs membres de la communauté d’Arimae conservent une forte volonté de continuer la lu tte pour la reconnaissance de leurs droits territoriaux dans le but de mettre fin aux invasions, de protéger la forêt, et d’assurer le futur de leurs enfants.

iii

Acknowledgments

I wish to thank a number of people and organizations for supporting me throughout this project. First, I am thankful to the General Congress of Emberá and Wounaan Collective Lands for supporting my work, as well as the Community of Arimae and Emberá Puru for welcoming me in their community. This work would not having been possible with out the generosity of the inhabitants of Arimae and Emberá Puru, who willingly shared their knowledge and know - how with me, included me in their everyday conversations and, broadly, allowed me to be part of their lives for three months. This is an experien ce I will never forget.

A warm thank you to my supervisor, Dr. Christian Abizaid, for his availability, his thorough feedback and, especially, his encouragement. Christian’s optimism and unwavering confidence in my ability constantly pushed me forward, des pite the ups and downs of academic writing. Thank you to the members of my committee, Dr. Sharlene Mollett and Dr. Thembela Kepe, for their critical comments and recommendations.

I also wish to extend my thanks to scholars who, in Panama and in Canada, fac ilitated my journey, both logistically and intellectually, and contributed to my understanding of the local context, namely: Dr. Kate Kirby, Dr. Julie Velásquez Runk, Javier Mateo - Vega, and Professor Francisco Herrera.

Of course, I want to thank my family, particularly my mother, my father and my sister, for their unconditional support. Je tiens à vous dire un grand merci pour votre appui et votre confiance. A special thanks to my twin sister, Émilie, for having been my most devoted source of moral support, advice, constructive criticism and motivation, despite the physical distance that now separates us.

My friends and colleagues of the M.A. program of the Department of Geography also had a large role to play in making my experience at the University of To ronto, and in Toronto more generally, memorable. Specifically, I want to thank the PGB office 200 crew, Léa, Emily and Rachel, for making my last months of writing less isolating and more enjoyable.

Finally, I am grateful to the Social Sciences and Humani ties Research Council of Canada, through the Master’s scholarships program, for their financial support to this research. Fieldwork

iv for this study was also made possible thanks to a Graduate Expansion Fund Research Fellowship of the Department of Geography of the University of Toronto, and the 2014 GreenSaver Alastair Fairweather Memorial Award in the Environment of the School of the Environment. Lastly, I want to thank the Conference of Latin Americanist Geographers (CLAG) as well as the School of Graduate Studies of the University of Toronto for financially supporting my participation to the 2015 CLAG Meeting in Fortaleza, Brazil, where I had the opportunity to present the preliminary findings of my research.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments ...... iii

Table of Contents ...... vi

List of Tables ...... ix

List of Figures ...... x

List of Appendices ...... xi

List of Acronyms ...... xii

Chapter 1 Introduction ...... 1

1.1 Statement of the problem: Indigenous land rights in Panama and Latin America ...... 1

1.2 Objective and research questions ...... 7

1.3 Thesis outline ...... 8

Chapter 2 Literature Review ...... 9

2.1 The political ecology of difference ...... 9

2.2 Understanding territorial struggles ...... 11

2.2.1 Indigenous self - determination ...... 11

2.2.2 The State and the maintenance of the status - quo ...... 12

2.3 The ethno - territorial model ...... 14

2.3.1 Boundaries and property rights ...... 14

2.3.2 Racialization and identity ...... 17

2 .4 Conceptual framework ...... 20

Chapter 3 Study Area and Methods ...... 22

3.1 Presentation of the research site ...... 22

3.1.1 The Darién region ...... 22

3.1.2 Arimae and Emberá Puru ...... 24

3.2 Reconnaissance visit and research agreement ...... 34

3.2.1 Producing useful material for the community during fieldwork ...... 36

3.3 Data collection methods ...... 37

3.3.1 Participant observation ...... 38

3.3.2 Sampling and recruitment ...... 39

3. 3.3 Focus group ...... 41

3.3.4 Semi - structured interviews ...... 41

3.3.5 Documentary research ...... 43

3.4 Preserving confidentiality ...... 44

3.5 Data analysis ...... 46

3.6 Positionality ...... 46

Chapter 4 Challenges to indigenous territoriality in Darién ...... 50

4.1 The case of Arimae ...... 50

4.1.1 From territorial formation until the adoption of Law 72 (1968 - 2008) ...... 5 0

4.1.2 Since the adoption of Law 72 (2008 - 2015) ...... 52

4.2 Imp licit state support for land invasions ...... 61

4.2.1 State’s delays and strategic (in)actions ...... 61

4.2.2 Racial discourses and the main tenance of inequalities ...... 65

4.2.3 Corruption of local state institutions ...... 69

4.3 Weakened community governance institutions ...... 71

4.3.1 Collective management in the face of pressures ...... 71

4.3.2 Renting land: collective risk and individual benefits ...... 72

4.3.3 Timber extraction and internal divisions ...... 74

4.3.4 Leadership cooptation ...... 75

4.4 The motivations driving the territorial struggle ...... 78

4.4.1 Official title: barrier against land invasions and deforestation ...... 78

4.4.2 Collective title: buffer against dispossession and acculturation ...... 80 vii

Chapter 5 Conclusion ...... 83

5.1 Summary of key find ings ...... 83

5.2 Limitations and recommendations for further research ...... 84

5.3 Implications and recommendations for Arimae ...... 86

References ...... 89

Appendix A ...... 106

Appendix B ...... 107

Appendix C ...... 108

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List of Tables

Table 1 : Chronology of the main events related to Law 72 and the case of Arimae (2007 - 2015) …… ……………………………… .. ……………………………………………………… 52

List of Figures

Figure 1 . Map of the Darién region between Agua Fría N°1 and Metetí . ……...... 27

Figure 2. The Pan - American Highway between Arimae and Emberá Puru …………………….28

Figure 3. Two types of elevated housing …………………………………………………..…….30

Figure 4. An elevat ed wooden house and a cement house ……………………………………....30

Figure 5. The cultural house in Arimae …………………………………………………….……31

Figure 6. Map of the Collective Land of Arimae and Emberá Puru ……………………………..32

Figure 7. Communal work day to build a cement staircase to the river …………………………34

Figure 8. General assembly meeting with the General Administrator of ANATI in Arimae ……59

List of Appendices

Appendix A: Topic guide – Focus group ………………………………….…………… … … 104

Appendix B: Sem i - structured interview guide - R esidents of Arima e and Emberá Puru …...105

Appendix C: Semi - structured interview guide - Colonists …………………………….…….106

List of Acronyms

ANAM Autoridad Nacional del Ambiente [National Environmental Authority]

ANATI Autoridad Nacional d e Administración de Tierras [National Land Management Authority]

CIDH Corte Interamericana de Derechos Humanos [Inter - American Court of Human Rights]

COONAPIP Coordinadora Nacional de Pueblos Indígenas de Panamá [National Coordinating Organization of the Indigenous Peop les of Panama]

IACHR Inter - American Commission on Human Rights

MIDA Ministerio de Desarrollo Agropecuario [Ministry of Agricultural Development]

SENAFRONT Servicio Nacional de Fronteras [National Border Service]

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Chapter 1 Introduction

On June 17 th , 2013, the Emberá - Wounaan community of Arimae and Emberá Puru blocked the Pan - American Highway for two consecutive days, in protest against a decision of the Darién Civil Circuit Court, which supported a ruling that granted land property rights to non - indigenous settlers inside the community ’s claimed territory (Castro, 2013 a; Castro, 2013b ). This action aimed at pressing the National Land Management Authority [Autoridad Nacional de Administración de Tierras] ( ANATI) to intervene in the community’s legal struggle against land invasions by non - indigenous settlers, or colonos . Arimae and Emberá Puru, established along the Pan - American Highway in the Darién province of Eastern Panama, continues to fight for the legal recognition of its Collective Land , or collectively - managed indigenous territory . Sixteen Emberá and Wounaan communities in Darién reside outside recognized and protected lands (International Work Group for Indigenous Affaires [IWGIA], n.d.); for that reason, they are facing physical and legal obstacles in preserving the integrity of their territory (Herlihy, 2003). These communities, along with communities residing inside the Darién National Park, are organized under the General Congress of Emberá and Wounaan Collective Lands [Congreso General de Tierras Colectivas Emberá y Wounaan]. In addition to Arimae and Emberá Puru, at least eight other Emberá and Wounaan communities 1 in Darién, the Wounaan communities of Chiman Majé (Panama Province) and a number of Bribri communities in Western Panama are also facing land invasions as they are fighting for the recognition of their collective land rights ( Denuncia formal, 2012). The case of land invasions in Arimae and Emberá Puru is thus far from isolated.

1.1 Statement of the problem: I ndigenous land rights in Panama and Latin America

The challenge s faced by Arimae and Emberá Puru are occurring despite recent advances towards indigenous rights recognition in Panama, and in Latin America more generally. Indeed, almost all countries in Latin America, including Panama, have adopted constitutional chang es to

1 These communities are Río Congo, Ja qué, Aruza, Pijibasal, Bajo Lepe, Mercadeo, Mogue and Tutumate .

2 recognize indigenous cultures and languages (Huff, 2005). These constitutional reforms marked a departure from previous state policies based on the assimilation of indigenous pe ople into the ‘nation - state’ (Dí az Polanco, 1997). The State’s responsive ness to indigenous demands coincides with the post - Cold War democratisation of Latin American s tates (Huff, 2005; Van Cott, 200 1; Yashar, 1998). Indigenous mobilisation also follows the implementation of economic neoliberal policies, which increased the pr essures on the natural resources on which indigenous communities de pend (Griffiths, 2001; Martinez - Alier, 2014; Poste ro & Zamosc, 2005; Van Cott, 200 1).

To demand the recognition of their rights, some indigenous movements have resorted to armed confrontat ion (Poste ro & Zamosc, 2005; Van Cott, 200 1). Other indigenous movements , instead, have sought to take advantage of the opening of national democratic spaces, but also of global discursive spaces (Bello, 2004; Brysk, 2000; Martí i Puig, 2010). Indeed, Lati n American indigenous groups benefitted from globalization in the forms of eased communication and alliance building with other indigenous movements , as well as with environmental and human rights organizations (Brysk, 2000). On the international arena, th e language of indigenous rights has been institutionalized in normative and legal instruments such as ILO Convention 169 in 1989 and, more recently, the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) in 2007. International financia l institutions (IFIs), such as the World Bank, have also internalized such norms and pressured states to recognize indigenous rights as a condition for project funding (Colchester , Mackay, Griffiths & Nelson , 2001; Horton, 2006), but have also promoted the recognition of indigenous territories as a form of decentralization for efficiency reasons (Van Cott, 2000).

As a result, indigenous movements have flourished across Latin America, leading to the creation of indigenous - based political parties in countrie s where indigenous peoples form a substantial portion of the population, such as in Bolivia and Ecuador, and to the establishment of indigenous territories in Bolivia, in the Amazon region (Brazil, Colombia, Ecuador and Peru) and in lowland Central America (such as in Nicaragua and Panama) (Martí i Puig, 2010). The forms of indigenous mobilization, the demands, as well as States’ responses tend to vary according to the demographic weight of the indigenous groups, with lowland groups being generally less num erous than those from the highlands (Brysk, 2000; Martí i Puig, 2010; Postero & Zamosc, 2005; Van Cott, 2005). Whereas highland majority groups strive to increase the representation of

3 indigenous interests within the State’s structure, lowland minority gro ups tend to focus their demand on local territorial autonomy (Postero & Zamosc. 2005). Demands for autonomy are nonetheless not expressed in secessionist terms: both majority and minority indigenous groups struggle to improve their relationship and positio n with and within the ir respective national State (Dí az Polanco, 1997). States tend to make more substantial concessions toward indigenous rights recognition when they contain minority groups, due to the lower risk of affecting the political status - quo (V an Cott, 2005).

In Panama, the indigenous population represented only about 12% of the total population in 2010 (Instituto Nacional de Estadísticas y Censos [ INEC], 2010, figure 20 ). Overall, Panama’s legal system is deemed as strong in terms of indigenou s rights rec ognition and protection (Vallejos Larios , 2003; Anaya, 2014; Roldán Ortiga, 2004; Van Cott, 2006). In particular, the country is praised for the establishment of five indigenous comarcas, which recognize the territorial rights of five of the se ven indigenous groups 2 found in Panama. A comarca is a unique designation which not only acknowledges the collective land rights of indigenous communities, but also allows for their semi - autonomous political organization within the state system (Herlihy, 1 995). Indeed, the comarca system recognizes the authority of the ‘traditional’ 3 leadership and the customary law of the indigenous group on the comarca territory. The comarcas nonetheless remain under the jurisdiction of the national government (Herlihy, 1 995). For that reason, in addition to the traditional leadership, state representatives, such as governors, district mayors and municipal representatives, are appointed by the state or elected by the population depending on the position (Castillo Diaz, 200 7). In the case of the two most densely - populated comarcas , Gunayala and Ng ä be - Buglé, the inhabitants additionally elect their own representatives (deputies) to the National Assembly (Castillo Diaz, 2007). Various Ministries’ and state agencies’ regional o ffices are also present on comarcal territory and are expected to collaborate with traditional authorities (Castillo Diaz, 2007).

2 The seven indigenous groups found in Panama are the Guna, the Ember á, the Wounaan, the Ng ä be, the Buglé, the Bribri and the Naso - Tj ë rdi. The Bribri and the Naso - Tj ë rdi do not have their own comarca . The Guna have three comarcas (Gunayala, Madugandí and Wargandí), while the Emberá and Wounaan share a comarca divided in two regio ns in Darién, Eastern Panama. The Ng ä be and Buglé share a comarca in Western Panama.

3 The ‘traditional’ authority structure of the comarcas actually corresponds to the Guna political structure ( caciquismo ), which was adopted strategically by other indigen ous groups in Panama (Herlihy, 1985).

The oldest comarca is the comarca Gunayala, a Guna reserve turned comarca in 1953. Gunayala stretches along the Atlantic coas t, bordering Panama Province and Darién Province. The comarca Emberá - Wounaan was created 30 years later, in 1983, and contains two areas, Cémaco and Sambú. The comarca Ng ä be - Buglé, the only comarca in Western Panama, was established in 1997. Finally, the c omarcas Guna de Madungandí and Guna de Wargandí, created in 1996 and 2000 respectively, do not possess the same political standing as the three other comarcas ; instead of being equivalent to semi - autonomous provinces, they are dee med as comarcal municipali ties ( corregimiento comarcal ) within Panama Province and Darién Province respectively due to their low population (Herrera, 2012). Madungandí and Wargandí are not divided into districts and each only elects one municipal representative (Castillo Diaz, 2007 ). The Darién region contains two of the five comarcas , Emberá - Wounaan and Wargandí, as well as the Darién National Park, which overlaps with indigenous territories . The Darién National Park and the two comarcas point to the biological and cultural diversi ty of the region, where inhabitants self - identify as Guna, Emberá, Wounaan, Afro, or Latino . 4 The comarcas however do not encompass the totality of indigenous communities in Darién: as of 2003, fifteen Emberá and Guna communities resided in the Darién Nati onal Park, while seventeen Emberá and Wounaan communities were on unprotected land (Herlihy, 2003).

In December 2008, Panama made an important step towards extending indigenous land rights by adopting Law 72, which established a special process to grant c ollective property rights to indigenous land outside of comarcas (República de Panamá , 2008 b ) . The designation of Collective Lands ( Tierras Colectivas ) therefore offers an alternative to the establishment of new comarcas . This law represented a victory for the indigenous communities whose lands had not been encompassed by the creation of comarcas , as it allows for the granting of indefinite, non - transferable, irrevocable and inalienable collective titles at the community - level based on criteria of economic, social and cultur al well - being (República de Panamá , 2008 b ). It would have seemed that the struggle of communities not yet within a comarca , such as our study community

4 I use the term Latino in the Panamanian context similarly to Alvarado (2002) and Velásquez Runk (2012). The term Latino designates individuals of Spanish or mixed heritage ( mestizo ). The term represent s the dominant imagined ‘Panamanian’ identity, centered around the figure of the campesino of the central provinces ( Interior ), or the mestizo interiorano (Horton, 2006). Called Interioranos or colonos in Darién, L atino famer s and cattle ranchers from the I nterior moved to Darién following the expansion of the Pan - American Highway in the province, provoking a rapid colonisation since the late 1970s.

(Arimae and Emberá Puru), to protect their territories from encroachment would have en ded with the adoption of Law 72. Yet, the law did not come into force before June 2010 and, while 43 communities submitted demands for the recognition of 19 collective territories by 2012 (Velásquez Runk, 2012), only two Wounaan communities in Darién and t wo Emberá communities in Alto Bayano (Panama Province) have been granted Collective Land titles since then ( see Table 1 for a chronology of events ). As will be explored in more details in chapter 4, Law 72 offers a weak support to indigenous communities, a s it serves to mask a lack of political will to further recognize indigenous land rights in practice. In fact, the lack of political will in protecting indigenous territorial rights has extended to the comarcas , as recent changes to the General Environment al Law (Law 41) eliminated articles that ensured coordination and consultation with indigenous authorities before making use of natural resources on comarcal land (Herrera, 2012; Masardule, 2012; Velásquez Runk, 2012).

In Panama and in Latin America more g enerally, the challenges faced by indigenous communities on the ground, despite supportive constitutional and legal frameworks , points to a gap between the law on paper and in practice, between the constitutional advances and their related policy implemen tation, particularly in relation to land and resources rights. In a review of the literature on indigenous land rights in Latin America , 5 Stock s (2005) ide ntified three main issues preventing advances in indigenous policy application: first, the presence, on the claimed land, of resources coveted by other economic and political interests; second, the States’ democratic openings which allow for contestation by non - indigenous actors; and third, the weak representation within indigenous governance institutions . The two first issues point to the opposition of non - indigenous actors in ‘relegating’ large quantities of valuable resources to indigenous groups. Carvalho (2000) and Huff (2005) also found that, despite alleged fear of secession and territorial instabil ity, the setbacks that followed the advances in indigenous territorial rights recognition resulted from the pressures of competing interests over resources on claimed indigenous territories. As such, the struggles of indigenous communities in Latin America in having their territorial rights recognized and enforced are one manifestation of the neoliberal conflicts over natural resources triggered across Latin America by unequal land

5 Stock s (2005) focus ed on the case s o f Nicaragua, Brazil, Colombia, B olivia and Peru.

6 distribution and resource extraction booms, mega - development projects, as we ll as conservation initiatives (Renfrew, 2011).

Few studies in Latin America focus on land colonization of indigenous lands by non - indigenous farmers as a facet of neoliberal conflicts over natural resources (for exceptions, see Hayes, 2010; Howard, 1998; Mollett, 2011) . Yet, the case of Arimae and Emberá Puru, briefly presented above, is representative of a broader trend: indigenous populations across Latin America are facing problems safeguarding their traditional territories and livelihoods, with land i nvasions being a major challenge (Aylwin, 2003; Colchester et al. , 2001). To date, research on indigenous politics in Latin America has focus ed primarily on successful examples of indigenous mobilization in countries where indigenous peoples make up a larg e portion of the population, such as in Bolivia, Ecuador, Peru, Mexico and Guatemala (Van Cott, 2010). Renfrew’s (2011) review of the literature on neoliberal conflicts over natural resources in Latin America also shows a predominance of case studies from Brazil, Mexico, Peru and Ecuador. Thus, with the exception of Guatemala, Central American countries remain understudied in the literature (Van Cott, 2010). As a region, Latin America is also underrepresented in the common - property regime (CPR) literature ( Katz, 2000; Richard, 1997), even more so in relation to indigenous CPRs (Bremner & Lu, 2006). 6

In the case of Panama, there is a paucity of research on the challenges faced by yet - to - be - recognized indigenous collective lands . Most studies document the hist orical and contemporary struggles of indigenous communities for the recognition and later protection of their comarcas (Herlihy, 1995; Herrera, 2012; Jordon, 2014; Velásquez Runk, 2012, Wickstrom, 2003). Research also identif ies the socioeconomic and envir onmental impacts of the expansion of the Pan - American Highway in Eastern Panama (Herlihy, 1989; Suman, 2006 - 2007; Wali, 1993), but studies on the struggles of indigenous communities in relation to the Highway expansion have focused on the Gunas and Emberá communities resettled by the Bayano Dam (Panama province) (Horton, 2006; Wali, 1993). To the author’s knowledge, only Velásquez Runk (2012) includes a detailed discussion on the challe nges of the Emberá and Wounaan collective l ands movement of

6 Exceptions include the work of Br emner & Lu (2006), Freire (2003), Lu (2001), and Richard (1997).

Darién in ha ving their land rights truly protected by the State . 7 Velásquez Runk ’s discussion , however , does not delve into the process of land invasions as the collective claims remain unsettled . As the issue of land invasions in Darién persists, and since similar st ruggles occur elsewhere in Latin America, this study examines the interactions between land invasions, indigenous territorial resources management and the process of collective land titling on the Collective Land of Arima e and Emberá Puru . In so doing, thi s study will contribute to the literature on indigenous territorial rights in Panama specifically, and in Latin America more generally.

1.2 Objective and research questions

The objective of the research is to uncover the material and symbolic conflicts underpi nning the struggle for the recognition of indigenous collective lands in Panama . Using the C ollective Land of Arimae and Emberá Puru as a case study, I examine the elements enabling land invasions on indigenous collective lands and the impacts of invasions on institutions for collective resource management . The main research questions guiding this study are:

1. What are the main external and internal forces pushing against the maintenance o f a collectively - managed territory in Arimae and Emberá Puru ?

2. How hav e land invasions affected collective resources management in Arimae and Emberá Puru?

3. What motivations, values, and perceived benefits sustain the fight for collective titling?

To answer these questions, fieldwork was conducted between September and Novemb er 2014 in the community of Arimae and Emberá Puru. Data was collected through semi - structured interviews with community members, community leaders and colonist s, a focus group with community members and leaders, and participant observation. The examinatio n of legal documents and news coverage about the case complemented the analysis.

7 Outside of the academia, the Guna No n - Government Organization (NGO) Dobbo - Yala produced a detailed report of the cases of land invasions by colonists, illegal loggers or drug traffickers on Emberá and Wounaan collective lands in 2002 (Alvarado, 2002). Yet, given the time of publishing, the report is not up - to - date. In addition, it was produced five years prior to the adoption of Law 72 in 2008, which substantially changed the legal landscape of the collective land claims.

