The spear in Domingo Antun’s hand catches the late afternoon sun as he greets us at the entrance to Maikuaints territory. The wooden shaft, carved from native palm, stretches seven feet in the air. “Do not be afraid,” he says in Spanish, his other hand extended in welcome. “You will be protected here.”

In early February, Ecuador finalized a new trade deal with Canada. The country’s conservative president says this deal will promote local job growth, and hold both countries to the highest of labour and environmental standards. But here, deep in the Amazon, we are bearing witness to a different side of Canada’s engagement with Ecuador — a Canadian-owned copper mining project that local Indigenous communities see as an existential threat to their way of life.

The journey to this remote Shuar community feels like traveling backward through time. Just seven years ago, there was no road here at all – only a gruelling two-day trek from the nearest river crossing through dense Amazonian jungle. Now, the dirt track carved by a mining company leads us into the heart of a looming conflict between two worlds: the ancestral ways of the Shuar and the relentless march of industrial development.
 

Here, in this pocket of Ecuadorian Amazon, approximately 235 kilometres from the capital city of Quito in the province of Morona Santiago, surrounded by the Cordillera del Condor Mountain range, some 400 Shuar Maikuaints people practice a way of life that has endured for centuries.

Their ancestors were legendary warriors – the only Indigenous people to successfully resist Spanish conquest, they were known for the practice of shrinking their enemies’ heads. Today’s battle is different, but no less existential.
 

Just fifteen minutes down the new road, a copper mine in its exploration phase, Solaris Resources’ Warintza project, threatens to upend everything: their water, their safety and their sovereignty over these ancestral lands. 

Solaris Resources was, until very recently, a Vancouver-based company, listed on both Toronto and New York stock exchanges. It announced plans late last year to relocate to Switzerland after the sale of a minority stake to a Chinese company fell through over concerns about the regulatory review process. Canada has been attempting to limit foreign ownership in its natural resources sector, with concerns focused on the increasing role of Chinese investment in the sector. 

I’m here because Canada’s outsized role in global mining plays a role in what is unfolding in Maikuaints. At least 70 per cent of the world’s mining companies are headquartered in Canada, making Toronto’s stock exchange the global hub for investment in mining projects.This global dominance comes with a dark underbelly: Canadian mining companies operating abroad face minimal oversight and regulation from their home country, leading to widespread accusations of human rights violations, environmental destruction, and the trampling of Indigenous sovereignty across multiple continents with almost no accountability.

The tactics used by Canadian extractive industries follow a familiar pattern both at home and abroad: divide communities, bypass proper consent processes, and when faced with resistance, rely on state police forces to criminalize and remove land defenders. In Canada’s own territories, militarized RCMP raids against Wet’suwet’en land defenders opposing the Coastal GasLink pipeline, and the arrests of Indigenous opponents of the Trans Mountain pipeline near Vancouver, mirror the same playbook used in places like Ecuador.

This colonial approach to resource extraction transcends borders. The same tactics of community division, criminalization of protest, and bypassing of free, prior, and informed consent that Indigenous peoples face in Canada, are exported globally through Canadian mining operations. When communities resist, the response often involves violence, surveillance, and the use of state security forces to protect corporate interests rather than human rights. 

As is often the case, opinions in the communities affected by the mining project are not uniform. However, that is not the case in Maikuaints, where there is near-unanimous opposition to the mine. Meanwhile, the neighbouring community of Warintz has expressed support for the mine, following signed benefit agreements. Some support the mine, and welcome the jobs they expect it to bring.

Ricochet Media made multiple attempts to speak to company officials. Solaris Resources did not respond to several requests for interviews and statements. Canadian Ambassador to Ecuador Stephen Potter declined to speak on the record. The Ministry of Energy and Non-Renewable Natural Resources of Ecuador did not respond to repeated requests for comment. The office of Mary Ng, Canada’s Minister of Export Promotion, International Trade and Economic Development, initially agreed to an interview but subsequently avoided multiple follow-up requests.

No consultation

The project borders the Zamora, Coangos and Santiago rivers in Shuar territory. It is just 40 kilometres north of the Mirador copper mine run by Chinese consortium CRCC-Tongguan, owners of EcuaCorreinte, one of two large-scale industrial mines operating in Ecuador. 

In Maikuaints, traditional thatched-roof huts still dot the landscape. Children call to each other in Shuar Chicham, their native tongue, as they chase chickens through gardens of yuca and plantain. There are few material possessions here, but wealth flows from the land itself – in clean rivers, fertile soil, and the deep knowledge of living in harmony with the forest. 

