In 2025, one person died every three days for the act of protecting a forest, a river, or a piece of ancestral land — 124 lives extinguished in a slow, largely invisible war. Latin America bore the heaviest grief, where the expansion of narco-trafficking into indigenous territories has transformed environmental stewardship into a mortal occupation. As international support recedes and governments reach for military solutions, the communities most exposed to this violence are increasingly left to defend themselves — and to decide how long they can sustain the cost of bearing witness.
Nature defenders murdered at rate of one every three days, prompting armed self-defence
124 environmental defenders murdered in 2025, with 73 being indigenous people; seven indigenous guards killed while defending territories against organized crime.
Defending our territory is more dangerous than ever
Mark
So we're talking about 124 people killed last year for defending land. That's real, documented deaths?
Mimi
Yes. Global Witness has been tracking this since 2012, so they have a methodology. The 124 is their count for 2025.
Luke
Though they note it's likely an undercount because data collection is hard in war zones and places with authoritarian governments. So the real number could be higher.
Mark
And most of these are in Latin America?
Mimi
Eighty-five percent. Colombia alone had 39. Brazil 26. Honduras 12. The overlap with narco-trafficking is the crucial detail—organized crime is directly implicated in more than a third of the murders.
Luke
More than a third. So we know organized crime was involved in at least 40 of the 124. The other 84 have different causes—some state security forces, some local conflicts, some still unclear.
Mark
Why are Indigenous people being targeted specifically?
Mimi
They live on land that criminal organizations need. For trafficking routes, for coca cultivation, for illegal logging and mining. When communities resist, they become obstacles.
Luke
And the communities are increasingly setting up their own armed defence units because international support has dried up. USAID funding was cut.
Mark
How many of these self-defence groups are there?
Mimi
The report highlights the Kakataibo guard in Peru—150 volunteers across 10 bases now. At least a dozen other communities in Peru have similar units. Colombia and Brazil have had them for years.
Luke
But seven Indigenous guards were murdered last year. So the self-defence strategy itself is dangerous.
Mark
What happens if the militarization of the drug war pushes gangs deeper into these territories?
Mimi
That's the fear. Rightwing governments are cracking down on coca growers and traffickers, which typically scatters the criminal organizations into more remote areas—exactly where Indigenous communities live.
Luke
And if local police and politicians are already corrupted by the cartels, the communities can't rely on the state for help. They're essentially on their own.
Il Polso
- Organized crime networks are systematically targeting indigenous land defenders, directly implicated in over a third of 124 murders in 2025, treating communities as obstacles to territorial control.
- Colombia, Brazil, Honduras, and the Philippines are epicenters of the killing, where narco-trafficking, illegal logging, and gold mining converge on the same forests indigenous peoples have protected for generations.
- The collapse of international funding — accelerated by the dismantling of USAID — has stripped away what little external protection existed, leaving communities more exposed precisely as criminal pressure intensifies.
- In response, indigenous guards are arming and organizing: Peru's Kakataibo Guard has grown to 150 volunteers across 10 bases, even as seven of their members were murdered last year by the same criminal networks they resist.
- Governments are responding with military crackdowns that historically push criminal organizations deeper into remote regions — toward the most vulnerable communities — rather than dismantling the networks threatening them.
In 2025, one person died every three days for the act of protecting a forest, a river, or a piece of ancestral land — 124 lives extinguished in a slow, largely invisible war. Latin America bore the heaviest grief, where the expansion of narco-trafficking into indigenous territories has transformed environmental stewardship into a mortal occupation. As international support recedes and governments reach for military solutions, the communities most exposed to this violence are increasingly left to defend themselves — and to decide how long they can sustain the cost of bearing witness.
Since 2012, Global Witness has tracked the deaths of people who defend forests and rivers. By 2025, the cumulative toll had reached 2,375. Last year alone, 124 defenders were killed — one every three days — a figure the organization describes as sitting somewhere between tragedy and war.
Eighty-five percent of those deaths occurred in Latin America. Colombia led with 39 killings, followed by Brazil with 26 and Honduras with 12. In Asia, the Philippines recorded 12 deaths, many carried out by state security forces. The pattern across these places is consistent: organized crime or professional killers were implicated in more than a third of all murders. Narco-trafficking operations require territory, and indigenous lands offer both cover and passage. Communities that resist — defending rivers from illegal mining, forests from logging, homes from incursion — become targets.
Nearly three-quarters of those killed were indigenous people and small-scale farmers. The outside support that once offered some buffer has largely disappeared. The Trump administration's dismantling of USAID eliminated funding for indigenous land stewardship programs, leaving communities more exposed. Many have responded by arming themselves.
Peru's Kakataibo Indigenous Guard is one example. Six of its leaders have been killed since 2020, yet the organization has grown from a few dozen recruits in 2022 to more than 150 volunteers across 10 bases. Commander Segundo Ispón describes the work as both survival and cultural inheritance — territory defense is taught to children from an early age, though today's dangers exceed anything previous generations faced. At least a dozen other Peruvian communities have formed similar units, and Colombia and Brazil have had self-defence organizations for years. Last year, seven indigenous guards were murdered, with organized crime directly responsible in at least five cases.
The narco-threat is immediate. In July, Asháninka leaders on the Brazilian-Peruvian border petitioned their government after armed men entered their homes searching for assassination targets. In the Ucayali basin, coca production surged 600 percent between 2019 and 2023, forcing trafficking organizations to cut illegal roads through indigenous territories and establish supply lines through communities that want them gone. Corruption closes the trap: local politicians and police on cartel payrolls cannot or will not help.
