The answer can be found inside a black tent in Iran’s Zagros Mountains, where a Qashqai woman sits at a horizontal loom, weaving without a written pattern, a digital template, or a printed design. What guides her hands is memory: a way of translating landscape, season, kinship, and lived survival into thread. The finished rug matters, but the practice of weaving matters more — a form of knowledge, a way of life, a cultural process passed from one generation to the next.
The precise content of that protection lies in the framework of cultural rights. Article 15(1)(a) of the ICESCR recognizes the right of everyone to take part in cultural life, and General Comment No. 21 defines cultural life broadly, encompassing ways of life, language, oral traditions, and customs. What the Court only gestured toward — the rights of Indigenous and traditional communities — thus acquires concrete content: international human rights law protects these rights only by treating culture as a living practice, not a fixed object.

For Iranian nomadic women, especially Qashqai weavers, cultural life runs through the body, oral narrative, seasonal movement, and the ecological conditions that make nomadic life possible. So when forced displacement, sedentarization, drought, or conflict disrupt those conditions, the resulting harm is not merely economic. It is the very violation the Court warned against, without ever mapping out what it looks like.

This concern can be traced precisely in the text of the Advisory Opinion itself. In the section addressing women, children, and Indigenous peoples [382], the Court found these groups may be harmed by the climate crisis in specific, disproportionate ways. In a separate opinion, Judge Hilary Charlesworth extended this intersectionally, stressing States’ duty to address the discriminatory effects of climate measures on vulnerable groups. Yet research from the UN University Centre for Policy Research shows the Opinion offers no complete framework for Indigenous and land-based communities’ rights — a gap that sits precisely where Qashqai women’s lives are shaped.

In practice, this gap means the prevailing legal framework still centers the object rather than the process. If a rug is seen only as a cultural product, the law sees the artefact but not the knowledge system behind it. For Qashqai women, weaving depends on mobility, oral transmission, access to pasture, natural dyes, local materials, and continuous learning across generations. Weaving, seen this way, is not simply a craft; it is a cultural ecology, one with no explicit place in the Court’s opinion or in traditional heritage frameworks.

Moreover, to this climate pressure must be added a threat absent from the Advisory Opinion itself: war. Since strikes resumed across southern Iran in 2026, Fars province — the Qashqai’s historic winter range and market hub — has repeatedly come under attack, including around Shiraz and along the Shiraz–Bandar Abbas corridor nomadic households have long used between pasture and market. Such conflict does not only endanger lives; it severs the physical routes through which cultural knowledge travels. Drought and war differ in origin but converge in effect: both sever migration routes, and with them, what is lost is not only livelihood but a cultural system whose survival depends on movement itself.

One year after the Advisory Opinion, the question the Court left unanswered still stands: can human rights law recognize cultural life when it is mobile, domestic, gendered, and invisible to monument-based frameworks? The Qashqai loom, for this reason, becomes a legal test. If the answer is yes, the way forward is concrete, not aspirational: the CESCR should extend General Comment No. 21 to state explicitly that mobile, intangible practices are protected on the same terms as monuments, and States implementing the Advisory Opinion must consult nomadic and pastoral communities before any adaptation measure touches their land or their routes. Anything less means the law keeps protecting the rug while letting the loom fall silent. The goal is not only to preserve a craft, but to recognize that cultural continuity is itself a human right. For Iran’s nomadic women, that right is woven, every day, into the work of the loom.

As I argue in my recent book, Housing and Human Rights, housing policies that do not centre housing as a human right generally entrench inequality, and when they fail to tackle structural factors, they individualise housing issues inhibiting our ability to see and to resist human rights violations.

Let me illustrate one facet of this process using Australia’s housing crisis as an example. The baby’s death in the Wagga Wagga encampment was reported in the national media, and characterised as a tragedy and a ‘tipping point’ in Australia’s deep housing crisis. But there was no palpable sense of wide or enduring outrage. The baby, and the community’s hardship and grief, were soon forgotten by most. Why? As my book discusses, many governments – the Australian government included – have worked hard to create the landscape of housing law and policy which produced this situation, and ‘sell’ this vision of housing to their citizens.

Homeownership is ‘the Australian Dream’. Successive governments of all political persuasions have supported ownership with significant tax breaks and preferential policies, promoting it on the basis of personal, and indeed intergenerational, financial security and belonging. In doing so, they have created a system of ‘asset-based welfare,’ where the family home (and increasingly an additional home purchased as in investment) is expected to step in and fulfil the role of the state. With asset-based welfare, the state no longer needs to provide social security, rights to adequate pay and working conditions, rights to aged care, or even education: the financial security of one’s home can, it is assumed, be leveraged to deliver these social goods.

