Saving Indigenous Children? The Government of Childhood and the Coloniality of Development in Amazonia

Abstract

The moral imperative of “saving” Indigenous children has been historically used as a tool to facilitate land appropriation in Amazonia. This paper examines how three types of child-centered interventions—early colonial tutelage, state schools, and conditional cash transfers—have contributed to reinforcing development models that threaten Indigenous livelihoods. Drawing insights from governmentality and decolonial studies, this literature review foregrounds the interplay between child saviorism, land dispossession, and predatory extractivism in Amazonia. The paper concludes by calling for the integration of Indigenous perspectives in social policies to challenge the colonial legacy of child-centered development.

Keywords

Coloniality Children Governmentality Indigenous peoples Amazonia

In recent years, claims of infanticide among Indigenous communities surged in Brazil, particularly during Jair Bolsonaro’s presidency (2019-2022). Disseminated through viral videos in social media, these claims conveniently aligned with Bolsonaro’s agenda to “integrate” Amazonia through missionary interventions and extractive development (Salles et al., 2023). The moral imperative of “saving children” allegedly endangered by Indigenous beliefs seemed to justify Bolsonaro’s assault on Indigenous cultures and land rights (Londoño and Casado, 2020). However, using children as a pretext for territorial dispossession is neither an innovative political strategy nor an exclusively Brazilian technique of government. Across Amazonia, children have long been at the heart of colonization efforts. On the Peruvian side of the forest, enduring rumors of White people who eat babies (Belaunde, 2007) and rubber barons kidnapping youngsters (Gray, 1997: 31) suggest that children remain the primary targets of colonialism. Although child-centered interventions have evolved, their role in contemporary projects of assimilation and dispossession remains understudied. This paper fills this gap by showing how such interventions continue to be used as tools of control over Indigenous territories.

The notion of “children without childhoods,” or children in need of rescue, has been widely studied as a post-colonial construct that justifies ongoing interventions in formerly colonized territories (Burman, 1994; Liebel, 2017; Valentin and Meinert, 2009). In colonial contexts, this often implied that Indigenous children, perceived as lacking a “proper” childhood, needed to be saved from their communities through “civilizing missions” (de Leeuw, 2009; Mak, Monteiro, and Wesseling, 2020). Today, seemingly progressive policies such as conditional cash transfers can serve a similar purpose by integrating Indigenous families into the market economy while suppressing resistance against the commodification of natural resources (Yörük, Öker, and Șarlak, 2019). Therefore, government programs targeting Indigenous children can still coincide with the dispossession and exploitation of Indigenous lands (see de Carvalho, 2025). This raises a critical question: to what extent do contemporary interventions differ from or mirror earlier strategies of colonization, and is there an alternative path forward?

To address this question, this paper reviews the literature on child-centered interventions in Amazonia. Initially part of a larger study on the effects of government interventions on Shipibo-Konibo children in Peru (see de Carvalho, 2022), the scope of this review was later expanded to include neighboring countries. Drawing on the concepts of governmentality and colonialism, this paper examines how the discourse of “improving children’s prospects” has been used to justify the control and dispossession of forest peoples. Despite the limitations of a non-systematic review, this study provides a foundation for future research on the complex interplay between childhood, colonialism, and extractivism in the Amazon.

The paper is structured around three historical periods. Initially, it explores how colonial and early republican authorities infantilized Indigenous people to legitimize land appropriation. Subsequently, as education became central to nation-building projects, the offer of schooling was used to incentivize Indigenous families to relocate to smaller, settled communities. In recent decades, government programs such as conditional cash transfers have positioned Indigenous children as “beneficiaries” of an extractive development model that is, in fact, driving their families into poverty. Ultimately, this paper contends that these various attempts to “save” Indigenous children are rooted in the colonial belief that their future would be better if they were raised within the values of a Western, modern, and market-based society. By reflecting on the commonalities among these approaches, the conclusion offers recommendations for policymakers to dismantle this persistent rhetoric.

Governmentality and colonialism: why do children matter?