Governments aligned with the Trump administration have responded with militarization — crackdowns that typically push criminal organizations further into remote regions, closer to the communities least equipped to resist them. Ricardo Soberón, former head of Peru's anti-narcotics office, described transnational criminal groups as woven into daily life along the Putumayo basin, and warned that intensified militarization will worsen conditions for the indigenous peoples living there.
The headline numbers have edged downward — from 196 deaths in 2023 to 124 in 2025 — but Global Witness cautions that this likely reflects gaps in data collection from war zones and authoritarian states rather than genuine improvement. Beyond killings, defenders face criminalization, legal harassment, and online smear campaigns. Toby Hill, lead author of the Global Witness report, described defenders as the world's eyes and ears on the ground: without them, the destruction of ecosystems goes unseen. The question is whether communities will retain the capacity — and the will — to keep watching.
Last year, someone protecting a forest or river died every three days. The count reached 124 in 2025—a toll that Global Witness, the independent monitoring organization, has been tracking since 2012. Over that span, the cumulative dead and disappeared now stands at 2,375, a figure that sits somewhere between a tragedy and a war.
Latin America bore the weight of this violence. Eighty-five percent of the year's killings happened there, with Colombia leading at 39 deaths, Brazil at 26, and Honduras at 12. In Asia, the Philippines emerged as the deadliest country for defenders, with 12 killings, many carried out by state security forces during crackdowns. What ties these deaths together is not random violence but pattern: organized crime groups or professional killers were directly implicated in more than a third of all murders. The mechanism is clear. Narco-trafficking operations need territory. Indigenous lands and forest regions offer both cover and passage. When communities resist—when they defend their rivers from illegal mining, their trees from logging operations, their homes from incursion—they become obstacles. They become targets.
Almost three-quarters of those killed in 2025 were Indigenous people and small-scale farmers. They were defending land that had sustained their families and cultures for generations, often with minimal support from outside. That outside support has been shrinking. The Trump administration's dismantling of USAID, which previously funded Indigenous land stewardship initiatives, has left communities more exposed. International assistance that once provided some buffer against violence has largely evaporated. In response, many communities have stopped waiting for protection that isn't coming. They have begun arming themselves.
The Kakataibo Indigenous Guard in the Peruvian Amazon offers a concrete example. Six of the organization's leaders have been killed since 2020 as criminal groups pushed deeper into the forest. Yet the guard has grown from a few dozen recruits in 2022 to more than 150 volunteers spread across 10 bases. Segundo Ispón, the commander, framed the work in terms of both survival and inheritance: defending territory is embedded in the culture, taught to children from early age, but the current generation faces dangers their ancestors could not have imagined. At least a dozen other communities in Peru have established similar units. Colombia and Brazil have had self-defence organizations for years. But the cost is visible. Last year, seven Indigenous guards were murdered. In at least five cases, organized crime was directly responsible.
The narco-threat is not abstract or distant. In July, Asháninka leaders living on the Brazilian-Peruvian border petitioned their government after armed, masked men entered their homes searching for assassination targets. In the Ucayali basin, coca production surged 600 percent between 2019 and 2023. That explosion in drug cultivation is forcing trafficking organizations to expand their networks—cutting illegal roads and trails through forest, establishing supply lines through Indigenous territories. The gangs need passage; the communities need them gone. Corruption deepens the trap. Local politicians and police, many on cartel payrolls, cannot or will not help. Some actively obstruct.
The policy response from governments aligned with the Trump administration has been militarization. Rightwing leaders are pursuing military crackdowns on coca growers and traffickers, a strategy that typically pushes criminal organizations further into remote regions and Indigenous lands—precisely where the most vulnerable communities live. Ricardo Soberón, former head of Peru's anti-narcotics office, described the situation along the Putumayo basin, where the Huitoto, Quichua, Bora, and Secoya peoples live: transnational criminal groups have woven themselves into daily life. He expressed particular concern about threats against local leaders, environmental defenders, and human rights activists calling for stronger state presence. He fears newly elected rightwing governments will intensify the militarization, following Trump administration priorities, and make conditions worse.
The headline numbers have improved slightly. Deaths fell from 196 in 2023 to 142 in 2024 to 124 in 2025. But Global Witness cautions that this decline likely reflects data collection challenges in war zones and authoritarian regimes rather than actual reduction in violence. Beyond killings, defenders face nonlethal attacks: criminalization, online smear campaigns, legal harassment. The organizations monitoring this violence have urged governments to work with defenders rather than against them. Toby Hill, lead author of the Global Witness report, put it plainly: defenders are the world's eyes and ears on the ground. They report when ecosystems are destroyed, forests cleared, rivers polluted. Without them, the world loses visibility into what is being lost. The question now is whether communities will continue to have the capacity—and the will—to keep watching.
Citazioni salienti
Defending our territory is important to us as a community and as a people, and we're proud to support the climate that we all depend on. But for this next generation coming up, the work is more dangerous than ever.— Segundo Ispón, commander of the Kakataibo Indigenous Guard
Defenders are the world's eyes and ears on the ground. It's thanks to them that we know when ecosystems are being destroyed, where forests are being cleared or rivers polluted.— Toby Hill, lead author of the Global Witness report
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Crime & Justice