Demanding Sovereignty,Resisting Patriarchy: Indigenous Territorial Feminism in the TIPNIS Conflict,Bolivia

Methodology

The arguments presented in this paper draw on multi-sited ethnographic research conducted between September 2011 and June 2012, supplemented by follow-up interviews and correspondence. My research began with participation in urban solidarity campaigns in Cochabamba, La Paz, and Santa Cruz, where I was invited by activists, acting as “gatekeepers” to Indigenous representatives, to join CIDOB-organized meetings. I accompanied the first TIPNIS march for its final two days as it reached La Paz and participated for six weeks in the second march, following permission from Indigenous leaders and collective informed consent from the marchers.

The study combines participant observation with semi-structured interviews involving CIDOB representatives, TIPNIS community leaders, solidarity activists, and NGO workers. ³ In total, I conducted fifty-five interviews, out of which 55 percent of participants identified as Indigenous, with approximately one-third being female representatives. This gender ratio reflected the distribution of leadership roles within CIDOB and TIPNIS at the time. While the paper aims to foreground the agency and narratives of Indigenous women, I acknowledge the limitations of my positionality as a White, middle-class woman from the Global North. My background inevitably restricts my understanding of the interlocking systems of oppression experienced by Indigenous women, as well as the concerns that guide their political actions.

The TIPNIS Conflict

Evo Morales’ presidency was defined by an anti-imperialist, pro-Indigenous, and environmentalist platform, positioning Bolivia as a key player in Latin America’s leftist ‘”Pink Tide.” A leader of the coca growers’ movement, Morales rose to power through the MAS, which was initially conceived as the “political instrument, rather than political party” of rural and Indigenous Bolivians (Webber, 2011: 61). The foundations for Morales’ election were laid during the 2000-2005 protest cycle, when the “Water and Gas Wars” toppled two presidents and expelled a transnational corporation in an upsurge of popular resistance against neoliberal hegemony (Kohl and Farthing, 2006). These forces found key political expression in the Unity Pact, a 2004 national alliance among Bolivia’s five principal peasant, Indigenous, and union organizations, which, alongside other social movements, demanded a constituent assembly to “re-found” the state and nationalize hydrocarbons. The resulting 2009 Constitution renamed the Republic the “Plurinational State of Bolivia” recognizing multiple ethnic nations, as well as granting rights for Indigenous self-determination and autonomy (Postero, 2017).

The MAS maintained its populist legitimacy through a moderate nationalization of the hydrocarbons industry, boosting government revenues for public infrastructure and social welfare (Webber, 2011). Between Morales’ 2006 inauguration and the peak of the 2011 TIPNIS conflict, this oil and gas-based development model halved absolute poverty rates (Kohl and Farthing, 2012). Despite this accomplishment, the continued reliance on extractivism (a 500-year structural economic dependency) raised concerns among the ecological left and local communities bearing its environmental and social costs (see Bebbington and Humphreys Bebbington, 2011; Kohl and Farthing, 2012).

The TIPNIS, covering 1.2 million hectares in the Amazon Basin—roughly the size of Jamaica—was designated a national park in 1965 and officially recognized as an Indigenous territory in 1990 after the historic March for Territory and Dignity led by CIDOB. The 1996 agrarian reform law formally titled the area Tierra Comunitaria de Orígen (Native Community Land, TCO), later renamed Territorio Indígena Originario Campesino (Original Indigenous and Peasant Territory, TIOC) under the 2009 Constitution. In 1990, a línea roja (red line) was established to separate the Indigenous territory from the colonized southern area, Polygon 7, primarily inhabited by highland Aymara and Quechua settlers who migrated since the 1960s and rely heavily on coca cultivation for their livelihoods (Healy, 1991). Following the 1953 agrarian reform, which freed them from servitude on large haciendas and granted personal title to small land parcels, their approach to land is more market-oriented than that of lowland Indigenous peoples, who emphasize the collective management of territory (Canessa, 2014).

