Hundreds of Indigenous delegates are convening this week at the United Nations for the world’s largest annual gathering dedicated to Indigenous peoples’ rights and well-being, yet their arrival is shadowed by an increasingly challenging global landscape. They face the pervasive influence of an artificial intelligence boom driving new resource extraction on ancestral territories, persistent difficulties securing U.S. visas for delegates from the Global South, and the dual pressures of a rapidly changing climate coupled with green energy initiatives that frequently infringe upon Indigenous land rights. This year’s United Nations Permanent Forum on Indigenous Issues (UNPFII) delves into the profound theme of survival amidst widespread conflict, officially titled "Ensuring Indigenous Peoples’ health, including in the context of conflict." Experts underscore that Indigenous populations globally already endure profound health inequities, a legacy of colonialism and the escalating impacts of climate change, with these harms further compounded by armed conflicts and militarization. Such conflicts not only risk severe ecological degradation but also trigger mass displacement from ancestral lands, severing vital connections to culture and sustenance.

A fundamental principle highlighted by advocates is that Indigenous health cannot be narrowly confined to clinical discussions of medicine or public health; rather, it is intrinsically linked to the environment, land, and sovereignty. The devastating effects of warfare and militarization extend far beyond immediate physical harm, impacting mental and spiritual well-being, disrupting traditional food systems, and destroying sacred sites. Beyond direct conflict, the global rush for critical minerals—essential components for the burgeoning green energy transition and advanced technologies—is increasingly driving Indigenous rights violations. Communities worldwide, from the Amazon to the Arctic, are witnessing their lands targeted for lithium, cobalt, and rare earth elements, often without their free, prior, and informed consent, enshrined in international law through the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP). In response to these complex challenges, Indigenous leaders are renewing a long-standing call for climate financing to be made directly available to their communities, circumventing state or foreign intermediaries that often impose conditions misaligned with local priorities or siphon off funds through bureaucratic layers.

Before engaging in crucial diplomatic conversations, many delegates confront a more immediate, practical barrier: stringent visa restrictions imposed by the U.S. administration. Mariana Kiimi Ortiz Flores, a Na’uu Savi advocate from Mexico and an advocacy assistant at Cultural Survival, recounts how last year, Indigenous representatives from Africa, prepared by her organization to attend the forum, had their visa applications denied. This year, an Indigenous staff member from South America faced a similar rejection. Flores notes the escalating difficulty of accessing the United States, not solely due to visa hurdles, but also because of a broader "climate of insecurity and hate speech against Latin people and Indigenous peoples," which leaves delegates from the Global South feeling threatened, particularly those with distinct physical characteristics. This hostile environment undermines the very spirit of international cooperation and inclusive participation that the UN aims to foster.

The challenges extend beyond entry. Last year, Flores’s organization assisted Indigenous leaders from Bolivia who attended the forum to protest mining operations on their traditional lands. However, their experience was marred by harassment from the leader of a political party in Bolivia, prompting them to leave the forum early. Coupled with ongoing health issues exacerbated by the struggle, they have opted not to return. Flores laments that while the forum is intended for Indigenous peoples, many feel that "states are the ones who have more power over our lives." The relentless defense of their lands against extractive industries exacts a comprehensive toll, affecting individuals not only physically but also mentally and spiritually, eroding their sense of security and belonging.

This profound, comprehensive toll forms a central focus of a key report by Geoffrey Roth, a Standing Rock Sioux descendant, former vice chair of the Permanent Forum, and board chair of the Indigenous Determinants of Health Alliance. Roth emphasizes that "you can’t separate human health from the health of the environment, or our culture or our language," underscoring the holistic perspective Indigenous peoples hold regarding well-being. His report meticulously outlines the Indigenous determinants of health, which span from robust land tenure and effective governance authority that intrinsically strengthen Indigenous well-being, to critical risk indicators like land dispossession and exclusion from decision-making processes. Roth argues forcefully that the fragmented approaches to Indigenous health frequently adopted by the UN system and national governments are fundamentally inadequate, failing to address the root causes of health problems.