In this thesis, I use the term ‘Arimae’ when designating the entire physical territory and its people, and the expression ‘the village of Arimae’ when designating the individ ual settlement. I also use the term ‘the community’ when referring to collective actions and decisions, but I acknowledge that doing so masks the internal differences that exist within Arimae (Agrawal & Gibson, 1999).

1.3 Thesis outline

The thesis is divided i n five chapters. Chapter 2 reviews the literature on indigenous territoriality and ethno - territorial rights, with a focus on Latin America. The review addresses the framing of indigenous territorial rights, particularly in political ecology, the limitation s to territorial recognition, and the issue of land invasion s by non - indigenous settlers of indigenous lands. The chapter ends with the presentation of the conceptual framework used for this study. Chapter 3 describes the study area, the Collective Land of Arimae and Emberá Puru, as well as the various methods used in the context of this qualitative research. Chapter 4 contains the analysis, which begins with a description of the case of land invasion in Arimae. It then explores the broader forces enabling land invasions on indigenous territories in Panama, and the impacts of land invasion on community governance institutions. The analysis concludes with a discussion of the moti vations behind the fight for a collective l and. Finally, Chapter 5 summarizes the key findings, study limitations and offers recommendations for Arimae and Ember á Puru.

Chapter 2 Literature Review

The objective of this chapter is to situate the case study within the literature on indigenous territorial struggles and to build on the insights of scholars who have examined such struggles from the lens of a political ecology of difference. The first part of the chapter presents the political ecology of difference framework, on which the subsequent analysis is based. The second part of the review exp lores the articulation between indigenous territorial demands and the State , with a focus on the Latin American context . It addresses two polarized conception : the territory as a site for articulating a n emancipatory political and cultural project, and the territory as a tool to maintain the status - quo. The third part of the chapter reviews the literature on the spatial and cultural limitations imposed by the dominant practices of indi genous territorial demarcation. The literature is divided along two proce sses of boundary - setting - spatial and identity - and addresses the simplification, depoliticization and racialization of ethno - territorial claims. The chapter concludes with a presentation of the conceptual framework used for this study.

2.1 The political ec ology of difference

To analyse the process of land invasion and its relation to the struggle for the recognition of indigenous territorial rights, I draw on Escobar’s (2006) political ecology of difference framework. Escobar (2006) argued that understandin g contemporary environmental conflicts requires not only an examination of how unequal power relations mediate access to natural resources, but also how processes of capitalist extraction and production impose dominant ecological and cultural forms. Neolib eral conflicts over natural resources are economic, ecological and cultural conflicts; they therefore commonly bring economic, ecological and cultural transformations for local communities. This “triple transformation, or conquest”, symbolizes the denial o f the right to economic, ecological and cultural differences, coined “difference - in - equality” (Escobar, 2006, p. 7). What is at stake is not only the control over environmental resources, but also the erasure of alternative ways of conceiving nature and hu man - environmental relations (Escobar, 2006). Using Escobar’s framework, land invasions appear as manifestations of broader cultural and economic forces pushing against indigenous

10 collective ownership as a form of community resistance to land market specula tion and cultural assimilation.

The political ecology of difference framework is theoretically informed by post - structuralist political ecology, and grounded in Escobar’s study of social movements. In political ecology, seemingly local conflicts over natu ral resources are understood as embedded in a multi - scale field of political and economic relations (Blaikie & Brookfield, 1987; Bryant, 1992; Neumann, 2009). Environmental conflicts reflect the unequal distribution of environmental costs and benefits and their interactions with existing socioeconomic inequalities; for that reason, the unequal power relations between actors is a focus of political ecology (Bryant & Bailey, 1997). An understanding of power in political ecology includes the role of discourses in the creation and maintenance of power relationships which mediate resources access (Bryant, 1998; Escobar, 1996; Watts & Peet, 2004). Drawing from a Foucauldian understanding of power - knowledge, discourses “ can be both an instrument and an effect of po wer ” (Foucault, 1998, p. 100). Political ecologists therefore recognize that discourses about nature/the environment and development/modernity must not be accepted as a ‘truths’, but rather as reflective and constitutive of unequal power relations ( Watts & Peet, 2004 ). This applies equally to gendered and racialized discourses and practices. Indeed, an understanding of power relations in political ecology goes beyond class considerations and considers the effects of the construction of gender (Rocheleau, Th omas - Slayter & Wangari, 1996; Elmhirst, 2011), race (Mollett, 2006, Sundberg, 2004) as well as their inter sections (Mollett & Faria, 2013 ) on resources access and control. The post - structuralist shift in political ecology therefore acknowledges that enviro nmental conflicts are not solely material conflicts, but equally conflicts over knowledge and meanings (Bryant, 1998; Watts & Peet, 2004). In sum, a post - structuralist understanding of power - knowledge in political ecology uncovers the ideological dimension of resources struggles, as well as the use of discursive strategies in the legitimation of resources access and control.

Based on his work with black social mo vements in the Colombian Pacific, Escobar (1998) argued that the alternative conceptions and va luations deployed by social movements aim at more than just preventing the destruction of communities’ resources base; they are part of a “ political strategy for the defense of territory, culture, and identity ” (Escobar, 1998, p. 60). Such framing of terri torial struggles points to the importance of land and resources not only for the sustenance of livelihoods, but as a site to promote and safeguard localized cultural identities and

11 practices. Escobar (2001) argued that, while local cultures and economies a re not isolated from global influences (capitalism, modernity), they are not solely shaped by these global forces. Escobar (2001) stressed the agency of local actors in drawing from their cultural tradition and (re)constructing identities as well as notion s of territory in the defense of local places. The political ecology approach to social movements therefore emphasizes the role of local actors in engaging with transnational networks and discourses to advance their own dynamic conceptions of territorialit y. In sum, Escobar offers an analysis of environmental struggles focused on the mobilisation efforts against neoliberal resources appropriation and governance that are based on strategies of localisation and cultural politics.

2.2 Understanding t erritor ial str uggles

2.2.1 Indigenous self - determination

The term territory, as conventionally used, suggests a focus on securing resources control. The Dictionary of Human Geography defines territory as a space delimitated by a group or an institution in order to “restrict a nd control access to people and places” (Gregory et al. 2009, p. 746). A claim to territory is therefore a claim to power over a bounded space and the land, resources and people it encompasses. Traditionally, territory was conceived almost exclusively in r elation to the modern State (e.g., Mann, 1984), but Sack (1986) extended the concept of territoriality within human geography to other forms of social organizations. In anthropology, the idea that only societies organized as modern nation - states have ‘terr itory’ was dismissed in the first half of the 20th century: from 1940 onward, it became conceivable to think about indigenous and tribal people’s relationship to space in territorial terms (Gray, 2009).

Indigenous and tribal people’s territorial perspectiv es however differ from the modern Western understanding of territory. In most indigenous perspectives in Latin America, the territory is more than a defined expanse of land and encompasses political autonomy, control over access and use of resources , spiri tual relationships as well as cultural reproduction (Gray, 2009). To illustrate this territorial understanding, Gray (2009) offered a topology informed by the evoluti on of the concept of territory in anthropology as well as by indigenous perspectives. In t his topology, the term territory incorporates the notion of land, earth and landscape. Whereas territory broadly refers to the political control over space, land instead places the focus on the resources present in such space; earth to the spiritual relati onships entertained by indigenous

12 people with the territory; and landscape to history and meaning (Gray, 2009). Territory from an indigenous perspective therefore comprises political, economic, spiritual and cultural elements, which are not mutually exclus ive (Gray, 2009).

Considering this holistic territorial perspective, channeling demands to rights through territories takes another meaning than simply securing resources . Indeed, Coombes, Johnson and Howitt (2012) argued that , “ [i]ndigenous motivations in environmental disputes are connected to broader projects of recognition, reclamation of sovereignty and resistance to northern capitalism; they are not mere resource conflicts” (p. 818). T erritorial control is indeed central to the project of indigenous a utonomy in Latin America (Dí az Polanco, 1997 ; Escobar, 1998). A ccording to Mexican a nthropologist and sociologist Dí az Polanco (1997), autonomy entails the recognition of indigenous socio - political organization in order to increase indigenous’ control over their own sociocultural development. Yet, the sought autonomy does not entail s ecession from the nation - state. T he project for indigenous autonomy, or self - determination, rather aims at reworking the relationship between indigenous communities and the Sta te in which they live, from subordination to coordination (Díaz Polanco, 1997) . Demands for autonomy are indeed voiced alongside demands for the recognition and protection of indigenous cultural rights by the State , and for the end of racial discrimination in mainstream society (Stavenhagen, 2009). Rights to t erritory , autonomy and cultural survival are thus closely linked in indigenous claims ( Perreault, 2001; Velasco, 2011) . Brysk (2000) also argued that the demand of indigenous movements is a triple one: a demand for self - determination, land rights and cultural survival. Because of th is interlink, Gray (2009) argued , “the front line of decolonisation is territorial protection” (p. 35). The struggle for territorial recognition, even if triggered by direct threats to livelihood, is therefore part of a broader emancipatory project.

2.2.2 The State and the maintenance of the status - quo

The association between territory, sovereignty and statehood is still entrenched in geopolitical imaginaries and serves to justify resistance to indigenous territorial claims by state actors (Gray, 2009; Huff, 2005). This argument, however, often hides the true motive of States’ resistance: the reluctance to lose control over the resources present on indigenous lands (Carvalho, 2000; Huff, 2005). State’s interest in territorial conflicts is therefore the maintenance of the political, economic and cultural status - quo. The concept of neoliberal multiculturalism, as developed by anthropologist Charles R. Hale (2002 ), illuminates how the r ecognition of cultural and territorial

13 rights can still allow State to preserve the political and economic order . In the logic of neoliberal multiculturalism , the State recognizes the multicultural nature of the nation, but imposes limits on the type of ri ghts based in cultural difference it is ready to support , as well as on the extent of these rights (Hale, 2002) . In doing so, the State restrains the type of ‘acceptable’ demands that indigenous groups can make, in a way which prevents the emergence of dem ands that would challenge the existing political, economic and racial/cultural order 8 (Hale, 2002; 2005). As such, Hale (2011) argued that the greatest challenge faced by indigenous groups is not an absence of cultural and territorial rights, but the parti ality of their recognition and the bureaucratisation of their implementation. For instance, in Panama, Law 72, which enables the demarcation of collective indigenous territories, only came into force almost two years after its adoption in 2008. Since then, only four territories have been recognized under Law 72. This issue of delay will be discussed in greater depth in chapter 4.

In the same vein, Bryan (2012) critic ally engaged with the debates over the reconceptualization of territory that accompany the ‘ territorial turn’ in Latin America. According to Bryan (2012), territory should be understood as process, as something which comes into being rather than an existing object. The focus is therefore not on power over the territory, but on how power works thr ough the territory to make space governable. In this perspective, the State does not prioritize territorial control, but the maintenance of “ a spatial order necessary to economic growth, security, and the task of governin g itself” (Bryan, 2012, p. 218). Th e mapping, demarcation and titling of indigenous territories, thus, is important for the maintenance of such spatial order. For that reason, s imilarly to Hale (2005), Bryan (2012) stated that the current forms taken by the recognition of territorial claims “do not challenge the existing socio - spatial order so much as they help create it” (p. 216). In sum, when conceiving the territory as a process traversed by power relations, the ‘territorial turn’ appears as a reworking of exclusionary practices which sup port rather than challenge the dominant social, political and economic order.

In addition, Wainwright (2008) argued that processes of territorialization and settlement are spatial forms of political power which are, in the case of Latin America, tinted by colonial relationships. The framing of indigenous claims in territorial terms does not necessarily allow for

8 More precisely, Hale (2005) argued that the limited support to cultural rights offers a means to manage political opposition, to extend neoliberal governance, and to remake but maintain racial hierarchies .

14 the defense of an alternative territoriality, as it oftentimes entails conforming to the dominant conceptions of the “worldliness of the world” (Wa inwrights, 2008, p. 24 ). In that context, the link between territorial recognition and the decolonization of indigenous - State relation is far from straightforward. On the one hand, as mentioned above, territorial recognition is a central component of self - determination narratives; on the other hand, territorial claims based on dominant conceptions support the system of domination. This apparent contradiction has attract the attention of a number of scholars, who have adopted an approach in line with the pol itical ecology of difference in order to explore the dilemmas and challenges of territorial rights recognition for indigenous and afro - descendant populations in Latin America. Broadly, the literature highlights how the results of the recent wave of territo rial recognition in Latin America are not solely determined by the mobilization efforts of localized social movements, but also restricted by established categories and externally - supported narratives. Indeed, boundary - setting, both in physical and identit y terms, is integral to the mainstream understanding of territory and restrains the articulation of alternative perspectives. The next section aim s to explore territorial struggles in terms of these two processes of boundary - setting: physical demarcation a nd property rights, as well as identity formation and racialization.

2.3 The ethno - territor ial model

2.3.1 Boundaries and property rights

The need for the recognition of territorial rights in the dominant terms emerges, in many instances, from encroachment and reso urce struggles with other groups (Gray, 2009; Hayes, 2010; Martinez - Alier, 2014). In that context, the articulation of an alternative conception of territoriality is restrained by the need to translate indigenous and afro - descendent territorial experience s in dominant terms to gain recognition. Indeed, to anthropologist Freire (2003), the main threat to indigenous land rights is the lack of translatability of their property rights. For that reason , Freire (2003) argued that the changing territoriality of P iaroa communities in the Venezuelan Amazon was a positive response to socioeconomic and environmental changes. The need for Piaroa communities to defend their land from encroachment by non - indigenous inhabitant brought a shift from a fluid and social under standing of territorial boundaries to more rigid and physical boundaries. In addition to political mobilization, Piaroa communities attempted to make their property rights legible to outsiders by, for instance, marking physica l boundaries with milestones. Freire (2003) saluted initiatives such as the Piaroa’s “ translation of

15 their territorial experience int o Western terms” ( p. 367) as means to defend the integrity of indigenous territories. It is indeed through a process of territorial and organisational ad aptation that Emberá and Wounaan communities mobilized to gain recognition of their territorial right in Panama. Settlement into villages as well as the establishment of an authority structure led to the recognition by the State of the comarca Emberá - Wouna an in 1983 (Herlihy, 1985).

Conversely, indigenous and ethnic groups not only adapt their territorial conceptions to changing circumstances, but also influence the process of territorial construction. Indeed, during a World Bank land demarcation project i n Nicaragua, afro - indigenous and indigenous communities transformed the standard intra - communal territorial model of the project into inter - communal bloque (Gordon, Gurdián & Hale, 2003). The common claims were based on a shared “social memory of struggle” (Gordon et al., 2003, p. 373), rather than on long - term occupation of the land and long - standing common cultural practices. This narrative simultaneously informed boundary - setting and emerged during the demarcation process. Gordon et al. (2003) therefore argued that land demarcation involving indigenous participation, far from resulting in the passive transcription of fixed territories, is “an audacious and creative process” (p. 378). Even when initiated by external actors, the process of indigenous land t itling can serve indigenous goals.

Nonetheless, the process of negotiation with States restrict s the audaciousness of territorial claims. Overlapping boundaries, such as those of the bloque, usually meet resistance from States. For instance, in the Hondura n Mosquitia, similar bloque claims were rejected by the Honduran State (Bryan, 2011). In response, indigenous communities and federations decided to demarcate exclusive territories, which required separating the different land claims by drawing lines on a map. This conception of territory ran counter to the local dynamic of resource access, based on kinship, residency and ancestry networks (Bryan, 2011). Nonetheless, Bryan (2011) explained how the participants involved in the land demarcation project strive d to incorporate indigenous conceptions of territoriality in mainstream ethno - territorial model in order to achieve recognition while limiting the negative impacts of boundary - setting. Indeed, in addition to having to reach agreements on boundary lines wit h neighboring communities, representatives on both sides of the borders agreed to continue allowing for border - crossing (represented by the concept pana pana luwi laka ). To Bryan (2011), this process offers an example of how the prospect of State recogniti on creates the need to conform to neoliberal understanding of property relations, but

16 may still offer opportunities to ‘build - in’ alternative relations. In that sense, territorial demarcation is a contested and negotiated process.

However, in its current f orm, the process of claiming territories can have a depoliticizing effect. Using the case of Nicaragua and Belize, Wainwright and Bryan (2009) observed that indigenous groups often need to resort to cartographic instruments to support the legal recognition of their territorial claims. This ‘legal - cartographic strategy’, as argued by Wainwright and Bryan (2009), effectively moves indigenous rights struggles away from a territorial approach toward the recognition of property rights. Contrarily to a territoria l approach, the focus on property rights does not challenge the State, but works through its structure to obtain recognition and enforcement. Seeking property rights also entails entering capitalist relations, rather than challenging existing inequalities (Wainwright & Bryan, 2009). Wainwright and Bryan (2009) also criticized the ‘legal - cartographic strategy’ for promoting unequal participation within the community in the process of map - making and lawsuit filling; for creating conflicts between indigenous c ommunities and reinforcing racial land ownership regimes in the process of boundary - setting; and for bringing moral and legal victories rather than material ones. This last point highlights that legal victories in international courts still depend on natio nal implementation. In addition, States’ recognition of ethnic maps emptied of broader political demands represents “an opportunity to reinscribe their power in indigenous communities” (Wainwright & Bryan, 2009). Similarly to Hale, Wainwright and Bryan (20 09) called for a critical examination of the so - called advances in ethnic rights recognition embodied by the legal support for the demarcation of ethnic territories in Latin America.

Such argument invites to a consideration of the discursive power of domin ant imaginations of spaces and communities. Howitt (2001), drawing from the Australian experience, unpacked how the geographical imaginings of the ‘border’ and the ‘frontier’ foster exclusion and discrimination against Aboriginal peoples. Howitt (2001) arg ued that, since colonial times, ‘frontier imaginings’ have allowed to conceptualized spaces as ‘empty’ and therefore in need to be ‘filled’ by ‘modernization’ and ‘development’. On a similar vein, Blomley (2003) claimed that imagining a frontier allows see ing the space beyond the frontier as without law, order or secured property, which justifies the violence required to impose a Western form of private property. In ‘empty’ and ‘unsecure’ spaces, imposing one’s notion of development and law seems legitimate . The image of ‘emptiness’ was indeed integral to the colonization schemes of lowland tropical forests

17 in Latin America in the 1960s, 70s and 80s (Griffiths, 2001). The dichotomy of the frontier (filled/empty, order/disorder) also produces the Native as th e ‘other’, the ‘Savage’ (Blomley, 2003; Howitt, 2001). The emptying of spaces and the othering of Aboriginals living in that space are at the basis of enduring structural racism (Howitt, 2001). Both attempts at the integration of Aboriginal individuals int o the ‘nation’ and the spatial demarcation of Aboriginal land, which, to Howitt (2001), is meant “to discipline native title” (p. 235), are root in a ‘frontier’ understanding of spaces, which relies on boundary - setting and therefore denies co - existence (Ho witt, 2001). Indeed, according to Rose (2010), “formal titling in itself resembles a kind of figurative invasion - a modernist invasion of a traditionalist set of property arrangements” (p. 33). The titling of Aboriginal or indigenous territories is theref ore not antithetical to the persistence of co lonial/frontier relationships.

2.3.2 Racialization and identity

A nother characteristic of the current approach to indigenous and afro - descendant territorial rights is the framing of territories around ethnic lines, o r t he emergence of an ethno - territorial model. The naturalization of the linking of identity with place has however been contested . Indeed, Gupta and Ferguson (1992) claimed that bounding culture to place masks the relationships that exist between places, as well as the multiple identities present in one space. Attributing cultures to discontinuous spaces also hides the fluidity and hybridity of ethno - cultural identities. Gupta and Ferguson (1992) therefore criticized the naturalization of the link between spaces and peoples, and rather talked of the production of cultural differences and the imagination of spaces and communities. Rather than a reality, the territorially - bounded community therefore represents a social construct embedded in a field of power r elationships.

The case of black social movements in Pacific Colombia illustrates how the articulation of culture/identity and place/territory is not static and responds to political opportunities. Offen (2003) demonstrated how the institutionalization of the link between identity and territory in Colombian law was a result of both the mobilization of black social movements and the support (financial and discursive) of the World Bank for collective titling in Colombia. Black mobilization was based on an et hno - territorial consciousness that emerged after the adoption in 1991 of a new Colombian Constitution, which recognizes the multicultural character of the nation and the right to collective property. Indigenous mobilization was instrumental in advocating f or such constitution reforms (Offen, 2003). In contrast, prior to 1991, black

18 communities did not conceive of themselves as an ethnic group, who could make territorial claims (Offen, 2003). The ethno - territorial consciousness of black communities was furth er reinforced by the process of collective titling itself: demarcation and mapping participated in coproducing territory and identity (Offen, 2003). Offen (2003) therefore argued that the recent wave of collective titling based on ethnic claims that swept across lowland Latin America, the ‘territorial turn’, was driven by the convergence of interests of local groups and international institutions.

If ethnic narratives can empower social movements, they can also contribute to their further marginalization. I ndeed, Rivera Cusicanqui ( 2012) pointed to how the apparent recognition and inclusion of indigenous citizens under neoliberal multiculturalism prevents the decolonization of indige nous - state relations. She argued that the elites have adopted a discourse to ward indigeneity which reduces the cultural and lived experiences of indigenous people to pre - modern and essentialist manifestations. The constant association of indigeneity with the past erases indigenous experiences in the present, making them irrelevant to modernity. Concurrently, the essentialist representation of indigenous people allows to “deny the ethnicity” of citizens of mixed heritage and indigenous citizens living ‘modern’ lifestyles (p. 99). In so doing, elites avoid making grand concessions an d maintain their position of power. Partial recognition of ethnic rights strips indigenous demands from their decolonizing imperatives, “imprison[s]” indigenous people into traditional territories, and uses them as “multicultural adornment for neoliberalis m” (Rivera Cusicanqui, 2012, p. 99). For that reaso n, Rivera Cusicanqui (2012) saw in the adoption of neoliberal multiculturalism an attempt at hiding a renewed colonization, in which indigenous individuals remain second - class citizens.

