Marine Protected Areas, Conservation Dispossession and Slow Violence in Blue Economy Governance in the Indian Ocean

The ocean is often imagined as a vast, open frontier, a place where nature exists apart from human hands. But for the millions of people living along the coasts of the Indian Ocean, the sea is not a distant wilderness; it is a workplace, a pantry, and a home. For generations, small-scale fishing communities have managed these waters through shared customs, passing down knowledge about fish behavior, seasonal tides, and sustainable harvesting from one generation to the next. In recent decades, a new global idea called the "Blue Economy" has emerged, promising to balance the protection of marine life with economic growth. This framework suggests that by setting aside large areas of the ocean as Marine Protected Areas (MPAs), we can save biodiversity while creating new wealth through tourism and carbon markets. The assumption is that conservation and development can work hand in hand. However, a closer look at how these policies are actually implemented reveals a different story, one where the people who have cared for the sea for centuries are often pushed aside to make room for new investors.

A team of researchers set out to investigate the real-world impact of these conservation efforts in the Indian Ocean. They examined three distinct locations: the Maldives, a nation of islands built entirely on coral reefs; the Gulf of Mannar in Sri Lanka, a rich marine park bordering India; and the Seychelles, an archipelago that has become a pioneer in ocean finance. The researchers did not just look at fish counts or water quality; they looked at the human cost. They applied a concept known as "slow violence," which describes harm that happens gradually over time, often hidden from public view, rather than in a single dramatic event. They also used a lens of "feminist political ecology," which focuses on how environmental changes affect men and women differently, paying special attention to the work women do that is often invisible in official statistics. Their goal was to understand who truly benefits from the Blue Economy and who pays the price.

What the researchers found is that the promise of the Blue Economy often masks a process of "conservation dispossession." This term describes a situation where local communities are stripped of their rights to use the sea, not because they are harming it, but because their traditional ways of life are being replaced by commercial interests. In the Maldives, for example, the ocean was once managed by local island councils who decided who could fish where. Today, vast stretches of these waters are leased to luxury resorts. While these resorts often fund their own conservation projects to protect the coral reefs that attract tourists, they effectively exclude local fishermen from the very waters they have fished for generations. The researchers noted that this shift has a specific gendered impact. In Maldivian history, women have been the primary processors of fish, turning tuna into dried products that are sold locally and exported. As the reefs are enclosed for tourism, the supply of fish for these women to process disappears. The economic benefits of the new tourism economy go largely to men working in hotels or to foreign investors, while the women lose their livelihoods without any official record of the loss.

In Sri Lanka, the situation is complicated by a history of civil conflict and military presence. The Gulf of Mannar Marine National Park was established to protect endangered species like sea turtles and dugongs. However, the researchers found that the rules governing this park have been enforced in a way that slowly erodes the ability of local fishing families to make a living. Over decades, small restrictions have piled up: a no-fishing zone here, a seasonal closure there, and military security checkpoints that block access to traditional grounds. These changes happen so gradually that they are rarely seen as a single act of dispossession, but the cumulative effect is that fishing communities are pushed out. The researchers highlighted that post-war reconstruction programs often assume the "fisher" is a man with a boat, offering him a new engine or net. They fail to recognize the women who dry, salt, and sell the catch. When the fish disappear or the markets are disrupted by these restrictions, these women lose their income, yet their struggle remains invisible in conservation reports.

The third case, the Seychelles, shows how international finance drives these changes. The country created a "debt-for-nature swap," a financial deal where foreign investors paid off the nation's debt in exchange for a promise to protect thirty percent of its ocean. While this sounds like a win for the environment, the researchers found that the governance structure created by this deal prioritizes the interests of global investors and tourism over local needs. The rules for protecting the ocean are designed to be easily measured by international auditors, favoring strict "no-take" zones where no fishing is allowed. This approach often conflicts with the needs of local artisanal fishermen who rely on small boats and traditional methods. Furthermore, the rise of "blue carbon" markets, which pay countries to protect mangroves and seagrass for their ability to store carbon, has led to new restrictions. In the Seychelles, these financial protocols require that human activity be minimized in these areas to prove the carbon is being stored. This technical requirement effectively bans the traditional fishing and gathering practices that local communities have used for generations, turning their ancestral grounds into restricted zones managed for global carbon credits.

The study concludes that the current model of ocean governance is not a neutral balance between nature and people. Instead, it suggests that the Blue Economy is often a mechanism for transferring control of the sea from local communities to tourism operators, conservation NGOs, and financial markets. The researchers argue that this process is deeply unfair because it ignores the knowledge and labor of the people who have sustained these ecosystems for centuries. They point out that the costs of conservation are borne by the poor, particularly by women whose work is erased from the data, while the profits are captured by distant investors. To fix this, the authors propose a new concept called "seascape justice." This idea demands that ocean governance must recognize the rights of local communities, value their traditional knowledge, and ensure that the benefits of conservation are shared fairly. It calls for a system where the people who live with the sea are not treated as obstacles to be removed, but as essential partners in its future. The researchers suggest that without this shift, the expansion of protected areas will continue to displace millions of coastal people in the name of sustainability, creating a new story of enclosure rather than liberation.