For instance, biodiversity policies that neglect Indigenous rights inadvertently miss critical opportunities to restore Indigenous land tenure, which demonstrably improves both ecosystem outcomes and access to traditional foods. Similarly, mental health interventions that overlook state-sanctioned Indigenous language erasure fail to grasp the immense potential for improving Indigenous mental well-being through language revitalization efforts. "Indigenous health is not just about healthcare, it’s about land, culture, food systems and community," Roth asserts. Demonstrating this principle, the Coquille Indian Tribe in Oregon adopted the Indigenous determinants of health by ordinance last year. Roth, serving as chairman of their executive health board, has been instrumental in integrating these determinants across their agencies. He highlights how activities like taking elders on monthly fishing trips are recognized as vital health practices, sustaining Coquille traditions, improving mental and behavioral health, and providing nourishing food. Roth’s report also advocates for the UN’s recognition of Indigenous midwifery, a practice often suppressed in favor of Western medical models, forcing Indigenous women into conventional institutions where they frequently encounter racism and "obstetric violence," including procedures performed without consent. "Indigenous people have been doing this for thousands of years, not only midwifery, but also caring for the environment and caring for our culture and preserving these food systems," he stresses.

In another impactful report to UNPFII, former Permanent Forum chair Hindou Oumarou Ibrahim, an Indigenous Mbororo from Chad, issues a stark warning about artificial intelligence acting as a double-edged sword for Indigenous communities. While she urges governments and international bodies to support Indigenous peoples in developing AI tools for revitalizing endangered languages and monitoring their ancestral territories – leveraging technology for cultural preservation and environmental stewardship – she simultaneously cautions against an impending era of "digital extractivism." This phenomenon sees generative AI systems and tech corporations indiscriminately scraping vast amounts of cultural content, including invaluable medicinal knowledge, traditional stories, spiritual practices, and even genetic data, often without consent or proper attribution, raising profound ethical and intellectual property concerns.

Lydia Jennings, a citizen of the Pascua Yaqui Tribe (Yoeme) and Huichol (Wixárika) and an assistant professor of environmental studies at Dartmouth College, echoes these concerns. Her advocacy for Indigenous data sovereignty—a movement asserting communities’ inherent right to own and control their own data—was ignited by a troubling discovery: a mining company had extracted information about Indigenous cultural practices from an environmental impact statement and was exploiting it on its website to promote a mining project. "That was very alarming to me," Jennings recalls, prompting her to question: "How much information do we share in efforts to protect our sacred homelands? And what are the ways that we can govern how and who uses that data?" Like Ibrahim, Jennings acknowledges AI’s potential as an opportunity for tribes, noting interest in hosting data centers or utilizing AI for language preservation and information synthesis. However, she remains deeply wary of the sheer volume of Indigenous data potentially co-opted by AI systems without explicit consent, as well as the severe environmental risks that massive data centers—demanding enormous energy and water resources—pose to tribal lands and waters. "Who has the power and how do we redistribute that power?" she asks, encapsulating the central challenge. "It can be a tool to power and a tool to harm, but how do we choose to wield it?" Jennings observes a growing international movement dedicated to incorporating best practices of Indigenous data sovereignty across various levels, from academic research protocols to national and international policy frameworks.

Another critical focus of this year’s Permanent Forum is the escalating climate crisis and its disproportionate impact on Indigenous communities, particularly nomadic peoples. A February report, specifically addressing nomadic populations, warns that rigid state borders and exclusionary "fortress conservation" models—a legacy of colonial conservation practices that often displace Indigenous communities—are severely curtailing the traditional mobility of pastoralists, hunter-gatherers, and seafarers. This restriction occurs precisely as these groups grapple with the compounding effects of climate change and dwindling access to their ancestral lands and waters. The authors of the report contend that mobility is not merely movement but a deliberate, knowledge-based climate adaptation strategy, actively erased and undermined by state policymakers. They cite the example of the Tuareg people in the Sahara Desert, whose ancestral routes, essential for adapting to a harsh and changing environment, are increasingly restricted by contemporary, often militarized, frontiers. "While the desert knows no borders, contemporary militarized frontiers increasingly restrict ancestral routes and undermine pastoral systems and access to services, rendering these lived realities of Indigenous Peoples invisible in official data and policy frameworks," the authors describe.

