The Indigenous Wampís people, whose territory covers more than 1.3 million hectares in Peru’s northern Amazon, are at the frontlines of extractivism and state abandonment. In 2015, they formally declared the Autonomous Territorial Government of the Wampís Nation (GTANW), a self-governing entity that has become a model of Indigenous self-determination.
GTANW Vice-President Galois Flores Pizango spoke to Green Left’s Ben Radford about the struggle to defend territory and advance a vision of sustainable Indigenous development.
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Could you tell us about the decision and process of forming an autonomous territorial government in 2015?
The process of the Wampís Nation — the Indigenous Wampís people — declaring itself as an autonomous government began around 2010. Our leaders began travelling along the entire Santiago River basin, which we call Kanus, and the Morona River basin, which in our language is Kankaim.
They went from community to community, sharing the idea that although we had already formed federations and organisations, we had yet to truly consolidate. So, our leaders said: our ancestors were always autonomous. They governed their own territory. They led the way in building their autonomy. And so, we, their descendants, must reach that same level.
They understood the deep relationship between human beings and nature — how they lived what we call Tarimat Pujut [a Wampís concept referring to a life in harmony with nature].
In 2015, thanks to the support of key allies, Wrays Pérez assumed the role of the first president, pamuk, of the Autonomous Territorial Government of the Wampís Nation. It didn’t happen overnight, but after about five years of consultations with communities and leaders, gathering opinions, thoughts and suggestions.
We also received a visit from the Field Museum [of Natural History] in the United States, which carried out biological and anthropological studies across the Wampís Nation’s territory to estimate how long we have lived here. They concluded that we have existed on this land for more than 4000 years.
That’s why we say to the state that it’s not doing us a favour by recognising our autonomy — because our very existence gives us the right to self-govern. It is a right we hold as an autonomous government.
What does implementing Tarimat Pujut look like in practice?
Under Teófilo Kukush Pati’s leadership [who has served as pamuk since 2021], we’ve made significant progress. We now have our own curriculum, based on our own education model. As the first Indigenous government, we’ve already started sharing this with teachers.
We began implementing the Wampís Nation curriculum in five primary schools in June. If it works well, we’ll bring it to the attention of the state.
In the area of justice, we’ve written our own document, Wampís Justice, in which we assert our right to internally resolve our own issues, without relying on the Peruvian state. When you rely on the state, it takes years to resolve even the smallest issues, and this causes many problems for us.
We have the capacity to solve our own issues. We can work with the state, but we don’t need to depend on it.
What we seek is buen vivir — what we call Tarimat Pujut — sustainable development within our territory.
When I talk about sustainable projects, I mean reforestation. Right now, we’re facing a lack of timber. We need to recover what was taken. We’re also developing poultry farms and aquaponics.
There are many native plants we can use. We’re working to set up a processing plant for aguaje (moriche palm), a native fruit, in Candungos [a riverside community in the Wampís Nation]. It’s all about making use of resources that don’t destroy but conserve.
Why? So that from within the Wampís Nation, we contribute the clean air the world needs — air that so many companies and industrialised countries are polluting, producing millions of tonnes of carbon dioxide, which ends up in Indigenous territories. The Wampís Nation helps clean up that contamination, which is what we’ve always done and want to keep doing.
For us, buen vivir means living here in our homes, bathing in the streams, working the land, fishing in the river, hunting in the forest.
People in Lima say: “We need to build roads in the Wampís Nation in order to bring development.” I say, “What development?”
The road has reached all the way to the mouth of the Santiago River, where my Awajún [an Indigenous people of the Peruvian Amazon] brothers and sisters live. Have they developed? No. It’s been the mestizos and foreigners who came from all over and bought up the land.
And the Awajún? Pushed to the margins. Indigenous people don’t want that kind of development.
For us, development is to live in peace, with clean air, without contamination and destruction.
However, the state only wants to exploit resources. Big companies want access to oil Lot 64 [a 7600 square kilometre oil concession located in Wampís and neighbouring Achuar and Chapra territory]. Who knows much damage that would cause?
A clear example is Madre de Dios [a southeastern Amazonian region of Peru]. Illegal mining has destroyed nature, poisoned rivers and violated basic constitutional rights. They also kill indirectly with the heavy metals they use.
