The Echo-Chambers and Time Machines We Create: The Nice Ocean Action Plan, and Reflections on Our Past, Present and Future

[Adithi Rajesh and Nandana Nebhu are students at Jindal Global Law School, India. They are affiliated with the Jindal Forum for International and Economic Laws.]

On the 13th of June 2025, the United Nations Ocean Conference by consensus of over 170 nations adopted a political declaration titled “Our Ocean, Our Future: United for Urgent Action”, highlighting the essential role of the Ocean in mitigating the adverse effects of climate change. This declaration also known as the Nice Ocean Action Plan (‘The Plan’) has been lauded as a welcome move, underscoring the importance of interlinkages between the ocean, climate and biodiversity. 

In this blog, we dissect a few themes that have taken centre-stage in the Ocean Plan. First, we explore how the re-enforcement of the much criticised Marine Protection Areas, as a management tool entrenches a double marginalisation of local communities. Second, we deep-dive into the recurring theme of the plan in its recognition of “tremendous opportunities” offered by sustainable ocean economies. We ask crucial questions – are ocean economies truly sustainable? Is monetisation of conservation an unknown enemy? Third, we reflect on the knowledge production and creation as highlighted in the plan by underlining the dearth of knowledge co-production by indigenous communities. In being reminded of arguments made by TWAIL and indigenous scholars whose works we are deeply influenced by, we question this creation and ask if the plan is truly a step forward, or is reminiscent of arguments foretold by critical scholars when confronted with calls for ocean exploration in the late 1900’s. 

Surabhi Ranganathan, narrating the story of the origins of the principles of the Common Heritage of Mankind, ends with a provocative call: to contend with the legacies of our past in order to truly make progress and move forward (p. 24). We argue that there is an organic relationship between the past and present of international law. The road to its future has wound its way through the past, and international law is continuously stuck (or constructed to be stuck) in a repeating time loop. For its true metamorphosis, we must study its past and weave diverse epistemes into its canvas. In this piece, we examine if the Nice Ocean Action Plan is yet another manifestation of this ‘time machine’ of international law and if its constructed loop further creates new spaces only to perform as ‘echo-chambers’. We argue that the politics of international law, in its favouring of only certain voices, is testament to how history is an unforgiving, but efficient tutor. By subjecting the plan to a doctrinal and critical analysis, we interrogate whether this progress, as has been lauded, is transformative, or merely continues to be performative. 

Marine Protection Areas: Protection at the Cost of Oppression

Clause 17 of the Plan sets an ambitious target: to ensure that at least 30 percent of terrestrial, inland water, marine, and coastal areas are effectively conserved and managed through ecologically representative, well-connected, and equitably governed systems of Marine Protected Areas (‘MPAs’). The qualifiers of ‘equity, representativeness and connectivity’ marks a welcome and much required shift since these values are absent from the current MPA governance. According to the International Union for  Conservation of Nature, MPA’s are areas of the ocean set aside for long-term conservation aims. 

However, under the guise of ‘conservation’, MPAs have exclusively focused on ecological aspects to conservation excluding  indigenous epistemologies and displacing local communities from their traditional livelihoods. In South Africa, for instance, a group of indigenous and non-indigenous researchers examining five MPAs uncovered a disturbing trend: communities were being dispossessed of their ancestral lands. These MPAs, designed through a top-down approach, rely heavily on a ‘fences and fines’ model that criminalizes access to marine resources.  Insiders(locals) are recast as Outsiders(trespassers) and face penalties for engaging in practices of fishing and foraging. By cutting off access to critical resources without community consultation or consent, this model inflicts a double marginalisation, it ignores the voices and rights of local communities and simultaneously erodes their access to marine resources, crucial for their survival. Fisherfolk have denounced this as a “protectionist, authoritarian, and violently repressive practice of conservation.”

Blue Finance, Red Flags: Unpacking Sustainability in ‘Sustainable Ocean Economies’

Clause 25 of the Plan positions ‘sustainable ocean economies’ as lucrative investment opportunities. The plan offers a platter of investment opportunities ranging from blue bonds and loans to microfinance, deeply embedding the logic of market-based environmentalism. This approach treats climate change and ocean degradation as market failures, attributing the vulnerability of oceans to their insufficient integration into the market system. The ocean is thus orchestrated as a new frontier for unfettered capital extraction, indicating that absent monetisation, ecological decline will inevitably continue. The ocean is then commodified. Such commodification of nature is premised on the flawed logic – ‘selling nature to save it’. Simply put, the ocean becomes the new currency for influx of capital which is quantified and controlled through blue finance. The currency is circulated among the investors and is far removed from the traditional custodians of marine spaces. The ocean is supposed to be saved not simply because of its existence or ecological significance but because its degradation destroys this ‘currency’. These arguments are not ours alone. In this compelling piece on the Kaipara Moana in New Zealand, Maori researchers and Pākehā (European) academics have argued that the natural world for Kaipara Māori was, and continues to be centred on reciprocal relationships with their ‘more-than-human kin’, which under settler colonial rule simply became ‘natural resources’ to be commodified– capable of being owned and exploited by humans. They highlight how flounder and scallops became stocks. Forests became timber and Whenua became property. 

