COP15 on biological diversity is over, the Kunming-Montreal agreement has been signed, and many are chanting “mission accomplished”. At first glance, such an ambitious agreement and its flagship measure, the famous 30×30, are steps in the right direction. Protect 30% of all land and seas on earth by 2030? This is unheard of. We even emphasize the central role that must be played by the indigenous peoples. Particularly in the countries of the Global North, this should open an unprecedented window of opportunity for the recognition of their territorial rights and the creation of new so-called indigenous protected areas. However, this is a double-edged sword, and behind the spotlight the deal will also have losers.
The 30×30 measure will have diametrically opposed effects depending on the different regions of the planet. Under an authoritarian regime where deforestation and environmental destruction are commonplace, and where civil society is muzzled, the creation of strict protected areas could quickly turn into a vast campaign of land grabbing. This is denounced by international organizations such as Survival International. These underscore the historically close relationship between conservation, colonialism and disrespect for human rights. Indeed, in not-so-distant history, there are plenty of cases where the expansion of so-called colonial protected areas has driven Aboriginal peoples and local communities from their territory, sometimes at the cost of their lives.
And the trend continues. Data compiled by the Rights and Resources Initiative shows that from 1990 to 2014, more than 250,000 people in 15 countries have been displaced by the establishment or management of protected areas. Earlier this year, for example, thousands of Maasai living in Tanzania’s Ngorongoro Conservation Area were evicted from their historic territory. In the Mekong region of Southeast Asia, where I do my research, it is not uncommon for protected areas to be managed from a civilizing perspective and without real consultation. Conservation imperatives justify violence by quasi-militarized instances, thereby jeopardizing the lives and livelihoods of local people.
Several researchers in the region have shown that authoritarian states can even hijack newly created protected areas. For example, these facilitate the logging of valuable timber under the guise of conservation, allowing what some have called timber laundering. It also happens that countries proclaim themselves champions of conservation after having suddenly increased their protected areas on paper, without this being accompanied by any real reform. Participating in a form of greenwashing, governments are restoring their balance sheets and thus regaining the support of international financial institutions, large foundations and large conservation NGOs.
The idea of setting targets for terrestrial protected area coverage is not new; since the early 1980s, we’ve seen them go from 10% in 1982, to 17% in 2020, and to 30% (land and sea) by 2030. But what’s the point of the race for protective targets, if they ignore what makes them obsolete? Are we not in danger of becoming disenchanted with the 30×30 for biodiversity, just as we are disillusioned with the climate objective of not increasing the global temperature by more than 1.5°C?
Beyond the so-called guarantees contained in the agreement, we must doubt the wall-to-wall solutions and wonder about the political intentions that may be hidden there. Beyond the simple 30×30, it would have been even more ambitious to set targets for indigenous or community protected areas, co-managed by local peoples and communities. This is how true justice between the interests of the North and the South for biodiversity would be expressed.
The signing of the Kunming-Montreal agreement is an encouraging first step. In its financing and implementation, however, let us keep two questions in mind: who sets the rules of the game for conservation and restoration? And who stands to lose?