“Thank you for coming to help us,” Antum, 50, says, leading us into the community. His grip on the spear is both ceremonial and serious – a reminder that while the Shuar welcome visitors with legendary generosity, they are prepared to defend their territory to the death.  

The Ecuadorian government never consulted them about the Solaris mine, declaring their community outside the “impact zone.” But the Maikuaints know better. They have seen the advance of industrial projects before, bringing contaminated waters and violence against their people from previous opposition.

A wooden community meeting house with a light green painted metal roof and a black panther painted on the side, a symbol of the strength of the tribe, appears before us. The building is the centre of Shuar democracy, where the weightiest decisions affecting their sovereignty are made. 

Freddy Ankuash, a young Shuar man, cups his hands around his mouth and releases a series of guttural calls that echo through the village – the traditional summons to gather. 

Despite the sweltering December heat, about 40 community members file into the building. Antun commands attention at the center, his presence amplified by a striking detail: a jaguar-skin bag with a notebook protruding from it – a fusion of traditional and modern that embodies the Shuar’s current struggle. The bag is a reminder that these territories are home not just to the Shuar people, but also home to ferocious predators, and countless other magnificent creatures. 

“This is a space that provides many services to us, not only to us,” Domingo states firmly, his voice resonating through the meeting house. “This is a natural space, a forest that purifies the air, the oxygen for the world, and we all need to have water, we all need to have oxygen.” Heads nod in unanimous agreement around the room. 

His voice grows stronger. “That’s why we fight and defend everything that nature offers us. And that’s sharing. That is living with the external world. And our law clearly says we must not allow any type of risk, people bring from outside to disrupt us. They want to devastate our living space.” 

The passion in the room is palpable as Narankas Domingo Antun Ankuash, a Shuar man in his 30s, rises to speak. “I’m outraged about this issue and I have promised that I will not allow it, because no one and for no reason will change me or convince me. My position is firm about the defense of the territory, because without territory we can’t live.” 

Marcos Pintos, 28, stands next. Despite his modern appearance – short hair and contemporary clothes – his words carry the fire of his ancestors. “I feel pity and anger because our rights are violated,” he declares, his voice trembling with emotion. “We are not going to allow it, as young people, we are not going to allow men and boys to continue trampling on each other, to continue to blame us here in the territory. We are not going to allow it!” 

His frustration stems from the mining company’s intrusion – their only route to the mine site passes through Maikuaints unless they arrive by helicopter.  

Tears form in his eyes as he continues. “I do ask that the people, the transnational companies that supposedly have the money, to see our humanity, to see that life exists here, that the Shuar people exist here.”
 

Rooted in centuries of careful stewardship

The Shuar have a long story of resistance. Shuar territory stretches across the Ecuadorian Amazon like a vast tapestry of forest and water. But today, 56 per cent of it carries invisible wounds – mining concessions carved out by the Ecuadorian government without the free, prior, and informed consent of the Indigenous peoples that inhabit these lands. These concessions form a patchwork of foreign interests: Australian company SolGold, Chinese-owned ExplorCobres S.A., and Canadian firms Aurania Resources and Solaris Resources, each claiming their piece of Shuar ancestral lands. 

When Solaris arrived in 2019, purchasing the Warintza project through its acquisition of Lowell Mineral Exploration, they weren’t the first to eye these copper-rich lands. The Shuar had already expelled Lowell in 2006, a victory that seemed definitive at the time. But global demands shifted. As the world rushed toward decarbonization, copper became the new gold, and Solaris saw an opportunity too tempting to resist. 

The Shuar’s response was swift and unified. In 2019, the same year Solaris appeared, the Shuar Arutam People (PSHA) declared their homeland a “territory of life” – or TICCA – launching their unequivocal campaign: “PSHA has already decided: No to mining!” It wasn’t just about one mine or one company; it was about self-determination, about the right to choose their own path forward. 

The Shuar’s stance isn’t merely reactionary – it’s rooted in centuries of careful stewardship. Their traditional practices of shifting cultivation, agroforestry, and hunting have helped preserve the Amazon’s biodiversity, maintaining a delicate balance between human needs and environmental protection. Their relationship with the land isn’t just physical; it’s spiritual, woven into their religious beliefs and passed down through generations. 

