Laurensia Yame is a mother of seven in her 50s who, with her Indigenous community, the Awyu, lives deep in the forests of South Papua Province, Indonesia. In late 2020, she heard from women traders that workers were surveying the community's forest for a company's commercial use, including Wagaban hamlet, where she farms. The company was planning to build a log pond, a body of water where it would store, clean, and move timber logs cut from the forest before milling.
Laurensia knew that men in her village had already signed away their rights as an Indigenous community to the land, allowing the company to move forward with its plans. Even though she had equal rights to the land, no one had asked for her views. She was a woman, and company representatives and male villagers largely disregarded women. But she vehemently opposed giving up her community's land and the hamlet she inherited from her father.
Furious, she went to Wagaban hamlet to try to stop the surveying team. But it was too late. She found the men resting under the trees, some sitting, some sleeping. They had already chopped some trees down.
Using her machete, she slashed the bushes near the men and shouted, "Leave! Do not return! No one is allowed to survey here again!" They left as she yelled, "Wagaban is protected by me, Laurensia! No company is allowed here!"
Wagaban is a hamlet, or dispersed settlement, in an old village built by Dutch colonizers. Under Dutch colonial rule, families lived in hamlets along the banks of the Digul River, in what is now called South Papua Province. The Dutch introduced rubber trees in the region in the 1860s.
Laurensia's grandparents planted rubber trees in Wagaban hamlet, and though Laurensia no longer taps the trees for sap, they are still standing. They are assets belonging to her family. She also built a hut, farms, and forages there.
Oil palm plantations
Indonesia is the top producer of palm oil in the world, and Indonesian Papua – the western half of the island of New Guinea (the second largest island in the world) – is its final frontier for agriculture-driven deforestation. Rather than preserve the old, undisturbed trees, the Indonesian government authorized companies to clear millions of hectares of primary forests, primarily for oil palm, rice, and sugar cane plantations. In 2010, the regent, a county-level administrator or bupati, of Boven Digoel Regency, launched the Tanah Merah Project, a mega oil palm plantation project that spans more than 270,352 hectares, about the size of Luxembourg, most of it primary forest.
Ultimately, in 2017, the government assigned 36,206 hectares to the Malaysia-based company PT Indo Asiana Lestari. This vast stretch of forest, lying between the Digul and Mappi Rivers in Southern Papua, cuts across the territories of four villages – Ampera, Makmur, Navini, and Yare – that are home to multiple clans of the Awyu.
Human Rights Watch has monitored the situation in the area since 2021, and in 2024 we visited Ampera and other affected villages, interviewing several dozen community members, to understand how they were grappling with the possibility of losing their land.
Ampera village sits on the Digul River's western bank, about 40 minutes away by speedboat from the regency's capital, Tanah Merah. PT Indo Asiana Lestari started its operations here, clearing a chunk of forest to build a sawmill and the log pond that ignited Laurensia's fury.
The Awyu in Boven Digoel grow their own food, frequently fish from the Digul River, and hunt, forage, and farm in the forest. The company's activities will displace the Awyu, harming the community's resources, culture, and their lives.
The indigenous right to decide
PT Indo Asiana Lestari was required by Indonesian law to seek the consent of the Indigenous inhabitants before the government would grant the permits needed to clear the forest and to establish a plantation.
But the ill-defined "consultation to seek consent" – or "socialization" (socialisasi in Indonesian) – means different things to different people. And Human Rights Watch's research found that PT Indo Asiana Lestari's way was misleading at best and abusive at worst: the company did not provide sufficient information prior to meeting with community members, carried out meetings with security forces present, and put attendees on the spot to sign on to their plantation, which was especially bad for women who weren't even part of the so-called consultation.
Instead, despite being half the community's population and having equal land rights to men under national law, women's voices were repeatedly ignored, including by members of the Awyu community.
"My brother decided alone to work with the company and allow them into our village lands," Laurensia said. "He never discussed it with me. Instead, he worked with my father's nephew, the only boy. But my uncle's children don't have land there."
"That land is my father's land," Laurensia emphasized. "It belongs to me."