But asset-based welfare not only acquits governments of their social rights obligations, it works against the realisation of human rights in general. It makes housing unaffordable as it becomes financialized, encourages unsustainable mortgage debt burdens increasing housing insecurity, and privileges exchange value over use value, violating the heart of the right to housing: as a place to live in dignity, security and peace. At the same time, investment in housing concentrates housing in the hands of the few, leading to more unequal societies, which are the ‘antithesis of human rights’. And, I argue, by privatizing our social goods and rights and expecting them to be fulfilled through individual home ownership, it makes us look away from the social deprivations of others, and accept the violation of their human rights without outrage.

As my book argues, the answer to the global housing crisis cannot lie in commodified and financialized homeownership, in treating housing as a wealth-generating machine, or in ever further ways to financialise people’s living spaces. Instead, it lies in remembering that housing is a human right and that housing justice lies at the heart of a fair society, one in which we are all included.  And it lies in framing our laws, policies, and activism around that heart.

Der Bericht der Sonderberichterstatterin ist bedeutsam, weil er eine Grundannahme des modernen Naturschutzes infrage stellt: dass Natur getrennt von den Menschen geschützt werden könne, die mit ihr leben, für sie Sorge tragen und aus ihr kulturelle, spirituelle und soziale Bedeutung schöpfen. Stattdessen betont der Bericht, dass Menschenrechte, kulturelle Praktiken, Wissenssysteme, Traditionen und Beziehungen zu Orten keine Hindernisse für Naturschutz sind. Sie gehören oft zu seinen stärksten Grundlagen.

Die Gunma Declaration spiegelt denselben Wandel wider. Sie wurde im Januar 2025 nach einem internationalen Symposium in Japan verabschiedet, das vom International Council on Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS) einberufen wurde – dem satzungsgemäßen Beratungsgremium für Kulturerbe der United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation (UNESCO). Die Erklärung führt das Konzept der „heritage ecosystems“ (Erbe-Ökosysteme) ein. Dieses Konzept versteht Erbe nicht als isolierte Stätten oder Objekte, sondern als miteinander verbundene Beziehungen zwischen Völkern, Orten, Wissenssystemen, Kulturen und Umwelten. Besonders bedeutsam ist, dass die Gunma Declaration der erste Rahmen ist, der Indigene Völker und die Erklärung der Vereinten Nationen über die Rechte Indigener Völker (UNDRIP) ausdrücklich in das Verständnis kultureller Authentizität im Welterbesystem einbezieht. Das Welterbesystem der UNESCO ist das internationale System, durch das Staaten unter der Welterbekonvention von 1972 Erbestätten identifizieren, nominieren und verwalten.

In vielerlei Hinsicht ist dies eine historische Entwicklung. Indigene Völker kritisieren seit Langem, dass das Welterbesystem Natur und Kultur voneinander trennt und Indigene Gemeinschaften als Stakeholder behandelt, nicht als selbstbestimmte Rechtsträger. Die Gunma Declaration schlägt eine andere Richtung ein. Sie erkennt Indigene Traditionen, Wissenssysteme und Beziehungen zu angestammten Heimaten als zentrale Bestandteile von Erbe-Governance an. Sie erkennt auch an, dass Erbe nicht statisch ist. Vielmehr ist Erbe ein lebendiges System, das durch fortdauernde Beziehungen zwischen Gemeinschaften und den Umwelten, in denen sie leben, aufrechterhalten wird.

Doch die Entstehung der Gunma Declaration offenbarte zugleich eine unbequemere Realität. Das Problem bestand nicht einfach darin, dass Indigene Völker im wissenschaftlichen Komitee des internationalen Symposiums, das die frühen Entwürfe der Erklärung vorbereitete, nicht vertreten waren. Es bestand darin, dass Indigene Weltanschauungen, Wissenssysteme und Verständnisse der Untrennbarkeit von Gemeinschaften, Natur, Kultur und immateriellem Erbe herangezogen wurden, während Indigene Völker selbst aus dem anfänglichen Beratungsprozess und dem Erklärungstext systematisch ausgeschlossen, zum Schweigen gebracht und unsichtbar gemacht wurden. Einige Teilnehmende des Symposiums argumentierten, dass die ausdrückliche Benennung Indigener Völker Spaltung verursachen würde. In einer Kleingruppendiskussion wurden Indigene Kulturen zudem als „kontaminiert“ bezeichnet und daraus abgeleitet, dass sie keine ausdrückliche Erwähnung verdienten. Tatsächlich wurden Indigene Völker und UNDRIP erst durch beharrliche Intervention in den verabschiedeten Text aufgenommen.