To better understand the links between child interventionism and land dispossession in Amazonia, it is worth reflecting on the connections between governmentality, children, and colonialism. Michel Foucault introduced the concept of governmentality to describe how modern institutions, techniques and strategies of governance shape societal behavior and exercise authority over people (Foucault, 1980). He argued that biopolitics—the impact of politics on life—was a key feature of governmentality, which instrumentalized different forms of knowledge, such as economics, sociology, and the biomedical sciences, to optimize and shape human behavior.

Governance operates both at the broader scale of population management, through tools like demographic censuses and laws, and at the microscale of families and schools (Foucault, 1995). In fact, the governance of intimate aspects of life was always considered essential to reducing friction between individuals and the state (Stoler, 2002). The policing of families and the institutionalization of children, famously described by Donzelot (1980), are key examples of government tactics used to correct the course of children considered “at risk” of deviation. Interventions targeting children ultimately aimed to produce docile citizens amenable to societal norms of conduct, who possessed skills that could contribute to national economic growth (Wells, 2016). The political and economic importance of optimizing human development naturally placed children at the heart of governmentality (Wells, 2011).

The idea of “saving” children arose from the belief that proper human development requires certain universal conditions (Hart, 2006). Within this logic, international agencies, Christian charities, and donors from affluent contexts often approach the struggles of children in low-income regions as evidence of their societies’ inability to provide the ideal conditions for child development (Pupavac, 2001; Scheidecker et al., 2023). At the same time, they position themselves as the superior external authority capable of “rescuing” those children (Burman, 1994). This paternalistic gaze rests on an assumption of Western and capitalist superiority (Liebel, 2017).

What is often overlooked in portrayals of children in need of rescue is the historical and political context that created their deprivation. This omission is particularly striking in colonized regions, where imperial powers systematically denied Indigenous children the privileges granted to their White counterparts (Wells, 2011). Such unequal treatment stemmed from racial divisions that sustained the logic of empire (Stoler, 2002). Central to this logic was the belief in a universal history of civilization, which, like the progression from childhood to adulthood, was thought to culminate in the cultural and political “maturity” expressed by the European Enlightenment (Rollo, 2018: 61; Liebel, 2020). An example of this thinking appears in an 18th-century lecture given by the German historian Friedrich von Schiller ([1789] 1972: 325):

The discoveries which our European seafarers have made in distant oceans and on remote shores afford us a spectacle which is as instructive as it is entertaining. They show us societies arrayed around us at various levels of development, as an adult might be surrounded by children of different ages, reminded by their example of what he himself once was and whence he started. A wise hand seems to have preserved these savage tribes until such time as we have progressed sufficiently in our own civilization to make useful application of this discovery, and from this mirror to recover the lost beginning of our race. But how embarrassing and dismal is the picture of our own childhood presented in these peoples!

The presumed superiority of Western thought fueled the belief that proper child-rearing could only be achieved through those values. Guided by this conviction, colonial authorities across the world implemented policies of Indigenous child removal and family separation as welfare initiatives that would improve Indigenous children’s prospects (de Leeuw, 2009; Jacobs, 2009). They portrayed the indoctrination of Indigenous children with so-called “civilizing” values as a noble effort to save them from the “barbarism” of their own cultures (Mak, Monteiro, and Wesseling, 2020; Van Krieken, 1999). In practice, these policies contributed to the erosion of Indigenous customs and, crucially, facilitated the encroachment of colonial administrations onto Indigenous lands under the guise of “rescuing” children (Wolfe, 2006).

The history of state interventions in Indigenous territories reveals how narratives of saviorism served to legitimize cultural assimilation and territorial dispossession in the name of progress. As this paper will show, child saviorism continues to shape development policies in Amazonia today, informing the governance of Indigenous children and their lands. Breaking this cycle requires acknowledging the colonial legacy in contemporary child policies and delinking our understandings of (child) “development” from the colonial narrative of universality that has shaped them (Mignolo, 2007).

The Presumed Infancy of Indigenous Peoples

Since the arrival of Europeans in the Americas, colonial powers saw Indigenous peoples as being trapped in an early stage of human development (de Leeuw, 2009). This portrayal, which cast Indigenous societies as lacking intellectual and government capacity, served to legitimize European control over them (Dean, 2002: 21). Such depictions were central to the colonial doctrine of terra nullius, which claimed that Indigenous territories were effectively “unoccupied” due to the absence of mature government structures (Rollo, 2018).