Despite existing legal protections, the MAS government announced plans in 2010 to construct a road through the park’s “core zone,” a highly protected area where commercial exploitation and infrastructure development were explicitly prohibited (SERNAP, 2005). In response to the lack of community consultation, TIPNIS leaders declared a “state of emergency” (XXIX Encuentro Extraordinario de Corregidores del TIPNIS, 2010). Among the toughest positions at the decision meeting were those articulated by the female leaders of Indigenous communities and the women’s parallel organization (Fundación Tierra, 2012). CIDOB representatives were initially hesitant to back local resistance, given the organization’s role as a key faction within the Unity Pact. However, tensions mounted as the government strayed from core Indigenous platforms, including making the FPIC process non-binding and imposing restrictive conditions on achieving Indigenous autonomy status (see Garcés, 2011; Tockman and Cameron, 2014). Recognizing a perceived threat to Indigenous self-determination, CIDOB organized the Eighth Indigenous March for the Defense of the TIPNIS, for Life, for Dignity, and the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (henceforth the Eighth March). The march, held from August 15 to October 19, 2011, retraced the route of the 1990 March for Territory and Dignity, underscoring the TIPNIS as an important point of reference for lowland Indigenous struggles for territorial sovereignty.

Initially, the march received little media attention, but the violent police crackdown at Chaparina on September 25 changed the course of the conflict. The “Chaparina Massacre,” as it became known, ordered by Interior Minister Sacha Llorenti, “sparked both a national political crisis and debate about the validity of the government’s credentials as a progressive government that supports Indigenous rights” (McNeish, 2013: 221). The event also marked an important shift in relations between Indigenous factions and the MAS, as both CIDOB—and their highland ally the Consejo Nacional de Ayllus y Markas del Qullasuyo (National Council of Ayllus and Markas of Qullasuyu, CONAMAQ)—abandoned the Unity Pact. Despite the repression, the marchers regrouped and arrived in La Paz on October 24 to widespread public support, forcing the government to pass Law 180, which declared TIPNIS an intangible (untouchable) zone, halting the road project.

Nonetheless, this victory was short-lived, as the government then introduced Law 222 on February 10, 2012, which sought to revive the road project subject to community consultation. This was in response to a countermarch led by coca-growing communities principally located in Polygon 7. In turn, CIDOB organized the Ninth Indigenous March for the Defense of Life and Dignity, Indigenous Territories, Natural Resources, Biodiversity, the Environment, Protected Areas, Compliance with the State Constitution and Respect for Democracy (henceforth the Ninth March), between April 27 and June 27, to protest the new law. The government refused to meet with leaders from this march and what resulted was a manipulated “post-consultation” marked by co-optation, bribery and the division of communities, as well as a process that strongly sought to coerce a “yes” favorable to the road project (Christoffersen, 2020). Although the conflict went dormant for some time, it resurfaced in 2017 when Law 969 revoked TIPNIS’s “intangible status.” Under Luis Arce’s MAS administration (2020–2025) and until today, the road project remains incomplete.

Patriarchal and Racialized State Discourses and Practices

Indigenous women, positioned at the intersection of gender and racial oppression, initially seemed poised to benefit from the inclusive promises made by early 21st century leftist governments across Latin America (Rousseau and Ewig, 2017). Under Morales, Bolivia saw notable progress toward formal gender equality. The 2009 Constitution mandated gender parity in political participation, and by 2016, 53 percent of Bolivia’s parliamentary seats were held by women, many of whom were Indigenous (Rousseau and Ewig, 2017). The establishment of the Office for Depatriarchalization within the Vice-Ministry on Decolonization further signaled a formal commitment to dismantling patriarchal and colonial legacies (Rousseau and Ewig, 2017). Additionally, the MAS administration incorporated the Andean principle of chachawarmi—emphasizing male-female complementarity—into its decolonization platform (Maclean, 2014).

Despite these steps, Indigenous women’s political gains remained largely tied to the unity and strength of the broader Indigenous movement (Htun and Ossa, 2013; Rousseau and Ewig, 2017). Andrew Canessa describes how the Morales government sought to unify Bolivia’s diverse ethnic groups under a broad “ecumenical” indigeneity (2014: 166). This national identity, primarily grounded in Aymara culture, appealed widely across Bolivia but simultaneously marginalized certain Indigenous groups seeking recognition for their cultural differences. This approach created a divide between “deterritorialized” groups (peasants, settlers, and urban populations) who benefited from the valorization of Indigenous citizenship and state-backed resource exploitation, and “territorialized” groups (those with strong ties to ancestral lands) who pursued autonomy and protection from state-led encroachment (Canessa, 2014: 160). Over time, the MAS’s focus on an extractivist economic model displayed authoritarian tendencies, increasingly sidelining territorialized groups, such as those represented by CIDOB (Postero, 2017).