So materialisieren sich Menschenrechtsverletzungen in der Erbe-Governance. Internationale Erbe-Institutionen, die eigentlich mit dem Schutz kultureller Vielfalt betraut sind, können Konzepte vorantreiben, die Indigene Verständnisse von Land, Kultur, Natur, Rechten und relationaler Verantwortung eng widerspiegeln, diese aber zugleich als westliche Innovationen präsentieren – häufig unter Ausschluss Indigener Völker. Die substanzielle Lücke der Gunma Declaration ist daher eine Frage der Autorität: Lang bestehende Indigene Verständnisse wurden „kolumbisiert“ (also als neu entdeckte westliche Ideen dargestellt), um das Konzept der „heritage ecosystems“ zu prägen, während Indigene Völker selbst in den Strukturen marginalisiert blieben, die diese Ideen interpretierten und institutionalisierten.

Die drängende Herausforderung für Naturschutz, Erbe-Governance und Menschenrechte besteht daher nicht einfach darin, wie Indigene Rechte und Autorität einbezogen werden sollen. Die schwierige Realität ist, dass Erbe-Institutionen häufig nicht einmal bereit sind, Indigene Existenz und Wissenssysteme zu den Bedingungen Indigener Völker selbst anzuerkennen.

Obwohl die Gunma Declaration bedeutsam ist, erinnert sie uns zugleich daran, dass tatsächlicher Wandel mehr erfordert als die „Kolumbisierung“ Indigener Konzepte. Es erfordert, dass Indigene Völker von Beginn an sinnvoll einbezogen und als selbstbestimmte Rechtsträger anerkannt werden – mit Autorität über die Kulturen, Orte und Umwelten, die sie erhalten und mittragen.

Hinweis: Dieser Beitrag beruht auf meinem Open-Access-Artikel im International Journal of Cultural Property mit dem Titel „Critical Reflections on the Development of the Gunma Declaration on Heritage Ecosystems: Challenges, Contradictions, and Opportunities for Indigenous Peoples“. Der Artikel wurde von Cambridge University Press im Mai 2026 als #PaperOfTheMonth ausgezeichnet und ist Teil eines Sonderhefts zum Thema „Decolonising Cultural Property: Indigenous Perspectives and Challenges“.

The Special Rapporteur’s 2026 report is significant because it challenges one of the foundational assumptions of modern conservation: that nature can be protected separately from the people who live with, care for, and derive meaning from it. Instead, the report emphasises that human rights, cultural practices, knowledge systems, traditions, and relationships with places are not obstacles to conservation. They are often among its strongest foundations.

The Gunma Declaration reflects this same shift. Adopted in January 2025 following an international symposium convened in Japan by the International Council on Monuments and Sites (ICOMOS) – the statutory advisory body on cultural heritage to the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation (UNESCO) – the declaration introduces the concept of “heritage ecosystems”. This concept understands heritage not as isolated sites or objects, but as interconnected relationships between peoples, places, knowledge systems, cultures, and environments. Significantly, the Gunma Declaration is the first framework to explicitly reference Indigenous Peoples and the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) as part of the World Heritage system’s understanding of cultural authenticity. The UNESCO World Heritage system is the international system through which States identify, nominate, and manage heritage places under the 1972 World Heritage Convention.

In many respects, this represents a historic development. Indigenous Peoples have long criticised the World Heritage system for separating nature from culture and for treating Indigenous communities as stakeholders rather than self-determining rights-holders. The Gunma Declaration moves in a different direction. It recognises Indigenous traditions, knowledge systems, and relationships with ancestral homelands as central components of heritage governance. It also acknowledges that heritage is not static. Rather, it is a living system sustained through ongoing relationships between communities and the environments they inhabit.