In addition , ‘fron tier imaginings’ impose substantial restrictions on the spaces that indigenous identities - and therefore territories - are allowed to occupy. For example, Prout and Howitt (2009) argued that the persistence of ‘frontier imaginings’ renders indigenous citi zens “as always out of place” (p. 397). Again discussing the Australian context, the authors stated that ‘true’ indigenous individuals are associated with the wilderness, and therefore as not belonging to neither rural nor urban areas. In modern and produc tive urban and rural areas, indigenous individuals are deemed as assimilated (Prout & Howitt, 2009). Paradoxically, indigenous communities conforming to the frontier spatiality of authenticity (i.e. living in the wilderness) are not conceived as truly Aust ralian, or as full modern citizens. In that sense, indigenous citizens

19 are always ‘out of place’. To Prout and Howitt (2009), “in rendering Indigenous people always out of place, these frontier imaginings foster continuing erasure of Indigenous rights, liv ed experiences, and opportunities” (p. 397). Frontier imaginings therefore force indigenous communities to conform to a preset idea of authenticity to have their land rights recognized, and contribute in enclosing indigenous communities in remote, ‘non - mod ern’ areas.

Ybarra (2011) found a similar process at work in Guatemala, where property relations were linked to imaginaries and processes of identity articulations. In Guatemala, land legislations allowed Q'eqchi' Maya communities to choose between commun al or private titling of their land. However, both options were tied to expectations about the people who would choose them. In order to claim communal ownership, Q’eqchi’ claimants needed to fit a ‘tribal slot’, a pre - defined set of ideas about what being ‘indigenous’ entailed (Ybarra, 2011). The ‘tribal slot’, by defining criteria of authenticity, denied the variety of experiences and identities linked to being Q’eqchi’ and allowed to excluded communities from the process. Communal property was also denie d on the basis of stereotypes in which the Q’eqchi’, by practicing ‘destructive’ slash - and - burn agriculture as well as ‘entrepreneurial’ cash cropping, were made inadequate subjects for communal landholding (Ybarra, 2011). On the contrary, Q’eqchi’ familie s who privatized their land were expected to abandon their ‘indigenous ways’. Ybarra (2011) found that Q’eqchi’ property relations do not fit the private - communal binary and instead contain a mixture of private and communal property. As such, in having to choose between communal and private titling, Q’eqchi’ individuals and communities needed to articulate identities that matched the corresponding essentialist property - identity imaginary.

Mollett (2013) also stressed this issue when claiming that the proce ss of mapping land claims, even during exercises of countermapping, “relies on dual representations of legibility” and so involves the simplification of both property relations and ethnic identities (p. 1229). The process of simplification, or essentialism , borrows from racialized discourses to link people and places. In that sense, countermapping relies on and involves the perpetuation of racialized imaginaries. Based on her work in the Honduran Mosquitia, Mollett (2006) explained that t he Honduran racial ideology, sustained since colonial times, privileges whiteness and ‘modern’ economic (market - oriented) behaviors . Despite the adoption of official discourses and policies supportive of indigenous land rights by the State, racial hierarchies did not disappe ar in practices. Since racialized imaginaries support racial hierarchies, land claims based on racialized strategies of

20 legibility risk perpetuating the inferiority of indigenous and afro - descendent land claims and, concurrently, the legitimation of ladino land appropriation (Mollett, 2013). Indeed, Mollett (2011) argued that r acial considerations, hidden behind discourses of suitable and unsuitab le land use practices, underlay the State’s position in favor of land colonization by ladino settlers in the Mos quitia . As such, race, as embedded in racial discourses and racial hierarchies, shapes resou rces access and therefore plays an important role in resource struggles (Mollett, 2006) . By merging a political ecology approach with critical racial studies, Molle tt (2011) pointed to the influence of entrenched discriminatory imaginaries in the justification of resource conflicts, both by the local actors involved and by the State.

In sum, a number of scholars have uncovered the dilemmas and limitations of the cur rent model of ethno - territorial ‘autonomy’. In Latin America, the pattern of cultural and territorial rights recognition is partial, in a way which allows for the maintenance of entrenched structures of economic, political and cultural inequalities. T his d ynamic forces the framing of indigenous territorial rights within the dominant framework , and strips indigenous demands from their broader political nature. The literature points to the persistence of ‘frontier imaginings’ on which are built the mainstream understandings of indigenous territory and identity, and which inform the process of ethno - territorial recognition. Scholars have also exposed the role of racialized discourses in the justification of the alteration or negation of indigenous and afro - desc endants rights. Despite these criticisms, Hale (2011) acknowledges the need for indigenous movements to seek pragmatic solutions to their immediate needs. This may require using the material, legal and discursive tools crafted by groups in position of powe r, even if such tools reinforce the system (Hale, 2012). Indeed, much of the reviewed literature has also pointed to efforts by indigenous and afro - descendant groups to carve spaces for themselves within the mainstream ‘territorial turn’. Instead of advoca ting against the granting of ethno - territories, this body of literature invites us to re - think the ethno - territorial model and, in the meantime, reminds us of the danger of thinking of the recognition of ethno - territories as a de - facto act of decolonizatio n.

2.4 Conceptual framework

This thesis examines a case of land invasions which occurred as part of an ethno - territorial struggle. I conceptualize the process of land invasion on ethno - territories as a facet of broader neoliberal conflicts over natural resour ces following Escobar’s (2006) political ecology of

21 difference framework. Escobar (2006) argued that n eoliberal conflicts over natural resources are economic, ecological and cultural conf licts . I draw on t he insights of the political ecology literature on ethno - territoriality in Latin America to understand the multi - scalar material and discursive processes which inform and constrain the conflict under study.

I theorize the State’s actions in relation to indigenous land struggles using the concept of neolibe ral multiculturalism, as articulated by Hale (2002), in which the S tate supports certain forms of cultural right s in order to better deny others. Indeed, Velásquez Runk (2012) and Jordon (2014) claim ed that the current Panamanian multicultural and neoliber al model gives an appearance of support for indigenous rights, but in practice maintains indigenous groups and their rights to land in a subordinate position in relation to the interests of national elites and of globa l capital. 9

Furthermore, the concept of neoliberal multiculturalism is based on the premise that the discourses and practices of neoliberal multiculturalism do not eradicate the racial hierarchies inherited from the colonial encounter as much as they recreate them around cultural differences (Hale, 2005); as such, race and racial discourses remain important components of environmental conflicts in Central America (Mollet t , 2011; Sundberg, 2008). In Panama, the official multicultural discourse masks the persistence of ethnic - based economic ineq ualities (Jordon, 2014), which maintain indigenous peoples at the political and economic margin. Policy support to Latino colonists also reflects the State’s ambition of cultural and economic integration of Eastern Panama, with the exclusion of ‘exceptiona l’ indigenous pockets (Horton, 2006).

In sum, I examine land invasion s in Arimae and Emberá Puru from the perspective of a political ecology of difference, taking into account the influences of neoliberal multiculturalism and entrenched racial ized imagin aries in Latin America .

9 In addition, Herrera (2012) argued that the Panamanian State’s positive responses to indigenous territorial demands have been and remain strategic and temporary concessions, made by opportunistic political elites in the absence of a strong state apparatus . The study of Horton (2006) in Eastern Panama however reminded of the role of indigenous mobilisation in the contestation of state multiculturalism, while the degree of influence varies per indigenous group.

Chapter 3 Study Area and Methods

This chapter presents the study area and outlines the methodological underpinnings of the research. I begin by situating the research site by providing a short history of the Darién region. I then offer a gen eral socioeconomic portrait of the Collective Land of Arimae and Emberá Puru , and describe its land use and internal resource governance rules. I continue with a description of the activities conducted during a reconnaissance trip to Panama and discuss the research agreement. I then explain the various data collection methods used: participant observation, a focus group, semi - structured interviews and archival research. This section also explains the sampling and recruitment strategy. Finally, I discuss the steps taken to preserve the confidentiality of participants, the data analysis process, and issues of positionality.

3.1 Presentation of the r esearc h site

3.1.1 The Darién region

3.1.1.1 Migration, isolation and the Pan - American H ighway Paleoecological data suggests that the Darién region has been inhabited by corn swidden agriculturalists for at least 4,000 years (Bush & Colinveaux, 1994; Piperno, 1994). At the time of the first Spanish expeditions in the region, Darién was mainly populated by a group known as the Cueva ( García Casares, 2007). The Cueva population was, however, decimated as a result of Spanish raids for gold and slaves during the early colonial period (16 th to mid - 17 th century ) (Colin, 2010). To compensate for the diminishing labor force, Spaniards brought African slaves to the region, notably to work in gold mines ( Mendez, 1979 as cited in in Colin, 2010). A number of escaped slaves, known as cimarrones, began settling in the region and organized a rebellion against the colonial authorities in the mid - 16 th century (Castillero, 1959). Historical accounts from the mid - 17th century began mentioning the presence of Guna in the Darién, which reveals a pattern of migration from the Chocó region of contemporary Colombia into the Darién (Torres de Arauz, 1967). By the beginning of the 18 th century, the Guna represented the principal demographic group of Darién (Torres de Arauz, 1967).

Emberá and Wounaan groups began migrating from the Pacific region of the Chocó toward the Golf of Urabá in the late 17 th century, en tering in conflict with Guna populations (Torres de

Arauz, 1967). During the 18 th century, the Guna, supported and armed by British pirates, repeatedly attacked Spanish settlements and resisted repression to a point that led to the abandonment of the regio n by the Spaniards in 1789 ( Mendez, 1979 as cited in in Colin, 2010; Torres de Arauz, 1967). Despite their victory, the Guna population was decimated and, by the end of the 18 th century, had almost entirely retracted to the Caribbean coast (Herlihy, 1986; Kirby, 2010). The emancipation of African slaves in the mid - 19 th century and their settlement in lowland Chocó contributed to the upriver migration of Emberá and Wounaan into Darién (Kane, 1986). Emberá and Wounaan migration to Darién intensified at the en d of the 19 th century in response to the opportunities of intensive banana farming and timber harvesting in the region (Torres de Arauz, 1967). Similarly, the majority of Afro - descendant migrants (subsequently known as Afro - Darienitas) settled in Darién in the 20 th century in order to work in extractive industries and banana plantations (Perafan & Nessim, 2002).

Historically, as a result to undue attention to the trans - isthmian zone as well as the Interior region 10 by colonial and later national authorities , the Darién remained in relative isolation until the 1950s (Colin, 201 0). Emberá and Wounnan families lived dispersed along rivers, where they practiced slash - and - burn agriculture, dooryard gardening, hunting and fishing (Herlihy, 1986). Emberá and Wounaa n households also produced cash crops for the regional and national market, principally banana and plantain, for which Afro - Darienitas acted as their principal intermediaries (Kane, 1986). Indeed, while some Afro - Darienita communities centered on agricultu ral production, the majority of the Afro - Darienita population resided in market towns along the rivers, where their roles as store managers and cargo boat owners were essential to link indigenous agricultural production to markets (Kane, 1986). Afro - Darien itas were the largest demographic group, they were strongly involved in non - agricultural sectors, and filled mos t political roles in the Darién ( Herlihy, 1989; Kane, 1986 ). F or that reason, they were regarded as the dominant group, politically and economic ally - a position that began shifting in the 1980s (Herlihy, 1989; Kane, 1986) . Despite such inequalities as well as the limited inter - racial mixing, Kane (1986) considered that indigenous and Afro - Darienita relations were stable rather than conflictive du ring that period.

10 The ‘Interior’ refers to the historical agricultural center of Panama, which encompasses the Pacific region West of Panama City. The ‘Interior’ there fore refers to the p rovinces of Codé, Herrera and Los Santos, as well as the southern part of Veraguas and Chiriquí province s (Colin, 2010).

In the 1970s, the extension of the Pan - American Highway into the Darién province brought substantial changes to the region. Indeed, the infrastructure project, which began in 1973, 11 was accompanied by a colonization scheme which brought a n influx of Latino colonists from the Interior into the Darién (Herlihy, 1989). This process led to rapid deforestation as well as to the establishment of settlements and cattle ranches along the highway (Herlihy, 1989; Suman, 2006 - 2007). The extension of the Pana - American Highway also engendered a spatial reorientation of settlement and economic activity. Indeed, road transportation undermined the coastal and riverine market network centered on the Afro - Darienita town of La Palma in favor of the Latino tow n of Metetí, located along the Pan - American Highway (Colin, 2010). This led to the growth and concentration of the Latino population along the highway (Colin, 2010), and contributed to the out - migration of the Afro - Darienita population (Herlihy, 1989). 12 As of 2010, Black or Afro - descendent individuals only represented 17% of the Darién population, while 32% of the population in the Darién was indigenous (INEC, 2010, figure 4) and 51% were Latino colonists. The arrival of Latino colonists also generated land conflicts with Emberá and Wounaan communities, particularly those whose land rights were not recognized by the State (Hvalkof & Guevara, 2004; Suman, 2006 - 2007).

3.1.1.2 The emergence of Emberá and Wounaan mobilisation Beginning in the 1950s, the Emberá and Woun aan settlement pattern, traditionally dispersed, began agglomerating. Indeed, during the 1950s, six Emberá and Wounaan villages were founded; the drivers were a desire to have access to public schools and the influence of religious missions (Herlihy, 1985) . Later, in the 1960s, congregation into villages became more common among the Emberá and Wounaan population as a territorial strategy to request the recognition of a comarca from the Panamanian State (Herlihy, 1985). The movement intensified after 1968, w hen the Torrijos government announced its support for indigenous populations if organized into villages (Herlihy, 1985). By 1972, 36 Emberá and Wounaan villages had been created, a number that

11 The first segment of th e h ighway, from Agua Fría to Canglon, was completed by 1975. The Canglon - Yaviza stretch was completed in 1984 (Herlihy, 1989). The subsequent paving of the Pan - American Highway took place between 2001 and 2009 (Kirby, 2010).

12 Other factors also contribute d to Afro - Darienita out - migration , such as the decline of key extractive activities, the closure of Banana plantations, as well as the termination of government agricultural subsidies. The lack of territorial protection for Afro - Darienita communities could also explain their greater rate of urbanisation and out - migration (Perafan & Nessim, 2002).

25 subsequently rose to 53 in the early 80s (Herlihy, 1985). 13 In a ddition, between 1968 and 1970, in the process of organizing to secure a comarca, the Emberá and Wounaan adopted the Guna political structure ( caciquismo ). Prior to that date, the Emberá and Wounaan did not have a formal political structure beyond the hous ehold level (Herlihy, 1985).

The Comarca Emberá - Wounaan was finally created on November 8 th , 1983. However, the comarca did not encompass all of the Emberá and Wounaan communities that had participated in the mobilisation and formed villages. Arimae and Em berá Puru was one of such communities. In 1987, the communities that lay outside of the comarca boundaries created the Indigenous Organization of Emberá and Wounaan Collective Lands [Organización Indígena Tierra Colectiva Emberá Wounaan] (OITCEW) to mobili ze for the legal recognition of community - level territorial rights (Velásquez Runk, 2012). The organization then became a Congress in 1996, the General Congress of Emberá and Wounaan Collective Lands , with the same system of elected leadership as in the co marcas (Hvalkof & Guevara, 2004). The Congress has since then worked toward the collective titling of indigenous territories. Among the actions taken by the Congress were the organization, together with the National Coordinating Organization of the Indigen ous Peoples of Panama (COONAPIP), of blockings of the Pan - American Highway to pressure the government, as well as the participation in a mapping project in 1993 to map the Emberá, Wounaan and Guna communities without territorial protection in Darién (Chapi n, 1994; Herlihy, 2003). From about 1998 to 2004, the Congress received financial and technical assistance from the Guna organisation Dobbo - Yala as well as the Danish NGO Nepenthes to demarcate indigenous collective lands, a process which, in some instance s, generated tensions with neighbouring non - indigenous communities (Hvalkof & Guevara, 2004; Velásquez - Runk, 2005 as cited in in Velásquez - Runk, 2012).

In 2000, the Panamanian State recognized the Comarca Guna of Wargandí. Meanwhile, bills for the recognit ion of indigenous collective lands repeatedly got presented to the State without passing into law (Velásquez Runk, 2012). In a context of increasing land conflicts, the 11 Panamanian indigenous congresses represented by COONAPIP signed, in April 2007, the “Declaration of the Indigenous Peoples of Panama”, which put at the forefront the need for

13 According to Herlihy (2003), there were more than 80 villages i n the early 2000 .

26 strengthened indigenous land rights outside of comarcas (Red de Políticas Públicas Indígenas, 2012). In May of the same year, President Martin Torrijos met with COON APIP and created the “Presidential High - Level Commission to attend to the problems of the indigenous peoples of Panama” (Red de Políticas Públicas Indígenas, 2012). The High - Level Commission officially came into force with Executive Decree N°287 (República de Panamá, 2008a). As part of the Commission, a draft of collective land legislation was produced and subsequently adopted as Law 72 of December 2008 (Red de Políticas Públicas Indígenas, 2012; República de Panamá, 2008b). These events mark the beginning of the chronology presented in Table 1, around which Chapter 4 unfolds.

3.1.2 Arimae and Emberá Puru

3.1.2.1 Demographic and socioeconomic portrait

The Collective L and of Arimae and Emberá Puru is located between the non - indigenous towns of El Tirao and Santa Fé del Da rién, only about 30 minutes after the provincial border post of Agua Fría N°1 ( see F igure 1 for a map of the region ). From Panama City, the commute lasts about four - and - a - half hours, with the speed substantially reducing after Agua Fría N°1 due to the bad quality of the road , as shown in Figure 2 . The community is divided in two main villages, Arimae and Emberá Puru, both established along the Pan - American Highway, in addition to the satellite settlement of Vista Alegre.

In total, 958 persons lived in Arim ae in 2014: the village of Arimae comprised 641 individuals (111 households); Emberá Puru 262 inhabitants (52 households), and Vista Alegre 55 inhabitants (eight households). Roughly 42% of the population wa s 15 years - old and under. The vast majority of th e inhabitants of Arimae ethnically self - identify as either Emberá or Woun aan. A handful of individuals are from other minority groups, such as Afro - Darienita, Guna and Ngäbe. Most , if not all of the inhabitants of the community speak Spanish, either as the ir first or second language. The Emberá and Wounaan languages are still used on a regular basis by adults and elders, but rarely spoken by youths. Many of the youngest members of the community actually did not learn to speak these native languages, but can understand them. Most women still wear the paruma , the traditional skirt, but some youths have begun alternating between the paruma and pants. Only one man, an elder, still wore the traditional male dress, the guayuco , on a daily basis .

Figure 1 . Map of the Darién region between Agua Fría N°1 and Metetí. This figure shows the location of Arimae, Emberá Puru, and Vista Alegre . Adapted by the author from Instituto Geográfico Nacional “Tommy Guardia” (2004).

Figure 2. T he Pan - American Highway between Ari mae and Emberá Puru. This photograph shows the poor condition of the road in this area.

Most households rely on subsistence and cash - crop farming, complemented by wage labor and/or handicraft production 14 . The main crops are plantain ( Musa paradisiaca ), cor n ( Zea mays ), rice ( Oryza sativa ), yuca ( Manihot esculent a ) and yam ( Dioscorea alata ). Other cultivated crops include taro - locally known as otoe - ( Xanthosoma spp. ), banana ( Musa sapientu ), beans ( Phas e olus spp. ), coconut ( Cocos nucifera ), sugar cane ( Sa charum officinarum ), avocado ( Persea americana ), sapota ( Manilkara zapota ), pineapple ( Ananas comosus ), mango ( Mangifera indica ), cocoa ( Theobroma cacao ) and coffee ( Coffea arabica ). Parcels also contain fallow land since households practice slash - and - burn agriculture, and some households raise sheep and pigs at a small scale. Hunting wild game and fishing are now insufficient as source s of meat, but some households still occasionally hunt small game such as armadillo and iguana. Some community members are engaged in agricultural wage labor and others, particularly

14 Traditional handicraft production includes canasta s , baskets and masks weaved from chunga palm ( Astrocaryum standleyanum ) fibers (women) as well as tagua seed ( Phytelephas seemannii ) and wood carving (generally men). Many women also make jewellery with plastic beads bought in Panama City.

29 women, are employed by teak industries, tending their plantations in the region. A few households own kiosks where they sell basic necessities and snacks, and one household owns a bakery. Other so urces of employment include the schools, the Health Center in Santa Fé, the construction industry in neighbouring towns and the agroforestry project of Planting Empowerment, a small forestry business. According to the 2010 national census, the average mont hly household income was of $172 USD in Arimae and of $200 USD in Emberá Puru (INEC, 2010, figure 4).

Most households are connected to aqueduct water, but water supply is unreliable: in the village of Arimae, the Sábanas River is still an important water source to wash dishes and clothes, and to bath. Latrines are oftentimes share d by more than one household. The majority , but not the totality of households h ave access to electricity, and some households possess refrigerators. Some households cook on open - fires, other on gas stoves. A number of houses contain televisions and radios, and many community members possess a cellphone, particularly the youth s . In terms of housing, there are three broad types of house that can be classified according to their cons truction materials: wood frames with palm - leaves roofs ( penca ) , wood planks with tin roofs, and cement block houses with tin roofs , as depicted in Figures 3 and 4 . The ho uses made of palm - leaves roofs are the most traditional in design, but are also increa singly costly to build because of the diminishing supply of the appropriate palm trees in proximity to the community. The ratio of traditional to cement houses is therefore likely to change over time. Both the village of Arimae and of Emberá Puru possess communal spaces, such as a communal house ( casa com unal ) where village assemblies are held, a primary school, a church and soccer courts. Arimae additionally possesses a cultural house ( casa cultural ) to receive guests (see Figure 5 for a photograph of the cultural house) , a handicraft house ( casa de artesanía ) , a kindergarten, an office of the General Congress of Emberá and Wounaan Collective Lands, and a basketball court.

The villages of Arimae and Emberá Puru are connected to the neighboring towns by th e relatively frequent inter - regional buses and vans (called chiva ) system of the highway. High schools and medical services are sought in the neighboring colonist towns, such as Zapallal and Santa Fé. Almost every day, two or three pickup trucks enter the village of Arimae to sell fruits and vegetables or fishes. At the time of fieldwork, two soldiers of the National Border Service [Servicio Nacional de Fronteras] (SENAFRONT) crossed Arimae’s main street on a motorbike

Figure 3 . Two types of elevated hou sing. This photograph shows a wooden house with palm - leaf roof ( penca ) (left) and a wooden house with tin roof (right).

Figure 4 . An elevated wooden house and a cement house. This photograph shows an elevated wooden house with tin roof (left) and a ceme nt blocks house in construction (right).

