“Forests are my supermarket, my pharmacy, my freezer.” This is how Onel Masardule, a Guna indigenous leader from the Guna Yala territory in Panama, describes his people’s ancestral relationship with nature. The phrase accurately describes a way of life that remains alive in Guna Yala, where the connection to the land is tangible and part of daily life, and where food security depends, to a large extent, on what the forest and the sea can provide. 

Located on the Caribbean coast of east Panama, this region is home to more than 32,000 people, most of whom belong to the Guna Indigenous People. This population is distributed across islands, coastal zones, and mainland areas. There, climate change has disrupted many of the cycles that sustain life: rising sea levels, erratic rainfall, and the intensification of extreme weather events are altering production and living conditions in one of Panama’s most vulnerable territories.

The strengthening of the Guna people’s indigenous food production systems emerged as a grassroots response, driven by communities that have witnessed how the historical balance of their environment is in danger. Onel Masardule is also director of the Foundation for the Promotion of Indigenous Knowledge (FPCI) and explains that nearly 80% of the food consumed by the Guna comes from the forest and the sea, reflecting not only a structural dependence but also a form of organization that sustains life in relative isolation. 

However, this relationship has begun to weaken in recent years. Specifically during the COVID-19 pandemic, when the closure of access routes between the capital and Guna Yala highlighted the limitations of relying partially on external supplies. While no one starved to death, as Onel points out, the experience made it clear that it was necessary to strengthen their own production systems to ensure self-sufficiency in crisis scenarios.

Onel also mentions that, in recent years, traditionally dry months such as January and February saw heavy rains that delayed the start of the agricultural cycle. This disruption, combined with rising sea levels, threatens production and territorial stability. In this context, it was women who took the lead in securing basic food supplies for their families, and this gave rise to a project focused on reviving agricultural practices, strengthening traditional knowledge, and reactivating community production in Guna Yala, with support from the International Indigenous Women's Forum (FIMI) and funding from the International Fund for Agricultural Development (IFAD), through its Indigenous Peoples’ Assistance Facility (IPAF).

The Guna agricultural system, far from conforming to the intensive models that dominate the food industry, is based on a rotational cycle that prioritizes soil regeneration and ecological balance. This cycle allows plots to rest for periods ranging from twenty to forty years after a harvest before being cultivated again. This ensures the natural recovery of nutrients without the need for chemical fertilizers.

This practice, which remains in place in various Guna communities, partly explains why the forests of Guna Yala are among the best-preserved in Latin America. In this system, production is geared toward self-sufficiency rather than accumulation. Families produce only what they need, and if they lack food or medicine, they trade with other families and help one another.

One of the most significant risks they currently face, according to Onel, is the progressive loss of native seeds. These have been displaced by commercial and genetically modified seeds that cannot be reused. He warns that this has endangered not only the diversity of their crops but also the knowledge associated with them, as each seed is linked to specific planting practices, observation of the environment, and understanding of natural cycles.

In response, the FPCI project implemented in the communities of Usdub and Dad Nagwe Dubbir has developed seed inventories, recovery workshops, studies on indigenous production systems, and the establishment of model farms, where crops such as pineapple, cassava, and plantains are grown using traditional practices. At the same time, crops with economic potential such as cacao—including varieties like white cacao, highly valued in international markets—are being explored, under the principle of maintaining community control over their production.

In the community of Digir, for example, strengthening women’s productive capacities has led to greater participation in decision-making spaces. To the point that women leaders have moved from working the land to representing their communities in regional forums, sharing experiences with women from other countries, and positioning their knowledge as a reference beyond the local level. There has also been a renewed interest among young people in farm work, which, according to Onel, is essential for the system’s continuity.

This project is being carried out, however, in a territory rife with multiple tensions. From illegal mining and drug trafficking, to the impact of migration through the Darien Gap, which in 2023 reached record figures of over 520,000 people and some 2,500 tons of trash abandoned in the jungle. Added to this is an ongoing dispute with the Panamanian government over projects such as the electrical interconnection with Colombia, which Guna authorities have rejected for more than two decades, invoking the autonomy exercised by the Guna General Congress as the territory’s highest authority.

This level of autonomy has been key to curbing the influx of megaprojects, but it does not eliminate structural challenges such as the high cost of transportation, which limits the ability to market agricultural surpluses and reinforces the need to prioritize self-sufficiency.

For the Guna people, the defense of their production systems cannot be separated from their identity, since the land is not merely a resource for them, but the axis that anchors their spiritual, cultural, and social life. Songs, traditional medicine, and forms of organization depend directly on the health of the forest and the water. “If the forest is gone, our medicine is gone too, and our songs are gone,” Onel says. This sums up a relationship that transcends the productive and ultimately defines the Guna people’s survival.

As sea levels rise and some communities are displaced from their homes—as happened with Gardi Sugdub Island—strengthening the traditional production system becomes even more urgent. The Guna people’s commitment is to resist by upholding practices that, far from being relics of the past, serve as relevant responses to a global crisis.

As a leader and as an Indigenous person, the vision Onel proposes is that every family can produce its own food, that young people—even if they migrate to study—maintain an active connection to the land, and that recovered native seeds circulate once again across all plots. “We don’t want to isolate ourselves, but we do want to engage with the outside world without losing control of what is ours, of the most essential thing we have, which is our connection to the land.”