In the TIPNIS conflict, MAS representatives and political allies occasionally relied on colonizing discourses and practices that reinforced patriarchal and monocultural visions of the nation-state, even as the administration advanced efforts to include Indigenous peoples and women in state decision-making. This situation highlights the persistent challenges Indigenous women face in navigating national landscapes where their race, gender, unique cultural histories, and relationships to land shape their political empowerment and inclusion in national imaginaries.

The violent police repression of the Eighth March is illustrative of some of these dynamics. Three days before the intervention, the march had been forcibly halted by a police blockade of 400 officers responding to a countermarch, and threats of violence, by settler communities. On September 24, government representatives arrived, ostensibly to facilitate dialogue and prevent clashes. Viewing the police blockade as unlawful, a group of women marchers then took Foreign Minister David Choquehuanca by the arm, insisting that he accompany them as they moved forward, instructing police to let them pass to the next camp. This act prompted Vice-Minister of the Interior Marcos Farfán, to label the women’s actions as “kidnapping” and “attempted murder,” providing justification for ordering the evacuation of the marchers (Bolivian Defensoría del Pueblo, 2011: 55).

The following afternoon, approximately 500 federal police entered the marchers’ campsite armed with tear gas, rubber bullets, and batons. Protestors were detained, gagged, and placed on buses heading to Rurrenabaque, where an Air Force plane was ready to transport them back to their communities. As one Indigenous protestor recounted: “We were trying to defend ourselves and then we were gassed in the face. We could not see, nor breathe. We broke off and escaped to the mountains [. . .] There we listened, just the two of us, and hid. And there we listened to what the cops did to our companions. They threw the children about and tied up the women” (Interview, Eighth and Ninth March protestor, March 9, 2012). For Bolivian subaltern theorist Silvia Rivera Cusicanqui, the repression at Chaparina “tried to turn people into submissive and disposable entities, deserving of preventive punishment and colonial silencing” (2018: 16). Indigenous women bore particular blame in this incident, as a report by the Bolivian human rights ombudsman concluded that their actions the previous day had served as a “pretext” to justify the government’s intervention, scapegoating the women for state-endorsed violence (Bolivian Defensoría del Pueblo, 2011: 104).

The event had significant impacts on Indigenous women, who made up the majority of the marchers. Lowland Indigenous marches traditionally placed women and children at the center for protection, but at Chaparina, the sudden assault on a Sunday afternoon caught participants unprepared as they rested in camp. Chaos ensued, with many fleeing to the mountains and parents being separated from their children for hours, and in some cases, the entire night. Tragically, two women suffered miscarriages due to the assault, emphasizing the profound physical and emotional toll on Indigenous women in defense of their territories. Nazareth Flores, President of the Central de Pueblos Indígenas del Beni (Central of the Indigenous Peoples of Beni, CPIB) spoke of her experience: “I was in the repression. [. . .] Look at how it still shows up [shows her scars on her wrists], where they tied me up. I was tied up. I was one of the ones that was beaten. Also, I was pregnant. I was two months along and I lost my baby [. . .] Taking my baby from me, it was a robbery” (Interview, May 26, 2012). The presence of over twenty women in late pregnancy who risked miscarriage or childbirth during the Eighth March highlights the intertwined nature of women’s bodily experiences and their territorial struggle.

Women were forcibly gathered and transported to nearby towns, where they were meant to be flown back to their communities, while male leaders more often faced direct arrests. ⁴ This treatment underscored the state’s disregard for Indigenous women’s political agency. Moreover, female marchers were portrayed in the media as passive victims of male-dominated decision-making (Fabricant and Postero, 2018), and MAS representatives further stigmatized them, accusing women of irresponsibility for putting their children’s lives at risk (see El Día, 2011). Women I interviewed expressed anger over these narratives, affirming their deliberate choice to participate and arguing that involving entire families—women, men, and children alike—is a normative practice within the Indigenous movement, reflecting cultural values of communal territorial defense (see Guzmán, 2012).

