The Sentinelese inhabit North Sentinel Island, a heavily forested island in the Andaman Sea protected under Indian law by a strict exclusion zone that bars outsiders from approaching within five kilometers.
The tribe gained international attention in 2018 after members killed American missionary John Allen Chau, who illegally traveled to the island in an attempt to establish contact.

Anthropologist Anstice Justin, who participated in government-authorized contact missions between 1986 and 2004, said the increasing frequency of unauthorized attempts to reach the island suggested isolation alone may no longer guarantee the tribe’s safety.

“We would be living in a fool’s paradise if we assume they are living in their own insulated world,” Justin told AFP in Sri Vijaya Puram, the administrative capital formerly known as Port Blair.

Justin, a former deputy director of the Anthropological Survey of India, said official expeditions to the island yielded limited knowledge about the tribe, whose population is estimated by the government at around 50 people and classified as a Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Group.

During his first landing on the island in 1986, Justin said he and other researchers approached the shore carrying coconuts as gestures of goodwill before observing members of the tribe emerge from the rainforest. He said the encounters showed no overt hostility beyond the Sentinelese determination to defend their territory.

Indian authorities currently follow what officials describe as an “eyes on, hands off” policy, relying on distant monitoring while prohibiting direct engagement with the tribe to minimize the risk of disease transmission and cultural disruption.

Rights organization Survival International has defended the no-contact policy, warning that interaction with outsiders historically devastated Indigenous populations across the archipelago through imported illnesses. The group says the Sentinelese have consistently demonstrated they do not want outside contact.

Police chief HGS Dhaliwal said marine patrols and surprise inspections were continuing around the island, although preventing all breaches remained difficult.

Authorities in February arrested two fishermen accused of entering restricted waters near the island. Last year, American citizen Mykhailo Viktorovych Polyakov was detained after briefly landing on the island carrying a coconut and a can of Diet Coke in what investigators said was an attempt to gain attention online.

He later pleaded guilty to violating protected-area restrictions and was deported after serving a short jail sentence and paying a fine.

Justin argued that carefully regulated communication with the Sentinelese might eventually become necessary to warn them about growing external threats and unauthorized visitors.

Venezuelan-Canadian director Jorge Thielen Armand and Italian actor Asia Argento are using surrealist psychological thriller Death Has No Master to examine questions of ownership, historical violence and inherited trauma against the backdrop of contemporary Venezuela.

Premiering in the Directors’ Fortnight section at Cannes, the film follows Caro, an Italian-Venezuelan woman played by Argento, who returns to Venezuela to reclaim a plantation inherited from her late father. The property remains occupied by caretakers who have continued living on the land, setting up a broader conflict over legitimacy, colonial legacy and power.

“The film has multiple layers of meaning,” Armand said ahead of the premiere. “Recent events only make those multitudes greater.”Armand said the project has taken on additional political resonance following recent developments in Venezuela and increased international involvement in the country.

The director referenced the deployment of US warships near Venezuela in August last year, officially linked by Washington to anti-narcotics operations, as filming began on the project.

He also referred to the arrest of Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro by US authorities earlier this year amid longstanding allegations of corruption and human rights abuses against his administration.

“It’s very worrisome, what’s happening,” Armand said. “I think that the movie can speak to the collective darkness that Venezuelans feel, and the betrayal of domestic and international systems.”

The film revisits themes Armand previously explored in La Soledad, his 2016 feature debut set during Venezuela’s economic collapse. That earlier project blurred documentary and fiction while focusing on residents occupying a deteriorating mansion formerly owned by Armand’s family.

In Death Has No Master, Armand shifts perspective toward the descendants of property owners returning to spaces shaped by abandonment, displacement and class divisions. The story was partly inspired by recurring dreams the director experienced involving dark buildings, fragmented memories and disorientation.

“When I wake up, I think of home and everything I left behind,” Armand said. “So the film is that nightmare of going back, finding that the people and things you left behind are no longer there.”

The film places colonial imagery alongside modern industrial symbols. Cacao plantations and oil refineries operate as recurring visual motifs, linking Venezuela’s colonial history with contemporary struggles over resources and political control.

Argento described the filming process as emotionally consuming, saying she isolated herself in shooting locations to better inhabit the character’s psychological state.

“I drove myself pretty much insane,” she said. “And I had a lot of fear; something primal; something unspeakable that I think my character felt in going back there.”Argento said Caro’s memories of her abusive father intersected with aspects of her own personal history.

She is the daughter of Italian filmmaker Dario Argento and actor-screenwriter Daria Nicolodi, collaborators behind the influential horror film Suspiria.While Argento declined to detail specific parallels, she said the project resonated with her understanding of family inheritance and emotional trauma.