'Socialization'
To acquire land and establish a plantation, companies are required by Indonesian law to obtain certain permits from relevant local government authorities and conduct environment and social impact assessments. These assessments involve holding consultations with local communities expected to be impacted. During the process, companies are required to give information about the proposed business to people living on the land.
Without the community's approval, companies should be denied government authorization.
The adoption of the 2020 Jobs Creation Law, commonly referred to as the "Omnibus Law," made it easier for companies by accelerating the authorization processes for businesses, weakening environmental standards, and curtailing communities' involvement and government oversight.
But even though affected community members can say no during the process, not all no's matter. When it comes to getting permission to clear the land, companies have sought permission only from men – and sometimes only a few men. But community members say that clan land is allocated among clan members, and all members own their section of the clan land. A few men shouldn't be able to give away the whole clan land, their tanah ulayat.
Traditionally, Indigenous men and women make decisions about community land. Both use the land. Both inherit from their parents. And usually, if a woman marries outside her clan, she can use the customary territories belonging to her husband's clan and her parents' clan to sustain their family's livelihood. This is especially the case if the woman inherited land from her parents or grandparents.
Everyone in each clan feels connected to the forest, which is tied to their identity and culture, and the community's tradition respects this.
But when it came time to make a decision about the Awyu's land, women were sidelined. Around 2017, the company organized a community meeting and only invited men. During the meeting, the men were asked to sign a document releasing their respective clans' lands to the company.
Despite not being invited, women heard about the meeting and some went, if only to observe. Some of the women who attended said they were shocked when their family members – all men – simply signed away their land.
Rikarda Maa – a 36-year-old teacher, mother of three, and Maa clan member – attended the only "socialization" meeting held in Ampera village. Rikarda recalled some discussion, but also an argument, after which several men – including her uncle and a male cousin – signed documents provided by the company. Neither the company nor village representatives read the document aloud to the meeting participants, so women who went to observe, like Rikarda, didn't know what exactly their male relatives signed away.
Political reality
Problematic "socialization" isn't the only challenge to safeguarding Indigenous peoples' land rights. There's also their fear of violence by Indonesia's security forces.
Since forcibly taking over and effectively annexing West Papua in 1962, which a deeply flawed United Nations-supervised process subsequently endorsed, Indonesia has been engaged in a conflict with armed separatists who seek Papuan independence. Indigenous Papuans have long experienced racial discrimination from Indonesia's government. Indonesia's security forces have committed numerous abuses, including arbitrary arrests, torture, extrajudicial killings, and forced displacement of Papuans who have peacefully called for independence or other forms of self-determination. The small Papuan insurgency has mainly attacked Indonesian security forces, but has also at times targeted Indonesian settlers to West Papua, and foreign workers and corporations.
Some corporate investors, such as oil palm plantation owners, have worked with Indonesia's military or police for protection and to secure their investment.
It was unsurprising, therefore, that during the 2017 meeting between the company representatives and the affected Awyu community members, officers of the Civil Service Police Unit (Satpol PP) of Boven Digoel Regency and officers from the Mandobo Sector were present.
Community members said that the presence of security forces at the meeting intimidated them into agreeing with company demands to sign then and there.
They also understood that any conflict or violence between community members and a company means an increased military and police presence in the area – something community members fear because of the history of abuses between security forces and Papuans.
Often empty promises
Companies and local authorities have fueled division within communities by framing land acquisition for oil palm expansion as "development," portraying resistors as opponents of economic growth. They tell communities that establishing commercial agriculture in their area will provide employment, some roads, a school, and pipe-borne potable water, among other things.
But research has shown that local communities and Indigenous people who give up their rights to their land can become casual or seasonal laborers with low wages, job insecurity, and limited or no access to benefits.
Laurensia previously worked at an oil palm plantation and experienced significant pay delays. And when payday finally arrived, the cost of food from the company's co-operative store and other costs had been deducted, leaving her hardly any earnings.
By law, affected communities are entitled to benefit from the transfer of their land to a company. A 2007 Minister of Agriculture Regulation requires oil palm plantation companies to establish a plantation for the affected communities – called a "plasma scheme" – on 20 percent of the total land acquired, thereby sharing one-fifth of the land's benefits.