Beyond direct repression, gendered development discourses further marginalize Indigenous women in the conflict. MAS representatives justified the road project through Western narratives of economic progress and modernization, language that perpetuated colonial and patriarchal frameworks. Framing the road as a means of economic upliftment and the “civilizing” of Amazonian Indigenous communities, these narratives continued the assimilationist approaches of past administrations. This development rhetoric legitimized state intervention through a racialized superior-inferior dichotomy, creating new forms of internal colonialism based on perceived cultural hierarchies (Bautista, 2012). These racialized discourses also carried gendered dimensions. In one instance, Morales suggested to coca-growing colonos in Polygon 7 that they should “seduce” the Yuracaré women of the TIPNIS to win their support for the road (Página Siete, 2011). A human rights activist denounced this rhetoric, referring to Morales’s attitude as that of a “perfect colonizer” and describing it as “the colonization of the body of the Yuracaré women so that everyone would become Bolivian” (Interview, June 17, 2012). These statements reflect a long history of derogatory attitudes of highland settlers towards lowland territorialized communities (and conflicts between the two groups).

The Ministry of Communication’s 2012 pamphlet TIPNIS: Trapped in Paradise further exemplified this assimilationist rhetoric. The document stated that a new campesino (peasant) population was produced—the Kollacarés—through the “cruce” (intermixing/crossbreeding) of the “Kollas” (Andean Bolivians) with the Yuracaré peoples (Esprella, 2012). This language, which reduced human relationships to the language of animal breeding, was condemned by activists for its offensiveness and dehumanizing implications (Interview, June 17, 2012). Such discourses echo historical patterns of internal colonialism in the TIPNIS region, where Yuracaré and Yuqui peoples have long faced encroachment from highland settlers, leading to their marginalization (Stearman, 1989).

Referring to the TIPNIS conflict, Gaya Makaran asserts that, “human bodies, and in particular female bodies, children, and/or those feminized, become the necessary object of the conquest” (2019: 116). Indigenous territories were re-signified as feminine, and Indigenous women’s bodies (the Yuracarés) became the symbols of territory—objects of conquest, control, and colonization—to be tamed by a conquering male figure (the cocaleros) in the name of development and racial assimilation. These examples illustrate how both territory and body became deeply intertwined in Indigenous women’s experiences of the conflict, echoing feminist work that highlights how extractive-based development reinforces the patriarchal structures rooted in colonial and capitalist exploitation, as well as intensifying violence against women and feminized (i.e. Indigenous) bodies (Cabnal, 2010; Segato, 2011; Ulloa, 2016).

Indigenous Women’s Dual Struggle: Demanding Sovereignty, Resisting Patriarchy

Navigating these intersecting oppressions, Indigenous women’s resistance exemplified a territorial feminist approach. Their activism embodies the concept of the body-territory, as women perceived their bodies to be intimately bound to the land they were defending. Many interviewees underscored that their opposition to the TIPNIS road was rooted in a broader commitment to preserving their territories as essential for the defense of life and the survival of their children and future generations. This perspective aligns with broader Indigenous understandings of territory as a living, spiritual, cultural, and political entity—central to identity, survival, and autonomy—and extends beyond Western conceptions of land as merely a resource (de la Cadena, 2015; Escobar, 2008).

Women reported a stronger sensitivity to territorial and environmental protection compared to men, shaped by their traditional gender roles in community social reproduction and their daily reliance on the land for food, water, medicine, and other essentials. Nazareth Flores, then President of CPIB, articulated this intrinsic relationship by emphasizing that Indigenous women “are in constant contact, both with the family and the territory,” underscoring their role in sustaining life and positioning them as “natural leaders” in the movement (Interview, August 13, 2024). Women’s leadership also draws support from local ontologies such as the casa grande (big house), which views territory as a maternal space essential to sustaining life (Canedo Vásquez, 2011). This connection proved a powerful motivator in TIPNIS, with many women actively encouraging, or even pressuring, their husbands and families to participate in resistance efforts, as noted by several accounts (Guzmán, 2012).