Infantilizing analogies also served to sustain colonial power by framing Indigenous peoples as orphaned children who needed state tutelage to adopt supposedly superior economic and cultural norms (Dean, 2002; Silva, 2018). Colonial oversight took the form of enforced religious education and settlements created with the intent to gradually impose “civilized” values on Indigenous communities (Carneiro da Cunha, 2012; Premo, 2005).

When Indigenous peoples resisted these forced changes, they were labelled as “savages.” Colonial authorities perceived Indigenous adult men as irredeemable rebels, but the behavior and beliefs of Indigenous children were potentially amendable (de Leeuw, 2009). The indoctrination of children occurred mainly through religious boarding schools, where children were distanced from the influence of their families. As a Jesuit priest in 16th-century Brazil noted, the target of such interventions was the “abomination of progenitors’ customs” (Chaves, 2000: 21).

Colonial norms also sanctioned the capture and legal detention of Indigenous children based on the belief that domestic labor would offer them a superior form of education than that of their original communities (Perrone-Moisés, 1992). In colonial Brazil, authorities referred to the trafficking of Indigenous children as the “innocent trade,” asserting that the practice could lift them from a so-called “primitive” state (Roller, 2021: 125). Many children were enslaved during conflicts among different Indigenous groups, often incited by colonial settlers to prevent alliances against colonial rule (Carneiro da Cunha, 1992). Others were acquired through trade, exchanged by their families as payment for increasingly necessary weapons and tools provided by the colonizers (Roller, 2021).

Government authorities targeted children as part of a broader strategy to subjugate Indigenous peoples. This effort not only sought to erase Indigenous identities but also played a crucial role in facilitating the dispossession of Indigenous lands (Carneiro da Cunha, 1995). Colonizers believed that raising children according to European customs would transform them into loyal subjects and even prepare them to act as emissaries of colonial rule within their communities (Carneiro da Cunha, 1995; Premo, 2005). Though the portrayal of Indigenous societies as childlike persisted into the early 20^th century, it evolved into a positivist rationale for intensifying government control over peoples and territories. This perspective is evident in a 1910 speech by Lieutenant Alípio Bandeira, one of the founders of Brazil’s Serviço de Proteção ao Índio (Indian Protection Service, SPI):

The Portuguese men who landed on Brazilian shores in the 16th century found in this part of America peoples of very easy assimilation, according to the testimony of ancient navigators and travellers. (. . .) These peoples were [living] in the infancy of humankind and, thus, participated in the vices and virtues inherent to this condition. Being like children, whose education can be moulded and shaped according to the will of the educator, a wise and humanitarian policy would have taken advantage of them for clearing the land and for the intellectual and moral effort that it was legitimate to expect of them. (Ferreira, 2007: 63)

Under Colonel Rondon’s leadership, the SPI’s original mission, as indicated by its name, was to shield Indigenous peoples from violent land disputes caused by settlers and pioneers encroaching on their territories (Davis, 1977: 25). However, this notion of “protection” was rooted in a broader strategy of governmentality aimed at asserting control over predominantly Indigenous frontier regions such as the Amazon forest (Lima, 1992). In practice, the dual function of tutelage enabled the government to exert authority over Indigenous populations under the guise of protection.

The creation of the SPI in Brazil reflects a pivotal historical moment when Latin American governments, grappling with highly diverse and unequal societies, sought to forge cohesive national identities. In this context, children were viewed as developing citizens who symbolized the future potential of these young nations (Nunes, 2011). This perspective led to the creation of new child-rearing institutions such as public schools and reformatories, designed to better prepare children for their future social and economic roles (Hecht, 2002). However, in Amazonia, the disciplining of Indigenous children was primarily centered on labor. Indigenous children were often recruited into apprenticeships with a promise of future wages that never materialized, as tutors later imposed charges for the training they provided (Morais Soares, 2022: 91).