Yet the development of the Gunma Declaration also revealed a more uncomfortable reality. The problem was not simply that Indigenous Peoples were absent from the international symposium’s scientific committee that prepared the early drafts of the declaration. It was that Indigenous worldviews, knowledge systems, and understandings of the inseparability of communities, nature, culture, and intangible heritage were being drawn upon, while Indigenous Peoples themselves were systematically excluded, silenced, and erased from the initial deliberation process and declaration text. Some symposium participants argued that explicitly naming Indigenous Peoples would cause division. In one small-group discussion, Indigenous cultures were also described as “contaminated”, and it was argued on that basis that they did not warrant explicit reference. Indeed, Indigenous Peoples and UNDRIP were only included in the adopted text through sustained intervention.

This is how human rights violations in heritage governance materialise. International heritage institutions – tasked with protecting cultural diversity – may advance concepts that closely reflect Indigenous understandings of land, culture, nature, rights, and relational responsibility, yet present them as Western innovations – often excluding Indigenous Peoples. The substantive gap the Gunma Declaration presents is thus one of authority: longstanding Indigenous understandings were “Columbused” (presented as newly discovered Western ideas) to inform the concept of “heritage ecosystems”, while Indigenous Peoples themselves remained marginal to the structures that interpreted and institutionalised those ideas.

The pressing challenge facing conservation, heritage governance, and human rights is not simply how Indigenous rights and authority should be incorporated. The difficult reality is that heritage institutions are often unwilling to even acknowledge Indigenous existence and knowledge systems on Indigenous Peoples’ own terms.

Although the Gunma Declaration is significant, the declaration also reminds us that meaningful change requires more than “Columbusing” Indigenous concepts. It requires Indigenous Peoples to be meaningfully included from the outset and recognised as self-determining rights-holders with authority over the cultures, places, and environments they help sustain.

Note: this post draws on my open-access article in the International Journal of Cultural Property, titled “Critical Reflections on the Development of the Gunma Declaration on Heritage Ecosystems: Challenges, Contradictions, and Opportunities for Indigenous Peoples”. The article was awarded the May 2026 #PaperOfTheMonth by Cambridge University Press and is part of a Special Issue on Decolonising Cultural Property: Indigenous Perspectives and Challenges.

These achievements should not be understated. They mark a turning point in Victoria’s self-perception, its environment, and its obligations to Traditional Owners. The Birrarung Council has become a vehicle for river governance, and the Act’s recognition of the Traditional Owners’ custodianship has inspired dialogue and collaboration between communities and government entities. For the Traditional Owners, having their names, language, and worldview written into law is a hard-won, long-overdue victory.

Yet, symbolic recognition has its limits. Viewed through the lens of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP), the Act falls short of meeting the minimum standards for Indigenous Peoples’ rights under international law. The Traditional Owners hold advisory roles only; their recommendations do not bind government decision-makers on how the river is managed. This limitation underscores a broader issue in Australian law, where Indigenous participation is often framed as cultural consultation rather than meaningful participation in decision-making. Moreover, the Act formally recognises the Wurundjeri Woi-wurrung Peoples, but omits the Bunurong Peoples — despite their long-standing custodianship of the river. And while the Act speaks of custodianship, it does not embed the Traditional Owners’ right to Free, Prior and Informed Consent (FPIC) — an international legal standard under UNDRIP that requires governments to obtain Indigenous Peoples’ agreement before taking any action that affects their lands, waters, and rights.

This gap between symbolic recognition and decision-making authority matters. Australia endorsed UNDRIP in 2009, affirming Indigenous rights to self-determination, co-governance, and meaningful participation. Laws that symbolically celebrate Indigenous culture without redistributing decision-making authority risk reinforcing colonial legacies.

Indeed, the Birrarung’s story is inseparable from Victoria’s colonial history. The river was possessed and renamed by British colonisers, polluted and degraded during Melbourne’s industrial expansion, and governed for generations without the Traditional Owners’ voices. UNDRIP is designed precisely to address such structural exclusions. Its principles — self-determination, FPIC, respect for culture, and equity — provide the minimum global standard that modern laws must meet. However, when advisory roles are the ceiling rather than the floor of post-colonial governance frameworks, there is a risk of repeating old colonial patterns.

The timing also matters. The failure of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Voice Referendum in 2023, and ongoing treaty and truth-telling processes in Victoria, have placed new focus on how recognition is delivered in law. These processes aim to address Australia’s colonial past and explore rights recognition and co-governance for reconciliation. The Act, therefore, speaks to a wider Australian and international challenge: how do we move from recognition to justice in practice?

The Yarra River Protection Act is globally significant. It tells of change, survival, and recognition long denied. But it also shows how easy it is for recognition to stall at the threshold of justice.