Women’s resistance drew on these perceptions of their inherent connection to nature and territory, often leveraging imagery of suffering Indigenous women to garner public sympathy and strengthen the legitimacy of their cause (Fabricant and Postero, 2018). For instance, during the Ninth March, I witnessed women being transported between campsites and then disembarking just outside major towns to appear as if they had walked the entire distance. Such performative actions emphasized the image of Indigenous women as martyrs within the struggle, a powerful narrative especially amplified after the violent repression at Chaparina, where the involvement of women and children became a central point of political contention. While these gendered performances were effective in raising visibility, they risked reifying stereotypes of Indigenous women as primarily caretakers of nature, however, potentially overshadowing their broader demands for gender equality (Fabricant and Postero, 2018). Echoing critiques of ecofeminist thought, these politics may reinforce essentialist gender binaries, reducing women to their reproductive functions and re-embedding Western models of femininity (see Sargisson, 2001).

Nonetheless, women in non-violent movements worldwide often leverage “context-specific notions of who men and women are and what they should be” to further their causes (Principe, 2017: 5). In the TIPNIS conflict, many Indigenous women were aware of the possible limitations posed by these gendered performances yet prioritized territorial defense over gender equality as a strategic choice. For instance, a female leader from the Ninth March highlighted that “it is a joint fight,” emphasizing that, although Indigenous women’s agency deserves recognition, gender equality was not the primary focus: “It’s ok because we are fighting for our territories. We can’t specify a point specifically for women” (Interview, May 12, 2012). Similarly, then Vice-President of CNAMIB Vilma Mendoza noted that despite existing gender tensions within the lowland Indigenous movement, unity was essential: “We can’t be fighting with each other,” as the defense of Indigenous territories had to remain the priority over gender-specific issues (Interview, May 11, 2012).

To be sure, Indigenous women in Latin America often seek female empowerment and agency within (rather than in opposition) to collective struggles for Indigenous rights (Speed, 2008; Speed, Hernández Castillo, and Stephen, 2006). Christina Ewig (2018) notes that after centuries of subjugation based on race and ethnicity, for Bolivia’s Indigenous women, racial equality often trumps gender equality as a lens for understanding the world and as a priority for political organizing. On this basis, gender parallelism (Arnold and Spedding, 2005) has been the preferred route for their political participation in Indigenous and peasant movements. This model allows women to carve out their own spaces for organizing while still contributing to the broader movement’s goals. A similar dynamic of gender parallelism can also be observed within the TIPNIS struggle.

Historical Legacies: Indigenous Women’s Leadership in the Beni Region

To fully understand the role of women in the TIPNIS conflict, it is essential to situate their activism within the historical context of Indigenous women’s resistance in the Beni region. After the expulsion of the Jesuits from Latin America in the 18th century, Indigenous communities in Beni were conscripted into forced labor during the rubber boom of the late 19th century (Riester, 1976). This era disrupted familial and community ties, but it also led to Indigenous women assuming greater leadership roles in the millenarian movements that sought to escape post-colonial oppression. One of the most notable figures from this period was Nicolasa Noza de Cuvene, an Indigenous woman from Trinidad who played a key role in liberating enslaved Indigenous peoples. She was killed for her efforts in 1887, and her memory lives on as a symbol of Mojeña women’s ongoing struggles for life, dignity, and territorial sovereignty (ANF, 2020).

Beginning the same year, Mojeño peoples embarked on a series of migrations from ex-Jesuit settlements to the surrounding forests, including the TIPNIS. These migrations aimed to reach the Loma Santa (Holy Hill), a sacred land free from the control of carayanas, a term used for white people or non-Indigenous outsiders (Riester, 1976). These journeys continued until the 1990s, driven by increased colonization, logging, cattle ranching, and settler expansion. One of the most notable migrations occurred in 1984 led by twelve-year-old Ana Teco, a “seer’” who successfully guided over 300 families to the Bosque de Chimanes. Women were the backbone of these migrations, organizing daily routes, carrying children, and shouldering the emotional and physical burdens of the suffering and deaths they encountered along the way (Lehm and CIDDEBENI, 1996). The oral histories and collective memories from these anti-colonial migrations significantly influenced the cultural terrains of resistance during the TIPNIS conflict, especially as many protesters were descendants of the 1950s to 1980s migrations (Laing, 2020).