This deep connection to the land makes the current crisis even more acute. The Shuar have accused Solaris of a litany of transgressions: complicity in the militarization of their territory, greenwashing of destructive mining activities, death threats, intimidation, careless behavior during the Covid-19 pandemic, and the systematic destruction of community bonds.

Based on a 2023 detailed risk assessment by Amazon Watch, the Solaris project has become a stark example of how mining operations can fundamentally violate Indigenous rights and tear apart the fabric of traditional communities. 

Despite PSHA’s clear rejection of mining activities, Solaris has pushed ahead with their plans, dismissing the traditional governance structure of these 12,000 Indigenous people spread across 47 communities. 

The situation took a dark turn in November 2020 when PSHA’s former president, Josefina Tunki, received a chilling death threat from Solaris Resources’ Vice President of Operations, Federico Velásquez. “If they continue bothering me with national and international complaints, one of these heads will have to be cut off,” he warned. Though Tunki filed a formal complaint, two years have passed without investigation or resolution. In the aftermath, the territory was militarized, and leaders found their social media accounts compromised in what appeared to be attempts to discredit them. 

Rather than engaging with the entire PSHA community, Solaris employed what many consider a divide-and-conquer strategy. They established a “Strategic Alliance” focusing on just two communities, Warints and Yawi mere minutes away from Maikuaints, effectively bypassing PSHA’s traditional democratic decision-making structure. This tactical approach has created deep rifts between communities and families, even leading to the formation of “self-defense” groups aligned with company interests. 

The company’s disregard for community welfare became particularly evident during the COVID-19 pandemic. In March 2020, Solaris brought community members to Canada for a mining convention, then allowed them to return without proper quarantine protocols. The result was devastating: 126 confirmed COVID-19 cases by October 2020, including the death of one delegate’s mother. Making matters worse, the company apparently used the health crisis to their advantage, offering medical supplies in exchange for project support.

The environmental impact has been equally concerning. The project threatens the delicate ecosystem of the Cordillera del Cóndor, with local residents reporting serious water contamination. People who bathe in local rivers emerge with rashes and lesions, while deforestation spreads from workers’ camps and exploration activities. 

This pattern of violations, Amazon Watch argues, makes the Warintza project not just ethically questionable but also a high-risk venture that exposes Solaris to significant legal, operational, and reputational consequences. Their assessment suggests that such large-scale mining operations in the Amazon are fundamentally incompatible with both Indigenous rights and environmental protection, raising serious questions about the future of resource extraction in one of earth’s most sensitive regions.​​

Colonial divide and conquer 

Perhaps most insidious is Solaris’s “Warintza model” of engagement – a strategy that bypasses the collective decision-making process of all 47 PSHA communities in favor of selective agreements with just two communities, and allows Solaris to sell shareholders on the idea that the Shuar peoples are in favour of mining. 

It’s a tactic that would have been unimaginable in earlier times, before colonialism broke down social cohesion and the strength of self-governance institutions, when Shuar populations lived dispersed throughout the forest, each family unit autonomous yet connected through shared traditions and beliefs. 

The roots of this vulnerability trace back to the 1960s, when government-sponsored colonization programs forced many Shuar to abandon their traditional dispersed settlements for concentrated villages. This wasn’t just a physical relocation; it represented a fundamental shift from a society based on autonomy and balanced power to one marked by dependency and hierarchical authority. The same government that failed to recognize Shuar land rights then is now parceling out their territory to mining companies.

Yet the Shuar have always been pioneers in resistance. They created Latin America’s first formal Indigenous organization, the Shuar Federation, which now represents 490 centers across Morona Santiago and Zamora Chinchipe. This groundbreaking move inspired the creation of CONAIE (Confederation of Ecuadorian Indigenous Populations) in 1986, now Ecuador’s largest indigenous political organization. 

The ironies are stark. Ecuador’s 2008 constitution recognizes Indigenous collective rights, declares both Shuar and Spanish as official languages, and even grants rights to nature itself – the first constitution in the world to do so. The country has ratified international agreements protecting Indigenous rights, from ILO Convention 169 to the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. Yet these paper protections crumble in the face of economic pressures. 

Recent events have only heightened the tension. In August 2016, military forces violently displaced the Shuar community of Nankints to make way for Chinese mining operations. When the Shuar protested, the government’s response was swift and brutal: tanks, helicopters, raids on homes, and the imprisonment of community leaders. The president of the Shuar Federation, Agustín Wachapá, was sent to a high-security prison for encouraging his people to defend their lands. Three anti-mining activists have died, their cases now before the Inter-American Commission of Human Rights.

