Chagos Isn’t Just a Sovereignty Dispute, It’s a Test of the World’s Will to Defend the Ocean
As the United Kingdom prepares to hand over the Chagos Archipelago to Mauritius, we’re not just witnessing a routine legal transition—we’re watching a global stress test of conservation integrity....
On “decolonization politics.” Here’s something in real time that we can’t ignore: The Chagos handover is more than a sovereignty story—it’s a stress test of global conservation integrity. One of the last pristine marine ecosystems on Earth is at stake.
Political justice is overdue. But if it's not paired with long-term ecological stewardship, we risk losing a rare environmental success for the sake of symbolism. Nature doesn’t care who holds the deed—only who protects it.
As the United Kingdom prepares to hand over the Chagos Archipelago to Mauritius, we’re not just witnessing a routine legal transition—we’re watching a global stress test of conservation integrity. What’s at stake isn’t just 24 square kilometres of disputed land. It’s more than 640,000 square kilometres of ocean—one of the last intact marine ecosystems on Earth.
Chagos is vast, biodiverse, and—so far—relatively undisturbed. Since 2010, the UK has enforced a no-take marine protected area (MPA) across the entire region. The results have been clear: flourishing reefs, healthy predator populations, undisturbed seabeds, and migratory corridors free from industrial exploitation. Whether this protection came from ecological commitment or political calculation is beside the point. The ecological outcome—deliberate or not—has been a rare success.
Mauritius, the incoming steward, has promised to maintain environmental protections. But verbal pledges don’t stop bottom trawlers. They don’t deter illegal fleets. And they certainly don’t override the economic pressure that comes with newly acquired sovereignty: fishing licenses, maritime access deals, phased development. Without sustained oversight, conservation doesn’t collapse all at once—it dies by a thousand cuts.
Let’s be blunt: this isn’t about a few remote atolls. This is about one of the world’s largest marine zones—twice the size of the UK—situated on vital Indo-Pacific shipping lanes. It’s not just ecologically rich; it’s strategically loaded. Even under UK jurisdiction, enforcement hasn’t been foolproof. Trawlers have been caught operating illegally in Chagos waters—and have often evaded prosecution. Selling fishing rights to bad actors is lucrative, and overfishing is difficult to prove until the damage is already done. If the handover results in diluted regulation, expect a surge in foreign fleets, illegal harvest, and unmonitored ecological degradation. By the time the world notices, it will be too late.
At present, all commercial fishing and bottom trawling are banned. That singular policy has allowed the marine ecosystem to rebound in dramatic fashion. Apex predators are thriving. Reefs teem with life. Benthic habitats remain intact. But if these protections are relaxed—even slightly—decades of ecological resilience could begin to unravel. Bottom trawling, in particular, is catastrophic: it razes the seafloor, destroys slow-growing coral structures, and displaces entire marine communities. And once allowed, the practice is nearly impossible to rein in.
The ecological value of Chagos cannot be overstated. Its coral reefs—some of the healthiest on Earth—support over 220 species of coral and more than 800 species of fish. Green and hawksbill turtles nest on its beaches. Sharks, manta rays, and even blue whales ply its waters. In the skies above, frigatebirds and red-footed boobies dominate. On land, Pisonia trees and Scaevola shrubs hold the soil against wind and wave. Chagos isn’t just remote—it’s a scientific benchmark, one of the last places where researchers can still study a coral reef system unbroken by human hands.
And yet, this ecological sanctuary exists in tension with a dark human legacy. Between 1967 and 1973, the Chagossian population was forcibly removed to clear space for the aforementioned military infrastructure. Their descendants have long sought the right to return. That justice is overdue—but without ecological foresight, it risks compromising the very environment they hope to reclaim. Resettlement, if mishandled, could present serious environmental threats. The drive to rebuild often leads to infrastructure, energy demands, and altered coastlines.
Development tends to move faster than ecological caution. And in fragile island systems, the consequences are rarely subtle. Cruise ships, hotel resorts, expanded runways—these don’t just transform landscapes; they unbalance entire ecosystems. I find this situation deeply alarming. It speaks to a broader issue—about people and place, and whether place can be protected when the politics of place take over. Our wild places—land, water, and air—must be held sacred. Yet nationalism too often takes the form of economic ambition, sidelining national policies for nature protection. Chagos needs to show that those goals are not mutually exclusive. It needs to marry conservation with sovereignty. If it fails, the loss won’t just be ecological—it will be philosophical.
Then there’s the reality of Diego Garcia—the paradox at the heart of the archipelago. The U.S. military base, while contributing to environmental stress, has also deterred commercial exploitation through sheer territorial control. Its presence has functioned, however unintentionally, as a buffer against industrial encroachment. But that buffer comes at a cost: jet fuel storage, waste disposal, and persistent infrastructural pressure all threaten the surrounding ecosystem. As political arrangements shift, so too might the terms of U.S. presence. Will environmental safeguards hold? Or will secrecy and strategic expedience prevail?
Some nations deploy “dual-use” fishing fleets in contested waters—civilian vessels in name only, fitted with military-grade surveillance systems. This highlights a broader tension: nature reserves increasingly lie at the intersection of ecological protection and geopolitical surveillance. Especially at sea, where species loss and recovery are hard to track, protected areas are vulnerable to the illusion of safety. Chagos may be the clearest example. Weak enforcement here isn’t a technicality—it’s an open invitation. This is no place for increased military or commercial activity.
Any future that involves a return must be rooted in community-based governance, indigenous stewardship, and strict ecological design. Traditional, low-impact fishing could coexist with conservation goals—but only if resettlement is not a symbolic gesture or a political trophy. It must come with funding, long-term planning, robust oversight, and international support. Otherwise, it risks becoming another story of land restitution at the expense of ecosystem integrity.
This is what makes Chagos so consequential. It’s not just about sovereignty. It’s about stewardship. Lose this place, and we don’t just lose a coral sanctuary—we lose one of the last functioning examples of large-scale ocean protection. We lose the credibility of international marine protected areas. We lose scientific baselines that can’t be replicated elsewhere.
The world is full of cautionary tales. Let’s not add Chagos to the list. Let’s not trade a rare ecological win for symbolic closure. Let’s not pretend that marine protections can survive without teeth, funding, or political will.
This isn’t just about who owns the islands. It’s about who will commit to permanently defending one of the world’s most pristine marine protected areas—despite the pressure.