Women then played a pivotal role in consolidating the lowland Indigenous movement that began in the 1980s. Unlike in other areas of the Amazon Basin, the consolidation of Beni Indigenous peoples’ organizations after the formation of CIDOB occurred in conjunction with the strengthening of Indigenous women’s political agency. By 1987, Mojeña women had formed their own organization, which expanded in 1992 into the Central de Mujeres Indígenas del Beni (Central of Indigenous Women of Beni, CMIB). This organization operated in parallel to the Central de Cabildos Indígenales Mojeños (Central of Mojeño Indigenous Councils, CCIM), embodying gender complementarity as these were led by husband and wife Ernesto Noe and Carmen Pereira (Lehm and CIDDEBENI, 1996). In 1988, TIPNIS women also formed a parallel organization at the same event that established the Sub-Central de Cabildos Indígenales de la Región Isiboro Sécure (Sub-Central of the Indigenous Councils of the Isiboro Sécure Region, now the TIPNIS Sub-Central) (CIDDEBENI, 1988). These organizations recognized the growing threats to their territories and worked toward gaining greater state recognition, culminating in the 1990 March for Territory and Dignity. Here, women marched despite opposition from the Catholic Church, which threatened to withdraw support (Lehm and CIDDEBENI, 1996). Carmen Pereira, as the official leader of the Mojeña women, headed the march. Strong female leadership and visionaries, therefore, became an integral part of Indigenous resistance in the region, particularly among the Mojeño-Trinitario inhabitants in the northeast of the TIPNIS, who were central to the road resistance.

Forging Political Space: The Emergence and Impact of CNAMIB

Over successive Indigenous marches, women gradually articulated a distinct agenda for political empowerment and gender rights, marking a significant shift in their roles within the movement. A key development in this process was the creation of CNAMIB, a parallel organization to CIDOB, in 2007. CNAMIB was born from women’s frustrations with their consistent exclusion from decision-making processes, despite their significant contributions. Vilma Mendoza of CNAMIB reflected on the first Indigenous march in 1990, describing how women were essential to the logistical success of the movement but were relegated to secondary roles: “Women were hardly given any importance for their participation. It seemed that women were only there when problems arose. Who goes ahead? The women. Who cooks? The women.” Despite this vital labor, women were not included in key discussions or the creation of the political platform: “When it came to the hour of truth to construct the platform, or to come up with the agreements, did they take women into account? No. They were no more than sheep” (Interview, May 11, 2012). By 2006, a few women had begun to occupy leadership roles within CIDOB, but it was not until CNAMIB was established in 2007 that women’s visibility and political agency became more formalized within the broader lowland Indigenous movement.

By creating a parallel structure, CNAMIB enabled women to develop their own agendas and organizational dynamics without having to rely on male-dominated spaces for validation. This process of gender parallelism mirrors Sandra Ramos Salazar’s (2013) research on the Chapare peasant women’s federations. Between 1994 and 2000, as women became more involved in the struggle to protect coca leaf production amidst the militarized drug war, they initially took on gender-specific roles within the peasant unions. However, facing structural barriers to full participation, they eventually formed a parallel women’s union, enabling women to gain experience in union politics while expanding their political reach and autonomy.

The emergence of CNAMIB was shaped by the political opportunities created by the 2009 Constitution and the broader constituent assembly process. Drawing lessons from feminist and union organizing, female leaders sought to counter the class-based influence of the Bartolinas (National Confederation of Peasant Indigenous and Native Women of Bolivia, “Bartolina Sisa”)—Bolivia’s most prominent women’s organization and a member of the Unity Pact—to foreground concerns for Indigenous self-determination (Rousseau and Morales Hudon, 2017). Legislative reforms, particularly those under the MAS administration concerning gender parity, further legitimized CNAMIB’s role and expanded women’s political agency. As a technical advisor to CIDOB remarked, “the Constitution requires that all organizations have gender equality to fulfill the law,” ensuring that “women can participate” (Interview, March 19, 2012). Thus, political reforms became an essential tool for CNAMIB, enabling the organization to educate and empower Indigenous women regarding their legal rights. CNAMIB also provided a vital platform for organizing Indigenous women throughout the TIPNIS conflict, working alongside CIDOB but maintaining an independent structure to ensure women’s perspectives were heard.

