- The U.N. Ocean Conference this week is tackling a range of issues, such as how to conserve and sustainably use the oceans and marine resources: a new op-ed argues that the strength of Indigenous islander conservation practices lies in their flexibility and adaptability, while Western conservation efforts bring clear, formal, and intentional goals — and that blending the two can return inspiring results.
- “Conservation is not just about the number of lighthouses we build — about visible policies and formal designations — but we must also name and recognize the stars that have guided us all along; the quiet, steadfast traditions that have protected our oceans for thousands of years,” the author writes.
- This post is a commentary. The views expressed are those of the author, not necessarily of Mongabay.
I’m in Nice, France, this week attending the U.N. Conference to Support the Implementation of Sustainable Development Goal 14: Conserve and sustainably use the oceans, seas and marine resources for sustainable development. If my Tiaki Moana colleagues have any say over it, stars and lighthouses are going to be a main topic of conversation here this week. Let me explain.
During the Tiaki Moana conference in Tahiti last April, we discussed how maritime navigators use many tools to cross the ocean, ranging from stars in the night sky to lighthouses. Olivier Chassot, an official with the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN), kicked off a discussion of how marine protected areas (MPAs) and marine other effective conservation measures (mOECMs) — policy tools used by the U.N. Convention on Biological Diversity to protect the ocean — are like lighthouses and stars, respectively.
Across the Pacific, our ancestors found their way by looking to the stars. Generations of navigators memorized the night sky and used celestial pathways to guide their canoes across vast ocean expanses. These stars weren’t installed or built; they were always there, part of the natural world, trusted through knowledge and experience passed down over centuries.
This wayfinding wisdom mirrors how Native communities steward the ocean — through traditions, relationships, and deeply embedded cultural practices. Indigenous-led conservation in the Pacific doesn’t begin with government decrees or policy frameworks; it begins with knowing the tides, the names of fish, and the seasons. Just like the stars, our practices have always guided us, long unrecognized by Western conservation models.
By contrast, Western concepts of conservation function like lighthouses — clear, formal, and intentionally built. Governments designate MPAs through legal frameworks, placing boundaries on maps and outlining enforcement mechanisms. These lighthouses signal commitment, offering visibility in international conservation efforts. But while lighthouses shine brightly, stars remain steady, guiding without grand declarations.
Growing up in Saipan, my father showed me how to practice conservation beyond formal protected areas. At the reef’s edge with busy hands sorting fish, I learned which kiyu (Acanthurus triostegus) were big enough to keep, and which ones to toss back into the sea. These lessons of inafa’maolek and respetu extended from the sea to the land to my family and my community, and were based in trust.
In ancient times our reefs didn’t need bureaucratic labels to be safeguarded; they were protected through customary closures, seasonal harvests, and agreements among families and fishers. These ropes of tradition didn’t rely on enforcement officers or regulatory permits; they relied on respect and shared responsibility.
The strength of these Indigenous conservation practices lies in their flexibility and adaptability. Unlike rigid Western conservation models that often struggle to accommodate local realities, Pacific stewardship adapts to nature’s rhythms. When the elders saw reef fish returning, the closures would ease. When they sensed imbalance, restrictions would tighten. Conservation wasn’t just about boundaries — it was about relationships and reciprocity.
As a person of Indigenous descent working on global and national scales to protect ocean resources, I bring both stars and lighthouses to my approaches. Tiaki Moana is one of my stars. It reinforces what we already know: Indigenous communities have always led conservation. Tiaki Moana isn’t a Western scientific meeting with Indigenous input; it is an Indigenous-led gathering that invites Western science into the conversation.
At Tiaki Moana, Pacific leaders frame ocean conservation from an Indigenous perspective first. We don’t begin with policy language or biodiversity metrics; we began with relationships to place, ancestors, and cultural governance. Western science isn’t rejected — it is welcomed, but as a voice in the choir, not the soloist.
See related: In Canada, Indigenous communities and scientists collaborate on marine research
I am also a co-author on the upcoming mOECM Guide, with nearly 80 others from around the world. It is one of my lighthouses. This work emerged from a Western framework, but invited vigorous Indigenous input to shape its final form. The guide is an important tool for recognition of mOECMs — and helps in acknowledging conservation efforts that don’t fit the strict definition of MPAs.
Tiaki Moana and the mOECM Guide are in many ways different sides of a coin; they both provide for greater human understanding and needed knowledge in navigating global conservation efforts. The discussions at Tiaki Moana emphasized that in the Pacific, conservation around OECMs must be community-led, voluntary, and deeply rooted in local knowledge. The mOECM Guide acknowledges this, but leads with the scientific method and evidence-based decision-making.
In places like my home in Saipan, OECM recognition has the potential to validate existing practices without imposing Western regulatory burdens. Pacific communities can be resistant to outsiders telling them how to conserve; a decolonization framework uplifts what we’ve already been doing for centuries.
Tiaki Moana is a reminder that we are not stakeholders — we are stewards, leaders, and global navigators. Our ancestors used the most advanced technology available at the time to guide their voyages, and we do the same today to navigate the waters of the modern world. We welcome collaboration, but on our terms, with our knowledge and values leading the way.
If the global conservation movement truly wants to support Indigenous leadership, it must shift its mindset. Conservation is not just about the number of lighthouses we build — about visible policies and formal designations — but we must also name and recognize the stars that have guided us all along; the quiet, steadfast traditions that have protected our oceans for thousands of years.
Pacific ideas, knowledge, and values are such stars — ancient tools that our people want to share with the world. We can use both stars and lighthouses in navigating our future.
Angelo Villagomez is a senior fellow at the Center for American Progress (CAP) and ocean co-lead for the America the Beautiful for All coalition.
Banner image: Sailboat at night. Image by Johannes Plenio via Unsplash.
Related audio from Mongabay’s podcast: Two scientists and authors discuss how blending Indigenous and Western knowledge benefits marine conservation, listen here:
See related coverage and commentary:
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In Canada, Indigenous communities and scientists collaborate on marine research
Vast new MPAs are PNG’s first to be co-managed by Indigenous communities
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