Back in Maikuaints, these histories and precedents weigh heavily on every decision. 

When the Indigenous Guards patrol the territory with their spears, they’re not just protecting land – they’re defending a way of life that has proven its sustainability over centuries. When community members speak out against the mine, they’re drawing on a tradition of resistance that predates Ecuador itself.

Fanny Kaekat, Antun’s wife, 47, rises next. Her long black hair is tied back, her authority evident in every word. Fresh from her October 2024 trip to Canada with other Indigenous women leaders from Ecuador facilitated by Amnesty International, where she spoke out against the free trade deal between Canada and Ecuador. “We want to live, we want to be in peace, with tranquility, and walk freely,” she asserts. “That’s why we are fighting in defense and protection of our territory and we are going to continue resisting. We are not going to be silent until they let us go!” 

Domingo adds, “It’s always the government that ignores us and denies that there are human settlements here. We do exist.” 

The meeting reaches its emotional peak as the captain of the Indigenous guard stands, his anger barely contained. These guards who patrol the territory, armed only with ancestral knowledge and traditional spears, represent the Shuar’s last line of defense against uninvited intrusion. While peaceful by nature, their resolve is absolute. 

“Now, tell the Prime Minister of Canada to withdraw immediately, before there is military [action] as in Ukraine,” he declares, his words hanging heavy in the humid air. “This mine, it’s not going to happen here in Warintza. We won’t allow it. We are saying enough is enough, even international [human] rights are no longer useful!” 

The words echo through the meeting house, a battle cry from a people who have defended their freedom for centuries – and are prepared to do so again. 

The scale of what threatens the Maikuaints becomes clear when you understand the enormity of the Warintza project. What Solaris Resources calls a “global scale” copper operation isn’t just corporate hyperbole – the numbers are staggering. 

The company has identified 909 million tonnes of copper-equivalent ore in its measured and indicated categories, with an additional 1.43 billion tonnes waiting to be confirmed, stretching across 268 square kilometres of pristine jungle. These aren’t just statistics; they represent the systematic destruction of an ancient and important ecological landscape. 

The project’s open-pit design means there will be no subtle underground tunneling, no gentle extraction. Instead, the earth will be torn open, mountain by mountain, creating vast craters where forests once stood. The company’s technical documents describe it with clinical precision: a “cluster of outcropping copper porphyry deposits.” 

What they don’t mention is that each of these “outcroppings” is a living ecosystem, home to jaguars, birds, and countless species that the Shuar have coexisted with for generations. 

But the damage isn’t limited to the physical landscape. The project has already torn through the social fabric of the Shuar communities, creating divisions where none existed before.

The 2020 impact benefits agreement signed with the Warints and Yawi Shuar tribes (the two Shaur communities closest to the mining site) – and its 2024 update – drove a wedge between communities that had lived harmoniously for generations. Now, the Maikuaints find themselves caught in the middle, with former neighbors turned adversaries on both sides. Some community members speak in whispers about fears for their safety, their voices heavy with the weight of choosing sides in a conflict they never wanted. 

The legal landscape shifted dramatically on March 18, 2024, when the International Labor Organization (ILO) delivered what should have been a death blow to the project. Their conclusion was unambiguous: the Shuar Arutam Indigenous people had never been properly consulted about the Warintza mine, a direct violation of ILO Convention 169 and Ecuador’s constitution. The ruling validated what the PSHA, representing 47 communities across 230,000 hectares of ancestral territory, had been saying all along. 

Yet, even as this legal victory was being celebrated, the ground was shifting beneath everyone’s feet.
 

Solaris Resources, facing scrutiny from the British Columbia Securities Commission over its misleading claims about community consultation, made an unexpected move. As of January 1, the company is in the process of relocating its headquarters from Canada to Switzerland, opening the door to massive Chinese investment. The timing wasn’t coincidental – Canada had been hesitant about Chinese involvement in its mining companies. But with this corporate sleight of hand, billions in Chinese capital began flowing into the project. 

The thread connecting these local struggles to global powers becomes clearer when you follow the money. Canada, with more than $1.8 billion invested in Ecuador’s mining sector, stands as the country’s largest foreign investor. At least fifteen Canadian mining companies operate in Ecuador, leaving a trail of allegations: unauthorized exploration in Indigenous territories, violent suppression of protests through state security forces, and a systematic disregard for human rights. 