Figure 5 . The cultural house in Arimae. The cultural house ( casa cultural ) was built to serve as lodging for visitors. The focus group was held in the open area under the building. almost every evening to keep an eye out for suspicious activities. SENAFRONT is a visible State presence in the Darién: it is the front line against drug trafficking, but also serves as the local police force, and oftentimes acts as a service provider.

3.1.2.2 Current land uses and internal rul es

In addition to the three settlements, the Collective Land of Arimae and Emberá Puru is divided in three broad zones: family parcels ( parcelas auxiliares ), collective plots ( á rea s compartid as ) and a collective secondary forest reserve ( la reserva/el bosq ue/la montaña ) . The individual and collective agricultural land plots are located along the highway and the community’s territory borders, forming a belt around the forest reserve as shown in Figure 6 . The internal territorial ordering was recently offici alised through a mapping process aimed at calculating Arimae’s carbon emission baseline, based on land use (Kirby, 2010) . 15 During that process, the allocation,

15 The initiative was part of a $20,000 USD p roject of the Global Environmental Facility (GEF) Small Grants Programme, supported by the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP). The project, called “Conservation and sustainable production in the reserve of Arimae” began in 2009 and ended in 2011. It involved a partnership with the business Planting Empowerment , which still works with the community on agroforestry development.

32 location and size of the agricultural parcels and the forest reserve were formalized. Parcels’ b oundaries are not fenced, but are known to other community members, who are expected not to trespass. Within each family parcel, the household is free to make decisions on how to use the land. Depending on size, the parcels generally contain a mixture of s widden and fallow land, but also of forest. Because of the ability of households to exclude others and to make m anagement decisions, family parcel s share features with privately - owned land. However , family parcel s within the collective land differ from pri vate plots in the inability of households to sell or lease the land they work on; in other words, they do not have a right of alienation. In turn, collective plots are either used or set aside for future use for community projects, such as agroforestry dev elopment. The precise use of collective plots is decided at village assemblies.

Figure 6 . Map of the Collective Land of Arimae and Emberá Puru. The figure shows the primary forest reserve (in green), surrounded by agricultural parcels, as well as the lo cation of the villages of Emberá Puru (top - left) and Arimae (bottom - left) along the Pan - American Highway. Reprinted with permission from Kirby, 2010.

The forest reserve is hold as a common , where rules - in - use vary by resource. All households have the righ t to harvest medicinal plants and plants used for craft - making, as well as to hunt in the forest, without any prior formal withdrawal restrictions. There is, however, an informal normative sense of what constitutes ‘appropriate’ extraction. For instance, G erardo, a local resident, explained to me that, contrarily to colonists ( colonos ), community members are allowed to hunt in the forest reserve because ‘people from here will not kill like ten iguanas’. Non - timber forest products (NTFPs) and game are thus e xpected to be appropriated reasonably, on a subsistence basis to complement livelihood activities. Contrarily to NTFPs and wild game, timber extraction is governed by stricter internal and external rules. First, the leadership needs to ask the National Env ironmental Authority [Autoridad Nacional del Ambiante] (ANAM) for an Indigenous Communal Timber Extraction Permit [Permiso comunitario de aprovechamiento forestal, en Comarcas y áreas indígenas] before allowing for individual or collective timber harvestin g. Then, individual timber extraction, for house materials or as complementary income, needs to be sanctioned by the local leadership, who will give permission to harvest a specific number of trees depending on the demand. Timber is also extracted at the c ommunity level in order to cover communal expenses, such as the building of a staircase to reach the river , as depicted in F igure 7 . In recent years, Arimae has also had to harvest and sell timber in order to cover the costs of its legal struggle, which in clude the wage of the lawyer working on the community’s case and the expenses of the General Cacique in his travels related to the case of Arimae. Decisions on when and where to harvest, as well as on the quantity of trees to cut, are made at village assem blies.

According to internal rules, the local leadership structure comprises seven elected positions: a Nokó , or chief, a substitute Nokó , a secretary, an undersecretary (substitute), a treasurer, a prosecutor and a spokesperson. In addition, a councillor and voluntary policemen, or zarra , are in charge of maintaining order and insuring that internal rules are respected. Members of the local leadership are not elected for a specific time period: they remain in office until they decide to step down, or unt il they are dismissed during a general assembly. Local leadership positions are unpaid. The villages of Arimae and Emberá Puru have their respective leadership and communal houses, where all general assemblies and regular meetings occur. Meetings regarding the collective l and typically occur in the village of Arimae with the presence of at least one

Figure 7 . Communal work day to build a cement staircase to the river. This photograph depicts one example of community infrastructure project supported by c ollective timber extraction revenues. member of the leadership from Emberá Puru. At the time of fieldwork, there had been a recent change in leadership in Arimae, and there was still no secretary or undersecretary. Beyond the local leadership, some inhabit ants of Arimae were representatives on the regional and national congresses.

3.2 Reconnaissance visit and research agreement

The research began with a reconnaissance trip to Panama in July and August 2014. I first met with Julie Velásquez Runk, an anthropologi st with almost 20 - years of experience working with Emberá and Wounaan communities, in Panama City. Her knowledge and insights allowed me to familiarize myself with the cultural and socio - economic context of the study region to prepare my arrival in Arimae, but also to prepare myself for the first meetings with the regional and local Emberá and Wounaan authorities. During my first weeks in Panama City, I consulted theses about the Darién region and Emberá and Wounaan peoples at the University of Panama, as w ell as browsed print - press articles and historical accounts at the Panama National Library. O n August 6, 2014 , I met with the General Cacique , who represents the General Congress of Emberá and Wounaan Collective Lands, in the organization’s central office in Panama City . I had been

35 introduced to the General Cacique prior to my arrival in the country by Kate Kirby, a conservation biolog ist who had spent a substantial amount of time in Arimae and Emberá Puru. During that meeting, I introduced myself and prese nted my proposed research, which the Cacique deemed as relevant. He invited me to travel to Arimae the following week - end in order to discuss the research with local authorities and to seek community’s approval during the village assembly.

I travelled to the village of Arimae on August 10th, but the community’s leadership did not seem to have been informed of my arrival and I could not present during the day’s assembly. At my arrival, I encountered conservation biologist Javier Mateo - Vega with his field te am outside the cultural house. It was an opportune encounter, as we had been in communication before my departure and he had kindly offered to help me acquaint with Arimae if our visits happened to overlap. It also meant that the cultural house was ready t o receive guests, and I temporarily settled there with Javier and his team. During the following days, I spen t most of my time with the research team or with the two Emberá women cooking for the group, one of which would later become my host. Then, o n Augu st 12, I met with regional and village - level leaders to gain local approval and discuss avenues for collaboration. We discussed the research questions and methodologies, and I gave them copies of explanatory m aterials and consent documents. A village assem bly meeting was held on August 15, 2014 in Arimae, and it was decided that my research would be presented there, alongside the discussion of other internal matters.

During the village assembly meeting, t he General Cacique introduced me to local residents and explained the overall objectives of my proposed research before opening the floor to questions. After a short internal discussion in Emberá, and some clarifications on my part, I was asked to leave the room for the second part of the assembly. I was al lowed to return for the end of the meeting. At that time, the General Cacique read aloud the research agreement, in which the objectives, modalities and methodologies of the research were restated. The research agreement was built as to insure that the obj ectives of the research were explicit and fitted the community’s needs, and that the modalities for data collection and results use were agreed upon, in accordance with chapter 9 of the Tri - Council Policy Statement (Canadian Institute of Health Research [C IHR], Natural Sciences and Engineering Research Council of Canada [NSERC] & Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada [SSHRC], 2014 ). In other words, I strived to tailor the research so that the data collected would be beneficial and useful to the community.

Importantly, the research agreement represented a token of my commitment to return the results to the community in the agreed format (a report in Spanish). The local leader, the General Cacique and I concluded the meeting by signing the research agreement. A written research agreement between the community and the researcher was appropriate as the community had been previously exposed to such practices with scientists affiliated with the Smithsonian Research Institute (SRI). As recommende d by SRI and in accordance with Panamanian legislations, I returned to Panama City to meet with the legal advisor of the National Bureau of Indigenous Affairs [Dirección Nacional de Política Indígena], and to provide the Minister of Indigenous Affairs with a copy of the research agreement, along with my research protocol. Finally, I received approval from the University of Toronto Research Ethics Board on August 19, 2014.

3.2.1 Producing useful material for the community during fieldwork

In the spirit of helping the community, and at the request of the local leadership, I performed a demographic census of the community of Arimae and Emberá Puru. The local leaders felt that updated demographic information would strengthen Ari mae’s land claim, which would be reiter ated during the visit of the General Administrator of the National Land Management Authority (ANATI), planned on October 23nd, 2014. During the first weeks of fieldwork, I went house - to - house to collect information on the number of persons in each househol d, categorized by gender and age group. This process also allowed me to acquaint myself with the community and to make first contact with community residents at large. To perform the census, I was helped by a local field assistant in Arimae, and by a secon dary field assistant in Emberá Puru. I was accompanied by my principal field assistant during about the first half of the data collection process in Arimae, after which I felt comfortable and knowledgeable enough to wander the community on my own. I was ac companied by my secondary field assistant during the entire process in Emberá Puru, since I was less familiar with the village, and its inhabitants were less familiar with my presence as well . The census in the settlement of Vista Alegre was performed by m y principal field assistant due to coordination issues. I gave the aggregated census results to the General Cacique, the two local Nokoes and the president of Arimae, as well as the second Nokó of Emberá Puru. As requested, the results were ready for ANATI ’s visit of October 23, 2014.

I additionally produced sketch maps of the settlements of Arimae and Emberá Puru. This activity was not originally intended at producing usable data: the objective of creating a rough sketch map of Arimae was to facilitate enc ounters across the village as I was creating the sketch and to allow me to better orient myself thereafter. I was more interested at the process than the results. Yet, the leadership became interested in the map as a tool to help them plan the development of the community. I therefore aimed at producing the most representative sketch maps of the two main settlements that I could without access to a GPS. For the sketch map of the settlement of Arimae, I used a map of the village created in 1998 by the Depart ment of Statistics and Census as a baseline (Controlaría Gen eral de la República , 1998). Such map did not exist for Emberá Puru. In both cases, my principal field assistant drew preliminary maps freehand to facilitate my orientation. I used the first itera tions of the sketch maps to facilitate the census process.

The final version of the sketch maps, as well as the aggregated census results, will be included in a report of the summary of my main findings that will be shared locally. Specifically, I will gi ve copies to the General Congress of Emberá and Wounaan Collective Lands, to members of the local leadership in Arimae and Embe rá Puru, as well as to Arimae school’s director. My goal is to return to Arimae to share my results with the community in a brief oral presentation during a village assembly meeting. If, for financial or logistical reasons, I am unable to disseminate the results in Arimae and Emberá Puru myself, I will send physical copies to the General Congress of Emberá and Wounaan Collective Lan ds office in Panama City and request for their transfer to the community. Land invasion in Arimae is an issue of great ongoing concern to the community. The documentation of the case of land invasion, along with the census data and the sketch maps, could h elp to inform further mobilization or advocacy efforts for the recognition of the community’s land rights. It was hoped that, by producing information that could help residents of Arimae and other Emberá and Wounaan communities in their struggles with inva sions, this research would not be simply ‘extractive’ and would truly depart from exploitative colonial research relationships (Howitt & Stevens, 2005).

3.3 Data collection methods

I collected data through fieldwork in the villages of Arimae and Emberá Puru f rom September 15, 2014 to November 24 , 2014 . During the ten weeks of fieldwork, I took part in participant observation, principally in the village of Arimae. I facilitated a focus group in the village of

Arimae to collect baseline information and inform th e interview guide. Subsequently, I conducted semi - structured interviews with residents of Arimae and Emberá Puru, as well as with a Latino who had invaded and settled on the community’s land . I complemented the data collection with the examination of legal documents and news coverage. The following section describes each of the data collection methods separately , as well as the sampling and recruitment strategy.

3.3.1 Participant observation

Participant observation entailed engaging in the everyday life of the co mmunity and taking daily notes describing mundane and extraordinary events, informal conversations as well as observations made throughout the day. Taking part in regular activities, such as the prepar ation food with my host mother, harvesting yam and yuca in my neighbor’s field, or cleaning the streets before the visit of a government official contributed to the building of a richer understanding of the life in Arimae. I attended most community meetings and assemblies in Arimae in order to better understan d the different issues of importance to the residents and to observe patterns of participation. During these meetings, I took detailed and separated notes, a process for which I had asked for the Nokó’s approval. Engaging in daily - life activities contribu ted to my integration in the community. My genuine interest in observing and learning how to make traditional handicrafts, in eating local food items, as well as in trying to learn the Emberá language and conform to cultural norms by wearing the paruma , th e traditional women skirt, built bridges with many community members. Furthermore, everyday encounters created opportunities to engage in informal conversations (Ibarra et al., 2011; Mollett, 2011) , which provide d important contextual information about soc ial relations, livelihood decisions, and the issue of land invasion .

Keeping daily field notes during my time in Arimae helped to provid e context to the interviews and the focus group (Valentine, 2005). Indeed, combining participant observation with other methods such as interviews is a widespread strategy to investigate practices and attitudes toward land uses and territorial struggles (Colin, 2010; Ibarra et al. , 20 11; Mollett, 2011; Nygren, 2004b ). In addition to ordinary events, I also participated and took notes about sporadic events occurring inside and outside the community. For instance, I accompanied the General Cacique and the lawyer working on Arimae’s case to an audience against two colonist s in the provincial capital, La Palma. I also observed instances of cultural self - representation by accompanying the

39 community’s girl traditional dance group to shows in La Palma and in the town of Metetí ( see Figure 1 for a map of the region ). I took part in the celebrations of Independence Day (November 3) a t the community’s school, and accompanied the school’s marching band on a parade in Santa Fé the following day. I became the marching band’s unofficial photographer. In sum, participant observation allowed me to develop a richer understanding of the everyd ay realities in Arimae and to place the community in its wider context.

Broadly, I followed a grounded theory research approach, which involves building theories and frameworks from the data up, rather than using already developed theories to guide data co llection and analysis. For that reason, data analysis began during the data collection process and informed furthe r data collection (Corbin & Strauss, 1990 ). This approach has allowed me to accommodate the research focus to better match the priorities and concerns expressed by my informants. Indeed, I began data collection with an interest in the conservation impacts of land invasions occurring in the forest reserve. Yet, conversations with community members revealed a different focus, where issues of right s, justice and culture whe re at the forefront. A grounded theory approach allowed me to build on these insights as I was collecting data, exploring new literatures and, later on, coding the data.

3.3.2 Sampling and recruitment

Given the qualitative nature of thi s study, I used a purposive sampling strategy in order to build an illustrative sample (Valentine, 20 0 5) . The objective of qualitative inquiries is to access and analyze a range of perspectives, which means that building a representative sample through pro bability sampling is not appropriate (Bryman, Teevan & Bell, 2009; Valentine, 2005 ). I therefore purposefully recruited participants from a range of positions and lived experiences, taking into account variables such as age and gender (Agarwal, 1998), and their intersections (Valentine, 2007). The objective was not as much to compare responses across gender or generational lines, but rather to ensure that voices which are generally less audible during public discussions, such as those of women and young hou sehold heads, were not overlooked by the study. Purposeful sampling according to gender, age, socioeconomic status, livelihood activities, political and religious affiliation, education level and/or length of residence have been employed in previous resear ch on indigenous territoriality (for instance: Colin, 2010; Hayes, 2010).

The sampling process began by creating a list of potential informants for the focus group and the interviews with the help of my local field assistant. We identified key informants, such as community’s founders and individuals holding positions of authority, but also community members from a range of backgrounds: we included women and men, Emberá and Wounaan, long - term residents and newcomers, and included informants vocally in favor of conservation and others in favor of using resources. From that list, I built a sample containing members of the current and past leadership, as well as male and female community members of different age groups living in Arimae or Emberá Puru. In all ins tances, participants were individuals who had the capacity to influence decision - making about resource uses, whether at the household - or community - level. Interviewees were female and male household heads, economically active young adults, as well as elder s consulted in community meetings. Youth under 15 years - old as well as elders who were not involved in household - level or community - level decision - making were excluded.

The recruitment of individual participants for the focus group and the subsequent indiv idual interviews occurred through direct conversations with potential participants, at times in the presence of my field assistant. During these conversations, I explained the subject and purpose of the research to potential informants. I also clarified th e modalities of participations (methods of data collection and time commitment) as well as stressed the voluntary nature of participation. I finally stated the potential risks and benefits of participating in the study . Verbal consent was more appropriate than written consent in the context of this research, since education only recently became more accessible and oral consensus building is still central to decision - making. At the advice of my local field assistant, and in according with the Tri - Council Pol icy Stat ement (CIHR, NSERC & SSHRC, 2014 ), a copy of the informed consent letter was given to each participant during these introductory conversations despite the verbal nature of the informed consent process. That way, participants could go over the lette r at the speed they want at home -- with the help of other family members if needed -- and formulate questions, or identify concerns before the focus group or interview appointment. Prior to the focus group and each interview, I went over the consent materia ls verbally a second time, and asked each individual informants if he/she had any question before asking for their consent. Subsequently, I proceeded to ask for their consent to have the interview recorded.

3.3.3 Focus group

The first step in the collection of q ualitative data was a focus group. With the help of m y local field assistant, I recruited eight potential informants for the focus group, estimating that about five would show up the day of the event. Although we had reached out to both women and men, only three men came to the focus group: a member o f the current leadership, a former leader, and a male community member in his mid - twenties. I decided to go forward with the focus group despite the low attendance because two of the three participants were key informants and, based on reading past research conducted in Emberá and Wounaan communities, I knew that rescheduling a meeting would be difficult (Colin, 2010). Also, the experience of Colin (2010) had warned me of the low participation of Emberá and Woun aan women in focus groups, even if women - only, due to the traditional position of women in the private sphere. Nonetheless, it was important to me to at least offer the opportunity to women to participate in the focus group. The focus group was scheduled o n a Sunday afternoon to maximize overlapping availability among participants and to ensure that my local field assistant could be present. The focus group was audio recorded and lasted approx. 40 minutes. The focus group was held in the open space under th e cultural house, the coolest of the few common buildings in Arimae ( see F igure 5 for a photograph of the cultural house ). In an effort to recognize the time commitment required to participate in research, r efreshments were served.

The main objectives of t he focus group were to: (1) reconstruct the history of Arimae; (2) discuss the evolution of community - level institutions and decisions on resource management; (3) identify the main threats to the integrity of the forest reserve; and (4) explore potential s olutions to the current land conflict ( see Appendix A for the focus group discussion guide). The focus group allowed collecting baseline information and generating discussions that fed into the subsequent interview schedule (Conradson, 2005; Morgan 1996). Focus group discussions have been used as a complementary data collection method in similar research with indigenous communities (Colin, 2010; Hayes, 2010; Mollett, 2011).

3.3.4 Semi - structured interviews

Following the focus group, I conducted interview s with i nhabitants of Arimae and Emberá Puru. In total, fifteen informants took part in semi - structured in terviews: three former regional or local leaders ; three me mbers of the current leadership; four male community members ; and five

42 female community members. Ele ven of these participants lived in Arimae, four in Emberá Puru. The age of the participants ranged from the mid - twenties to over 65 years old. All semi - structured interviews were conducted in Spanish and lasted between 18 minutes and about 2 hours. I nforma nts were given the choice to conduct the interview in the open space below the cultural house, in their home, or in another location if preferred. The number of interviews was determined by perceived data repetition, i.e., additional interviews were conduc ted until theoretical saturation (Bryman et al., 2009). I used the sampling list and informed consent process as described above.

Interview s aimed to cover : (1) the use of the land; (2) the degree of support for the current management of the reserve (perce ived strengths and weaknesses); (3) potential alternative management options; (4) the participation in decision - making and collective action; (5) the perceived threats to the reserve, and their associated solutions, and; (6) land invasions ( see Appendix B for the final interview guide). The first three interviews also sought to gather additional historical information to complement the focus group. I used a semi - structured form at to offer flexibility to the interviewees while providing support to the interv iewer (Dunn, 2005). I therefore combined prepared questions and broader themes, and kept their order flexible. The semi - structured interview guide evolved throughout my time in the field to answer new questions and explore perspectives raised by previous i ntervie ws, in accordance with grounded theory ( Corbin & Strauss, 1990 ). By allowing the participants to use their own words, interviews represent an appropriate methodology to investigate motivations, opinions, experiences and meanings (Dunn, 2005; Valenti ne, 2005). Interviews also offer a space to express divergent or controversial opinions, which are less likely to surface during focus groups (Condrason, 2005).

I offered the option of audio recording interview s or of solely taking notes: seven out of fi fteen interviews were recorded. During these interviews, I took brief notes in the case of data loss (Dunn, 2005). This process was useful as my voice recorder stopped working after 13 minutes during the last interview. I was able to recover the remaining half of the conversation thanks to my brief notes. During the ten non - recorded interviews, I tried to take as thorough notes as I could without jeopardizing the conversational flow. Interview participants were not offered compensation. While increasingly e xposed to the market economy, Emberá and Wounaan cultures still center on social relationships and reciprocity (Velásquez Runk, 2009). Financial compensation risked creating a commercial relationship between the researcher and the

43 participants, and in - kind compensation could have influenced the motivations of the respondents. Informants were obviously thanked warmly for their insights and for their time.

As a complement to the interviews with Arimae and Emberá Puru residents, I sought to conduct interviews with colonist s, in order to gain further insight on the process from their viewpoint. Access to informants was fairly limited; sampling was therefore convenient. I was only able to interview one colonist , whom I got introduced to by a plantation owner. As I gained such access towards the end of fieldwork, I could not use this opportunity to access other colonists . I, therefore, was unable to reach to other potential participants and my sample wa s limited to this single individual . The interview occurred on the porch of his home. The objectives of the interview were to uncover: (1) the reasons a nd motivations for land colonization , and; (2) the perceptions and understandings of the occupied land (see Appendix C for the interview guide). I decided not to reco rd the interview -- it took some time to buil d trust and overcome the colonist ’s initial reticence, and I felt that asking for a recording could have generated greater mistrust and was thus not appropriate.