This logic repeats itself in the Plan paving way for large-scale privatization, a process that does not unfold at a single moment in history but rather through the gradual process of transfer of exclusive property rights over the ocean. What was once ‘ocean economies’ have now been rebranded under the seductive veneer of sustainability and conservation is re-employed as its latest instrument. The semantics may have changed, but the logic remains the same, capital accumulation disguised in the language of care. Termed as ‘financialization of conservation’, this phenomenon repackages conservation into a capital venture. Debts of developing countries are exaggerated to facilitate  a transfer of wealth and power to unaccountable private actors. The Transnational Institute exposes this illusory logic of ‘funding gap’. The outcome document reflects this logic as it identifies ‘tremendous opportunities’ offered by ocean economies especially for developing countries, small island developing and least developed countries, to eradicate poverty and achieve economic growth and social development. Marine degradation is then constructed as a problem of poverty. While this plan ostensibly positions developing countries as beneficiaries of capital flows, in practice, this capital seldom reaches their shores,  let alone hands. 

Consequently, these nations are pressured into incurring debt far beyond their sustainable thresholds. The UN Biodiversity Framework rests on this ‘imagined funding gap’ and presents private finance as a quick fix. However, the income streams generated through these instruments rarely translate into wealth redistribution to developing countries, often luring them into debt traps, a pattern witnessed previously during the African Odious debt crisis. In the name of ‘de-risking’ investments, these instruments are tied to high-interest rates and commission fees thus reducing the risk for investors by transferring the burden squarely onto the ‘supposed beneficiaries’- developing countries. Countries like Seychelles have also conceded their sovereignty to foreign conservation organisations enabling them to assert de facto control over their national ocean governance policies. This is nothing short of eco-imperialism cloaked in the language of sustainability. Similar tendencies are observed in blue bonds as well. With no uniform international standard on what projects qualify as ‘blue’, there is a possibility that funds are misdirected into ventures unrelated to ocean conservation. 

This regulatory vacuum opens the floodgates to blue washing – the marine counterpart of ‘greenwashing’ where extractivist ventures masquerade as ocean conservation projects. Researchers warn that this could result in ocean grabbing, appropriation of marine spaces for capitalist interests. As such, these instruments should adopt the International Capital Market Association’s ‘Blue Guidance Frameworks’. Unfortunately, these frameworks are tailored exclusively for investors, discounting the interests of local communities. The voluntary nature of these guidelines renders them unreliable and unsafe for ocean conservation efforts. By orienting ocean ecosystems as financial assets, this paradigm enforces a troubling trend: commodification of global commons and its treatment as quantifiable. 

Epistemic Dominance of Western Scientific Paradigms in Conservation of the Ocean

Ranganathan’s piece highlighted the selective usage and reification of the knowledge in interdisciplinary frameworks (p. 24). We notice, in the Plan, knowledge is used as a placeholder to tick checkboxes of vulnerable groups with a vested interest in environmental conversation. Clause 27 of the Plan stresses that ocean action must be based on the best available science and knowledge, including, as appropriate, relevant traditional knowledge, knowledge of indigenous peoples and local communities. The plan creates two notable distinctions. First, between ‘scientific’ knowledge and indigenous knowledge, and the second between relevant and irrelevant knowledge of indigenous and local communities.  

The Eurocentric origins of knowledge creation in international law are ostensible. TWAIL scholars have for long argued that international law, rooted in Western Epistemies, has privileged certain forms of knowledge, devaluing others. By creating this ‘cut’ between scientific and indigenous knowledge, the phraseology underscores the superiority of one over another. The second distinction based upon relevance further deepens this cut, and widens this gap. Scientific knowledge becomes the aspiration, and indigenous knowledge a means to that end. 

Sub-clause (c) of Clause 27, ‘recognises’ the role of participatory science and research in mobilizing relevant stakeholders, such as youth, local communities and citizen scientists, to enhance data collection, and among others, fostering a deeper connection between science and society, strengthening adaptive management, and accelerating action. This is more so interesting, in light of UNESCO’s definition on indigenous knowledge as one that refers to the understandings, skills and philosophies developed by societies with long histories of interaction with their natural surroundings. Purportedly, the provision appears positive. However, the clause’s language is largely declaratory, it “recognises” rather than institutionalises or integrates participatory knowledge systems, leaving its implementation discretionary and symbolic. In an era where local and indigenous communities are at the frontlines of environmental degradation and climate change, mere recognition without mechanisms of empowerment risks tokenism. Parisi has argued that since the survival of Indigenous peoples depends on their spiritual and cultural cohesion, there is much value in States collaborating with communities to prevent these forms of harm, rather than merely addressing them for accountability purposes. 