“It’s dealing with my own nightmares, and my own childhood, and the way I was brought up, and my own blood, and my inheritance,” she said.Argento also noted stylistic similarities between Death Has No Master and the Italian psychological thrillers associated with her parents’ generation of cinema, particularly the visual techniques of 1970s giallo films.

“This is like a serious Italian psychological thriller from the 70s, with the zooms and the way it’s shot,” she said after watching the completed film.

The central conflict of the story unfolds between Caro and Sonia, an Afro-Venezuelan caretaker played by Dogreika Tovar, who lives on the plantation with her son and asserts her own claim to the land.

A third figure, Johnny, an Indigenous associate connected to Caro’s father, further complicates the question of legitimacy.Armand said the film intentionally avoids presenting a clear moral hierarchy among its characters.

“I wanted to make something where nobody is a victim, per se,” he said.

According to the director, the conflict reflects overlapping systems of legality, morality and historical entitlement shaped by colonialism and economic power.

“There’s a legal, moral and historical conflict,” Armand said. “But these are notions that we’ve conceived as a society. In the end, land isn’t owned, ever. It’s just controlled by the use of force. It’s occupied until it’s not.”

Brazilian Indigenous leader, writer and environmental thinker Ailton Krenak has spent decades challenging dominant political and economic assumptions in Brazil, arguing that modern consumer-driven society has severed humanity’s relationship with nature while deepening social inequality and ecological destruction.

Nearly four decades after a landmark appearance before Brazil’s constitutional assembly helped secure Indigenous rights protections in the country’s democratic constitution, Krenak has emerged as one of the country’s most influential public intellectuals, combining environmental criticism, Indigenous cosmology and political activism in lectures and bestselling books translated into more than 13 languages.

Krenak, 72, first gained national prominence in 1987 during the drafting of Brazil’s post-dictatorship constitution. Addressing lawmakers in Brasília while wearing a suit and tie, he slowly covered his face with black jenipapo dye, traditionally used in Indigenous body painting, as he condemned centuries of violence against Indigenous communities.“Indigenous blood has been spilt over every hectare of Brazil’s 8m square kilometres,” he told legislators at the time.

The gesture became one of the defining images of Brazil’s democratic transition and contributed to the inclusion of constitutional protections recognising Indigenous peoples’ rights to their traditional lands, social organisation and cultural identity under the 1988 constitution.Reflecting on the speech nearly 40 years later, Krenak described congress as a place where political power was concentrated through language and public speech.

“There, the young Ailton understood the meaning of parliament,” he said. “The place to speak, the power of the word.”In 2024, Krenak entered another historically exclusive institution when he became the first Indigenous Brazilian elected to the Brazilian Academy of Letters, an organisation founded in the 19th century and traditionally dominated by white intellectual elites.

At his inauguration ceremony, Krenak used the occasion to highlight Brazil’s Indigenous diversity, invoking dozens of Indigenous peoples while wearing the academy’s formal embroidered uniform alongside Indigenous adornments.“I am only one, but I can invoke 305 peoples,” he said.Krenak’s growing international influence has been driven largely by a series of books focused on environmental degradation, capitalism and the relationship between humanity and the natural world.

His 2020 book Ideas to Postpone the End of the World became a major commercial and intellectual success in Brazil and abroad, later followed by Life Is Not Useful and Ancestral Future.Across his writing and public lectures, Krenak argues that modern societies have normalised environmental destruction through economic systems centered on consumption and extraction.

“We are treading heavily on the Earth,” he said during a recent lecture in Rio de Janeiro. “Modernity is very active in making us consumers but leaves little time and space to coexist.”Krenak frequently frames environmental collapse not only as a scientific or political issue but also as a cultural and spiritual crisis. He criticises what he describes as a model of development that treats nature exclusively as a resource for economic growth.

“Development is not an innocent word,” he said. “It fires a shot at someone.”Despite the severity of his message, Krenak often delivers lectures with humour and conversational ease. During one recent appearance, he abruptly interrupted his own discussion of social exclusion and environmental decline by joking that the audience had “fallen into a trap” after expecting a more uplifting talk about dreams and creativity.

Friends and observers frequently describe his public speaking style as calm and accessible despite the radical nature of many of his arguments.Born in 1953 in Minas Gerais state, Krenak belongs to the Krenak people, whose ancestral territory lies along the Doce River in southeastern Brazil.

