In the heart of Ecuador, resource extraction and the determination of the indigenous guard and the peoples defending the forest as a common good for all of humanity exist side by side.
Nueva Loja does not smell of forest. The air is saturated with a sharp, acrid odour that leaves no room to breathe and follows you with every step. It is the smell of oil — the very black gold that has forever changed the fate of Ecuador, where we find ourselves, and that today continues to devour the Amazon and its peoples.
It is no coincidence that this city, capital of the province of Sucumbíos located at the gateway to the northern Amazon region, is known by another name: lago Agrio, acid lake. This is no poetic place name, but a reminder of the first well drilled by Texaco in 1967. From that point on, the land was treated as a bottomless mine. Chevron, the American oil multinational, and Petroecuador, Ecuador's state oil company, continued down that road, leaving deep scars in the forest and in the lives of those who inhabit it.
Walking along the roads that border the extraction sites, or venturing among the ancient trees of the Amazon rainforest, it is impossible not to notice the large flare stacks, burning the gas released by crude oil processing and extraction plants. Rather than being recovered, the gases are burned into the atmosphere — a practice known as gas flaring — one of the most harmful in the fossil fuel sector and among the leading contributors to the emission of powerful greenhouse gases.
The tall, constant flames burn day and night, like silent beacons signalling the presence of industry in the heart of the forest. Their glow tints the sky orange even as darkness falls, and the crackling of burning gas accompanies the noise of generators and machinery.
The atmosphere is suspended between the natural and the artificial: vegetation coexists with columns of smoke, the smell of oil mingles with the damp scent of the earth. For those unaccustomed to it, the scene can seem surreal, dystopian — but for those who live here, it is everyday life.
The inhabitants of the surrounding communities speak of how difficult it is to live alongside those flames so close by. The flares are often just a few dozen metres from people's homes, and the heat, the light and the smoke make life almost unbearable. "We can't sleep at night," explains one resident. "The glare of the fire burning is maddening, and our throats and eyes are constantly burning."
Locals call them mecheros de la muerte — torches of death. In the Ecuadorian Amazon, there are still nearly 500 of them, burning the waste gases from oil extraction day and night. They not only consume the air, but bring disease: the tenth oncological report for the provinces of Sucumbíos and Orellana records a worrying rise in cancer cases, with 74 per cent of those affected being women in 2024.
And yet, while the data tells a story of slow, relentless tragedy, the bodies and voices of the communities remind us what it means to resist.
This is home to the Siona, the Cofán, the Shuar, the Siekopai, the Achuar and the Kichwa: peoples who have stewarded this territory in balance with the forest. For them, the land is not a resource to be consumed, but a living being to coexist with. It is the vision the Quechua call Sumak kawsay — "living well" — in harmony with what surrounds us. A worldview that grates against the metallic sounds of drills and the toxic waste floating on the rivers.
Every oil spill is a fresh wound. One of the most recent occurred on 4 August 2025, when crude oil from well 16 at the Cuyabeno station, in block 58 operated by Petroecuador, began flowing along two kilometres of river. Fish, birds, insects: an entire chain of life swept away within hours. Communities denounced the absence of containment barriers, immediate response and any form of accountability. "The oil keeps moving downstream," they recount, "and will soon reach the great Cuyabeno lagoon." It is not the first time. In 2024, there were three spills. In 2006, one of the worst contaminations in the area left scars still visible in the water today.
Despite everything, there are those who refuse to give up. In recent years, the figure of the Guardia indígena has spread and grown stronger across Ecuador: women and men who, following a programme of cultural, legal and spiritual training, choose to defend their territories with the strength of community. They carry no weapons — only memory, knowledge, dignity.
Their presence sends a message: the Amazon is not a no-man's-land, and those who inhabit it are not prepared to disappear into silence. The Guardia indígena is made up of young people and elders, women and men who take on the role of guardians: they watch over villages, monitor territorial boundaries, accompany community assemblies and intervene in moments of conflict. They are not militias, but guardians of life. Their strength lies in their bond with the land, their knowledge of the forest, and the authority that flows from collective consent.
At the "First National Meeting of the Guardia indígena Lasterio Lucitante", held in 2024, one of the Guards recounted: "The role of the guards has often been distorted and delegitimised, unjustly associated with terrorism or drug trafficking. This narrative feeds serious risks and reveals the structural racism of the State, alongside the fear felt by institutions rooted in a colonial mindset."
Their task goes beyond physical defence: it is also a symbolic and cultural act of resistance. The Confederación de Nacionalidades Indígenas del Ecuador (Conaie) defines the Guardia indígena as a millennia-old, collective and civilian strategy of resistance to defend life against threats to their territories.
Their strength lies in spirituality and in their community mandate. "The staff, the spear and the atzial represent our authority, they symbolise our work and identify who we are," says one of the community leaders. Accompanied by ancestral songs and rituals, they affirm that the forest is not merely a collection of resources to be exploited, but a living being that gives and demands respect.
The birth of the Guardia Indígena responds to an urgent necessity: the growing violence linked to mining extraction, drug trafficking and illegal deforestation. Where the State is absent, corrupt or complicit, these communities self-organise to guarantee security and justice according to their own normative systems. For this reason, their very existence is also a political act — a declaration of autonomy and self-determination.
The 2023 referendum, which called for a halt to drilling in the Yasuní National Park and in the Chocó Andino, had kindled a sense of hope. The Ecuadorian population had chosen life, biodiversity, the future. But the government slowed down, seeking extensions, merging the Ministry of the Environment with the Ministry of Energy in order to attract foreign investment. A gesture that carries the flavour of betrayal.
At the heart of the struggle, alongside the Guardia Indígena, are the communities and local populations who, with determination, organise and train themselves to activate new forms of local resistance. Protests, strikes, legal actions against the State, awareness campaigns and denunciations to protect their ancestral territories. To this day, places and people — guardians for centuries of traditions, cultures and knowledge — are threatened by a development model that, in the name of progress, plunders natural resources, pollutes rivers and air, deforests mountains and undermines ecological balance.
Care also emerges as a central element, extending beyond the healing of physical wounds and scars to encompass spiritual ones too — those caused by the contempt and oppression of indigenous and local cultures. Care as a defence of territory, and care for the elements and symbols that identify and represent the ancestral, cultural, spiritual and cosmogonic memory of native peoples.
What future lies ahead for this process of collective healing? Will it succeed in protecting a wounded territory?
The contrast between extractivism and care is today the crux of this reality: on one side, the boundless exploitation of resources; on the other, the determination of peoples who, despite their wounds, defend the forest as a common good for all of humanity.
In Nueva Loja, meanwhile, the forest continues to breathe with difficulty. Ancient trees coexist with oil wells; sacred rivers run with oily reflections. Every step tells the story of the tension between destruction and resistance. And it is perhaps here that Ecuador's future is being decided: between the roar of the mecheros and the songs of indigenous communities, between the darkness of oil and the light of those who defend the forest.