Political Empowerment in the TIPNIS Marches: Women’s Leadership and Resistance

The 2011-2012 TIPNIS marches marked another significant chapter in the political empowerment of lowland Indigenous women, building on the legacies of resistance and intergenerational leadership. Many adult participants in the marches had themselves marched as children, building a powerful collective memory of territorial struggle (Guzmán, 2012). This continuity helped cultivate future female leaders, as past mobilizations offered essential role models. For instance, Bertha Bejarano, President of the Ninth March, credited her leadership to figures like Carmen Pereira, who led the 1990 march. She reflected on the “many obstacles” women had to overcome to achieve representation, noting that they made women “braver to face all the challenges” ahead (Correspondence, June 5, 2024). Bertha had herself become an important symbol of the TIPNIS struggle but had to overcome several barriers. As a single mother of ten, she led the march with six of her children, breastfeeding her youngest while conducting strategy meetings, showing a visible commitment to both family and the movement. She also faced media and government efforts to discredit her due to a past conviction for drug smuggling, a situation that garnered solidarity from the feminist collective Mujeres Creando who held a “March of the Berthas” in La Paz (Fabricant and Postero, 2018). Nonetheless, she explained that her legitimacy to lead the Ninth March stemmed from her role as President of the Central de Pueblos Étnicos Mojeños del Beni (Central of the Mojeño Ethnic Peoples of Beni, CPEM-B), a position made possible by the foundation of prior women’s organizing.

The TIPNIS marches also served as a critical learning experience, fostering women’s political education and leadership development. As Laida Nunez, Vice-President of the TIPNIS Sub-Central, described, the protests were “a school for us,” where women gained valuable leadership experience and deepened their understanding of Indigenous and gender rights (Interview, May 16, 2012). For many women, who were often accustomed to domestic roles and had left formal education early, participating in these marches provided a rare opportunity to engage in the public political sphere. It allowed them to learn about Indigenous rights, the various challenges facing different communities, and the tools needed to organize and advocate effectively. The marches also offered women from across the thirty-four lowland nations a space to discuss their unique needs and goals. For instance, during the Ninth March, a meeting was organized by female marchers to make bread, creating a traditional yet intentional setting to discuss their experiences and views on the progress of the movement. At the meeting, I spoke with a group of women from the TIPNIS who highlighted the importance of preserving women-only spaces to develop their own agendas without male interference (Field notes, May 11, 2012). This echoes Segato’s (2011) assertion that Indigenous women’s domestic spheres are a space of politics, with the capacity for self-defense and self-transformation.

Despite these advances, women’s voices were still marginalized during critical moments of the marches. For instance, in the delegation that met with government representatives during the Eighth March, only two women were included in a group of 20. Reflecting on this recurring pattern, a female TIPNIS inhabitant, referring to the David Choquehuanca “kidnapping,” noted that “women start the revolutions, break the sieges, or go talk to the authorities, but men grab the prestige” (Interview, March 19, 2012). This highlighted the ongoing tension between women’s significant contributions to the movement and their limited public recognition. In response, Indigenous women adopted various strategies to make their political work more visible. CNAMIB leaders collaborated with the media to highlight women’s roles and issued formal declarations to the state to ensure their voices were acknowledged. Women leaders frequently took on mediation roles during meetings, actively facilitating discussions to ensure female perspectives were heard. They also used humor to call out male leaders who neglected their responsibilities, often teasing them for “going fishing”—a euphemism for slipping away to the nearest town to drink alcohol. Using these strategies, women asserted their agency and reinforced their indispensable role within the movement.

Through their participation in the TIPNIS struggle, women followed in the footsteps of past mobilizations and advanced the gradual journey toward greater political visibility and higher-profile leadership roles within their communities and representative Indigenous organizations. As Nazareth Flores noted, in response to female leadership in the TIPNIS, “Today, there are many communities that have changed their directorate. There is a woman at the head” (Interview, August 13, 2024). ⁵ Women were also responsible for maintaining much of the momentum of the road resistance since the peak of the conflict, with the women’s Sub-Central of the TIPNIS issuing formal declarations to the state (see Sub-Central de Mujeres Indigenas del TIPNIS, 2017) and taking the TIPNIS case to the International Rights of Nature Tribunal in Bonn, Germany, in 2017 (Indigenous Rights of Nature Tribunal, 2017).