Additionally, although the clause gestures in the direction of participatory science, it makes no clear commitment to redistributing the authority. We argue that participatory research is not just about enhancing data collection; it is about shifting whose knowledge counts. By framing communities as data contributors rather than knowledge producers or co-decision makers, the clause subtly reinforces a hierarchical relationship between institutional science and indigenous knowledge systems. Authors like Paulo Bacca have for long argued in favour of the epistemological potential of Indigenous cosmologies as true sources of law and their value in transforming international law discourses. Highlighting their experiences with time and history in their everyday life, Bacca argues that their experiences allow them to transform the present and the future, through their histories of the past. He integrates the Andean spatial-temporal coordinates, where past, present, and future interact permanently, challenging the linear, progressive academic depiction of history. 

Lastly, indigenous knowledge systems often operate with relational, spiritual, and cyclical logics that are incompatible with, or even resistant to, Western scientific rationalities. Bacca further calls for a reflexive and decolonial approach to ethnography, one that doesn’t just ‘study’ indigenous knowledge systems but respects them as equals (or even as judges of our systems), and asks for a methodology that is aware of what international law silences or suppresses. The Plan, and by furtherance these clauses, without discussing how these ontological differences (between indigenous and scientific knowledge) will be negotiated or respected, risks assimilating indigenous knowledge into dominant scientific frameworks, thereby stripping it of its context and transformative potential.

Against this backdrop, we note the call for global action and unity in protecting the Pacific Ocean led by Polynesian leaders and Indigenous representatives ahead of the UN Ocean Conference in Nice, France.  Titled ‘Te Reo o Te Moana (The Voice of the Ocean)’, the representatives have chalked out a six point plan that enmeshes indigenous perspectives into ocean governance. Among the pointers, the representatives note the need of ‘living, honouring and preserving the deep-rooted’ indigenous connections to the ocean. This requires the ‘rightful inclusion’ of indigenous knowledge into resource management. The title is telling. They note “Te Moana is our ancestor, our home”. They focus on the constant reciprocity of giving and receiving. Recent extractivist events have impacted this delicate balance and the leaders’ call for solidarity to restore this reciprocity.

In Conclusion: Echoes to Voices, Time Machines and Time Progressions

Carrying the wisdom of our ancestors and gathered by the currents that connect each of our shores, we embark on a journey to recover our collective power and heal our ocean. Aboard our sacred canoes, we bind together our afa, our ropes, which represent our combined strength and unity towards action.

Te Reo O Te Moana, A Call for Te Moana Nui

International law displays a troubling tendency to function as echo chambers and time machines; it constantly takes many faces while remaining tethered to its exclusionary origins. The spaces from which these treaties originate rarely move beyond. At the conclusion of the Conference, the UN’s Special Envoy for the Ocean, commended the efforts, and said to UN News, “From the desert we were in back in 2015… to where we are now, where you see this incredible engagement.” This engagement, however, is a continued performance environmental activists have watched for far too long. So much so, that the performance of this interdisciplinarity and gathering has in itself become the metric of evaluating the success of an idea, overshadowing any possibility for critical assessment.

In contrast, the Prime Minister Teo of Tuvalu, shared “the frustrations of many small island developing countries in terms of the non-responsiveness of international financial facilities. We need to sustain the pressure and meetings of this sort give us an excellent opportunity to be able to tell our stories.” While statements like these highlight real frustrations, we argue that they are often echoed within the insulated chambers of international law and its organisations, which risks their becoming a performative space rather than a transformative one. In effect, we are not amplifying marginalized voices — we are recycling them within a tokenistic loop, where recognition substitutes action and presence replaces power. We must  undertake a process of ‘unflattening the knowledge field’ (p. 132) and releasing the Western-imposed containment of indigenous law to allow for a genuine understanding and ‘re-presencing’ of law in contemporary contexts.

We are concerned that the Nice Ocean Plan, albeit being a political declaration which is suggestive and not binding, resonates with this sentiment. Even in spaces like political declaration, where utopian thinking is encouraged, the aspiration often feels tepid, diluted by the convoluted language of ‘sustainable conservation’. Why is it that when we have the opportunity to radically re-imagine ocean governance, we default to the same thing that hurt oceans in the first place? Why has the bar for aspiration been set so low?