But that's not how it typically plays out in practice. An investigation by the Gecko Foundation, BBC News, and Mongabay found that villagers lost millions of dollars annually because plantation companies have not complied with the law.
In general, the life of a plantation worker is a different, and in important respects, more difficult life than their traditional one. These communities have long had access to rich resources within their forests, rivers, and land. Laurensia explained, "In the village, if we cast our nets for one day, depending on the catch, we could earn [good money] by evening." When they planted and harvested crops, there'd typically be enough to eat plus a surplus to sell in the market. "It wouldn't be the same in a plantation," she said.
Women and the forest
Laurensia's mother, Imelda Maa, is in her 70s. Like many women who married outside their clan, she can use both the Maa land as well as the land of her husband, who took his grandmother's clan name "Yame" and uses Yame land.
"I usually cut sago, fish, and collect vegetables in my hamlet," she said. "Now the company wants to come in, but I don't agree. They've already tried to push their way in, but I told them no. I don't accept it."
Some women referred to the forest as their "supermarket," where they go and get what they need to take care of their children and families by foraging and hunting. Natural remedies are available there too. Working as subsistence farmers, the women plant crops there, taking any extra produce to the market to sell and getting money to buy what they don't make, like soap.
Clothing and objects made from forest materials help women specifically preserve their Awyu culture. Women harvest tree bark and leaves to make traditional clothing that they wear for cultural events and when taking part in protests. And women use the bark of the melinjo tree to make noken (enok in the Wambon language), a typical Papuan knotted bag. While making noken is generally a subsistence job, each noken can be sold for at least 350,000 rupiah (about US$21). This handcrafting preserves the traditional knowledge that belongs to women.
Traditional accessories made from natural materials such as fruits, seeds, shells, and bark foraged from the surrounding forest are commonly used by local residents during cultural events, in Ampera village, Mandobo district, Boven Digoel Regency.
Traditional accessories made from natural materials such as fruits, seeds, shells, and bark foraged from the surrounding forest are commonly used by local residents during cultural events, in Ampera village, Mandobo district, Boven Digoel Regency.
The forest is more than just a source of food, money, and culture – it's also a source of mental wellness. Indigenous Awyu women consider the forest to be safe, a protective space where they can exercise self-care and keep away from "unpleasant possibilities," such as Covid-19. One woman used the forest to grieve when her husband died, choosing to live in the forest where she felt supported in her grief by being in nature.
The women know that an oil palm plantation cannot provide for them in this way.
Imelda Maa wants to preserve the land for her children and grandchildren.
Going to court
Members of the Awyu community have fought to get their land back from PT Indo Asiana Lestari.
The Boven Digoel Regency Indigenous Community Institution (Lembaga Masyarakat Adat, or LMA) – which serves as a bridge between the Indigenous community, the government, and the general public – could have, and should have, mediated inclusive community discussions with the company. The LMA is supposed to play a vital leadership role in mediating conflict and help resolve land ownership disputes. It's also supposed to gather and verify information on land status to support communities when companies are seeking to acquire tanah adat, or Indigenous land, and in issuing land release certificates, which show that an Indigenous community has relinquished its ulayat or customary rights to a specific piece of land to a company.
This time, however, the LMA issued a letter of support and a land release certificate to the company based only on the signed documents from the 2017 meeting. Then, the government approved the environmental impact assessment – which, again, involved inadequate consultation – permitting the company to clear the land. In 2021, the Capital Investment and Integrated Service Agency – a one-stop shop that handles business registration, licensing, and investment promotion efforts by the regency – issued an environmental permit and a Plantation Business License to the company.
The head of the agency in Boven Digoel Regency told Human Rights Watch that "it is difficult to ensure all community members with rights over the area are accommodated in any decision that would relinquish their customary rights."
The agency head's statement did not take into account that such decisions must be made by consensus according to the Awyu customs. His statement also misrepresents Indonesian law and government obligations under international human rights standards – particularly to uphold the right of Indigenous peoples to effective participation, specifically free, prior, and informed consent, or FPIC, which is linked with the right to self-determination.