The widespread use of Indigenous child labor, in stark contrast to the growing emphasis on formal education for non-Indigenous children, was justified by prevailing eugenic ideologies. Many politicians and scientists at the time argued that Latin America could only progress through the eradication of Indigenous cultures, which were often described as “backwards” (Davis, 1977). Media portrayals of Amazonia further dehumanized Indigenous peoples, reinforcing this belief. For instance, Chaumeil (2009: 60) found sensationalized images of Huitoto children in magazines, accompanied by claims that Indigenous child-rearing practices led children to consume human flesh from an early age. Such depictions implied that removing Amazonian children from their traditional customs was a humanitarian mission, essential to the region’s progress.

Intensive labor was commonly seen as a means of instilling discipline in Indigenous youth. In the Putumayo region, at the border between Peru and Colombia, children were frequently forced to work during the rubber boom, and were physically punished for low productivity (Hardenburg, 1912: 209). Pedro Flores, an elder Bora man who survived the rubber boom, recalls this exploitative labor as a form of ‘education:’

The White man brings with him machetes and axes that he hands to each [village] chief. [The chiefs], in turn, had to lend these instruments to their people. When someone wanted an axe and a machete for themselves, they had to give away a male child of about 10 years old [as payment]. The [White] boss had a trusted man named Shaba Carriba, (. . .) he was the one who trapped the boys and girls. Don Sharaba (. . .) helped boys grow up by teaching them how to work in the fields. His wife raised girls by teaching them [housework] (Castro de León, 1974: 32).

The portrayal of exploitative labor as “helpful” for child development illustrates how the prospects of Indigenous boys and girls were constrained by the extractive economy of Amazonia. Public schools only gained popularity after the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights established formal basic education as a fundamental human right (Ansell, 2016). However, the structure and purpose of state schools retained significant similarities with early colonial missions, using the promise of education for children to assert control over Indigenous lands.

Schools as Territorial Reductions

In 1951, the International Labour Organisation (ILO) issued a recommendation urging Latin American governments to undertake a coordinated effort to educate Indigenous peoples (Mendoza, 2005). This document recognized Indigenous peoples’ cognitive capacity and asserted that their education was a state responsibility, mirroring the Universal Declaration of Human Rights from 1948. The ILO recommendation marked a turning point in centralized strategies of Indigenous governance, positioning schools as key instruments of state control (Foucault, 1995).

This shift coincided with a broader regional transformation in how childhood was perceived. Latin American governments became increasingly invested in the idea of proper child-rearing as a means to secure national progress (Hecht, 2002). Children came to symbolize their nations’ potential, embodying state aspirations for modernity and industrial advancement (Nunes, 2011). In international forums, Latin American children were portrayed as a “young race” full of promise, an image that contrasted sharply with representations of Indigenous societies as an “old race” impeding development (Nunes, 2012: 288). This dichotomy reinforced efforts to dissociate an emerging national identity from Indigenous traditions. Within this ideological framework, schools emerged as vital instruments for shaping future citizens by instilling modern values and preparing them for integration into national development projects (Wells, 2016).

The expansion of public schooling in Amazonia not only reflected these shifting perceptions of Indigenous peoples and children—it also followed the wider geopolitical and economic transformations influencing regional governance. The discovery of oil in the Amazon basin in the 1930s intensified state efforts to consolidate territorial control and assert sovereignty over strategic resources in this frontier region (Vasquez, 2014). Amid rising geopolitical tensions, educating Indigenous children became a means to foster allegiance to the nation-state, integrating remote communities into a unified national identity. In Brazil, for example, each SPI outpost included a school where nationalistic rituals—such as flag-raising, singing the national anthem, and locating one’s birthplace on a national map—were regularly performed (Lima, 1995).

Amazonia’s linguistic diversity posed a major challenge to the expansion of schooling, prompting Latin American governments to seek external support for Indigenous education. Their main partner organization in this task was the Summer Institute of Linguistics (SIL), a US-based Protestant mission originally devoted to Bible translation (Barros, 2004). Between 1930 and 1970, SIL came to play a prominent role in Indigenous education across Bolivia, Ecuador, Colombia, Peru, Venezuela, and Brazil (Hvalkof and Aaby, 1981; Stoll, 1982b). Its extensive expertise in Indigenous languages, along with a fleet of hydroplanes, enabled SIL to reach remote areas beyond the logistical capacities of national governments (Stoll, 1982a). Over time, SIL was increasingly recognized as a linguistic authority, and formalizing collaborations with governments across the region. The Peruvian Ministry of Education established a formal partnership with SIL in 1952, tasking it with developing the first official Indigenous education program in Amazonia (Trudell, 1990). In 1969, the same model was adopted by the Brazilian government (Barros, 2004).