3.3.5 Documentary research

Finally, I examined press co verage and legal documents to complement the data collected in the field. While I gathered some press articles at the Panama National Library, I found the vast majority of articles on the internet through the websites of national newspapers, such as La Pre nsa, La Estrella de Panamá, and Crítica. I obtained physical copies of the legal documents pertaining to Arimae’s case from the General Cacique of the Congress of Emberá and Wounaan Collective Lands. Some rulings were also retrieved from the Digital Monthl y Judicial Registers of Panama ( http://www.organojudicial.gob.pa/category/registro - judicial - mensual /) . As for the relevant Laws, Decrees, Codes and Constitutional Articles, they were principally retrieved from the Digital Collection of Official Gazettes of the National Assembly of Panama and from LEGISPAN, an online governmental repository of Panamanian legislations (http://www.asamblea.gob.pa/legispan - y - gacetas - oficiales/) . The objective of examining media and legal documents was to better trace Arimae’s s truggle since land invasions resumed in 2009. The press coverage allowed exploring the strategies used and discourses deployed by Arimae’s and state’s representatives. In addition to examining legal documents pertaining to Arimae’s case, I explored the bro ader legal landscape related to land property and indigenous rights in order to understand the legal context in which the territo rial struggle was taking place.

3.4 Preserving confidentiality

The research involved one community member in Arimae as my primary f ield assistant, and one community member in Emberá Puru as a secondary field assistant (solely for the census). The primary field assistant was recommended by community members and leaders present during the local assembly meeting, during which I presented the research and the research agreement. The selected field assistant had previously worked as a research assistant for at least two other research projects, and was at the time involved in the agroforestry project of Planting Empowerment, mentioned above ; he was also a part - time university student in agroforestry. As such, he was already familiar with research endeavours. The main role of the primary field assistant was that of a cultural broker: he facilitated access to participants, and helped to ensure the cultural appropriateness of the methods and questions. His intimate knowledge of the community was invaluable in creating the list of potential informants discussed above, and in approaching household heads in a culturally - acceptable way during the ce nsus in Arimae. He also provided support in the recruitment of participants for the focus group, which occurred only two weeks after my arrival in the community, and thus neither the potential informants nor I were familiar with each other. He also accompa nied me to recruit interview participants in Emberá Puru since I was unfamiliar with the village and its inhabitants.

Given that the principal field assistant would participate in the recruitment of participants and would be present during the focus group and some interviews, I provided him with in - depth training on the informed consent process and to address issues of anonymity and confidentiality prior to engaging in recruitment and data collection . 16 Since the case of the Collective Land of Arimae and Em berá Puru has been and is likely to come back in front of the courts, pressure to disclose data was a foreseeable risk. As part of the ethics training, the primary field assistant was also made aware of his responsibility to redirect any request of data di sclosure from locals to the researcher and, in the absence of the researcher, of his responsibility to protect the confidentiality of the research participants, including from the leadership. Nevertheless, the local field assistant did not have access to t he physical or electronic copies of the data.

16 The secondary field assistant was not involved during the recruitment or interviewing of participants and was therefore on ly briefed on the informed consent process to conduct the census.

In such a small community, however, achieving perfect anonymity and confidentiality is a challenge in itself, since people tend to be already knowledgeable of many aspects of each other’s ‘private’ life. To pr eserve informants’ confidentiality, I reduced the collection of personally identifiable data to a minimum. I identified all research participants by a pseudonym in the transcripts and, as much as possible, in my field notes. I noted their gender and age in general terms (e.g. ‘a woman in her late twenties’) and the household size as a range (i.e. ‘between 2 and 4 people’). I took note of that information prior to beginning the audio recording and transcribed it in an encrypted spreadsheet. In that way, the data was stored in a separate file and was only linked to interview transcripts through an identification code as a way to further de - identify the data (CIHR, NSERC & SSHRC, 2014 ).

I transferred audio files and interview notes on my portable computer imme diately after each interview for prompt encryption . I followed the same process for meeting notes and on a regular basis for typed field notes. All audio files, interview tra n scripts , meeting notes and field notes were encrypted using DiskCryptor, a free e ncryption software recommended by the University of Toronto Information and Technology Services (ITS). Encrypted copies of the data files remained on my portable computer, which I had with me at all time while in the field, as well as on two encrypted exte rnal hard drives, securely stored with my passport. Upon returning to Canada, I erased the data from my portable computer but kept it on the two encrypted external hard drives, which have been stored securely at home.

In spite of those steps, I cannot gua rantee the full anonymity and confidentiality of participants in focus groups due to the presence of other participants. I communicated this information at the beginning of the focus group to ensure that participants were aware of the implications of shari ng personal information in this mod e of participation. Due to the small size of the community, I additionally had to ensure that the identity of interview respondents could not easily be deduced from the contextual information provided when reporting on th e study. This issue will be particularly important when designing the report for Arimae (Mackenzie, Christensen & Turner, 2015). Opinions expressed during interviews will be shared without providing gender or age information about the informants to try to minimize the risk of identification.

3.5 Data analysis

The first step in coding the data was to transcribe the recorded interviews. I transcribed the interviews verbatim in Spanish in order to reduce the loss of meaning that could occur if translating as trans cribing (Lopez et al., 2008). Subsequently, I assigned codes to the transcripts, the hand - written notes taken in substitution for recording, the meeting notes and the general field notes. I began by assigning open codes to passages using NVivo 10 (QSR Inte rnational Pty Ltd, 2012), a qualitative analysis software of good reputation. The open codes were then redefined, divided or merged into codes. This process occurred in iteration throughout the data analysis and interpretation pha se, in accord with the gro unded theory approach (Cope, 2005). I chose to proceed to cod e on original, non - translated transcripts because, given my command of Spanish and the fact that I conducted the interviews myself, doing so allowed me to stay closer to the informants’ words thr oughout the analysis. I only translated the quotes I used in this thesis in order to make my informants’ words accessible to a wider audience. By keeping verbatim in the original language, I hope to be able to disseminate the data both in Anglophone and Hi spanic publications.

3.6 Positionality

Almost all informal conversations I had in Arimae began with the unpacking of a set of assumptions about me. As a young white woman, local residents assumed that I was a gringa from the United States, and a Peace Corp vo lunteer. I was therefore linked to humanitarian intentions and by the same token to the realization of development projects. I was also linked to a national identity which carries its share of prejudices. The association with the United States was however easy to dismantle thanks to my Francophone accent. This audible difference made the process of repositioning myself as a Canadian student conducting research rather than an American volunteer leading a project easier. Yet, I still had to stress my status a s a student on numerous occasions to demystify my economic situation and social standing. Participant observation allowed me to repeatedly put myself in the position of the unknowledgeable one, of the learner, as a way to break the divide between the ‘know ledgeable’, ‘educated’ researcher and the researched. Interacting with an ‘unknowledgeable’ investigator may be “an empowering experience” for many respondents, particularly for members of marginalized groups, as they are placed in the position of experts (Berger, 2015, p. 227). While Berger (2015) refers to interview settings, I believe that this dynamic occurs during informal interactions as well, such as those

47 occurring while conducting participant observation. I felt the growing sense of comfort and pri de of community members as they shared with me or taught me aspects of their sociocultural knowledge and knowhow. I felt this shifting dynamic to be particularly true during interactions with women, probably because my position relative to men was less ‘po werful’ from the start.

Yet, my positionality as a foreign educated researcher may have restricted the ability of informants to refuse to participate in the research. Indeed, Howard (1994) highlights that researchers of the ‘Global North’ are often in a p osition of power vis - à - vis participants of the ‘Global South’, a position which may make participants feel that they are forced to participate. Nonetheless, Miraftab (2004) cautions against such unilateral view of the participant - researcher power dynamic. Indeed, as a young female, I was not in a de facto position of authority and respect. My credibility was something to be built rather than assumed. While almost all potential informants I reached accepted to participate at first, many found subtle ways to express their refusal: for instance by not showing up to an interview meeting, or by stating feeling tired or ill when I came to their house. Navigating whether these instances were oversights and illnesses or covert ways to express disinterest was delicat e. One thing was certain: my requests for time were never a priority to participants, and I was greatly dependent on their goodwill (Enguix, 2014). Regardless of the fluidity of the power relationship, I stressed during the informed consent phase and throu ghout the research process that refusal to participate or wish to withdraw would not lead to any negative consequences for the individual or the community.

While the endorsement of my research by the General Congress of Emberá and Wounaan Collective Lands was a necessary step, it may also have “distorted the basis of informed consent” (Miller & Boulton, 2007, p. 2207). Indeed, individuals might have felt pressured to participate or to give a certain type of answers if they thought I was associated with the Congress. I realized the issue when an informant specifically asked me, during the informed consent process, if the confidential information will also be inaccessible to the Cacique. From that moment on, I made an additional effort to stress how my inquiry was consistent with but independent from the Congress’ objectives. More importantly, I realized I oftentimes had to dissociate myself from a precise individual representing the Congress in the community rather than the Congress as a whole; the association was made without my knowing, as I learned later on that the woman who was my host was a relative of that individual, who was almost our neighbor. Yet, I acknowledge

48 that researchers have limited control over the research participants’ perception of gateke epers - researchers rel ationships (Campbell, Gray, Meletis, Abbott & Silver , 2006).

My status as an outsider had its advantages. I initially had planned on having my principal field assistant present during most interviews to ease the flow of the conversatio n and facilitate the proper understanding of the questions and answers. As I began conducting interviews on my own, I realized the benefits of being the sole interviewer: during the fourth interview in Arimae, which occurred directly after recruitment and was therefore unplanned, the interviewee mentioned the project of Planting Empowerment, for which my local field assistant was working, and questioned the use of the money coming out of the project. While the critic was not geared toward the project itself , it is probable that such comment would not have been expressed in the presence of my field assistant. Being an outsider, in many instances, increases trust (Miraftab, 2004). As such, conducting interviews on my own provided greater flexibility to accommo date the availabilities of informants, and my status as an outsider might have allowed for the expression of critical comments.

In conducting interviews and approaching potential informants, my trilingualism was both a strength and a weakness. The researc h was conducted in Spanish, a language in which my proficiency level is that of a third language. As mentioned above, most if not all inhabitants of Arimae speak Spanish at minimum as a second language; however, proficiency varies across generations and in dividuals. The risk of being ‘lost in translation’ was not negligible. Hopefully, I was able to mitigate this risk by meeting weekly with my primary field assistant in order to discuss part of my notes and recalling of the week’s interviews when needed as a form of preliminary member checking, clarifying regional and cultural language specificities and verifying my overall understanding (Baxter & Eyles, 1997). In addition, my Spanish proficiency definitively improved as the research progressed. While being a challenge, my French - English - Spanish trilingualism was also a means of connection. Being a non - native speaker of English allowed me to connect with youth s and young adults struggling but wanting to learn English. It also created a shared experience in ha ving to deal with institutions and state authorities in a dominant language other than our own. In the same vein, my Québécois identity allowed me to relate with the fear of linguistic and cultural loss felt by older community members. It put me in an inte resting - but probably biased - position to appreciate the sociocultural dilemma looming over Arimae.

Regardless, I remained an outsider; as such, I strived to remind myself of “the dangers of appropriating the voices of ‘others’ and representing [myself] as an expert in their lives” (Valentine, 2005, p. 114). My understanding remains partial and tinted by my interpretations. Despite my will to open as much space as possible for the voices of the Emberá and Wounaan inhabitants of Arimae and Emberá Puru , I c annot claim that none of these voices have been distorted through my ears.

Chapter 4 Challenges to indigenous territoriality in Darién

This chapter examines the persistence of tenure insecurity and land i nvasions on Emberá and Wounaan collective l ands in Darién, Panama, despite the adoption of a law intended to secure the collective land rights of indigenous communities, Law 72 of 2008. Using the Collective Land of Arimae and Emberá Puru as a case study, I argue that the combination of widespread corruption and t he expansion of markets, with discourses that devalue indigenous culture and practices, facilitates land invasions by securing implicit state support for colonisation and by weakening community governance institutions. The chapter begins with a description of Arimae’s territorial struggle divided in two periods, one predating and one following the adoption of Law 72. It continues with an examination of the different facets of the implicit state support for land invasions before turning to the impacts of lan d invasion on Arimae’s common - property regime. The chapter concludes with a discussion of the motivations that sustain the fight for the recognition of the collective land rights of Arimae.

4.1 The case of Arimae

4.1.1 From territorial formation until the adoption of Law 72 (1968 - 2008)

When the highway reached Arimae’s territory around 1973 , the community only consisted of a single settlement, known as Quebrada Boca Los Monos, subsequently as Los Monos, at the current location of the village of Arimae. Los Monos was established from 1968 to 1971 by 18 Emberá and Wounaan families, who previously lived dispersed ly along the Sábanas River, in recognition of the need to organize (Cuevas, Opúa & Lay, 2012) . The overarching objective of village formation was to qualify for a comarca (Herlihy, 1989). By 1971, the founding members of Arimae had demarcated a 72,000 - hectare territory with a boundary swath ( trocha ) (Cuevas, Opúa & Lay, 2012). Yet by the end of the 1970s, the extension of the Pan - American Highway into Darién had engendered uncontrolled colonization and deforestation (Herlihy, 1989; Suman, 2006 - 2007). In less than a decade, Arimae lost hundreds of hectares of territory to Latino settlers from the central provinces of Panama ( Interioranos ). By 1980, the northern bou ndary of the territory had shifted along the highway from the current location of the colonist vi llage of Agua Fria N°2 to the current location of the village of El Tirao (Kirby, 2010) ( see Figure 1 for the location of these two settlements along the highw ay ).

As the Comarca Emberá - Wounaan, created in 1983, did not encompass Arimae’s territory, and in the absence of legislation allowing for collective titling of indigenous land outside of comarcas , Arimae sought to find a temporary solution. The community formed an agrarian association named “Jumbara Amba” and obtained a certificate of possession for 7,000 hectares of its territory on November 23nd, 1983 (Department of the Agrarian Reform of the Province of Darién [Departamento de Reforma Agraria de la Prov incia de Darién], 1983). Emberá Puru was established as a satellite village by the highway at the beginning of the 1980s to guard the northern boundary and prevent further territorial loss. Yet, rights of possession did not prevent invasions on the ‘unwork ed’ forested area of the territory. According to local accounts, the inhabitants of Arimae have had to take land invasions into their own hands on multiple occasions, walking as a gr oup to the colonist s’ homes to give them a 24 - hours ultimatum before comin g back to expel them, and/or burning their houses and fields.

In other instances and to avoid conflict, the community has negotiated with incoming settlers, as was the case in 1996 and in 2003. Bernardo, an elder and former leader, narrated how the 2003 ne gotiation followed a particularly violent exchange with a recalcitrant group of colonist s encroaching on the northern boundary of the collective land. In a process that involved the National Bureau of the Agrarian Reform, Arimae reached an agreement with 1 3 invading families on April 23nd, 2003. In exchange for land that would allow each invading family’s field to reach 45 hectares, the settlers were to act as guards and prevent other colonist s to enter the collective land. In addition, the National Bureau of the Agrarian Reform was to promptly emit a resolution to prevent further land invasions, titling Arimae’s land as well as the colonist s’ newly extended plots. Yet, only the colonist s’ plots got officially titled, and all the colonist s sold their newly a cquired land to the neighbouring teak plantation industry, leaving the community’s boundary unguarded again. One of the colonist s, after selling his parcel in 2004, began ‘pioneering’ land inside the forest reserve (Kirby, 2010). Since about 2008, the smal l satellite settlement of Vista Alegre serves to guard the northeastern boundary further from the highway to avoid additional encroachment . 17

17 The location of new settlements along territorial boundaries has been used as a territorial strategy by other indigenous groups as well, such as the Yekwana of Venezuela (Griffiths, 2001)

4.1.2 S ince the adoption of Law 72 (2008 - 2015)

Since 2009, non - indigenous settlers have started deforesting and using lan d inside the forest reserve. The colonist s are Afro - Darienita and Afro - Co lombian farmers, which is uncommon as land invasions in Darién usually involve Latino settlers (Alvarado, 2002). At the time of fieldwork, there were 11 families involved in Arimae’s land invasion s . The majority reside d in the settlements of Quebrada Honda and, to a lesser degree, in El Tirao. When land invasion s resumed in 2009, the community decided not to directly confront the colonist s or to negotiate with them. Instead, the leader ship suggested following a completely ‘legal path’, using the new channels offered by Law 72 to press state institutions to recognize Arimae’s right. The events pertaining to the case of Arimae which will be described below can also be found in Table 1, wh ich offers a chronology of the main events related to the case of Arimae and to Law 72.

To pressure state institutions to recognize Arimae’s territorial rights , the community blocked the Pan - A merican Highway in front of the vi llage of Arimae on May 28, 200 9. The tactic was successful: the same day, the National Bureau of the Agrarian Reform [Dirección Nacional de Reforma Agraria] of the Ministry of Agricultural Development (MIDA), now ANATI, resolved to recognize the rights of possession owned by the commun ity since 1983 as collective l ands, and to order the expulsion of colonist s (Decision N ⁰ D.N - 761 - 09) (see Table 1 for a chronology of events). While this decision did not involve the immediate granting of the collective title, it was a first step in formalizing th e status of the territory as a collective l and. For that reason, the colonist s o pposed the decision in front of the National Bureau of the Agrarian Reform, which rejected the demand to reconsider the decision on August 25, 2009 (Decision N°DN - 820 - 09). MIDA also rejected the demand on March 24, 2010 (Decision N°DAL - 031 - R.A. - 2010). Two colonist s subsequently brought their case in front of the Supreme Court of Justice, which rejected their demand of constitutional protection on September 28, 2010 (Órgano Judicial de la República de Panamá, 2010). Following these unsuccessful attempts, a c olonist initiated legal processes at a lower court, the Mixed Municipal Court of the District of Chepigana, in 2010 (Cedeño, 2014). Meanwhile, a group of colonist s presented a demand of nullity in front of the Supreme Court of Justice, which rejected their demand on January 20, 2011 (Órgano Judicial de la República de Panamá, 2011).

Table 1 Chronology of the main events related to Law 72 and the case of Arimae (2007 - 2015) International National Local State Institutions Indigenous movements Arimae and Emberá Puru Colonist s April 27 The 11 indigenous congresses and 28, represented by COONAPIP 2007 signed the “Declaration of the Indigenous Peoples of Panama” (Red de Politicas Públicas I ndígenas , 2012) May 21, President Martin Torrijos met 2007 w ith COONAPIP and created the “Presidential High - Level Commission to attend to the problems of the indigenous peoples of Panama” ( Red de Politicas Públicas I ndígenas , 2012 ) September Adoption of the UN Declaration 13, 2007 of the Rights of Indigenous Pe oples (UNDRIP) July 11, The High - Level Commission 2008 officially came into force with Executive Decree N°287 (República de Panamá, 2008a) October Hearing at the Inter - American 28, 2008 Commission on Human Rights (IAHCR) - “Right to private pro perty of indigenous peoples of Panama” (OAS, 2008) October A colonist obtained rights of 31, 2008 possession for land pertaining to Arimae from The National Bureau of the Agrarian Reform (Decision D.N.2165 - 08) December Adoption of Law 7 2 (República 23, 2008 de Panamá, 2008) May 28, Blocking of the Pan - American 2009 Highway to protest the processing of a claim by another colonist at the National Bureau of the Agrarian Reform In response to the blocking, the National Bureau of the Agr arian 5

Reform resolved to recognize the 3

rights of possession owned by the community since 1983 as

International National Local State Institutions Indigenous movements Arimae and Emberá Puru Colonist s collective l ands, and to order the expulsion of colonist s (Decision N ⁰ D.N - 761 - 09) August The demand of colonist s for the 25, 2009 National Bureau of the Agrarian Reform to reconsider the Decision of May 28, 2009 was rejected (Decision N°DN - 820 - 09) March 24, The demand of colonist s for 2010 MIDA to reconsider t he Decision of May 28, 2009 was rejected (Decision N°DAL - 031 - R.A. - 2010) June 26, Regulation of Law 72 (Executive 2010 Decree 223) (República de Panamá, 2010b) September The demand of constitutional 28, 2010 protection of two colonist s regarding t he Decision of May 28, 2009 was not admitted by the Supreme Court of Justice (Órgano Judicial de la República de Panamá, 2010) January The demand of nullity of a group 26, 2011 of colonist s against the Decision of May 28, 2009 was not admitted by the Supreme Court of Justice (Órgano Judicial de la República de Panamá, 2011) March 28, The Demand of Human Rights 2011 Protection of representatives of Arimae and Emberá Puru to render illegal the decision of the National Bureau of the Agrarian Reform of October 31, 2008 was admitted by the Supreme Court of Justice (Órgano Judicial de la República de Panamá, 2014) May 9, Blocking of the Pan - American 2011 Highway to protest the non - eviction of colonist s due to changes to the expulsion order (Membache, 2011) 5 4

International National Local State Institutions Indigenous movements Arimae and Emberá Puru Colonist s May 26, Blocking of the highway by the 2011 communities of Arimae, Emberá Puru, Reserva, Monterrico and Arizona to protest the non - eviction of colonist s (Castro, 2011a) August 8, Visit of the Minister and the Vice - 2011 Minister of the Inter ior to Arimae to find solution to the land conflict (Redacción de Crítica, 2011) November COONAPIP announced in a 12, 2011 communiqué a blocking of the Highway in front of Arimae on November 14 and invite d other indigenous congresses to support the b locking. It also requested State’s representatives to come (COONAPIP, 2011) November Blocking of the h ighway to 14 - 15, protest the lack of response from 2011 the Minister of the Interior to Arimae’s eviction demand. The blocking continued on November 15 since no government represen tative came on the 14 th (Castro, 2011c) November The General Director of ANATI 28, 2011 promised that Arimae would receive its official title on March 31, 2012. The allocation of property rights in Darién was to be suspen ded until that dat e to allow for the granting of collective l and titles to at least six communities (Castro, 2011d). March 14, A colonist obtained a judgement 2012 in his favor from the Mixed Municipal Court of the District of Chepigana for 150 hec tares of land inside Arimae (Judgement No. C - 010 - 12) 5 5