He recalls spending his childhood surrounded by forests, rivers and open land before military-era land seizures displaced his community.During Brazil’s military dictatorship, authorities fragmented Krenak territory and redistributed land titles to farmers, forcing Indigenous families to flee repeatedly.“It’s a bodily experience of being in a world with no risks,” Krenak said of his early childhood.

“Then suddenly you are warned by adults that you must run away.”His family eventually fled through several regions of Brazil, at times living along highways while searching for safety.“I remember the feeling of being on the run, of not knowing if we’d find a safe place to sleep,” he said.

Krenak has often linked those experiences of displacement to broader historical patterns affecting Indigenous communities and diasporic populations. He argues that Brazilian society lacks a shared historical memory because different groups experienced the country’s development through profoundly unequal realities.

“We are not equal,” he said. “We don’t have a shared memory of history in Brazil.”After relocating to São Paulo and Paraná, Krenak became involved in organising Indigenous political movements and media initiatives. He helped establish an Indigenous newspaper at São Paulo’s Pontifical Catholic University, later transforming it into audio bulletins distributed to Indigenous villages on cassette tapes and eventually into a radio programme.

In 1980, he co-founded the Union of Indigenous Nations, which became a major voice in Brazil’s Indigenous rights movement during the democratic transition.Krenak’s environmental advocacy was further shaped by the 2015 Mariana mining disaster, one of Brazil’s worst environmental catastrophes.

The collapse of a tailings dam owned by mining companies Vale and BHP Billiton destroyed villages and released toxic waste across hundreds of miles of the Doce River basin.For the Krenak people, the river is regarded as a sacred ancestor known as Watu.Ten years after the disaster, Krenak said the river remains deeply damaged.“To declare it dead would be giving up,” he said, describing the river instead as being “in a coma”.

Krenak continues to argue that Indigenous knowledge systems offer alternatives to economic models based solely on extraction and consumption.

He says modern societies must reconsider assumptions about progress, ownership and humanity’s place within nature.“If I can imagine a utopia,” he said, “it is for humans to recover the experience of a simple life.”

The global push for clean energy is intensifying pressure on lithium-rich regions of northern Chile, where Indigenous communities warn that large-scale extraction risks undermining fragile ecosystems, water resources, and traditional ways of life.

Chile, one of the world’s leading producers of lithium, has become central to the energy transition as demand for electric vehicle batteries and energy storage systems accelerates. However, in the high-Andean salt flats where much of the mineral is found, local communities say the costs of extraction are being borne disproportionately at the territorial level.

In the Atacama region, the Colla Indigenous community of Pastos Grandes lives near the Salar de Maricunga, a high-altitude ecosystem characterized by salt flats, wetlands, and limited freshwater sources. The environmental balance in the region depends on underground aquifers and scarce water flows that sustain both human livelihoods and biodiversity.“Living in our territory today means resisting,” said Zulema Mancilla, a member of the Colla community.

She described growing concerns over water depletion linked to lithium extraction, noting that the pumping of underground aquifers has reduced water availability in downstream areas where communities live and work.“We have serious problems with water,” she said, adding that while extraction projects are advancing, local populations face increasing environmental stress.Further north, in the highlands of Tarapacá near the Bolivian border, Aymara communities rely on pastoralism and subsistence agriculture, including llama and alpaca herding and quinoa cultivation.

These activities depend on high-altitude wetlands, known locally as “bofedales,” which are particularly sensitive to changes in water availability.“If this lithium project goes ahead, it will become an enormous ‘sacrifice zone’ for our people,” said Juana Mamani Flores of the Panavinto community, highlighting concerns over the long-term viability of local livelihoods.

For many Indigenous residents, the issue extends beyond environmental impact to encompass cultural and spiritual dimensions. Eva Mamani, also from Panavinto, described the territory as intrinsically connected to community identity and belief systems.“The waters have spirit, the shrubs have spirit, the mountains have spirit,” she said, framing environmental protection as both a practical and cultural imperative.

United Nations human rights officials say such perspectives underscore the need to reframe discussions around the energy transition. Jan Jarab, Regional Representative for South America, noted that areas targeted for lithium extraction are not uninhabited resource zones but living territories shaped by long-standing social and cultural systems.

While communities acknowledge the importance of addressing climate change and transitioning to cleaner energy sources, they emphasize the need for clearer information and stronger safeguards. Samuel García, an Aymara leader, said there is a lack of reliable data on the potential environmental impacts of lithium extraction.“We do not have a specific and reliable study of the damage,” he said, pointing to uncertainty surrounding long-term consequences.