SIL’s bilingual education program offered some practical benefits for Indigenous families, such as enabling communication with government representatives and settlers who, drawn by the Amazon’s economic potential, were increasingly encroaching on Indigenous lands (Davis, 1977; Flemmer, 2018). However, formal schooling also promoted unwanted changes within Indigenous territories, disrupting the traditional lifestyles and settlement patterns of its students.

Indigenous families seeking access to formal education were often required to relocate to villages established by missionaries, a practice that turned schools into centers for congregating previously dispersed populations. This role led to the popular designation of school settlements as reducciones (territorial reductions) in Spanish (Chirif and García Hierro, 2007), or agrupamento (grouping) in Portuguese (Lima, 1995). Enrollment also required students to present a name and surname—a bureaucratic requirement that disregarded traditional Indigenous naming customs (Espinosa, 2019). Lacking official identification, many students initially registered using the surname of their extractive bosses, which caused confusion when families changed employment. To resolve this, teachers often assigned their own surnames to students, effectively standardizing names across entire communities (Montoya, 1995: 21). Over time, students internalized a hybrid identity that combined national symbols and Christian values promoted within the school environment. Communities surrounding these schools also began to distinguish themselves from nomadic “savages,” further reinforcing the impact of missionary and state-led schooling on Indigenous identities (Gow, 1991; Rival, 2000).

During this period, the image of Indigenous children in school uniforms was often used by governments as a symbol of “progress” in the Amazon (Lima, 1992; 1995). However, the creation of reducciones and agrupamentos gave rise to numerous sanitary challenges for settled families (see also Elsass, 1992). The high population density within these settlements strained local resources, reducing the availability of game and fish and facilitating the spread of infectious diseases such as cholera (Cueto, 2000). To mitigate these risks, SIL trained Indigenous teachers in sanitation practices and equipped them with livestock, edible plants, medicine, firearms, and electric torches (Stoll, 1982a). In their visits to remote villages to recruit students, these affluent-looking teachers personified the state’s promise of transformation through education.

The relocation of Indigenous communities to fixed settlements was aligned with a vision of Amazonia as an “empty” frontier ripe for development. Governments offered this supposedly uninhabited land as ideal for resettling landless peasants, and a solution to social tension in regions demanding agrarian reform (Barclay, 1991: 199; Lima, 1995). These settler communities were then enlisted to advance the national development agenda, clearing trees and constructing highways to facilitate the extraction and commercialization of natural resources (Davis, 1977). The new roads served as gateways for activities such as logging, mining, cattle farming, and other profit-driven ventures, with little regard for their detrimental impact on Indigenous populations (Merino, 2024).

Despite their resistance, Indigenous peoples had limited means to prevent the encroachment onto their territories. Although several national governments began recognizing Indigenous land rights between 1970 and 1990, constitutional provisions continued to grant the state authority over so-called “unclaimed” areas of Amazonia, which made up most of the forest (Carneiro da Cunha, 2012; Chirif and García Hierro, 2007). This legal framework curtailed Indigenous families’ access to essential resources, as population growth and accelerating deforestation further depleted them. The erosion of subsistence livelihoods, coupled with illegal incursions into demarcated Indigenous territories, led to the widespread impoverishment of Indigenous populations.