Note: This post draws on my March 2025 open-access publication in the Australian Journal of Human Rights, titled “The Yarra River Protection Act: a step towards implementing the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples?”, which has become one of the journal’s “most-read articles of all time”, and was featured by New College (University of Oxford) and the Department of Land Economy (University of Cambridge).

Definition and Challenges Faced by Indigenous Peoples in Voluntary Isolation and Initial Contact

Although the legal status of IPVI and IPIC is not formally defined in international law, the terms are widely understood based on definitions developed by the Expert Mechanism on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (EMRIP) (A/HRC/EMRIP/2009/6 para.7), the Inter-American Commission of Human Rights (IACHR) (OEA/Ser.L/V/II. Doc.47/13 para. A-B) and national legislation mostly produced by South American countries of the Amazonian region.

In the aforementioned report (E/C.19/2025/4 para. 26a-b), IPVI are identified as Indigenous Peoples, or segments thereof, who have never maintained, or no longer maintain, regular contact with the majority population, and who deliberately avoid interaction with outsiders. The same document (para. 11) characterises IPIC as those who have only recently engaged with the majority population, or who, despite prolonged contact, remain unfamiliar with the prevailing norms, institutional structures, and patterns of interaction within the dominant societal framework.

Both groups are generally located in areas that are particularly difficult to access and rich in natural resources, which exposes their territories to heightened risks of external encroachment, exploitative land use, particularly extractive operations. Moreover, illegal mining and deforestation have disastrous effects on their physical survival, exposing them to introduced diseases to which they may have no immunological memory.

UNPFII Recommendations and the Principle of ‘No-contact’ as a Legal Ground for the Right to Self-determination 

At its 24^th session, the Forum recognises that, unlike other Indigenous Peoples groups, the paramount expression of self-determination for IPVI and IPIC is their decision to remain isolated, which is safeguarded by the principle of ‘no contact’.

Given the symbiotic relationship that IPVI and IPIC entertain with their territories and the significant threats posed by the accelerating demand for critical minerals, the recommendations place particular emphasis on ensuring the ‘intangibility and irreducibility’ of their lands and waters (E/C.19/2025/4 para. 33). Member States and governments, in alignment with art.26 and 29 of the UNDRIP, are, thus, called upon to legally designate territories inhabited by IPVI and IPIC as permanent ‘no-go zones’ for extractive activities and safeguard ‘biocultural territorial corridors’ to ensure IPVI and IPIC free mobility, territorial and cultural integrity (para. 33-36).

The UNPFII’s conclusions affirm that the right to self-determination must be understood as the primary ground for protecting IPVI and IPIC, and as the principal framework for interpreting their related rights. However, as argued by Sital Kalantry and Nicholas Koeppen, relying primarily on the right to self-determination poses two main problems in terms of implementation. Firstly, although enshrined with binding force in Article 1 of both the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR) and the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights (ICESCR), the right to self-determination is not listed among the non-derogable rights in Article 4 of the ICCPR, and may therefore be deprioritised when exceptional circumstances arise. Secondly, being traditionally attributed to independent statehood in international law, its application to Indigenous groups has long raised and continues to raise sovereignty concerns due to its territorial implications. Consequently, States may be more reluctant to enforce it.

Moreover, in the case of IPVI and IPIC, the right to self-determination demands a contextual interpretation, which in practice often translates into safeguarding their very survival against external interference. Hence, anchoring protective measures in more immediately actionable rights, such as the non-derogable right to life, which imposes positive obligations on States to act, renders legal implementation more immediate.

[The acronyms IPVI and IPIC refer to Indigenous Peoples in voluntary isolation and initial contact, respectively, and are used solely for reasons of conciseness, without intent to diminish the visibility, identity, or dignity of these groups as recognised in full under international standards and in accordance with their self-identification.]

Genetic resources are a form of biodiversity that comprise valuable plant, animal, or microbial material containing functional units of heredity. They are often utilised by indigenous communities applying know-how, skills or practices embedded in their traditional knowledge systems which may carry cultural, religious or spiritual value. The Convention on Biological Diversity (CBD) 1993 and the Nagoya Protocol 2010 have emphasized the urgency to conserve the environment by regulating access to genetic resources based on principles of prior informed consent and mutually agreed terms with indigenous communities. This extends to prevention of misappropriation through patenting, wherein, a patentee secures the exclusive right to commercially exploit any genetic resources or traditional knowledge through inclusion in its invention, excluding even the community itself. For instance, hard battles have been fought to thwart attempts by corporations and researchers to patent the medicinal properties of turmeric and neem plants used in India and the cosmetic benefits of the Vitamin C-rich Australian Kakadu plum used by indigenous communities. To prevent this, the WIPO Treaty imposes disclosure obligations on patent applicants intended to perform a watchdog function against potential misappropriation. However, the obligations imposed are weak.