International National Local State Institutions Indigenous movements Arimae and Emberá Puru Colonist s March 23, Hearings at IAHCR: 2012 - “Right of Indigenous Peoples in Panama to Collective Ownership of Lands” (OAS, 2012a) - “Case 12.354 - Kuna of Mandungandí and Emberá of Bayano Peoples, Panamá” (OAS , 2012b) June 4, ANATI granted collective land 2012 titles to two Wounaan communities, Puerto Lara and Caña Blanca, for a total of 382 hectares of land (Redacción de Panamá América, 2012) October Blocking of the h ighway to 26, 2012 protest th e absence of responses from ANATI, which continued delaying the granting of the collective title due to the legal opposition of colonist s (Castro, 2012a) October Blocking the Pan - American 30, 2012 Highway for 20 hours (Castro, 2012b) February IAHCR sent Case 12.354 to the 26, 20 13 Inter - American Court of Human Rights (CIDH) (Rivero, 2013) April 17, The colonist obtained 2013 confirmation of the Judgement No. C - 010 - 12 of the Mixed Municipal Court of the District of Chepigana by the Darién Civ il Circuit Court (Confirmatory Judgement No. 18 - 13) June 17 - Blocking of the h ighway to 18, 2013 protest the judgement of the Darién Civil Circuit Court. The road block was to be maintained until the arrival of the director of ANATI in Arimae (Castro, 2 013b) 5 6

International National Local State Institutions Indigenous movements Arimae and Emberá Puru Colonist s April 10, Blocking of the Pan - American 2014 Highway because two colonos held two Emberá women at gunpoint to access invaded lands. The road block was maintained until SENAFRONT apprehended the colonos ( Mateo Vega, pers.comm. , April 20, 2014 ) April 30, ANATI granted a collective title 2014 to Piriatí Emberá in the Bayano region for 4,712 hectares of land (Redacción de Panamá América, 2014) September The Cacique of the Congress of 19, 2014 Emberá and Wounaan Collective Lands met with th e president of the Supreme Court of Justice to express its concern about the land conflict and the absence of answer from the Court regarding Arimae’s demand of unconstitutionality against the municipal rulings (Secretaría de communicación, 2014) October 3, The Cacique and the Congress’ 2014 lawyer participated in the publication of a news article in La Estrella de Panamá detailing the case of Arimae and pointing to the involvement of relatives of a former provincial legislator in the land conflict (C edeño, 2014) October 7, The plenary audience against two 2014 colonist s for crime against the environment and territorial planning, as well as crime against natural resources and wildlife dating back from July 2009 was held in La Palma October Ruling of the CIDH on the case 14, 2 014 12.354: the Panamanian State is responsible of the collective property right violation of the Guna people of Madungandí and of the Emberá communities of 5 7

Ipetí and Piriatí since 1990 (CIDH, 2014)

International National Local State Institutions Indigenous movements Arimae and Emberá Puru Colonist s October Th e General Administrator of 23, 2014 ANATI came to Arimae for a meeting in front of the community assembly November The Supreme Court of Justice 12, 2014 supported the judgement of the Mixed Municipal Court of the District of Chepigana and the confirmatory judgement of the Darién Civil Circuit Court in favor of colonist s ( Kjaerby, 2015 ) December The admission of the 2, 2014 Administrative Litigious Demand of Human Rights Protection of March 28, 2011 was confirmed by the Supreme Court of Justice (Órgano J udicial de la República de Panamá, 2014) December The decision of the Supreme 9, 2014 Court of Justice in favor of the colonist s hit the news (González Batista, 2014) December COONAPIP asked the Supreme A group of indigenous 15, 2014 Court of Justice to revoke its representatives protested in front deci sion, which it qualified as of the Supreme Court of Justice discriminatory and as promoting buildin g, and then outside the violence and land invasions. It Presidency of the Republic also declared its intent ion to (Redacción de la Estrella de present a demand to CIDH (EFE, Panamá, 2014) 2014) January To comply with the CIDH ruling 19, 2015 of October 14, 2014, ANATI granted a collective title to Ipetí Emberá for 3,191 hectares of land (Decision N° A DMG - 012 - 2015) March 24, Blocking of the h ighway to 2015 protest the land titling issue with ANATI as well as illegal logging by colonist s , asking for better oversight by ANAM (Castro, 2015) 5 8

On numerous occasions in 2011, the community blocked the Pan - American Highway in order to pressure national and local state institutions in complying with the decision of 2009, which included the eviction of the colonist s (Castro, 2011a; Castro, 2011b ; Castro, 2011c; Membache, 2011 ). Resistance emanated from lo cal state authorities, particularly from a municipal judge. On May 26 th , 2011, the National Director of Local Governments acknowledged in an article in La Prensa de Panamá that the eviction of colonist s had not been performed due to changes to the eviction order, but that such changes resulted from an ‘error’ in a ruling made by a tribunal in La Palma (Castro, 2011a). About 20 days prior, representatives of Arimae had identified such changes, rather than resulting from an ‘error’, as another deliberate viol ation of indigenous rights by the Municipal Judge of the District of Chepigana (Membache, 2011). Ten months later, on March 14, 2012, the Municipal Judg e emitted a ruling supporting a colonist claims to 150 hectares of land within Arimae’s territory (Judge ment No. C - 010 - 12).

The legal processes initiated by colonist s at the local level paralyzed action at the national level: the director of ANATI stated the impossibility of evicting the alleged colonist s or granting the collective property title to Arimae as long as the colonist s’ case remained unresolved (Castro, 2012 b ). Less than a year earlier, the same director had promised the suspension of the allocation of property rights in Darién until March 31, 2012 to allow for the delimitation and granting of c o llective l and titles (Castro, 2011d). Yet, two months after the Darien Civil Circuit Court confirmed the judgement of the Municipal Court on April 17, 2013 (Confirmatory Judgment No. 18 - 13), an official source of ANATI confirmed that, despite the protests, they would abide by the judge’s ruling (Castro, 2013 a ). In total, 11 families obtained usufruct rights on 2,000 hectares of land inside Arimae (Castro, 2013 a ). In 2012, representatives of Arimae and of the General Congress of Emberá and Wounaan Collective Lands brought the matter in front of ANATI and the Supreme Court of Justice, claiming the unconstitutional nature of the 11 judgements. Arimae’s lawyer stressed that the municipal judge had no jurisdiction to contradict ANATI’s decision of May 2009, which was based on rights of possession emitted in 1983 and on a special law, Law 72.

At the time of fieldwork, the community of Arimae and Emberá Puru was still waiting for the decisions of the national institutions, which kept delaying their answers. By using national media and setting meetings in Panama City, the General Cacique was able to bring the General Administrator of ANATI to Arimae for a meeting in front of the community assembly on

October 23, 2014 (see Figure 8 for a photograph of the meeting) . The General Administrator expressed his will to resolve the issue, but claimed that the existence of the judgement was ‘tying his hands’. By the end of the 2 - hours - long meeting, ANATI had agreed to provide an answer in 30 days. On November 12, 2014, the Supre me Court of Justice ruled to support the municipal ruling and the confirmatory judgement in favor of the colonist s (Kjaerby, 2015). The decision was covered in a national newspaper article on December 9, 2014 ( González Batista, 2014). Six days later, indig enous representatives protested in front of the Supreme Court of Justice building against the verdict ( Redacción de La Estrella de Panamá, 2014) and held a press conference to ask for its revocation (EFE, 2014). The legal adviser of the National Coordinati ng Organization of the Indigenous Peoples of Panama (COONAPIP ) declared the organization’s intention to present a demand in front of the Inter - American Court of Human Rights (CIDH) during the same week ( EFE , 2014). About three months later, on March 24, 20 15, Arimae blocked the Pan - American Highway during twelve hours to protest ANATI’s inaction and the granting of logging permits to colonists by ANAM (Castro, 2015). The director of ANATI came to Arimae , a ffirm ed that he would consult with the Supre me Court of Justice regarding Arimae’s appeal and other legal actions, and promised an answer on the part of ANATI in 60 days (Castro, 2015) . To the r esearcher’s knowledge, ANATI has not provided its promised legal answer in the said delay .

Figure 8 . General as sembly meeting with the General Administrator of ANATI in Arimae.

4.2 Implicit state support for land invasion s

4.2.1 St ate’s delays and strategic (in)actions

Implicit s tate support of non - indigenous colonization on indigenous lands translates into a lack of politi cal will to prevent land invasions and to formally recognize indigenous collective lands. Indeed, although the S tate has adopted seemingly progressive laws that support indigenous land rights on a strategic basis, it has invariably delayed their implementa tion and enforcement. Since 2001, Panama has embarked on a massive national land titling initiative , with funding from the World Bank, which includes the demarcation and titling of private and indigenous lands. 18 Yet, as previously mentioned, prior to the a doption of Law 72 in December of 2008 (República de Panamá, 2008b) , there was no law that recognized collective titling of indigenous lands outside of comarcas . Law 72 was passed two months after a hearing at the Inter - American Commission on Human Rights ( IACHR) regarding both the insecurity of Emberá and Wounaan collective lands in Darién and the Ngäbe’s opposition to the Changuinola Dam construction project (see T able 1 for a chronology of events). In relation to the hearing, Velasquez Runk (2012) qualifi es the adoption of Law 72 as “an apparent diversion” (p. 31) that served to shift attention away from subsequent government’s inaction in the Ngäbe case. According to Herrera (2012), the adoption of Law 72 was aimed at coaxing the Naso Tjërdis of Bocas del Toro, who were opposing the dam and fighting for the recognition of a comarca , into accepting the dam and forgoing full comarca status in exchange for the recognition of collective land rights. It seems then that, instead of being a genuine step toward th e recognition of indigenous collective land rights, the adoption of Law 72 served more as a political strategy to cover the government’s blatant disregard of indigenous voices in the Changuinola Dam case.

The delaying of the regulation and enforcement of L aw 72 further exposes the lack of po litical will of the Panamanian S tate to truly protect indigenous collective land rights. Indeed, Law 72 was adopted on December 23, 2008 but did come into force until June 26, 2010 with Executive Decree N°223 (República de Panamá, 2010b ), a delay of 18 months. In comparison, Law 80, which recognizes rights of possession and regulates private titling in coastal zones and islands

18 The titling initiative fell under PRONAT, a program partly funded by the World Bank, from 2001 to 2010. PRONAT terminated with the creation of ANATI in 2010, which continues the mandate of PRONAT without the World Bank funding.

(República de Panamá, 2009) , was adopted on December 31, 2009, and regulated on June 7, 2010 wi th Executive Decree N°45 (República de Panamá, 2010a) , a delay of a little more than five months. As a general rule, “time is an enemy of the process of securing indigenous lands” (Stock s , 2005, p. 98), as delay breaks political momentum and allows for opp osition to intensify, at the same time as the number of indigenous claims increases. In addition to the initial regulatory delay, collective and private titles are processed according to two different systems, unevenly prioritized. The requirements for sub mitting an indigenous collective title claim are numerous, and the procedures for its proc essing highly bureaucratic ( Denuncia formal , 2012 ; Velá squez Runk, 2012 ), which substantially slow down the process. In Darién , to date, only two Wounaan communities have obtained collective titles despite the submission of the required documentation for all communities by 2012 (Velásquez Runk, 2012). In comparison, on October 23, 2014 alone, ANATI granted 250 private titles in Darién ( ANATI , 2014 ). P rivate titles usua lly take between 6 and 12 months to be processed by ANATI ( Panama Offshore Legal Services, 2015), but such massive titles distribution has become commonplace under the current administration’s plan of granting 75,000 private titles within five years (ANATI , 2014). No such ambitious objective has been formulated for securing indigenous territories.

Delay acts as a tacit support for indigenous land usurpation since it is not accompanied by appropriate mechanisms to control land invasion s . Indeed, Law 72 has n o provision to prevent land invasion during the processing of titling applications (Anaya, 2014). For that reason, the time frame between the adoption and regulation of Law 72 “ha[s] been used by settlers to consolidate land in Eastern Panama, while the co mmunities’ claims were being processed” ( Herrera, 2012, p. 56, author’s translation ). Article 10 of Law 72 clearly stipulates that collective titles granted under this law could not override existing property titles or rights of possession (República de P anamá, 2008) . Clearly, a delayed implementation of the law means that colonist s could present a request for rights of possession before the collective titling process could effectively be enforced, thus enabling them to make valid competing claims. Indeed, it is during the gap between the adoption of Law 72 and its regulation that invasions resumed in Arimae. Colonist s took advantage of this window of opportunity to access the valuable forested land of Arimae before the completion of the collective titling process. In the absence of protection against land invasion, the community decided to block the highway to obtain a commitment by ANATI to evict colonist s. Nevertheless, settlers engaged in l egal actions to counteract the

63 decision of ANATI, this time at th e municipal level, which served to justify the suspension of the eviction order until the emission of the verdict.

The presence of competing claims delayed the granting of the collective title until the resolution of the conflict, and permitted colonist s to continue working the land. This additional delay hence allowed colonist s to strengthen their position, as was evident to many Arimae residents. For instance, Estefani, an Emberá woman in her early forties, explained h ow the dragging ‘study’ of the colle ctive claim, coupled with the unwillingness of state institutions to deal with land invasion during that time frame, has allowed colonist s to claim ownership of the land:

Estefani: 19 And this is what they are doing, telling ‘wait, we are going to find a so lution to this, we are going to the study first’, and during that time the man is working, because they say in the law, after 5 years of work in one place, you have rights. Umh? Marie - Line : Umh umh. E: This is, this is the weakness of the government, of t he institutions , that they see, for that reason they don’t care that they are being evicted but they continue working. They continue working, and after the government, right, the institutions, ‘yes he has right because he has five years.’ But this land, it was not abandoned, no! It was not abandoned only we had it reserved . ML: Umh umh. E: For us , no t for those who come to invade…. For us (personal communication, November 12, 2014 20 )

Estefani expresses how delays in titling and eviction leave indigenous te rritories in a legal limbo and colonist s in a position to claim usufruct rights to the land. Indeed, under the Agrarian Code in use from 1962 to 2011, the sole criteria to claim rights of possession over national lands was to fulfill, for a minimum of five years, the ‘social function’ of the land. Fulfilling the ‘social function’ of the land signifies making a ‘productive’ use of the land, but what qualifies as a ‘productive’ use is rather narrow . 21 Under this definition, forested lands which are not

19 To preserve confidential ity, pseudonyms are used throughout the thesis.

20 All translations of interview material from Spanish to English have been performed by the author.

21 A s defined by article 30 of the Agrarian C ode, land uses that fulfill the ‘social function’ of the land a re: 1) pastures with a minimum density of one cow or horse per two hectares; 2) agricultural plots 2/3 in production; 3) agricultural plots 2/3 in production with trees for industrial timber extraction; or 4) urban areas (República de Panamá, 1962). Other forms of land use do not qualify as ‘productive’, and therefore do not allow claiming rights of possession over national land.

64 transfo rmed to conform to this definition of productivity are not eligible for rights of possession and remain as national land s . A property system based on the ‘social function’ concept thus fosters forest conversion to agriculture, pasture or timber extraction rather than supporting conservation practices (Mahar & Schneider, 1994 ; Griffiths, 2001; Switch et al, 2003 ). According to Richard (1997), it also equates to a "tacit or open encouragement of colonization over existing [common - property regimes]” (p. 110). In that context, the legal argument used by the colonist s to justify their claims was that they were using the land for agricultural purposes, and that they therefore proffered a social function to unused national land (Castro, 2013 b ). The labelling of the community’s reserve as ‘unused’, or ‘abandoned’, was essential in debilitating the language of ‘indigenous rights’ within the terminology of overarching national land rights , 22 under which the community’s forest does not qualify for a property title . This argument was rooted in the fact that the forest reserve was not yet under a consolidated indigenous collective title, a situation resulting from government delays and a lack of protection during the titling process.

In the end, the State granted few collec tive titles under Law 72 and, again, acted strategically. During a general assembly of the General Congress of Emberá and Wounaan Collective Lands in November 2011, the General Director of ANATI promised the granting of a collective title to Arimae on Marc h 31, 2012, and to at least five other Emberá and Wounaan communities 23 i n the short term (Castro, 2011d) . Despite this promise, ANATI only granted collective land titles to two Wounaan communities in Darién, Puerto Lara and Caña Blanca, for 1,382 hectares of land on June 4 th , 2012 (Redacción de Panamá América, 2012) . Such grants were made about six weeks after two hearings on indigenous land rights in Panama at the IAHCR ( see T able 1 for a chronology of events ). Due to past invasions, these two communities hold a relatively small territory compared to other communities (Velásquez Runk, 2012). Almost two years later, on April 30, 2014, ANATI granted a collective title to Piriatí Emberá in the Bayano Region for

4,712 hectares of land (R edacción de Panamá Améri ca, 2014 ) . Following the CIDH ruling of

22 The Panamanian Constitution contains similar contradictions . O n the one hand, article 127 guarantees the collective property of indigenous land, but on the other, article 123 stipulates that the State will not allow the existence of unproductive or idle land ( República de Panamá, 2004).

23 The five other communities were Puerto Lara, Majé Cordillera, Ipetí, Río Congo and Caña Blanc a.

October 14, 2014, which found Panama guilty of collective rights violation in the Bayano case ( Corte Interamericana de Derechos Humanos [ CIDH ] , 2014) , ANATI also granted a collective title for 3,191 hectares to the c ommunity of Ipetí Emberá in the Bayano Region ( Decision N° ADMG - 012 - 2015) . These cases suggest that ANATI seems to have only granted collective titles when it has been in the State’s immediate political interest to recognize indigenous land rights. The gra nting of collective titles therefore follows the same pattern as the granting of comarcas, namely, as a pragmatic and temporary solution to greater indigenous demands (Herrera, 2012).

4.2.2 Racial discourses and the maintenance of inequalities

Implicit state sup port for land invasion is also manifested in persistent discourses and imaginaries that reproduce racial hierarchies and economic inequalities, serving as justifications for discrimination. One remnant of colonial relationships in Latin America is the pers istent overlap between racial (ethnic - based) and economic (class - based) inequalities, where ‘Blacks’ and ‘Indians’ are at the bo ttom of the social hierarchy (Dí az Polanco, 1997). The recent shift from the nation - state to the multicultural state in most Lat in American countries did not erase ethnic - based inequalities, but reworked them in cultural terms (Hale, 2005). Some cultural practices, including livelihood choices, are privileged while others are downgraded, oftentimes using the language of efficiency and modernity. Dove (1983) use d the term ‘political economy of ignorance’ to explain how the deliberate misrepresentation of swidden agriculture and swidden agriculturalists in Indonesia serves to justify land appropriation and to advance the interests of the elites. In Panama, cattle ranching is an important marker of the Panamanian identity, while slash - and - burn (swidden) agriculture is regarded by the mainstream of society a s obsolete (Velásquez Runk, Ortíz Negría, Quintero García, & Quiróz Ismare , 2007) . Such categorization is visible in the narrow definition of the ‘social function’ of the land of the Agrarian Code (República de Panamá, 1962) . Indeed, Emberá and Wounaan claims over territories containing not only swidden and fallow land, but also large tracks of forests are at odds with the definitions of ‘property’ and its ‘appropriate land use’ promoted by the Agrarian Code. The labelling of swidden agriculture as obsolete, or ‘unproductive’, in mainstream discourses supports the use of a narrow ‘socia l function’ criterion, which devalues indigenous claims to land. This ‘common sense’ conception makes it possible to justify discrimination against indigenous land rights when they conflict with more powerful economic interests.

Even the Regulatory Decree of Law 72, a law supportive of indigenous land use practices, contains a provision that allows overriding indigenous rights. Article 10 of the decree lists five types of admissible contestation to collective land titles. Interestingly, the first type of ad missible contestation on the list is: “in cases when an opponent claims constitute a better [emphasis added] right of possession” (República de Panamá , 2010 b , p. 2, author’s translation). In this provision, opponents are not required to prove property titl es or rights of possession that predate the collective claim; they simply have to argue that their current use of the land provides them with a ‘better’ claim. The term ‘better’ implies that land uses and property claims can be evaluated, compared, and ran ked. Ranking requires criteria for evaluation, as well as norms of desirable outcomes. Since groups in position of power control decision - making procedures and systems of valuation (Martinez - Alier, 2009), and given that Latinos in Panama are at the top of the socio - cultural, political and economic hierarchy, such ranking process opens the door for the continuing subordination of indigenous land claims to the economic and cultural values of non - indigenous actors. The validity of contestations based on ‘supe riority’ claims therefore leaves indigenous land rights in a vulnerable position against claims conforming to mainstream notions of ‘productive’, ‘valuable’, ‘appropriate’ and ‘preferable’ land uses. Furthermore, it implies that collective claims are valid only when no other ‘better’ land use options are available. In other words, even Law 72 contains a mechanism that can serve to circumvent the recognition of indigenous rights.

Closely intertwined with discourses about what constitutes ‘better’ land use pr actices are other discriminatory discourses mobilized in “defining legitimate (and undeserving) subjects of rights" (Hale , 2005, p. 13). Indigenous people not performing ‘productive’ land use practices on all the land they claim are devalued, described as lazy 24 and not hard - working ( flojo ) . To some residents in Arimae, this prejudice is linked to the lack of appreciation for indigenous agricultural practices. For example, Carlos , an Emberá man in his mid - fifties, said:

C arlos: [ The colonists] do not underst and, no, the system, our way to relate to the , of working the land , very different. Because they come , well , looking for , a ccumulating land here , they clear trees one year , they plant one year of production , then come pa s ture . Pa ! They were putting livesto ck and so on. They are removing forests , no ?

24 To be sure, the ‘lazy Indian’ stereotype is pervasive across Latin America (Griffiths, 2001).

ML : Umh umh. C : This , this is their, their tradition , no ? Their customs . While we do not do this . Very different. So when they see us that we do not work like them , they say that we do not know - , that we do not work the land ( personal communication, October 17, 2014)

Discourses that devalue indigenous agricultural practices consequently participate in the construction of stereotypes of ignorance and laziness associated with indigenous individuals. This prejudice d discourse naturalizes racial hierarchies and renders dispossession justifiable. For instance, in an article in The Guardian, Tuckman (2013) cited one colonist who justified its use of Arimae’ collective forest by claiming that “[t]he indigenous people do n’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” . This comment blatantly brushes aside the rights of the resident of Arimae to ‘national’ forest because of their own ‘laziness’ and ‘u nwillingness’ to work. As argued by Mollett (2011) in the case of Honduras: “[t]he repetitive devaluation and inferiorization of Miskito land use practices and customary tenure arrangements evokes the disavowal of the Miskito by making it conceivable to di sregard their rights” (pp. 54 - 55). In Panama, the ‘lazy Indian’ prejudice is used to discard indigenous actors as legitimate claimants under a property system based on ‘productive’ transformations of the land. A number of informants in Arimae complained th at the law is unevenly applied, since State functionaries simply never favor indigenous claimants, regardless of the legality and validity of their claims. As such, inequalities in access to natural and state resources are legitimized by deeming indigenous people as ‘undeserving’ bearers of rights.