Gendered Dynamics of Domestic Labor, Care, and Social Reproduction

While Indigenous women have made significant strides toward political empowerment, they continue to face barriers tied to the labor of care and social reproduction, which impedes their ability to fully engage in leadership roles. Women on the Ninth March frequently spoke of the “double burden” they carried, balancing political responsibilities with domestic and childcare labor:

We work double. Apart from walking, we must arrive at camp, cook, see to the children, and wash our clothing. That’s how it is. We work much more, double than that of men. And if we are leaders, in the first place, we must be at meetings. I mean, this weighs on us. As leaders, we get desanimadas (discouraged/disheartened)” (Dora Luz, a leader of the Organizació de Mujeres Indígenas de Trinidad (Organization of Indigenous Women of Trinidad), May 9, 2012).

For a woman, it is a little difficult to assume the responsibility [of being a leader] because we have our family. We must leave to go to other places, we must go to workshops to exchange experiences, so it's a little difficult to leave the family. (Laida Nuñez, Vice-President of the TIPNIS Sub-Central, May 16, 2012)

While Indigenous women have gained political empowerment to take on leadership roles in the public sphere, the gendered nature of caregiving and social reproduction in the private sphere remains unaddressed, underscoring the need to consider the patriarchal structures present in many communities, as seen in other regions. This binary dichotomy between the public and private spheres has been reinforced through CNAMIB’s—and NGO alliances’—work that targets Indigenous women’s political participation, but not the gendered dynamics of domestic labor. Many interviewees (some men included), therefore expressed that the struggle for women’s political empowerment also requires changes to the patriarchy existing in their own communities, whereby women have an overload of domestic tasks and responsibilities.

Conclusion

This article extends Ulloa’s (2016; 2017) concept of territorial feminisms through a detailed ethnographic analysis of Indigenous women’s leadership in the 2011-2012 TIPNIS conflict. With a feminist and decolonial focus, this study foregrounds the voices and experiences of Indigenous women in their resistance to the TIPNIS road, aiming to present their perspectives without romanticization or over-simplification. This approach highlights the often-overlooked agency of women in Bolivia’s Amazonian Indigenous movement, a tradition with deep historical roots that was further strengthened by the political reforms on Indigenous and gender rights under the first Morales administration. This analysis underscores the importance of grounding research on territorial feminisms within specific historical, cultural, and political contexts, as these deeply shape Indigenous women’s anti-extractivist activism.

The leadership of TIPNIS women aligns with a broader Indigenous feminist tradition emphasizing cuerpo-territorio (body-territory), which underscores the inseparable link between bodies and territories, between community and nature, and Indigenous identities and ways of life. This intersectional lens reveals how women in the TIPNIS struggle resisted the patriarchal-colonial-capitalist forces of state-led extractivism and territorial encroachment. This understanding positions Indigenous women not merely as protectors of territory or as environmental defenders, but as political agents confronting overlapping systems of oppression.

Indigenous women’s leadership in the TIPNIS struggle cultivated a dual politics, whereby mobilizations for territorial autonomy were articulated alongside demands for an alternative, more just, construction of gender dynamics. By asserting their role in the mobilizations and building inter-ethnic alliances through organizations like CNAMIB, women advanced their own agendas within the broader Indigenous movement. Through their political participation, they transformed collective movement spaces into sites of leadership development, creating an environment to learn about Indigenous and gender rights and legislation, consolidate women’s parallel organizations, and increase their presence in spaces traditionally dominated by men. These strategies not only contributed to resistance against the road but also paved the way for greater female political empowerment and visibility within the lowland Indigenous movement.

Despite these advances, entrenched patriarchal structures within Bolivian society and Indigenous communities remain significant barriers to women’s full political inclusion. These structures often perpetuate traditional gender roles, limiting women’s engagement in leadership while balancing domestic and caregiving duties. Additionally, the TIPNIS conflict highlights the complexities of gendered performances of indigeneity. While these portrayals can elicit public support, they risk essentializing Indigenous women as mere “guardians of nature.” This essentialization, rooted in colonial and capitalist frameworks, can constrain the transformative power of territorial feminisms, confining them within narratives that may neutralize their broader political goals. Ultimately though, the TIPNIS conflict demonstrates the resilience and transformative potential of Indigenous women’s leadership, and the need for recognition and support of their role in shaping Indigenous movements and alternative development futures.