We’ve told the state many times: yes, the Wampís want development — but our own kind, based on our plan de vida [life plan], what we call “visión común de futuro” [shared vision for the future].
We are supported by national law, jurisprudence and international agreements that affirm our right to decide our own future.
Could you tell me about the recent violent attack on your community and how you’re organising to resist extractivism?
Around 2022, illegal logging activity here had become terrible. That’s when the idea of creating our own surveillance and control system was born — a socio-environmental monitoring system called CHARIP, which means “lightning” in our language.
In 2024, we caught three police officers escorting dragas [barges used for dredging and mining operations on the river] down the Santiago River to extract gold. We detained them, and the deputy interior minister came from Lima to get them out.
They promised to bring sustainable development projects stop the problems [associated with illegal mining]. They left — and never came back.
On June 20 this year, we held a meeting between SERNANP [Peru’s national parks authority], the Environmental Police from Nieva, the local council and the Wampís Nation.
We discussed how to stop illegal mining and expel the miners.
The Environmental Police said they were ready to act but needed support from us, since sometimes children and women are used as human shields by illegal miners to block access to avoid the dragas being destroyed.
We agreed to help and were to accompany them on July 10. But when we visited them in Nieva on July 4, they backed out at the last minute, saying they weren’t ready — despite having assured us otherwise on June 20.
The police said we needed to pressure their higher-ups in Lima. Our technical secretary Shapiom Noningo met with the PCM [prime minister’s cabinet], the deputy minister for internal order, the interior minister, etc.
Meanwhile, the Environmental Police kept making excuses — they’d heard that [the mining groups] were armed, so they backed out.
We were left alone. We coordinated with the Pinglo military base. The commander agreed but needed approval from his superior, the general. We sent a formal request — but never received a response.
With the police no longer participating, we decided to head to Pinglo military base to install our own CHARIP system.
At 6am on July 12, we set off from Galilea. Downriver from Fortaleza — the most critical area, heavily occupied by miners — we heard two gunshots in the air.
We met the other group, and they told us that a speedboat carrying masked men with guns had arrived shortly before, who issued death threats, fired warning shots and withdrew, probably because they heard we were coming.
We made it to Pinglo. The commander welcomed us — but was told authorisation was denied to set up a CHARIP checkpoint.
That afternoon, as we travelled back, approaching the community of Fortaleza. There were two peque-peques [motorised canoes] ahead, with people calling us to dock. Women and children were on the shore, waving sticks, calling us over.
We had no choice but to continue. As we passed Fortaleza, they let off a firework — then started shooting with long-range weapons. We were about a kilometre away, and the bullets were still hitting our boat. One bullet pierced a teacher’s jumper — it would have killed him if he’d been facing forward.
Everyone ducked. The bullets kept coming, splashing into the river.
We reached Guayabal. They got into small boats and started chasing and shooting at us again.
We later learned that three or four dragas were hidden there. They thought we’d come to destroy them. That’s why they chased us.
We never fired a single shot. But they did.
Events like these are frequent. During other interdictions, [mining groups] have reacted the same way: using children, women, weapons.
Do you have a message for other grassroots movements or Indigenous communities around the world who are also struggling for autonomy and resisting extractivism?
Yes. The Wampís Nation continues defending its rivers and forests in pursuit of Tarimat. But illegal activities sometimes manage to persuade some people to switch sides.
They aren’t novices. They’ve done this elsewhere — like in Madre de Dios, where they armed Indigenous people, exploited them, and are now bringing the same tactics here.
Indigenous peoples have lived for thousands of years and have always known how to preserve nature. That respect for Mother Earth must be maintained so our children and future generations can enjoy this beauty too.
Beyond that, this work isn’t just for the Wampís Nation. It’s for all of humanity. We have no other planet to go to if we destroy this one.
That’s why we call on everyone to join us in stopping the illegal activities that poison our rivers, kill our fish, destroy our forests.
The Wampís Nation is on a path toward sustainable development — towards a smarter future where we live from nature without destroying it.
Even from the most remote corners, we are here, fighting. People need to know that, so they can join us and pressure the Peruvian state to support us.
We, as Indigenous people and as an autonomous government, are not seeking to be a separate country. We are Peruvians and want to remain Peruvians. But we also want to govern our own territory and protect our resources.
[You can donate to the Wampís Nation here.]