Support for state-backed development puts Church at odds with Indigenous Catholics defending ancestral land
By Ryan Dagur Published: April 20, 2026 06:12 AM GMT
For decades, the Catholic Church has presented itself as a moral ally of Indigenous peoples.
From Laudato Si’, in which Pope Francis defended ancestral lands, to Vatican endorsements of the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, the Church has framed the protection of Indigenous communities as a matter of justice, dignity and faith.
That global moral posture makes what is now unfolding in Papua deeply unsettling.
In Indonesia’s easternmost region, a senior Catholic leader is facing fierce opposition from his own congregation for supporting a government-backed food mega-project that threatens Indigenous land.
The controversy erupted after Archbishop Petrus Canisius Mandagi of Merauke warned that Catholics protesting the project would “perish.” His comment ignited outrage among Papuan Catholics and exposed a profound contradiction between the Church’s teachings and its actions on the ground.
In Papua — a region long scarred by land dispossession, militarization and resource extraction — the Church’s stance is never merely theological. It is political, moral and deeply consequential.
Mandagi’s words force an unavoidable question: Will the Church in Papua live up to its global teachings by standing with Indigenous communities defending their ancestral land, or will it align itself with state power and corporate interests under the banner of development and food security?
The archbishop’s remarks were delivered during a church inauguration Mass on April 6, in response to peaceful weekly protests led by lay Catholics opposing his support for a massive food estate designated by Jakarta as a national strategic project.
“God destroys those who do not respect places of worship,” Mandagi told them.
For many Papuan Catholics, the statement felt less like spiritual guidance than a threat — one issued from the pulpit against those invoking their faith to defend their land and livelihoods.
The backlash was immediate. Expressions of pain and anger flooded social media as lay Catholics accused the archbishop of silencing dissent rather than shepherding his flock.
Yet the furor did not arise overnight. Since 2024, Mandagi’s vocal endorsement of the project has prompted sustained protests demanding that he withdraw his support and apologize.
Rather than easing tensions, his latest remarks have widened the rift, transforming internal disagreement into an open moral confrontation.
At the heart of the dispute is a government food project that aims to clear up to 3 million hectares of land in Merauke — two-thirds for sugarcane and the rest for rice. The administration of Prabowo Subianto has presented the initiative as essential to Indonesia’s food sovereignty.
But the land is far from empty. It is the ancestral territory of the Malind, Maklew, Khimaima and Yei peoples — forested wetlands where life depends on sago groves, rivers and seasonal hunting.
More than 50,000 Indigenous residents across 40 villages are expected to be affected. Deforestation is already underway. By the end of 2025, nearly 6,000 hectares had been cleared for rice cultivation, while sugarcane plantations destroyed more than 15,000 hectares in early 2026 alone.
Each hectare lost represents not only environmental damage but also the erosion of Indigenous food systems, culture and collective memory.
While urban Catholic youth stage demonstrations inside churches, Indigenous communities have mounted their own form of resistance.
Across Merauke, villagers have planted red crosses — salib merah — on land earmarked for clearing, asserting ownership and erecting a spiritual barrier against destruction.
The symbolism is striking: Catholic imagery deployed by Indigenous people themselves, yet without the backing of the Church’s hierarchy.
Rather than listening to these concerns, Mandagi has suggested that protesters are being manipulated by vested interests. What has been conspicuously absent is any public acknowledgment of the harm the project poses to his own congregants.
His background — he is not Papuan, but from North Sulawesi — has further fueled criticism, prompting growing calls for the Vatican to appoint an Indigenous Papuan archbishop.
These demands are not merely symbolic. In recent years, Papuan-born bishops have emerged as some of the strongest moral voices opposing land grabs and militarization.
Bishop Bernardus Bofitwos Baru of Timika, for example, has repeatedly described food estate projects as existential threats to Indigenous communities.
His stance aligns closely with Papua’s Protestant churches, which have long opposed land dispossession. In February, the Communion of Churches in Indonesia — which includes 105 denominations — formally condemned land seizures carried out in the name of food security at the conclusion of its assembly session in Merauke.
The controversy also recalls the failure of an earlier mega-project: the Merauke Integrated Food and Energy Estate, launched in 2010 and eventually abandoned after widespread displacement and ecological damage.
At the time, under Archbishop Nicolaus Adi Seputra, the archdiocese’s Justice, Peace and Integrity of Creation office actively supported community resistance.
The contrast with Mandagi’s leadership is stark. Shortly after his appointment, in January 2021, he signed a memorandum of understanding with a palm oil company linked to the controversial Korindo Group to renovate a seminary — without meaningful consultation with local communities.
The dangers posed by the current project extend far beyond land loss.
In 2025, Indonesia’s National Human Rights Commission identified at least five areas of concern: land rights, environmental health, food security, participation in decision-making and personal security.
Militarization is the most acute threat. Troops have been deployed to secure project sites, with military posts established near Indigenous villages.
In 2025, a battalion was stationed inside a company concession on the ancestral land of the Kwipalo clan from the Yei tribal group without consent. When villagers blocked excavators, they faced police reports and threats of criminal charges.
The United Nations has also raised the alarm. In March 2025, nine UN special rapporteurs warned Indonesia of alleged land grabbing, forced evictions, deforestation and military repression linked to the project.
The pattern is familiar: sweeping promises of food security, land acquisition enforced by armed force and the displacement of Indigenous peoples — echoing colonial plantation models rather than participatory development.
It is here that the Church in Papua stands at a crossroads.
One path prioritizes harmony with state power, reframes Indigenous resistance as disorder and recasts dispossession as progress — risking the erosion of decades of moral authority.
The other is grounded in Catholic social teaching: standing with communities whose land, culture and survival are under threat.
The Papuan Catholics who protest week after week are not enemies of the Church. They are its conscience
The question is whether the Church hierarchy will heed that call — or allow the words uttered from the pulpit to define its legacy.
*The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official editorial position of UCA News.
Australia West Papua Association Adelaide 