There is also a spatial dimension to the racial and economic hierarchies that hinder indigenous land rights recognition. Following the logic of neoliberal multiculturalism, indigenous peoples’ rights to territo rial control are only given in marginal areas, in ‘empty spaces’ where their presence does not conflict with the State’s economic or political interests, tied to a globalized economy (Hale, 2011). The prolongation of the Pan - American Highway in the provinc e has extended the reach of the State and of markets, rendering claims of communities such as Arimae ‘problematic’. Talking about the highway, Alvaro, one of the founding members of the community, said:

[I]n terms of the ease of transport ation , the highway is good. It is good for us for transportation, for, for a lot of things. But as it, is it has brought us problems, because of the land problems. They are taking [the land] away from us. A lot of people do not like that we are here by the highway, that it should be rich people ( gente de plata ) that should

be here by the Pan - American Highway. That we should not, we have to go somewhere else, because we do not pay income tax to the government, because of the payment of income tax. […] The l ittle that we have, they want to take it all away from u s, to, I don’t know, to live where we are. So , this is what we do not agree with, what they are saying then, that we cannot live, like if we were not human. That we cannot live here by the side of the Pan - American Highw ay! [expressing how it does not make sense ] (personal communication, October 2, 2014)

Hence, Alvaro perceived that many Panamanians question the right of the community to live along the Pan - American Highway, a sentiment which c ould have motivate d land inva sion s and the delaying of Arimae’s collective land titling . Land along the highway is indeed prime land due to the eased acces s, which substantially increases its value . The underlying argument is that the recognition of indigenous rights to such valuable land would equate forgoing the development potential of the land, preventing more ‘productive’ economic agents to benefit from this economic opportunity and to contribute to the national economy. This preconceived idea masks the relationship of indigenous communities to markets and devalues their livelihood decisions. One of the sustained myths against swidden agriculturalists is that they are subsistence farmers who do not produce for the market (Dove, 1983). While a substantial portion of agricultural pro duction in Arimae serves for household consumption, producers also take advantage of the opportunities brought by the highway. In addition to facilitating access to fields, the highway allows indigenous famers to set informal stands by the road and to sell staples such as yuca , yam and plantain directly to drivers. The idea that, since indigenous people are ‘unproductive’, they do not belong where their rights ‘curtail’ the rights of more ‘productive’ economic agents to access strategic locations is also pa rt of ‘frontier imaginings’, in which the ‘pre - modern’ indigenous ‘other’ pertains to the ‘wilderness’ and is therefore “out of place” in ‘productive’ urban and rural areas (Prout & Howitt, 2009 , p. 397 ). Frontier imaginings therefore participate in the “e rasure of indigenous rights, lived experiences, and opportunities” (Prout & Howitt, 2009, p. 397). Since indigenous territories are granted “in the spaces from which the neoliberal state has withdrawn” (Hale, 2011, p. 189), it is not surprising that resist ance appears in the spaces where the neoliberal state has recently expanded.

4.2.3 Corruption of local state institutions

Corruption of state institutions represents another mechanism that secures implicit state support for land invasions. Indeed, corruption en sures that state institutions continue protecting the interests of actors at the top of the hierarchy in the distribution of natural resources (Robbins, 2000). Despite the initial rejection of their claims by two national justice bodies, MIDA and the Supre me Court of Justice, colonist s in Arimae were able to prevent their eviction and obtained legal validation of their claim by securing the support of members of local state institutions. To many community members in Arimae, this process clearly involved cor ruption. As reported by the General Cacique in an article in La Estrella de Panamá on October 3, 2014, the invading family that led the legal recourse is directly linked to a former provincial Legislator , Aydée Milanés de Lay (Cedeño, 2014), who is known f or having encouraged land invasions of i ndigenous lands by Afro - Darieni ta and Latino farmers (Alvarado, 2002; Hvalkof & Guevara, 2004; Velásquez Runk, 2012). Some colonist s, therefore, have political capital and connections within local state institutions . 25 While national politics are controlled by Latino interests, members of the Afro - Darieni ta ethnic group still h ave considerable influence over provincial politics in Darién (Arden & Price Consulting & the University of Miami, 2003 as cited in Suman, 2006 - 2007). Bringing the case in front of local institutions advantaged Afro colonist s at the expense of the indigenous community of Arimae, who does not possess similar direct access to provincial state officials. The involvement of provincial judges and legis lators’ acquaintances in land conflicts with indigenous communities, therefore, generates conflicts of interest and political considerations which represent additional motivations to allow land invasions.

Corruption of state institutions also takes the f orm of unfair decisions based on economic incentives, or bribery. On multiple occasions during fieldwork in Arimae, community members mentioned to me that a colonist had bribed the municipal judge in order to obtain a favorable ruling. During an interview, Estefani , a resident of Arimae, expressed the prevalence of corruption in the province:

Darién, it belonged to the indigenous peoples, but since the government is based on money, the institutions are based on money, hum? ‘I will pay you that amount becaus e

25 Howard (1998) also found corruption in the form of preferential treatment to be at the root of illegal land and timber concessions in Nicaragua’s Bosawás r eserve.

you are the judge’ [whispering, as if conspiring] (personal communication, November 12, 2014) The pervasiveness of corruption in Darién was also known to other actors in the region. During a meeting between Arimae’s leadership and representatives of an i nternational NGO, one of the representatives commented that, in her opinion, Arimae would be unlikely to succeed if the matter stays in the province, where decision - making is far from impartial ( F ieldnotes, Oct. 28, 2014). In such context, opting for a mun icipal court might have been a strategic move on the part of the colonist s based on the ease of bribing officials at th e regional level. This situation resonates with the cautionary comment of Nygren (2004 a ), who warn ed that titling initiatives in tropical frontiers may privilege individuals with greater wealth, power, and connections . 26 This is also true of weak judicial institutions, which are particularly problematic in instances where the dominant group is favored by both ethnic and economic inequalities , as is the case in Eastern Panama (Van Cott, 2005). As put by Diego , a Wounaan young man, to explain why invasions are not punished when they occur on indigenous land: “because we are poor, we don’t have political influence” (personal communication, Octob er 28, 2014) . Because of the subordinate socioeconomic position of indigenous people in Panama, corruption, in the form of collusion and bribery, facilitates land appropriation by colonist s.

In sum, despite the adoption of a law that supports collective la nd ownership (Law 72), Panamanian state institutions have continued to delay the settlement of indigenous cases. Meanwhile, they continue granting private titles to individual claimants. This discrepancy in the processing of private (non - indigenous) demand s and collective (indigenous) claims rests on the coexistence of contradictory laws, which are supported by competing discourses about appropriate land use and deserving citizens. Meanwhile, the corruption of local state institutions secures official suppo rt for land invasions on indigenous territories. For these reasons, the adoption of Law 72 has failed to generate concrete benefits for Arimae and other indigenous communities striving or struggling to obtain collective titles. In the end, the Panamanian p olitico - legal system, despite its potential to promote the recognition of indigenous rights, allows for

26 For instance, i n the Bolivian Amazon, corruption has allowed land colonist s to obtain falsify titles to counteract indigenous communal land claims (Reyes - Garcia et al., 2012).

71 economic, political and ideological considerations to trump the recognition of indigenous rights, allowing for land invasions on collective lands.

4.3 Weake ned community governance institutions

4.3.1 Collective management in the face of pressures

Another important way in which corruption, the expansion of markets and racialized discourses facilitate land invasions is by creating internal challenges to community gov ernance institutions. A defining characteristic of Emberá and Wounaan’s territorial management, like many other indigenous groups in Latin America (Griffits, 2001), is collective or communal property. As described in Chapter 3 , collective property in Arima e entails a mixture of individual (family parcels) and common (forest) property rights. Yet, common property, contrarily to open - access regimes, does not equal to unrestricted access and use of resources. As argued by Ostrom (1990), successful common - prope rty resource management depends on the crafting, monitoring and sanctioning of rules, or institutions. Creating rules requires collective action among a defined group of users, who have the ability to exclude outsiders from using the resources. Defining us ers and restricting appropriation through rules are devised to avoid resource depletion and to secure the long - term benefits of a resource system (Ostrom, 1990) . I nternal rules in Arimae dictate land alienability, including in family parcels, and prescribe procedures for the individual and collective harvesting of valuable timber species.

The presence of colonist s using a community’s natural resources is highly problematic because it increases the incentive to free - ride among group members (Van Learhoven, 2 010). Indeed, colonist s are unaffected by local sanctions for non - compliance with the rules - in - use, which means that they can use resources indiscriminately and reap benefits from rule followers. As the resource base diminishes, group members perceive a hi gher benefit in harvesting in the present rather than harvesting in the future (Ostrom, 1990). This is particularly true when, in cases like Arimae, national authorities do not fully recognize local institutions and fail to provide communities with appropr iate support to exclude outsiders (Ostrom, 1990). The presence of non - excludable third parties therefore negatively affects the payoffs of compliance with co llective management rules .

Although Arimae has faced land invasions for almost 40 years, the incen tive to free - ride m ay be intensifying with increased market pressures ( Agrawal, 2003 ; Colchester, 1994), internal demographic growth and socioeconomic changes (Agrawal & Goyal, 2001; Howard, 1998), and the unfavorable political and policy environment (Bron dizio, Ostrom & Young, 2009; Colchester et al. , 2001; Ostrom, 1990). In Arimae, free - riding has taken the form of the leasing of land parcels, of the opportunistic individual appropriation of common - property resources, mainly timber, and of the collaborati on of leaders with colonist s and rule violators .

4.3.2 Renting land: collective risk and individual benefi ts

Almost all of my informants in Arimae and Emberá Puru mentioned land speculation as the main driver of land invasion s in the community’s forest reserve. Since the expansion of the Pan - American Highway in Darién in the 1970s, improved access has engendered an increase in land values close to the highway, incentivising the clearing and claiming of land by settlers (Herlihy, 1989; Suman, 2006 - 2007). By 1980, Arimae had lost hundreds of hectares to settlers. Land values have experienced a new push since the mid - 1990s, with the expansion of teak plantations in the region (Kirby, 2010). Teak plantation owners, supported by favorable policies, grow by buying defo rested land from settlers, who then move on to find new ‘idle’ land further away. Most land by the highway in Arimae’s vicinity has already be cleared and claimed by settlers or sold to cattle ranchers or to the teak plantation industry, and this increases the pressure on the forested land of Arimae.

With a growing demand for accessible land in Darién and a greater need for cash income in the co mmunity, renting part of one’s parcel has become a viable livelihood option. In the recent years, however, rentin g land has become prohibited within the collective land because it has been identified as an entry point for land invasions by some community members, such as Estefani. This Emberá woman from Arimae e xplained that, by renting land and getting closer to som e community members, non - indigenous settlers gained knowledge of the legal limbo in which the community claim still rested:

For that reason oftentimes someone who stays close - minded says: ‘[The Indians] are the ones who are guilty! Because they are the one s who had the people here, renting [land] to them, and now look where they went. They are the guilty ones!’ They tell the truth, and oftentimes they are right. Umh? Because it is since then that he [the colonist ] began learning because if he had not entere d here, he would not have known, if we had not

opened the door to him, renting and having this, Latino here, as a jaba (Emberá: brother) of sort (Estefani, personal communication, November 12, 2014)

By renting land, non - indigenous farmers learned that the collective land was, in theory, still deemed as national land, which means that the physical changes they would make on the landscape, either on the rented plot or within the ‘non - productively used’ portion of the territory, could be used to claim the fulf illment of the ‘social function’ of the land and, as explained a bove, after five years, obtain right s of possession. In fact, leases themselves are now impediments to the granting of collective property rights, as the regulation of Law 72 allows opposition to collective titling by opponents claiming to rent a plot within the collective land (República de Panamá , 2010 b ). In Arimae’s case, renting land to harness new market opportunities has exposed the territory’s legal weakness and facilitated land invasion s, which then added further pressures on the c ollective management institutions.

Despite restrictions on renting land to outsiders, local informants lamented that some community members still lease land from their family parcel. Leasing one’s land plot to outsiders does not prevent other community mem bers from working their own parcel s, and thus is not a form of free - riding intended at appropriating a resource at the expense of other members. It however enta ils non - compliance with the collective rules and represents an attempt to individually capture the commercial value of the collective land, a form of non - compliance with the shared understanding of collective land use and purpose. Renting land as a source of income is reflective of changing cultural prac tices and cosmologies , as it requires valuing land as a commercial asset, a changing perspective noted by Herlihy (1986) among Emberá and Wounaan communities in the mid - 1980s. National discourses promoting mainstream values and practices have percolated in the community, contributing to promote the perspective of land as a commodity . As claimed by Diego, a W ounaan man in his mid - twenties: “there are too many influences in our culture that have, that are overtaking the social system that we have lived with. For all of this, I accuse the system. It always invites to individualism ” ( personal c ommunication, October 28, 2014). To Diego, individualism is embedded in the mainstream capitalist system, with which the community has more and more contact. Horton (2006) notes that increased market contact may lead to greater “individualism, competition and intra - community inequality, thus undermining indigenous ability to articulate collective interests” (p. 850). As such, what Diego sees in Arimae is the incursion and a doption of capitalist values and relations, which erode

the set of values and relations on which community governance was traditionally built. It is this adoption of capitalist values that allows individuals from the community to participate in the commodi fication of their territory , which requires defection from established collective institutions .

4.3.3 Timber extraction and internal divisions

Lucrative timber markets also influence the actions of colonist s and community members alike. Indeed, colonist s not on ly cleared part of the forest reserve of the collective land to establish fields and small plantations, but also ventured inside the forest reserve to harvest timber. Colonists hence contributed to the depletion of Arimae’s timber reserve, which was alread y in use by the community. Indeed, the combination of timber harvesting by colonist s and by the community to cover the legal costs of their struggle, at the same time as sustaining community projects, led to the intensification of forest clearing since 201 0 (Diego, personal communication, October 28, 2014). Graciela, an Emberá woman in her mid - forties, narrated how, in that context, some community members have appropriated timber to serve their personal interests. She situated the beginning of rule breaking in 2012 (Graciela, personal communication, November 23, 2014). Interestingly, on that same year colonist s secured a judgement in their favor at the Mixed Municipal Court, pointing to the negative impacts of unsupportive legal and political environments on common - property regimes (Ostrom, 1990). The rule breaking process Graciela described did not involve a total disregard for common management institutions, since non - compliers continued to request the leadership’s permission to harvest timber. Rule violati on occurred instead during timber harvest: some individuals harvested more trees than what they had been authorized by the community authorities in order to independently sell some of the timber. They took advantage of the situation, and their action trigg ered for other to do the same. According to some informants, the combination of collective, individual and external extraction had a significant impact. For example, to Diego, as of 2014, there was no such thing as a ‘ primary ’ forest reserve anymore (pers onal communication, October 28, 2014).

I ndividual timber extraction in the community reserve has led to internal conflicts over rule application and has provoked mistrust within the community , weakening the common resource management institutions (Ostrom, 2000). This issue came up in conversation with Belinda, a Wounaan woman in her mid - forties, who expressed a sense of injustice when asked about the

75 timber extraction arrangement, explaining that everyone in the community takes care of the forest and shoul d therefore equally benefit ( p ersonal communication, November 8, 2014 ). That some people reaped greater benefit, particularly newcomers in comparison to long - time residents who have participated in the land struggle since the beginning, upset her. In fact, what upset her and Graciela , another local woman, was not o nly rule breaking per se , but the lack of sanctioning on the part of the Arimae leadership. Both informants clearly stated that the issue was well known in the community and that the matter had be en repeatedly brought up during previous meetings. However, the leadership had failed to take action to stop rule breaking, solely verbally condemning such actions and asking rule violators to stop instead of determining sanctions for non - compliance. Witho ut sanctions to increase the cost of defection, and to instill confidence that all resource users will follow the rules, the balance further tipped in favor of rule breaking.

4.3.4 Leadership cooptation

During my time in the field, I heard different explanation s for the leadership’s inaction. Some people commented that the newly elected leaders were not yet familiar with the internal rules and the proper way to enforce them. Others pointed to the leaders’ ‘softer’ personalities, and their propensity to avoid per sonal conflicts. But an explanation that came up recurrently was that various leaders at the local, regional and provincial level were personally benefitting from these market opportunities. Some members of the local lea dership were renting their parcel s t o outsiders. Others were said to have received a share of the income from individual timber sales as a form of bribe to allow for extraction. Some leaders were also suspected of pocketing revenues from collective timber extraction designated to cover legal expenses associated with the community’s territorial struggle , 27 since they failed to provide regular report of their spending and of the quantity of trees cut. M y informants in Arimae were careful to stay vague on the identity of the individuals within th e leadership who were involved, and it is likely that more than one leader was involved in the different activities.

27 Colchester (1994) uses the term ‘lairdism’ to refer to instances , unfortunately widespread, where “indigenous élite make land use decisions for personal gain rather than in the interests of the communities that they are meant to represent” (p.87).

Field data suggest that the State’s implicit support for land invasions is intertwined with the cooptation of indigenous leaders. Indeed, the colonist I interviewed claimed that one high - level indigenous leader began collaborating with him following the judgement in his favor from the Municipal Circuit Court of the District of Chepigana. He explained that the leader provided him with his sup port in exchange for a share of the revenues from timber extraction from the collective reserve. As the colonist did not provide me with the legal document signed by the leader and his collaborators to corroborate his claim, I treat his testimony with a gr ain of salt. Indeed, claiming to collaborate with the indigenous leadership both serves to legitimize his presence and could serve to aggravate internal conflict in Arimae, which would be an effective strategy to further weaken the community’s unity. Yet, the confusing legal landscape of Arimae’s case, the ease of corruption in the province and the complaints of informants regarding leaders’ accountability make me believe that at least part of the colonist s’ claims is true.

The involvement of some of the l eaders explains their unwillingness to punish non - compliers , but also sheds light on the reduced accountability of local institutions. Many of my informants believed that the leadership should provide regular reports on timber extraction and community spen ding — they are expected to, but are not doing so — and that non - compliers should be punished or rule - followers compensated for the lost revenues. Yet, according to Ana, a Wounaan woman in her early thirties, many community members are afraid to voice their d emands for sanctions and accountability during meetings because of the aggressive responses of some of the leaders and their supporters (personal communication, October 17, 2014). Such dynamics suggest that, when leaders themselves are involved in rule bre aking, local institutions do not provide adequate arenas for conflict resolution. There seems to be no mechanisms to guarantee leader’s compliance with the internal rules other than the threat of destitution, which only applies to local leaders and require s reaching consensus during a general assembly. As an alternative, the disagreement of community members, such as Belinda, has been expressed by not attending village meetings and assemblies (personal communication, November 8, 2014). These practices corre spond to what Erazo (2013) calls “government through distance” when describing the refusal to participate as a form of political action among an indigenous community of the Ecuadorian Amazon (p. 91) . In Arimae, there has also been a reduced participation i n community works, such as during the cleanings of the village ( limpiezas ) and the upkeep of the boundary swath ( trocha ) . Whether or not this participation pattern is solely attributable to the

recent internal conflict is beyond the scope of this investigat ion . 28 Nonetheless, both Ana and Belinda mentioned how the internal divisions in relation to resource management have contributed to a sense of despondency ( desanimo ), discouraging community members fr o m participating in collective endeavours.

Additionally , mistrust toward leaders is seen by some residents as bringing disunity on both internal and external matters. Indeed, Diego, a Wounaan young man, clearly articulated that the success of Arimae in dealing with an external threat depends on the community s upporting its leaders:

Diego […] the community still supports [its leaders], this part I think it is good. The bad part is that with that mistrust, which exists, later on it is possible that that gets lost. ML Umh. D So it is the part that, right now, ha s to be, has to be fixed before that happens. Because if there is an internal conflict, the external one will be more difficult to, to solve ( personal communication, October 28, 2014)

Internal conflict and disunity therefore render Arimae more fragile to t he disruptive effects of land invasion s , the expansion of markets and rapid cultural changes. Wickstrom (2003) and Horton (2006) similarly argue d that internal cohesion and leadership accountability are important characteristics which allow indigenous comm unities to resist the disruptive effects of State and market pressures. Mutual trust is indeed important to the maintenance of common - property institutions (Ostrom, Gardner & Walker, 1994). The fading of sanctioning mechanisms and leadership accountability hence weakens Arimae’s common - property management system and threatens its ability to resist external pressures.

In the end , individual appropriation of collective resources, leadership corruption , and the obvious lack of State’s political will have led some community members to question the purpose and benefits of working collectively, which has contributed in creating doubts regarding the probability of winning a collective battle. In Honduras, a similar loss of confidence has led Miskito community memb ers to seek private title for their parcels within collective lands (Hayes, 2010), a scenario seen in some Emberá - Wounnan communitie s in Panama. For instance, the land

28 Other factors, such as the demographic growth of the community, could have influenced the sense of responsibility toward or of belonging to the community. The perceived lack of political will might also have led to a discard of collective action as an effective avenue to securing livelihoods.

problem in the community of Río Congo includes indigenous community members seeking priv ate title s and selling land to non - indigenous buyers (F ieldnotes , October 22, 2014 ). The opportunity of rapid individual gain and internal defection in the face of time - and resources - consuming legal processes therefore delegitimize collective claims . As s uch, land invasions increase the pressure on common governance institutions, contributing to the potential break down of collective action .

4.4 The motivations driving the territorial struggle

Despite an unsupportive political and legal system, as well as inte rnal divisions, many community members retain a strong desire to fight for legal recognition of their collective land. Two main lines of reasoning seem to motivate the struggle: first, that an ‘ official title ’ is the best available protection against land invasion s and the associated land degradations, and; second, that a ‘ collective title ’ is necessary to secure the future of the next generation of Emberá and Wounaan .

