The Indonesian government’s mission to preserve the nation’s natural landscapes through conservation policies—most notably the establishment of national parks—is increasingly hitting a wall. In regions across the archipelago, these top-down mandates are sparking fierce resistance from Indigenous communities who view the designation of national parks not as an environmental victory, but as a direct threat to their ancestral lands, sacred spaces, and generational bond with the forest.
Aleta Kornelia Baun, a 60-year-old Indigenous leader from Mollo, East Nusa Tenggara (NTT), exemplifies this struggle. She was alarmed by the government’s 2026 announcement to transform the Mutis Timau region into a national park. For Aleta and her community, the Mutis area is more than just a forest; it is an ancestral, sacred site. By framing Mutis as a national park, the government imposes a rigid zoning system—including “core zones” where human activity is strictly prohibited to prioritize biodiversity—which Aleta argues will irreparably damage the forest’s sacred status.
“The government’s definition of conservation entirely ignores the concept of the sacred,” Aleta explained. “It threatens our connection to our ancestors.”
Advocacy groups like the Indigenous Peoples Alliance of the Archipelago (AMAN) and the Indonesian Forum for the Environment (WALHI) argue that current conservation approaches are exclusionary. They contend that zoning policies potentialy displace local populations and fail to recognize traditional knowledge as a vital component of sustainability. Academics point to a deeper, systemic issue: a colonial-era mentality that positions the state as the sole arbiter of the forest, systematically sidelining the very people who have protected these ecosystems for centuries.
The Battle for Mutis Timau
The transformation of Mutis Timau from a nature reserve into a national park—covering nearly 80,000 hectares across Kupang, South Central Timor, and North Central Timor—was formalized following 2024 recommendations from the Ministry of Environment and Forestry. While former Minister Siti Nurbaya framed the project as a critical effort to protect biodiversity for future generations, local residents saw it as an existential threat.
Resistance reached a boiling point in late April 2026. During a government “socialization” visit, locals staged protests, blocking roads to prevent officials from entering the area. According to WALHI NTT, the government initially agreed to halt all activities in the Mutis region until the conflict subsided. However, skepticism remains high. Indigenous communities have responded by performing a “forest closing” ritual, effectively barring entry to the area to signify their rejection of the state’s unilateral control.
Living in Harmony with Nature
For the people of Mutis, the ecosystem is governed by three concepts: air nama (water), kayu nama (wood), and batu nama (stone). These elements form a spiritual and physical life-support system. The mountains of Kekneno, Mollo, and Mutis provide essential water sources for regions extending to Timor Leste, while the stones and trees are central to their identity and clan heritage. Aleta insists that the state’s zoning model ignores these local realities, effectively treating the community as intruders on their own land.
“The state acts as if the forest is unguarded, as if we haven’t been protecting it all along,” Aleta said. “The land was granted by God for our survival, not by the state. Our ancestors existed long before the state.”
A Pattern of Exclusion Across Indonesia
The tension in Mutis is not an isolated incident; it is part of a recurring pattern across Indonesia. From the Bukit Baka Bukit Raya National Park in West Kalimantan, where Indigenous Ketemenggungan Belaban Ella people faced legal threats for maintaining their ancestral boundaries, to the Mount Halimun Salak National Park in West Java, where communities were barred from their land, the narrative remains the same: conservation as a vehicle for exclusion.
In Manggarai Barat, the Ata Modo people have faced decades of displacement due to the Komodo National Park project, fueled by tourism ambitions. Similarly, in Central Sulawesi, the Moa Indigenous community found their proposal for an Indigenous forest cut in half, with the remaining land swallowed by the Lore Lindu National Park. In Sumatra, the Semende people discovered in 2003 that their village, inhabited since 1807, had been retroactively designated as part of the Bukit Barisan Selatan National Park, leading to allegations of land grabbing and the destruction of traditional crops.
Rethinking Conservation
Geger Riyanto, an anthropologist from the University of Indonesia, notes that current conservation practices are inherently exclusionary because they operate on the assumption that Indigenous presence equals exploitation. “They are labeled as ‘poachers’ or ‘encroachers,’ even though they possess the most effective traditional knowledge to keep the forest healthy,” he argues.
Yance Arizona, a scholar of Indigenous law at Universitas Gadjah Mada, traces this conflict back to colonial-era German forestry models adopted by the Dutch, which prioritized state control. This legacy continues today, with bureaucracies often seeking rent and control rather than genuine partnership. While recent Constitutional Court rulings provide some protections for those living in forests, the complexity of legal recognition for Indigenous status keeps these communities vulnerable.
The Road Ahead
The Ministry of Environment and Forestry maintains that conservation is impossible without community involvement, citing the nearly 30 million hectares of protected areas in Indonesia and a push toward partnership-based management. Yet, critics argue that the state’s definitions of “zoning” prioritize carbon trading and green energy projects over local rights.
In the Meratus mountains of South Kalimantan, the Dayak Meratus people have declared their own firm opposition to a proposed national park. With over 50% of the proposed area already under Indigenous management, they fear the “core zone” designation will kill their culture and farming traditions. As these conflicts persist, the message from communities from Meratus to Mutis is clear: if the government truly wants to save Indonesia’s forests, it must stop viewing the people who have guarded them for generations as an obstacle to be cleared, and start treating them as partners in protection.
Summary
Indonesian government policies establishing national parks are encountering significant resistance from Indigenous communities who perceive these mandates as direct threats to their ancestral lands and sacred sites. A key example is the Mutis Timau region, where Indigenous leader Aleta Baun and her community oppose its national park designation, arguing that rigid zoning ignores their profound spiritual connection to the land. Advocacy groups and academics criticize these top-down approaches for being exclusionary, disregarding traditional knowledge, and perpetuating a colonial-era mindset that overlooks Indigenous peoples’ long-standing role in ecosystem protection.
This conflict is not isolated, with similar disputes arising across Indonesia, leading to displacement and cultural disruption for numerous communities due to national park expansions. Despite official claims of community involvement, critics contend that current conservation efforts often prioritize state control and other economic interests over Indigenous land rights. Communities from Mutis to Meratus are urging the government to recognize them as essential partners in forest preservation, rather than treating them as obstacles to be removed.