The debate, according to observers, is shifting from whether lithium extraction is necessary to how it is conducted and who bears its costs. UN Human Rights has facilitated dialogues among Indigenous leaders, governments, and industry stakeholders across the “lithium triangle,” a region spanning Chile, Argentina, and Bolivia that holds more than half of the world’s lithium reserves.

These discussions focus on aligning extraction practices with international human rights standards, particularly the principle of free, prior, and informed consent for Indigenous Peoples. Jarab emphasized that affected communities must be involved in decision-making processes and have the opportunity to influence project outcomes.“Communities themselves best understand their needs and know how to care for the environment,” he said, adding that consultation mechanisms should enable equitable participation and benefit-sharing.

The UN has framed the issue within the concept of a “just transition,” warning that without adequate safeguards, the shift to renewable energy could replicate historical patterns of extractive industries, where economic gains are concentrated while environmental and social costs are localized.The role of both governments and corporations is central to this process.

Under the UN Guiding Principles on Business and Human Rights, companies involved in lithium extraction are expected to conduct due diligence, assess environmental and social impacts, and establish mechanisms to address harm. States, in turn, are responsible for regulating these activities and ensuring compliance with human rights obligations.

Jarab noted that state-owned enterprises, in particular, are expected to uphold higher standards of accountability, given their direct link to public policy and governance.The broader debate reflects a tension between global climate objectives and local realities. As countries accelerate decarbonization efforts, the extraction of critical minerals such as lithium has become essential.

However, the Chilean case illustrates the complexity of ensuring that environmental goals do not come at the expense of vulnerable communities.For Indigenous groups, the stakes extend beyond economic considerations to the preservation of cultural identity and long-term sustainability.

Decisions made in the coming years are likely to shape not only environmental outcomes but also the future of traditional ways of life in the region.The discussion, UN officials say, is ultimately about ensuring that the benefits of the energy transition are distributed equitably, and that its implementation does not undermine the rights of those living in resource-rich territories.

This 30th United Nations Climate Change Conference represents a full-circle moment for Brazil. Over three decades ago, the country hosted the Rio Earth Summit, where the foundation of global climate cooperation was laid. Now, by hosting COP30 in Belem, Brazil reaffirms its commitment to environmental protection, forest preservation, and the inclusion of indigenous voices in global decision-making.

The summit is built on the principle of shared responsibility. Every nation, big or small, recognizes that climate change affects us all. Yet, it also acknowledges that developed countries, with greater resources and historic emissions, bear a stronger obligation to support developing nations through technology, funding, and fair climate policies.

This year’s COP30 focuses on action rather than promises. Countries are urged to deliver on past commitments, such as reducing fossil fuel use and accelerating the transition toward renewable energy. Brazil’s leadership has emphasized accountability, transparency, and measurable progress, ensuring that climate goals move beyond words into tangible global achievements.

Hosting COP30 in the Amazon carries deep symbolic meaning. The Amazon rainforest is often called the “lungs of the Earth,” absorbing massive amounts of carbon dioxide. By choosing Belem as the venue, the world is reminded of the crucial need to protect forests, biodiversity, and the livelihoods of indigenous communities who have long safeguarded these lands.

Delegates from across the globe are participating, including members of small island nations, developing countries, and major economies. Together, they represent a shared determination to limit global warming and secure a balanced climate system. The summit provides an opportunity for collaboration, knowledge sharing, and global unity on environmental issues.

One of the key themes of COP30 is empowerment through partnership. Governments, private companies, NGOs, and young activists are working hand in hand to promote renewable energy innovation, sustainable agriculture, and green finance. The discussions in Belem highlight how collective action can lead to long-lasting solutions that benefit both people and the planet.

Beyond the formal meetings, COP30 has become a celebration of global awareness and cooperation. Environmental campaigners, educators, and community leaders are showcasing projects that demonstrate practical ways to combat deforestation, pollution, and climate-related disasters. The event underscores the importance of turning ideas into real-world change.

The summit also represents optimism for the future. Nations are revisiting the 1.5-degree Celsius target, not as a failure, but as a renewed goal that demands creativity and courage. By recognizing challenges honestly and focusing on achievable progress, COP30 aims to inspire a global culture of responsibility and climate resilience.

As negotiations unfold, the spirit of Belem reflects unity, diversity, and environmental stewardship. With Brazil leading the discussions, countries are coming together to reaffirm that protecting nature is a shared human duty. The message from COP30 is clear — the time for action is now, and the world must move forward with purpose and solidarity.

COP30 is not just another conference; it is a milestone in humanity’s collective journey toward a greener planet. From renewable innovation to forest preservation, from global cooperation to local empowerment, Belem 2025 stands as a symbol of hope, determination, and a brighter tomorrow for all.