Harnessing The Forest’s Human and Natural Resources

The settler occupation of Amazonia and the construction of highways marked a new phase in the governance of the region (Drinot, 2014). By the turn of the century, the forest and its Indigenous inhabitants were increasingly viewed as untapped assets for national development. Political leaders such as Ecuadorian president Rafael Correa (2007-2017) argued that Amazonian nations should not remain “beggars sitting on a sack of gold” (cited in Lang, 2017: 80), presenting the forest as a lucrative but unused resource, and Indigenous communities as impediments to progress. A similar view was expressed by Peruvian president Alan García (2006-2011), who wrote:

There are millions of idle hectares of timber, other millions that communities have not cultivated nor will ever cultivate, in addition to hundreds of mineral deposits that cannot be exploited (. . .) There are also millions of workers who do not exist even though they labour, because their work does not give them social security or pensions, and they do not contribute what they could to multiply national savings. (García Perez, 2007)

The portrayal of Amazonia as a region of unexplored human and natural potential was key to justify the expansion of extractive development. Politicians framed state-led extraction as essential for harnessing the region’s wealth to solve widespread poverty (Lang, 2017; Santos-Granero, 2015). Amid a global surge in demand for oil, minerals, and agricultural products, rising commodity prices prompted national governments to expedite the commodification of the forest (Sánchez-Ancochea, 2021). Consequently, Amazonia’s resource abundance was reimagined as a financial reservoir for funding large-scale programs of socioeconomic inclusion (Gudynas, 2016; Svampa, 2015).

Extractive royalties and the taxation of exports enabled national governments to allocate significant funds to social programs, with over half of the region’s social spending channeled into conditional cash transfers (CCTs) (Sánchez-Ancochea, 2021). CCTs were informed by human capital theory, which posits that investments in children’s health and education can lead to increased future labor productivity (Heckman, 2000). The focus on impoverished families stemmed from research linking economic hardship to a range of adverse outcomes for children including malnutrition, delayed school enrollment and completion, and heightened exposure to physical and emotional harm (Jones and Sumner, 2011). Impoverished by centuries of resource dispossession, Indigenous children became priority targets for interventions aimed at maximizing their potential human capital.

The CCTs implemented in Amazonia made financial aid contingent on the adoption of behaviors deemed essential for lifting children out of poverty, such as regular school attendance and health check-ups (Vásquez Huamán, 2020). Complementary programs also sought to train Indigenous parents in child-rearing techniques considered more effective than traditional practices for promoting early childhood brain development (Scheidecker et al., 2023). The emphasis on behavioral change in such interventions reflects the persistence of colonial child governance, as programs still operate on the assumption that Indigenous child-rearing customs are inherently inadequate or even harmful (Liebel, 2017).

The introduction of social programs in Amazonia sparked widespread suspicion among Indigenous communities, particularly amid ongoing conflicts with the state over the commodification of forest resources (Svampa, 2021). While some families accepted the cash transfers, they struggled to grasp the rationale behind these interventions, perceiving themselves as resource-rich despite being classified as income-poor (Sarmiento Barletti, 2015). Many eligible families were wary of the true intentions behind the CCTs, recalling past experiences where seemingly generous offers from the state concealed an unfair trade of territorial rights or communal values (Lang, 2017; Verdum, 2016). Some families were even reluctant to enroll, fearing that sharing information about their children with government officials could jeopardize their safety (Santos-Granero and Barclay, 2011). A common belief was that the documentation required for registration could be appropriated by the government to either facilitate further resource extraction or forcibly enlist Indigenous youth into the military (Correa Aste, Roopnaraine, and Margolies, 2018: 164). The conditional nature of these programs, where assistance depended on compliance with prescribed behaviors, only worsened these apprehensions.

In theory, CCTs were designed to enable impoverished families to make better decisions for their children by reducing their reliance on child labor and easing the financial burden of school attendance (Buarque, 1994; Vásquez Huamán, 2020). In practice, however, their narrow focus on individual behaviors deflects attention from the structural inequalities that impede Indigenous children’s educational attainment, such as access to schools and the poor quality of education provided (de Carvalho, 2025). Many Indigenous families question the actual benefits of regular school attendance, given that chronic teacher absenteeism and limited resources often prevent local schools from delivering meaningful learning outcomes (Verdum, 2016). Despite these concerns, families comply with program requirements to avoid losing the benefits upon which they have become increasingly dependent (de Carvalho, 2025; Verdum, 2016). This dynamic suggests that conditionalities serve less as a pathway to genuine social transformation and more as a disciplinary tool, representing a contemporary form of child-centered governmentality.