First, the only information that applicants are required to disclose are the ‘country of origin’ of any genetic resources used, and where traditional knowledge is involved, the name of the indigenous community. This requirement is further diluted by the option available to applicants to declare such information as not known, leaving scope for circumvention of the rule through either outright omission or, as explained by Prof Peter Yu, creative drafting and interpretation.

Second, the information sought is arguably so unspecific that it may prove challenging to trace it back to the actual exchange between the applicant and the community, making it difficult to evaluate whether it took place through unfair terms. As traditional knowledge is often used and passed down orally and is far removed from formal systems of documenting knowledge like scientific journals, experimentation data, etc, it is difficult to investigate such interactions without specific details.

Third, despite having originated from CBD and Nagoya Protocol’s vision, the treaty does not require any form of evidence of consensual acquisition, or of any compensation paid to the communities. While the earliest draft of the treaty proposed by the Colombian delegation sought an entire copy of the agreement between the applicant and the community contributing the knowledge, the WIPO treaty entirely omits this.

Fourth, the WIPO Treaty further bars countries from invalidating patents as a sanction for non-disclosure except when fraudulent intentions can be proven, thereby removing any actual threat against misappropriation. Fraudulent intent is undefined, and unlikely to be easily proven, as the treaty disallows countries from requiring patent offices to undertake diligence exercises to verify disclosures. Lack of scientific, financial and legal resources available to indigenous communities may also make it challenging to pursue claims. Countries like India and New Zealand which already allow for patent invalidation in such cases remain outside the scope of the treaty.

The present form of the treaty denies indigenous people fair rewards for their innovative efforts, in favour of preserving status-quo in the billion-dollar profit-making patent system. This compromises their rights over their intellectual property, acknowledged in the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples.

While the non-invalidation clause seriously limits the options available, signatories may choose to adopt disclosure obligations beyond the minimum floor set by the treaty. They may ask for details of compliance with Nagoya Protocol’s access and benefit sharing rules; hire external experts at the patent office to carry out disclosure diligence; and educate and sensitize indigenous communities to protect their traditional knowledge and register intellectual property rights over them if suitable. However, the treaty’s endorsement of lower thresholds, alongside the pressure from industrial lobbies makes this challenging.

India has a history of conducting decennial censuses since 1881. Post-independence, however, this exercise was ceased, as caste was considered to be a divisive factor. However, with the rise of participation by Other Backward Classes—the largest caste-based grouping of India, around 52 percent of the total population— in the democratic process, this demand has gained momentum. Recently, the Karnataka and the Bihar governments conducted state-wide caste surveys. Census enumeration has provided critical insights to formulate targeted policies for the marginalised groups in the fields of health, gender, education, employment, and housing. Therefore, the proponents of caste census argue that the upcoming census will provide empirical grounding to assess the socio-economic situation of various marginalised caste groups, while also mapping the power and privileges of upper caste groups, with caste as a category being enumerated for every caste group, challenging the castelessness of upper castes— who have most benefited from the state and market-oriented policies. This will also show how deeply unequal Indian society is and highlight the large economic divide across castes. A clearer picture of gross socio-economic stratification along caste lines will allow for targeted welfare interventions, and help recalibrate affirmative action policies, in particular, reservations in education and public service.

First, it will help with sub-categorisation within the OBC category. In recent decades, with the growing politicisation of the Most Backward Caste (MBC) in the OBCs, there was growing concern that few affluent sections of OBCs have been able to take advantage of the reservation system, while smaller and more marginalised groups remain underrepresented within the institutional framework. Consequently, there was a demand for sub-categorisation within the OBC category, which although existed in several states, was absent at the central level. In 2017, the central government constituted the Rohini Commission to ensure a more equitable distribution of reservation benefits among the OBCs. The caste census can provide meticulously collected empirical data to evaluate the representational gaps that exist within sub-caste groups.