The irony isn’t lost on Kaekat as she speaks about her recent trip to Canada. While Canadian officials trumpet their commitment to democracy and human rights in trade negotiations, they’ve failed to consult with Indigenous nations or rural communities in Ecuador – despite mounting evidence (including as reported by Canada’s House of Commons Standing Committee on International Trade in February 2024) of abuses linked to Canadian projects. This oversight isn’t just a diplomatic error; it’s a direct violation of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, which Canada has not only signed but integrated into its domestic law. 

“They speak of development and partnership,” Domingo tells me later, his voice tight with controlled anger, “but they prepare for war.” He’s referring to the newly signed Canada-Ecuador trade deal, which, at the mining industry’s insistence, includes a provision for investor-state dispute settlement (ISDS). This mechanism, essentially a private court system for corporations, would allow companies like Solaris to sue Ecuador if environmental or human rights protections threaten their profits. Multiple UN bodies have warned against such provisions, noting that even the threat of multi-billion-dollar lawsuits can freeze government efforts to combat climate change or protect human rights. 

The stakes became devastatingly clear when Ecuador adopted hardline security policies to protect mining interests. Those who dare to speak against the extraction of their resources face more than just legal threats – they risk their lives. Environmental defenders and land protectors have become targets, their safety sacrificed on the altar of foreign investment.
 

For the Maikuaints, this global chess game has local consequences. Recent regulatory changes have transformed Ecuador into what mining executives proudly call a “premier destination” for Canadian investment. But not premier for the Indigenous guards patrolling their territory with spears, or for the communities watching their water sources become contaminated, or for the families torn apart by mining companies’ divide-and-conquer tactics.

The planned trade deal between Canada and Ecuador would cement these imbalances into law, creating what one community member called “handcuffs made of paper” – binding future generations to decisions made in boardrooms thousands of miles away from the Amazon. While Canadian officials speak of inclusion and human rights, their actions – or rather, their deliberate inaction – tell a different story.
 

The language of progress while destroying the world

 In a Zoom interview, Maria Lalia Silva, Executive President of the Mining Chamber of Ecuador, sits with an office in the background, her carefully chosen words creating a polarity opposite to the one I witnessed in Maikuaints. As head of the association representing what she calls “responsible mining” in Ecuador – including Solaris Resources – Silva paints a picture of an industry bound by strict standards and noble intentions. 

“We believe in the communities’ development. We believe in legal certainty,” she declares, her voice carrying the practiced assurance of someone who’s never had to flee through the jungle at night from military raids. When confronted about the situation in Maikuaints, she dismisses their concerns with a bureaucratic wave: “The Maikuaints community is not part of the direct influence area of any mining project.” It’s the same technical sleight-of-hand that has excluded Indigenous communities from consultation processes across the Amazon. 

Silva speaks of regulations and safety protocols with meticulous detail. “Alcohol consumption is absolutely forbidden in our operations,” she emphasizes, as if this were the primary concern of communities watching their ancestral lands being carved up for copper extraction. “This is a very technical sector,” she continues, “The transportation in and out of the project has to respect lots of regulations. One of them, of course, is the speed of the machinery on the roads.” 

The disconnect between her corporate rhetoric and the reality in Maikuaints is stark. While Silva speaks of “international standards” and “inner policies of safety,” the Indigenous guard patrols their territory with spears, protecting their people from those same supposedly well-regulated mining operations. 

Her vision of development follows a familiar script: “All the communities have the right to develop, have the right to know how progress is,” she explains, her English occasionally faltering but her message clear. “Now in Ecuador, the remote communities are always the poorest in the country. Me, as an Ecuadorian, wants a country that gives more opportunities for all.” 

It’s a seductive narrative – one that positions mining companies as saviors rather than invaders. 

Silva points to Ecuador’s poverty statistics: “Almost a third part of the population are poor and the half of them are extremely poor.” 

What she doesn’t mention is how mining operations have historically deepened poverty in Indigenous communities, destroying traditional livelihoods and leaving environmental devastation in their wake. 

When Silva speaks of “opportunities for all,” she’s speaking the language of GDP and export statistics. When the Shuar speak of opportunity, they’re talking about the right to maintain their relationship with their ancestral lands, to practice their traditions, to determine their own future. 

“We have the ghosts or the monster of the illegal destruction,” Silva warns, referring to unauthorized mining operations that she notes are doing worse damage. But for the Maikuaints, the real monster wears a suit of corporate legitimacy, arrives with government permits, and speaks the language of progress while preparing to destroy their world.

End note: This is part one of four in a series. Stay tuned for part two!