For whom is Amazonia being protected? This is the question that Belém, a port city at the mouth of the Amazon River, will force upon the world when it hosts COP30 in November 2025. For the first time, a UN climate summit will convene in the heart of the rainforest, and this choice reveals what is usually left unsaid: Amazonia is not just a “lung of the Earth” or a pristine wilderness, but a diverse landscape shaped by humans. The voices of these humans need to be heard.

For centuries, Amazonia has been cultivated, traversed, and inhabited by people. Indigenous peoples, quilombolas (descendants of escaped enslaved Africans), and other riverine communities have shaped the landscape, often increasing its biodiversity rather than depleting it. Over these human histories, new layers were added: colonial conquest, the rubber boom, modern infrastructure projects, and large-scale extraction. Even Belém itself grew from within the forest rather than at its edge, becoming a hub of Amazonia’s extractive economy.

Seen in this light, COP30 is far more than a logistical challenge of hosting thousands of delegates; it is also an encounter with truths usually unspoken. To protect the forest cannot mean separating it from human life, nor safeguarding it only for the benefit of distant nations while neglecting those who have lived there for generations. Amazonian realities show that the task ahead is not simply to preserve trees, but to do so without repeating the colonial legacies and racial injustices that have shaped the region’s exploitation.

For decades, global attention on Amazonia has focused on deforestation and biodiversity loss. These are important, but they often overlook the forces behind the destruction. Deforestation is not simply caused by local loggers or farmers; it is driven by international markets. Vast swaths of land are cleared for soy plantations and cattle ranches to feed the global appetite for cheap protein, and for speculative land investments. This model treats Amazonian land, nature, and lives as expendable, externalizing environmental costs to the global South while concentrating benefits in wealthier nations.

Of particular interest for a green nation like Denmark, the global “green economy” also exploits Amazonia. The green transition depends on minerals from the region as, for example, bauxite mined in Amazonia is refined into aluminum for electric car batteries and solar panels. Such so-called green growth comes with enormous environmental and social costs.

This pattern is not just an ecological issue, it is environmental racism. The burden falls disproportionately on Indigenous peoples, quilombolas, and riverine communities across Amazonia. Land grabs displace Indigenous villages and small farmers, while mining and agribusiness poison their water and air. Those who contributed least to climate change, and who know how to use the forest sustainably, now suffer the most from its impacts.

One stark example is Barcarena, a town near Belém that hosts a major aluminum refinery. In 2018, this refinery released a massive flood of toxic red mud, a caustic byproduct of aluminum production, into nearby rivers. The spill contaminated the water that local communities rely on for drinking, fishing, and bathing.

Communities that had depended on the river for generations suddenly faced poisoned water, loss of livelihoods, and a health crisis imposed by a foreign corporation. The long-term damage continues to poison the local ecosystem. Barcarena’s disaster, largely unnoticed internationally, exposes an uncomfortable truth: the industries fueling “clean” technologies can still cause severe harm. For local communities, the promise of a green economy often translates into toxic legacies and ongoing health risks. What is framed as sustainability can create sacrifice zones at resource frontiers, places like Barcarena, where poorer, marginalized groups bear the costs.

Even the preparations for COP30 reveal contradictions. A new highway is being cut through protected forest to accommodate summit traffic, disrupting local communities. The summit venue is being built by Vale, Brazil’s largest mining company notorious for the Brumadinho dam collapse. Meanwhile, token gestures, like installing artificial “eco-trees” around the city, underscore how appearances are prioritized over substance. It is a showcase where some of the same forces that ravaged the forest are presented as saviors.

Taken together, these projects reveal a long-standing pattern: large, top-down initiatives are imposed with little regard for local communities. Yet resistance has always existed. Amazonian people — rural and urban — organize to protect their land, resist evictions, and assert their right to shape the forest’s future.

These contradictions extend to the national level. Earlier this year, Brazil’s government and Congress pushed through measures to weaken environmental protections and halt the demarcation of Indigenous territories. This regression stands in stark contrast to the international spotlight of COP30. Instead of advancing ecological and social justice, Brazil risks institutionalizing environmental setbacks just months before hosting the summit.

Various grassroots movements have been pushing for a climate agenda centered on the people of Amazonia. They demand stronger protection of Indigenous lands, enforcement against illegal logging, and reparations from the corporations that profited from the region’s destruction. This vision of climate justice puts those who have protected the forest for generations at the heart of the conversation about its future.

Central to this movement is recognizing traditional knowledge. Indigenous, quilombola, and small farming communities hold deep generational knowledge of the forest. Practices like agroforestry and sustainable harvesting have allowed them to live in harmony with the land for centuries. These methods offer a path to true sustainability, yet are often sidelined by profit-driven models.

After the disillusionment of the last two COPs in petro-states, COP30 offers a chance to reshape the narrative of climate action—in Amazonia and globally. Climate justice requires more than symbolic gestures or diplomacy; it demands confronting the colonial legacies and racial injustices behind the region’s destruction. It means supporting community-led initiatives, holding corporations accountable, and giving Amazonia’s people a central voice in shaping the forest’s future. The true test of COP30 will be whether the global community listens to Amazonian voices and follows their lead. Like any ecosystem facing climate change, Amazonia is more than just a forest, it is a living world sustained by the people who call it home. To save such ecosystems, the voices of their inhabitants must guide the way—for the future of the forest and for all of us.