Second, it will similarly help with sub-classification within SC and ST categories, so as to allow affirmative action to be targeted to the most marginalised communities within these groups. The Supreme Court’s 2024 judgment finally permitted this, holding that states are constitutionally empowered to make sub-classifications to the uplift castes that are socially and educationally more backwards and inadequately represented in government jobs and education. In this context, the caste census will become indispensable to identify intra-group socio-economic inequalities, enabling constitution of such sub-categories.

Third, it will help arbitrate the many claims and counterclaims of backwardness by communities that demand recognition within these scheduled categories and thereby access to caste-based affirmative action measures. The caste census will provide the data to investigate questions of relative backwardness, helping arbitrate such quota claims. For instance, many dominant communities like the Marathas, Kappu, Jats and Patels, etc., are demanding reservations in response to increasing material deprivation. Nomadic and De-notified communities within OBCss are demanding separate schedules to protect their interest. Dalit-Christians and Dalit-Muslims are demanding SC status to be expanded beyond the Hindu community. The census data on the extent of backwardness and marginalisation of different groups will not only help assess some of these claims, but also further demands to reassess the 50 per cent cap on reservations, and reassess the economic criterion used for exclusion of the ‘creamy layer’ from affirmative action benefits.

Fourth, with the shrinking of public sector employment, caste census data might also reveal the dominance of upper castes in the private sector, thereby giving momentum to demands for reservations in private universities and private sector jobs, which occupy more than 90 per cent of the job sector; something opposition parties have been discussing recently.

Caste is fundamental to understanding the social structure of a stratified Indian society. Therefore, a caste census becomes a crucial policy tool for designing targeted and effective affirmative action and welfare policies to ensure equitable access to quality education, healthcare, and dignified employment. But data on its own will not guarantee good laws without political will, making sustained efforts of opposition parties and civil society crucial even after the census.

La High Court of Australia sostuvo por mayoría que para efectos del segundo elemento de la sección 223(1), “cuando las leyes y costumbres [tradicionales nativas] relevantes establezcan que la ‘conexión’ para los fines de la sección 223(1)(b) de la NTA puede probarse por medios distintos a los actos físicos de reconocimiento… no serán necesarios los actos físicos para probar dicha ‘conexión’ [para reclamar derechos de native title]”. La Corte aclaró que la sección 223(1)(b) solamente requiere que exista una “conexión”; es decir, una conexión “espiritual” puede ser plenamente suficiente.

Esta sentencia marca un hito importante en el desarrollo jurisprudencial de la sección 223(1) estableciendo un precedente por parte de la mayoría de los jueces de la High Court of Australia, cuyas decisiones pasadas —que sostenían que la conexión espiritual no era suficiente a los fines de la sección 223(1)(b)— eran, con el debido respeto, inconsistentes con la UNDRIP. Justice Callinan en Ward (2002) párrafo [650] había dictaminado que “… el common law solo podía proteger los derechos de native title … que involucraran ‘la presencia física en la tierra’… mas no podía proteger otros aspectos de la conexión espiritual…”.

[El pueblo Arabana, también conocido como Ngurabanna, es un grupo Aboriginal australiano asociado del extremo norte de South Australia. Ellos presentaron un reclamo por native title en el sentido de la sección 223(1) de la NTA sobre un área de tierra en las cercanías del pueblo de Oodnadatta en South Australia (“el Área Común”).]

La Historia Del Reconocimiento De Los Derechos De ‘Native Title’

Como sostuvo Justice Jagot en Stuart v South Australia párrafo [159]: ‘el reconocimiento de los derechos e intereses de native title en el common law (desde la decisión en Mabo v Queensland [No 2]) y posteriormente bajo la NTA está arraigado específicamente a la historia de la colonización y el asentamiento británico en Australia. Durante los siglos XVIII y XIX, los británicos (así como otros europeos) llegaron a ‘las colonias’, incluyendo Australia.” Como observó Justice Brennan en Mabo [No 2] párrafo [35] “[los] colonos ingleses tenían ante el common law el derecho a vivir bajo el common law de Inglaterra … en tanto que ‘derecho de nacimiento’”. La decisión de la High Court of Australia en Mabo [No 2] revocó la doctrina del common law de la terra nullius (tierra no perteneciente a nadie) en parte para detener la perpetuación de la injusticia, asegurar la igualdad de todos los australianos ante la ley y traer la ley en línea con la historia australiana. Esta sentencia histórica reconoció que los pueblos Indígenas tenían sistemas legales complejos antes de la colonización y disfrutaban de sus derechos a la tierra de conformidad con sus propias leyes y costumbres tradicionales. De este modo la NTA fue promulgada para codificar los principios establecidos en Mabo [No 2].