This sentiment is echoed by Samante Anne, an Indigenous Maasai from Kenya, who recently spoke at a virtual panel on pastoralists’ legal rights on behalf of the Mainyoito Pastoralists Integrated Development Organization. Anne highlights that while 60% of land in Kenya is communally owned, it is increasingly being subdivided for commercial developments and claimed for carbon offset projects, which severely limit pastoralists’ access to vital land and their traditional migratory movements. "Mobility has everything to do with us adapting to climate change," Anne emphasizes. "Mobility has everything to do with ensuring our livelihoods are secure, our food security is good." The disruption of these ancient, sustainable practices not only threatens cultural survival but also destabilizes regional ecological balance and food systems.

Making substantive progress on complex issues such as Indigenous health, the ethical governance of artificial intelligence, and the protection of territorial rights is further complicated by a persistent, problematic trend within the UN system: the conflation of Indigenous peoples with "local communities." In official policies and initiatives, the two distinct groups are frequently merged under the acronym "IPLCs"—Indigenous Peoples and Local Communities. However, while "local communities" represents a broad and undefined category of stakeholders, Indigenous peoples possess distinct, legally recognized rights under international law, particularly those enshrined in UNDRIP, which grant them rights to self-determination, lands, territories, and resources, among others. Roth, from the Indigenous Determinants of Health Alliance, recounted confronting this very issue at the World Health Organization when the agency categorized an Indigenous initiative merely as an "equity" issue. "This is not an equity issue," Roth firmly stated to the agency. "We are not just another one of your minority populations. We are rights holders, and this needs to be approached from a rights-based approach."

Roth warns that "conflating us with other populations really diminishes our rights and diminishes our ability to maintain our health in our communities." This grouping also actively hinders meaningful participation, as evidenced by the UN Convention on Biological Diversity’s IPLC working group. "I’ve tried to participate in that group several times, and as an Indigenous person, I don’t feel welcome and I’m not able to participate," he shared, concluding that "these (IPLC) institutions are a way to lessen or dilute the voice of Indigenous peoples in these global mechanisms, and that, to me, is unacceptable." Roth is far from alone in this sentiment. In 2023, the UN’s three preeminent Indigenous rights bodies—the Permanent Forum itself, the Special Rapporteur on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, and the Expert Mechanism on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples—issued a powerful joint statement unequivocally demanding that UN environmental treaties cease using the IPLC acronym entirely. Their statement asserted that "Indigenous Peoples should not be grouped with an undefined set of communities that may have very different rights and interests," highlighting the fundamental difference in legal standing and historical experience.

For advocates on the ground, this ongoing debate is just one facet of a growing disillusionment with the UN system itself. Cultural Survival’s Mariana Kiimi Ortiz Flores observes that the international institution has suffered from a pervasive willingness by member states to simply disregard its foundational laws and conventions, eroding its authority and effectiveness. "The United Nations as an international institution has been losing its influence and its power," Flores states with a touch of resignation. Yet, despite the formidable bureaucratic hurdles, the disheartening visa denials, the geopolitical hostility, and the systemic challenges, she affirms that she is among the many Indigenous peoples who remain steadfastly determined to show up this week. "If we as Indigenous peoples don’t do it," Flores declares, her voice resonating with conviction, "no one else will speak for us and defend us." Their continued presence and advocacy at the UN underscore an unwavering commitment to self-determination and the protection of their inherent rights, even as the global landscape grows increasingly complex and challenging.