Studies examining the effects of CCTs on Indigenous communities suggest the programs can also induce some negative behavior shifts. For instance, CCTs promote an individualized approach to economic well-being by allocating benefits at the household level, which conflicts with traditional practices of resource-sharing (Correa Aste, Roopnaraine, and Margolies, 2018; Novo, 2018; Santos-Granero, 2015). In addition, since recipients need to travel to urban centers to access funds, they are more exposed to consumerism and materialistic understandings of wealth (Verdum, 2016). This shift towards a market-oriented lifestyle aligns with neoliberal ideas of development that prioritize individual economic growth over communal well-being (Drinot, 2014).

CCTs also fail to account for the environmental dimensions of poverty in Amazonia. In rural Indigenous contexts, economic vulnerability is closely tied to the degradation of forest ecosystems and the resulting erosion of subsistence livelihoods (Lang, 2017). By attributing poverty to individual behaviors and choices, these programs obscure how deforestation and environmental degradation contribute to the intergenerational reproduction of poverty within Indigenous communities (de Carvalho, 2025). Moreover, by facilitating integration into the market economy without improving the sustainability of traditional livelihoods, CCTs risk further distancing recipients from their traditional territories and customs. In doing so, they reproduce the colonial logic of governmentality by casting rural subsistence economies as an obstacle to (self-)development (Drinot, 2014: 182; Fotta and Balen, 2018).

While CCT programs contributed to a notable reduction in monetary poverty in Latin America from 27% in 2000 to 12% by 2014 (Balakrishnan and Toscani, 2018), they also entrenched a development model structurally reliant on extractive industries (Gudynas, 2016). Rather than pursuing progressive tax reform in support of redistributive social policies, governments have continued to fund social spending through revenue generated by commodity exports (Holland and Schneider, 2017). This reliance on a predatory extraction economy compels politicians to prioritize short-term profit over long-term socioenvironmental sustainability (Svampa, 2015). In practice, this has driven the expansion of resource frontiers into Indigenous territories, further eroding subsistence economies and deepening ecological degradation (Lang, 2017). The moral justification of CCTs as essential to “saving children” from poverty conceals these harms, legitimizing extractivism as both economically rational and socially just. It also produces a fundamental contradiction: while CCTs aim to break cycles of intergenerational poverty, the extractive industries that finance them are likely to exacerbate rural poverty over time (de Carvalho, 2025).

Conclusion and Ways Forward

The history of Amazonia provides numerous examples of how child-centered interventions have served as instruments of population and territorial control. From colonial tutelage to contemporary social protection programs, state interventions reflect a persistent colonial logic: the assumption that Indigenous livelihoods, knowledge systems, and child-rearing practices are deficient and in need of reform. As a result, these interventions have often undermined Indigenous self-determination, facilitated extractive development, and promoted the assimilation of Indigenous children into an individualistic, market-oriented society.

In recent decades, CCT programs have gained prominence across Latin America as effective tools for reducing monetary poverty. However, their narrow focus on recipient behavior change perpetuates the same colonial logic. The policy narrative behind CCTs frames poverty as a product of individual failings rather than structural inequality. Moreover, because these programs were largely financed during a boom in commodity exports, they contributed to building a broader consensus around the need to intensify resource exploitation (Sánchez-Ancochea, 2021). Instead of pursuing progressive tax reforms when commodity prices fell, governments intensified extractive activities, often enabling incursions into Indigenous territories. However, expanding extractive frontiers to fund social spending tends to exacerbate the very cycles of poverty that CCTs intend to break (de Carvalho, 2015).

Recognizing these enduring colonial patterns—what Mignolo and Walsh (2018: 129) call the “analytic of coloniality”—is crucial to reimagining social welfare beyond the logic of colonial governmentality. A meaningful departure from this legacy requires placing Indigenous self-determination at the heart of social policy (see also Segato, 2013). This would entail actively involving Indigenous communities, including children, in the design and implementation of the programs intended to benefit them. Culturally grounded and participatory solutions are more likely to address the complex needs and aspirations of diverse Indigenous populations. Ultimately, social programs should support Indigenous children to thrive on their own terms, inclusively rooted in their traditions and territories.

Footnotes

Dr. Thaís de Carvalho is a Lecturer in Sustainable Development at The Open University (United Kingdom). Her interests include childhood issues, social policy, and environmental justice.

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