La “Prueba De Conexión” Y El Cumplimiento De La UNDRIP

En 2009 Australia ratificó la UNDRIP cuyas Artículos 25, 26 y 27 reconocen y protegen los derechos de los pueblos Indígenas a la tierra y el territorio. De allí que es esencial que la conexión con el territorio sea reconocida conforme a sus propias leyes y costumbres toda vez que el concepto de propiedad individual no indígena no siempre refleje esta relación. Para muchos grupos Indígenas —en tanto que comunidades, grupos lingüísticos o naciones— la conexión con el territorio es colectiva, no individual extendiéndose más allá de los lazos físicos o económicos para incluir la conexión espiritual. El abogado del grupo, Mr Kenny, dijo que “[esta sentencia] reconoce y refuerza la conexión espiritual como un elemento esencial para el reclamo de native title el cual los Arabana pueden probar.” Mr Stuart afirmó que “… el pueblo no se ha extinguido … hemos estado aquí siempre, seguimos aquí y estaremos aquí para siempre. Las fronteras de los estados y territorios pueden cambiar, pero la tierra Arabana siempre es tierra Arabana, así como todas las demás tribus en Australia.”

[Expreso mi más sincero agradecimiento al Dr. Eliezer Sanchez-Lasaballett por su amable asistencia con la traducción al español de esta entrada del blog.]

By majority, the Court held that for purposes of the second limb of s 223(1), ‘where the relevant [native traditional] laws and customs demonstrate that “connection” for the purposes of s 223(1)(b) of the NTA may be established other than by physical acts of acknowledgment … physical acts may not be necessary to demonstrate such “connection” [to claim native title rights]’. The Court clarified that all s 223(1)(b) requires is that there is a “connection”; a “spiritual” connection may be sufficient without qualification. This judgment marks a pivotal development in the s 223(1) jurisprudence by setting a precedent supported by a majority of the HCA judges, as certain earlier decisions—holding that spiritual connection is insufficient for the purposes of s 223(1)(b)—are, respectfully, inconsistent with the UNDRIP: Callinan J in Ward (2002) at [650] ruled that ‘… the common law could only protect native title rights…that involved “physical presence on the land”… it could not protect other aspects of the spiritual connexion…”.

[The Arabana people, also known as the Ngurabanna, are an Aboriginal Australian group associated with the far north of South Australia. They submitted a claim that they held native title within the meaning of s 223(1) of NTA over an area of land in the vicinity of the township of Oodnadatta in South Australia (“the Overlap Area”).]

The History of Recognition of Native Title Rights

As Jagot J elucidated in Stuart v South Australia at [159], ‘the recognition of native title rights and interests at common law (from the decision in Mabo v Queensland [No 2]) and subsequently under the NTA is rooted in the specific history of British colonisation and settlement of Australia. Over the 18^th and 19^th centuries, British people (and people from other parts of Europe) made their way to “the colonies” including Australia.’ As Brennan J observed in Mabo [No 2] at 35, ‘[the] English colonists were, in the eyes of the common law, entitled to live under the common law of England … as their “birthright”’. The HCA’s decision in Mabo [No 2] overturned the earlier common law doctrine of terra nullius (land belonging to no one), in part to cease the perpetuation of injustice, ensure the equality of all Australians before the law, and to align the law with Australian history. The landmark judgment acknowledged that Indigenous people had complex legal systems prior to colonisation and enjoyed land rights in accordance with their own traditional laws and customs. The NTA was enacted to codify the principles outlined in Mabo [No 2].

The “Connection Inquiry” And UNDRIP Compliance

Australia endorsed the UNDRIP in 2009, and its Articles 25, 26, and 27 recognise and protect Indigenous peoples’ rights to land and country. It is essential that their connection to country is acknowledged according to their own laws and customs, as the non-Indigenous concept of individual property ownership does not always reflect this relationship. For many Indigenous groups—such as communities, language groups, or nations—connection to country is collective, not individual, and extends beyond physical or economic ties to include a spiritual connection. The group’s lawyer, Mr Kenny, said that ‘[this judgment] recognises and re-enforces spiritual connection as an element in a native title claim, which the Arabana can show.’. Mr Stuart said that ‘… there wasn’t no extinction of people … we were always there, we are there and we’ll always be here. Boundaries might change with the states and territories, Arabana land is always Arabana land, as with every other tribe in Australia.’.