The Indigenous communities, with support from Greenpeace and PUSAKA, a nongovernmental organization that fights for a just life for Indigenous peoples, took their case to court. In March 2023, the Woro clan's chairman, backed by villagers like Laurensia and Rikarda, filed a lawsuit in the Jayapura State Administrative Court against the South Papua provincial government and PT Indo Asiana Lestari, challenging the government's environmental permit allowing the company to clear forest on their ancestral land.
They did this at great personal risk. Rikarda received a death threat from a man from another clan for trying to block the company.
The court ruled for the government and company. The court's decision focused narrowly on the strict interpretation of time limits for challenging permits and did not examine the flawed environmental impact assessment or the lack of genuine community participation. The court also did not address that the letter of support from the LMA used by the government to justify the permit was contested by the Indigenous community.
Community members appealed the administrative court's decision in 2024, but their appeal was rejected for procedural reasons – the lawsuit had been lodged after the case filing deadline. The Supreme Court also dismissed the case, citing the missed deadline. However, one Supreme Court judge issued a dissent that addressed the core issues, concluding that, given the environmental impact assessment's flaws, the government's issuance of an environmental permit to the company violated key principles of Indonesia's Environment Law and should be revoked.
The solution
Indigenous people in Indonesian Papua need their land to eat, survive, and preserve their culture. Their fight against companies and a pro-company government exists at the intersection of development, Indigenous land rights, and climate change mitigation. These communities aren't saying plantations shouldn't exist, they're expressing their concern about their ability to live sustainably into the future. They fear that a plantation in their area will result in permanent land dispossession, increase deforestation, and severely harm biodiversity and climate change mitigation.
It is not evident that Indonesia needs to clear more forest for oil palm plantations. There are thousands of hectares of fallow land and degraded forest across the archipelago that could be repurposed for agriculture. Regencies could survey and appoint these areas for economic activities rather than clearing environmentally and socially valuable tropical forest.
Additionally, the Indonesian government should recognize that emerging trade rules discourage new deforestation. As of 2026, the European Union is expected to enforce its Regulation on Deforestation-Free Products, which will prohibit placing palm oil on the single market if it originates from land deforested after 2020 or if the plantation violated Indigenous peoples' right to decide over their territories.
Increased deforestation could also diminish Indonesia's chances of securing climate funding through, for example, the Tropical Forest Forever Fund, which will financially reward countries that protect their tropical forests.
All Indigenous communities need the formalization of a more transparent, inclusive, and accountable decision-making and consultation process that genuinely upholds Indigenous peoples' individual and collective land rights.
To ensure human rights are respected and protected, Indonesia's Ministry of Environment and Forestry should conduct a review of the Tanah Merah Project, including PT Indo Asiana Lestari's permits, and consult with Indigenous peoples – including women – in a way that respects their right to free, prior, and informed consent. Provincial authorities should not issue decisions or permits that impact areas managed by Indigenous women without the women's informed consent.
Despite their losses in the courts, the Awyu continue to campaign for their community's rights to preserve the forest.
Rikarda, for one, says she can't give up. "Our hamlet is just one area. A single stretch. Just like this small patch here. The river runs through the middle. This is all we have. If it's sold, where are we supposed to go?"Acknowledgments
- Written by Juliana Nnoko, women's rights senior researcher. Edited by a senior program editor, and Amy Braunschweiger, former communications associate director. James Ross, legal and policy director, and Joseph Saunders, deputy program director, provided legal and programmatic review, respectively.
- Reviewed by Macarena Saez, women's rights executive director; Andreas Harsono, Asia senior researcher; Luciana Tellez Chavez, environment senior researcher; and Jim Wormington, economic justice and rights senior researcher.
- Editorial and production assistance was provided by Maggie Svoboda, photo editor; Laura Navarro Soler, information designer; Christina Rutherford, web development; Travis Carr, digital publications manager; and Subhajit Saha, women's rights senior coordinator.
We gratefully acknowledge the individuals and families who shared their stories or provided us with valuable guidance and insight.