4.4.1 Official title: barrier against land invasion s and deforestation

To the majority of resi dents in Arimae, the fight for collective land rights recognition is motivated by the conviction that a State - recognized title represents the most effective weapon available to fight land invasion s . Indeed, t o Arimae residents, a title would finally allow them to evict colonist s, and would offer legal protection to the community against further land invasion s . As such, the community is focusing its demand on property rights enforced by the state rather than contesting the nation - state’s establishment. The o verall strategy of the Collective Land movement hence corresponds to the ‘legal - cartographic strategy’ described by Wainwright and Bryan (2009) in the context of Nicaragua and Belize. Wainwright and Bryan (2009) expose d many limitations to this strategy, a mong which the maintenance of structural inequalities and the strengthening of capitalist relations. Indeed, fighting for community - level collective titles does little to confront the lack of political representation of indigenous people at the provincial and national level, nor does it contest the commoditization of nature outside communities. Yet, as argued by Postero and Zamosc (2005), minority indigenous groups rarely aim at reorganizing the state so that their interests are better represented within it s structure, but tend to advocate for their rights to self - determination. In the case of Arimae, the community’s demand s seem to be aimed at gaining recognition and protection of their culturally - informed land uses and

livelihoods, and at preserving a mini mum of local autonomy within the Panamanian state. It may be argued that t he struggle to gain collective property rights recognition is an attempt at correcting the problem of translatability of indigenous property rights (Freire, 2003), if not physically, legally. Recognized property rights are indeed the basis for exclusion rights, which are essential to common - property resources management (Ostrom, Garner & Walker, 1994). An official collective title would provide Arimae with a recognized language to de fend its territorial rights when interacting with non - indigenous settlers, but also when requesting state intervention to deal with invasion s . In this perspective, a collective title would offer the community a more solid basis to defend its rights.

Some community members also justified their territorial demands by pointing to the negative repercussions of the land - use practices of colonists, associated with forest conversion. Arimae residents expressed a clear dichotomy between the landscapes of indigenou s and non - indigenous farmers, associating standing forests with indigenous communities and large pastures with non - indigenous farmers. 29 For instance, one morning, as I was walking with a woman to one of her relatives’ field, she critiqued the custom of n on - indigenous farmers of clearing all the forest on their land to perform their activities. Pointing to the vegetation along the highway, she claimed that, if it were not for the indigenous people, this would have been pasture by now (Fieldnotes, November 6, 2014). Some residents expressed other concerns about forest conversion to pasture upstream due to its perceived negative impacts on water quality and fish availability, and about decreasing water supply in one of the stream s running from the forest rese rve to the village of Arimae due to deforestation. Alvaro, a founding member of the community, additionally identified the use of pesticides by the neighbouring teak plantations as a major threat to Arimae’s water supply (personal communication, October 2, 2014). Since land invasion s usual ly lead to the creation of pastures or the expansion of teak plantations, these concerns indicate that a property title seem s to be also regarded as a way to mitigate, to a certain extent, the impacts on Arimae of the incr easing colonization of the region.

29 Despite the use of timber as a source of income in the community, deforestation was associ ated with the incursion of the Lat ino culture in Darién via the Pan - American Highway.

By extension, this framing posits a titled collective land as a barrier against the expansion of the agricultural frontier and its associated deforestation and land degradation. Truly, research has shown that indigenous t erritories are effective at preventing deforestation in the tropical lowland s of Latin America (Hayes & Murtinho, 2008; Nelson, Harris & Stone, 2001; Nepstad, 2006; Stock s , McMahan & Taber, 2007; Schwartzman et al., 2013; Vergara - Asenjo & Potvin, 2014). Bu t more importantly, stressing the association between non - indigenous practices and deforestation places indigenous people as ‘protectors of the forest’, a strategic repositioning in a country where indigenous people are labelled as ‘ lazy ’ and ‘ unproductive ’ citizens . This discourse of stewardship was often mobilized by community members to defend the value of indigenous land use practices, based on interdependency and respect for the land, and to explain why they fight for a relatively large territory conta ining a forest reserve. Similarly to other indigenous groups, Arimae then mobilizes discourses of indigeneity and indigenous environmental knowledge to justify its claim (Brosius, Tsing & Zerner, 1998; Brysk, 2000; Li, 2000; Sundberg, 2008). As stated by N ygren (2004 b ): "the struggles over tropical forests are not only about possession of land but also about the management of images" (p. 202 ). T he popular imagery of indigeneity and forest dependency, often deployed to correspond with the preconceived ideas of more powerful conservation actors, nonetheless gives leverage to indigenous people (Li, 2010; Velásquez Runk, 2009). In Arimae, p ositioning indigenous people as having a disti nct relationship with the land, a nchored in their cultural tradition , helps su pporting a property claim based on a different pattern of land uses, and helps justifying a desire to secure land without participating in the national land market. Regardless of w hether the discourse is genuine to the community or mobilized strategically, as it is likely co - produced, it serves as a counter - argument to the dominant discourse devaluing indigenous citizens by drawing on the language of international indigenous rights movements.

4.4.2 Collective title: buffer against dispossession and acculturation

The struggle of the community of Arimae and Emberá Puru is not only motivated by the advantages of official state recognition, but also by the collective nature of the property title sought. A number of informants advocate d for a collective title because it implies that land cannot be sold to third parties, linking the urgency of obtaining a collective title to changes happening within the community. Despite appeals to indigeneity to obtain recognition of their territorial rights, community members are als o aware that Emberá and Wounaan cultural

practices and cosmologies are being affected by the recent changes in the province. As pointed out by Estefani, “ also the Indians, they are not all the same I told him, they are not all the same, there are indigenou s peoples who fight for land but for what, for profit. Without thinking about the children, the grandchildren to come…” (personal communication, November 12, 2014 ). Alfonso , a local resident in his forties, explained the rationale for collective titling in a similar way : “we have struggled collectively , for all of us, for the future of our children, but individually, no, no, we do not want individually, private titles, because then comes the disorder, then comes the sale” (personal communication, November 23, 2014). With the increased pressure of markets and rapid cultural changes, some community members would sell their field for immediate profits rather than thinking about the long - term well - being of their community if they had a private title. Bernardo, one of the founding members of the community, gave me the example of Pueblo Nuevo, a neighbouring Wounaan community who individually titled its land instead of being part of the Collective Land of Arimae, to showcase the risks of private titling:

Right no w they do not have any land… It is a shame, but what can we do? Now, the, the youth, they are saying that the older generation did them wrong. They sold the land, now where are the y going to sow any plantain, yu ca, where are they going to sow, there is [no land]! It is all sold (personal communication, October 11, 2014)

Community members such as Bernardo therefore fear that, with private titles, household heads in Arimae would sell their parcels, leaving the next generations in the same situation as the cur rent youths in Pueblo Nuevo. On the contrary, the recognition of and support to common property rights and institutions can increase the ability of communities to adapt positively to demographic and market pressures (Richard, 1997). Li (2010) also acknowle dged that common property is sometimes sought by indigenous groups “because they recognize the risk of dispossession and seek to prevent it” (p. 399). Some residents in Arimae therefore conceive collective property as a strategy to prevent land commoditisa tion by both indigenous and non - indigenous actors, and as a means to prevent collective dispossession in the face of immediate necessities and temptations.

Crucially, many community members perceived the younger generation to be particularly affected by su ch cultural changes, notably through the school system, which put in question the continuity of indigenous land uses and cultural practices. Wickstrom (2003) similarly argued that the main threats to natural resources and cultural identity in the comarca G unayala emanate from “the increasing acceptance of external socioeconomic and cultural norms by today’s youthful generations” (pp.54 - 55). Informants in Arimae complained that the youths are not interested in

working the land, which they see as a commodity, that they would rather find employment outside the community, and that they almost exclusively speak Spanish. During her interview, local resident Graciela used the term acculturation to describe this process of cultural change among the young er generatio n (personal communication, November 23, 2014). Some community members, such as Graciela, were concerned that, if they fail to secure a collective title, the new generation will not continue fighting for the land and will abandon their culture altogether. I ndeed, Horton (2006) argued that the recognition of collective property rights has allowed the Guna community of Ipetí, in the comarca Madungandí, to further promote their land rights and their cultural identity despite increasing pressures. In Arimae, man y residents fight for a collective title because they believe it would help securing the future of the next generation of Emberá - Wounaan, protecting both livelihood and culture.

When voicing concerns about cultural changes, community members were not advo cating for a return to a fixed - in - time vision of their culture; they were rather warning against ‘modernization’ as a blind adoption of the dominant worldview. As stated by Carlos, an Emberá man in his mid - fifties, “when one loses his culture, his language , one loses his right” (personal communication, October 17, 2014). This statement reflects an understanding that ethno - territorial rights, as recognized by the nation - state, are contingent on displaying cultural signs of indigeneity. Maintaining one’s cult ure is, in that sense, strategic and pragmatic. Yet, Carlos’ statement also suggests that by conforming to the dominant socio - cultural systems, one scarifies his/her right to difference. His statement echoes that the erasure of cultural differences is one aspect of Escobar’s triple conquest (2006), aimed at simultaneously denying rights to alternative forms of ecologies and economies. There is therefore consciousness within the community that territorial struggles, as neoliberal conflicts over natural resou rces, are cultural struggles as much as they are political, ecological and economic struggles.

In Arimae, common property is therefore conceived as a strategy to guard the community against the effects of land invasions, but also against the more subtle im pacts of capitalist expansion in the province. Achieving the recognition of collective land rights is thus meant to prevent collective dispossession in the face of immediate pressures, and to protect against the liquidation of the community’s economic, eco logical and cultural heritage on the longer term. It is, in a sense, a strategy by indigenous communities to protect their right to diff erence - in - equality against the ‘ trip l e conquest’ (Escobar, 200 6) advancing in Darién .

Chapter 5 Conclusion 5.1 Summary of key findi ngs

The objectives of this study were to uncover the material and discursive forces threatening the integrity of indigenous collective territories; to identify the impacts of land invasion on community governance institutions, and; to understand the motiva tions that sustain the fight for the recognition of indigenous collective lands. Based on insights gained from fieldwork in the Collective Land of Arimae and Emberá Puru, Darién, Panama, I have argued that the combination of widespread corruption and the e xpansion of markets, with discourses that devalue indigenous culture and practices, facilitates land invasions on indigenous territories by securing implicit state support for colonisation and by weakening community governance institutions.

Implicit state support translates into a lack of political will to engage in land invasion prevention and formal recognition of indigenous collective lands. The Panamanian state has simultaneously supported and weakened indigenous land rights by adopting progressive law s while delaying their application. As State’s institutions continue to delay the settling of indigenous cases, ANATI pursue on granting private titles to settlers . Titles are granted on the basis of the notion of fulfilling the ‘social function’ of ‘natio nal land’, a narrow concept of productivity which denies indigenous land uses as basis for property rights. The language of indigenous rights is then diluted by a discourse of broader national rights, in which ‘landless’ Panamanian colonist s also have righ ts to national land. The devaluation of indigenous land uses and the labelling of indigenous individual as ‘lazy’ reflect the persistence of racial hierarchies in Panama, which serve to justify land invasion s and the denial of indigenous rights. Finally, a ccording to community members, the granting of private titles on collective lands is also explained by the corruption of local state institutions.

Corruption, the expansion of markets and discriminatory racialized discourses also facilitate land invasions by provoking internal challenges to community governance institutions. The presence of colonist s using the community’s natural resources also increas es the incentive to free - ride among community members (Van Le arhoven, 2010). In Arimae, free - riding has tak en the form

of individual appropriation of common - property resources and collaboration with colonist s, provoking internal divisions and disenchantment. Motivated by market opportunities, some community members continue to lease land plots to non - indigenous farmers, an action formally prohibited and which has been identified as an entry point for land invasion. Meanwhile, individual timber extraction in the community reserve has led to internal conflicts over rule application and has provoked mistrust, weake ning the common management institutions (Ostrom, 2000). The sense of disenchantment has been heightened by the role of indigenous leaders in such endeavours, either through direct participation or intentional inaction. As such, individual appropriation and leadership corruption have led some community members to question the purpose and benefits of working collectively, contributing with the obvious lack of political will in creating doubts regarding the probability of winning a collective battle.

Yet, man y community members retain a strong desire to fight for a legal recognition of their collective land in order to halt land invasion s , to protect the forest from further devastation, and to secure the future of the next generation of Emberá - Wounaan. To many community members, the legal recognition of their property rights in the form of an official title would allow them to deal more effectively with land invasion s , supporting their rights and mitigating against the negative effects of colonists’ land uses. A number of informants also advocated for a collective title, rather than the parceling of private titles, because it implies that land cannot be sold to third parties, therefore avoiding dispossession in the face of immediate necessities, and buffering a gainst the longer term effects of market expansion and cultural changes. In Arimae, the struggle for a collective territory is therefore conceived as a means to protect the community’s economic, ecological and cultural heritage.

5.2 Limitations and recommenda tions for further research

This study sheds light on the process of land invasion and the struggle for indigenous land rights recognition in an Emberá - Wounaan community of Eastern Panama. However, I wish to acknowledge the limitations of this study that co uld help to inform further research. First, using a case study approach allowed me to gain a rich understanding of the struggle in Arimae, however it may be difficult to extrapolate broader conclusions to other contexts. Indeed, Arimae and Emberá Puru is not the only community experiencing land invasion and struggling to obtain a collective land title, but it is likely that the process presents both similarities and differences with

other communities. A comparative, multi - community study would enrich our u nderstanding of land invasions on indigenous lands by allowing us to differentiate the generalized obstacles from the localized problems. Research with broader geographical scope could compare the experience of communities with different level of access to markets (for instance, by comparing communities accessible by land and river transportation), and with different territorial and demographic size, to try to tease out the variables that could foster land invasion s and State’s inaction, but also those that could inc rease the risk of internal rule violation .

Second, this study resulted from a relatively short period of fieldwork (three months). This has two main implications. First, my relatively short period of residence in the village of Arimae means that I had the opportunity to interact with a limited number of community members, and to build relations of trust with a few among them. A longer time in the field would likely have resulted in the representation of a wider array of perspectives, but also of richer and deeper individual accounts. Additionally, a short fieldwork period implies that the analysis is based on a single snapshot of an ongoing process. The analysis therefore identified the obstacles faced by Arimae and Emberá Puru, as well as the com munity’s motivations, according to local accounts at a precise moment. This moment was influenced by the entry in function of a new national government, elected during the general elections of May 2014, by a recent change of local leadership in the communi ty, and by growing tensions around timber harvesting. Further research, conducted on multiple visits in the same community or communities, could document the evolution of the challenges and strategies of collective action against land invasion in a context of unsecure property rights.

Third, the present research sought to understand the land struggle from the perspective of the local indigenous community. Indeed, with the exception of one non - indigenous colonist , all informants were inhabitants of Arimae an d Emberá Puru. This approach, which focused on the voices of the indigenous agents, addressed the issue from a specific angle and highlighted one side of the land conflict . Further research could investigate more specifically the perspectives and narrative s of colonist s and, importantly, of State officials at various levels of governance. Comparing indigenous and non - indigenous perspectives on the subject of indigenous land rights recognition in Panama would contribute to a richer understanding of this comp lex issue.

5.3 Implications and recommendations for Arimae

F aced with both internal and external challenges to collective territorial management, Arimae would need to work on both fronts in its struggle to obtain recognition of its collective land rights. Te chnically, the national legal mechanisms are in place and have already served to recognize the collective rights of four Emberá and Wounaan communities. What is still lacking is political will to facilitate the broader implementation of these legislations. Evidently, Arimae’s power to influence state processes is limited. To pressure the State, the community has blocked the Pan - American Highway on many occasions, attracting some national media attention and effectively accelerating political responses (for instance, ANATI’s resolution of May 28, 2009 was emitted in Arimae as a response to the same day blocking). Yet, the tactic has been deployed repeatedly and by many groups, sometimes successfully, but sometimes engendering little more than empty promises. Many informants have mentioned that the next step might have to be to ‘take the matter into our own hands’, in other words to physically remove colonist s. These informants were nonetheless clear that this was not their preferred option, as it may end in bl oodshed ( derramamiento de sangre ), but that it seemed to be the only way to force movement on the part of the State. The forcible eviction of colonist s would nonetheless be a risky move since, as mentioned above, some colonist s obtained rights of possessio n for plots of land inside the forest reserve; unless the supremacy of the collective title over these recent private titles is acknowledged, the community might be seen as guilty of trespassing and destroying property and get prosecuted. In addition, such strategy might lead to casualties on both sides. The current combination of blockings of the Pan - American Highway, national media outreach, and collaboration with other indigenous groups through COONAPIP remains a more advisable path.

COONAPIP recently ex pressed its intention to appeal to international organizations in the case of Arimae. Indeed, during the press conference of December 15, 2014 in reaction to the decision of the Supreme Court of Justice to support prior municipal judgements in favor of col onists, COONAPIP stated that it would present an appeal to CIDH in the following week (EFE, 2014). Moving the case out of the provincial and national arena could indeed be a successful strategy, considering the recent ruling of CIDH against Panama in the B ayano case and the prompt responses of the State to comply with the ruling (CIDH, 2014; ANATI, 2015 ) . As a general rule, support from external actors, such as the United States and the World Bank, has favored indigenous causes as it increases the State’s i nterest in settling indigenous demands (Van Cott,

2005; Horton, 2006). To be sure, it could take months, if not years, before obtaining a ruling from CIDH. This strategy could, however, yield positive results on a shorter term if the Panamanian State pre - e mptively recognizes Arimae’s land rights in order to avoid going back in front of CIDH.

To be able to sustain their collective fight, the community would also benefit from recovering its unity by instating tighter mechanisms for community rule compliance a nd leadership accountability (Ostrom, 1990) . Many informants in Arimae complained that internal rules exist, but are neither respected n or enforced. The problem was, therefore, not one of a lack of knowledge about rules, or monitoring challenges since part icipants knew who defected and who did not. The core of the problem lied instead in sanctioning. The community would thus benefit from clarifying and modifying its i nternal rules and sanctions upon need , as well as its accountability mechanisms for local a uthorities. T he community could craft rules which apply when an individual holding an authority position does not respect rules, whether payoff rules (e.g. reaping personal incomes from collective timber sales), information rules (e.g. not providing expens es reports) or authority rules (e.g. falling to sanction) (Ostrom, Gardner & Walker, 1994). These measures would increase leadership transparency, which would help re - establishing cohesiveness and mutual trust among community members.

Another possible way to improve co llective management and restore unity would be to foster a sense of shared identity, which would rest both on the promotion of indigenous culture internally and on the acknowledgement of the sociocultural changes which are taking place (Erazo, 2013). On the one hand, a shared identity based on the internal valuation of traditional knowledge and cultural practices could promote sustainable resource uses as well as support political mobilisation , such as in the case of the indigenous lands of the Xingu River Basin (Brazilian Amazon) (Schwartzman et al., 2013). On the other hand, complete resistance to socioeconomic and cultural changes is neither realistic nor necessarily desirable. For instance, exposure to “ the state and mestizo cultures […] pro vides a greater understanding of how to articulate po wer and identity” (Salisbury & Weinstein, 2014, p. 227), and so can help the community in dealing with mainstream culture and society. In addition, the disinterest of some youths in working the land coul d actually increase the ecological sustainability of the territory, as it decreases the need to clear new parcels to accommodate population growth (Kirby, 2010). Migration to urban centers for education and work can also reinforced a sense of indigenous id entity and attachment to

place (McSweeney & Jokisch, 2007). The majority of informants in Arimae who expressed concerns about a cultural disconnect with the youths nonetheless acknowledged that, even if external influences had a substantial role to play in bringing about Latinization, local families have not taken any actions to remedy the situation either. Concerted efforts would thus be needed if community members decide that promoting traditional elements of their culture alongside the national education received by the youth s was a priority to them.

These recommendations, however, should not eclipse the fact that policy support for indigenous and local communities’ property and management institutions is essential to the survival of indigenous and common ly - managed territories (Alcorn, 1999; Davis & Wali, 1994; Hayes, 2010; Richard, 1997; Salisbury & Weinstein, 2014). Without formal recognition of its land rights, Arimae is unlikely to be able to resist outside pressures on its resources for much longer.

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App endi x A

Topic guide – Focus group

Themes Potential questions to prompt discussion History of the reserve When did the community decide to create a reserve? - Why? - Where did the idea come from? - Can you explain to me the decision process?

Evoluti on of institutions How were resources (timb er, plants, game…) used before the creation of the reserve? How are resources inside the reserve currently used? - Why? How has this decision been made? - Have resource uses inside the reserve changed over time? Why? - Have the boundaries of the reserve ch anged over time? Why?

Threats to the reserve What are the main threats to the reserve? - What has been done to mitigate those threats?

Potential solutions to the What could be done to mitigate those threats? What potential land problem solutions do you see to this land problem?

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App endi x B

Semi - structured interv iew guide - R esidents of Arimae and Emberá Puru

Themes Potential questions Use of the land How do you use your family parcel? - What do you grow there? Are there other resources that you access in your parcel (plants, animals)? Do you sometimes go inside the reserve? - If y es: How often? For what uses?

Support for current Do you support the maintenance of a forest zone (reserve) in the management Collective Land? - Why? What do you think works well in the way the reserve is set up right now? What do you think works less well or that should chang e?

Benefits What benefices do you get from the reserve? How are benefits distributed (timber revenues)? - Does the arrangement works? - Are there any problems? Which ones?

Potential alternatives How do you think resources (timber, plants, game…) should be used within the res erve? - Why? By whom?

Decision - making What do you think about the way decisions are made in relation process and to collective resources? participation - Do you take parts in general meetings/assemblies? Did you participate in the past? Why yes/not?

Collective property Do you think that it is beneficial t o have a collective land? - Is it worth the fight? - Are there any disadvantages?

Perceived threats a nd What do you think are the main threats to the reserve? their solutions - What do you think would be the best way to protect the land inside the reserve? (What solutions do you see to this/ these problem(s))

Reasons for land In your opinions, why are there land invasions inside the reserve? invasion - Why is it so hard to settle the problem? To obtain a collective title?

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App endi x C

Semi - structured interview guide - Colonists

Themes Potential questions Use of the land I would like to know more about you. Where were you born? Where do you come from? How long have you been living here? - What do you use the land for? How are you pla nning to use the land in the next 5 years?

Reasons/motivations Why did you decide to move? - Why did you choose this land in particular? - Is it different from where you were living before? How? From other area of the country?

Perceptions of the When you decided to move here, did you know i f the land was landscape available or was owned? - Since then, did anyone claimed to be owner of this land? The communities of Arimae and Emberá Puru say that this area is part of a reserve inside their collective land. - What do you think of this way of using the f orest?

Potential solutions What potential solutions to you see to the current land problem?