World leaders are racing to protect nature — but the definition of one word is tripping them up


Delegates confer on targets of the draft global biodiversity framework at the COP15 meeting in Montreal, Canada, on December 4. | Mike Muzurakis/International Institute for Sustainable Development

Want to protect the planet? First, we need to agree on what “conservation” means.

MONTREAL, Canada — Top officials from more than 190 countries are meeting this week and next to solve one of the world’s greatest and most consequential challenges: the rapid decline of wildlife and ecosystems. Saving them will protect the many benefits they provide, from cleaning the air and water to pollinating our crops.

At the meeting, known as COP15, delegates are expected to sign an important agreement called the Global Biodiversity Framework, which is like the Paris climate agreement but for nature. It includes more than 20 targets for countries to achieve within the decade, covering everything from pesticide use to farm subsidies.

While delegates have had years to prepare for COP15 — which some of them say is the most important biodiversity meeting, ever — there’s a lot they still don’t agree on. How much money will rich countries give to developing nations? Should governments phase out subsidies that harm the environment or redirect them toward activities that help restore ecosystems? Should this comma in the agreement text go here or there?

There’s even disagreement about something that forms the very basis of COP15 and the broader environmental movement: what the term “conservation” means.


Mike Muzurakis/International Institute for Sustainable Development
Delegates at the UN’s major biodiversity conference, COP15, try to come to an agreement on goals that countries should reach by 2030, on December 13 in Montreal.

To some environmental advocates, conservation means that a given area restricts most human activities to maintain some historic diversity of species. If a park in New York state, say, has 100 kinds of birds from one decade to the next, that might be considered conserved land. But to others — including some Indigenous groups — conservation is more about the process of stewarding the land and their spiritual relationship to it. Under this perspective, “conserved” often means that people are using the land’s resources and have a deep respect for them.

This debate matters today because a key part of the draft biodiversity framework is a goal to “conserve” at least 30 percent of all land and water on Earth by 2030 — a target known as 30 by 30. In the coming days, delegates are almost certain to sign it into law under a UN treaty called the Convention on Biological Diversity. But even then, questions will remain due to the ambiguity of the word: What will the law mean for Indigenous lands and other areas that fall outside of national parks?

As nations look to conserve 30 percent of their land, what counts?

The term conservation appears all over the biodiversity framework, but it carries the most weight in 30 by 30. That’s one of the highest-profile targets — and among the most controversial, partly because it’s not clear what will count toward 30 percent.

Most environmental advocates agree that formal protected areas, such as national parks, count toward any measurement of conserved lands, according to Brian O’Donnell, who leads the Campaign for Nature, an environmental group advocating for 30 by 30. These areas — usually recognized by national governments — tend to restrict human activities like mining or construction that might harm the plants and animals that live there.

There’s also another newer and somewhat confusing category of lands, known as OECMs, that advocates also agree should count toward the target. Short for “other effective area-based conservation measures,” these are areas that people use or live in, such as military bases, that have demonstrable benefits for wildlife or ecosystems. (Side note: There’s a frustrating amount of acronyms and vague technical terms in biodiversity policy, which is perhaps one reason why it can be challenging for delegates to agree on anything.)

Together, protected areas and OECMs cover about 17 percent of all land and a bit more than 8 percent of the ocean, according to the World Conservation Monitoring Center (WCMC), a UN agency that manages a global protected area database. WCMC has long been the official indicator of progress toward spatial targets like 30 by 30.


Mike Muzurakis/International Institute for Sustainable Development
A sign outside of the COP15 venue in Montreal.

Mike Muzurakis/International Institute for Sustainable Development
Delegates at COP15, on December 8 in Montreal.

But some environmental experts are also pushing for a third category to count toward 30 by 30: lands managed by Indigenous territories and local communities. As much as 80 percent of the world’s remaining biodiversity is on these lands, yet many of them are not considered formally “conserved” — largely due to an old-school view of nature as “pristine” land without people. (Some Indigenous territories could be considered OECMs if they demonstrate positive benefits for biodiversity; more on that below.)

That view is now changing, which could make hitting the 30 percent target a whole lot easier.

A simple solution to achieving 30 by 30: grant Indigenous people land rights

Indigenous territories and local communities cover more than 30 percent of Earth’s surface already, according to some estimates. So, in a sense, if you consider them as conserved, the land portion of Target 3 would already be met.

“The demand from Indigenous peoples is for Indigenous territories to be recognized outright on their own terms,” Jennifer Corpuz, a Filipino Indigenous lawyer and key negotiator for the International Indigenous Forum on Biodiversity (IIFB), told Vox. “If we count those, we’re there. We’ve essentially reached the target.”

This approach is appealing to Indigenous advocates who are concerned that 30 by 30 could come at the expense of Indigenous land rights — because the historic definition of conservation didn’t include people. On many occasions, they’ve been kicked off of their land in the name of wildlife conservation. (The current text of the biodiversity framework emphasizes the importance of respecting Indigenous land rights.)

“When we talk about conservation, especially for Indigenous people, it’s a history of displacement, evictions, and rights violations,” Corpuz said. “It’s a very loaded topic with a very mixed history.”

“Just give us those rights and we can continue to conserve these areas,” added Ruth Spencer, who works with a community organization in Antigua and Barbuda and is also a member of the IIFB. “Just leave us alone in our territories.”


Chris Minihane/Getty Images
A member of a Maasai Indigenous group in Kenya.

Still, O’Donnell says, to count Indigenous lands as “conserved” and as part of the target, there still must be some way to measure how those areas protect biodiversity. “Outcomes are essential,” he said. “Or else, what are we doing here?” (There’s a very wide diversity of lands governed by Indigenous people and local communities, some of which are more industrialized than others.)

Some Indigenous advocates push back against that idea, Corpuz said, because measuring outcomes requires a lot of work and money. That’s one reason why Indigenous groups don’t want their lands classified as OECMs, she says, because it comes with a burden of scientific reporting (and the designation often “obscures” Indigenous land ownership).

This brings us to another thorny issue at COP15: If you’re going to require Indigenous groups, local communities, and developing nations to measure biodiversity (or restore their lands), you have to pay them for it, Indigenous advocates say.

Measuring animals

When environmental advocates talk about conservation, it’s also not always clear, exactly, what they are conserving — and for whom. Is it the plants and animals themselves, and if so, are some more important than others? And important why? Because they provide benefits to humans? Because they have spiritual value?

Alongside questions of Indigenous land management, this is a key part of the 30 by 30 debate. As nations look to conserve more land, scientists emphasize that it must be the right 30 percent. To many, that means ensuring all different kinds of ecosystems are represented by networks of conserved areas, from the tropical forests to the tundra, and that wildlife has a means to travel from one conserved area to the next.

“When we talk about 30 by 30, we’re talking about a certain amount of habitat, but which places we pick are critically important,” said Paula Ehrlich, president and CEO of the E.O. Wilson Biodiversity Foundation.


Ernesto Benavides/AFP via Getty Images
A paradise tanager in the Cordillera Escalera mountains natural reserve in Tarapoto, Peru, on July 11, 2022.

Ultimately, COP15 and the biodiversity framework are unlikely to result in a single, clear definition of conservation. Yet the idea to include lands managed by Indigenous people and local communities as part of it has received a lot of support — revealing an important way that the environmental movement is changing.

More than ever, Western ecologists are recognizing that they can’t continue to set vacant chunks of nature aside, partly because few natural landscapes are devoid of human life. “You can’t have 8 billion people on the planet without some consideration of spaces that are not developed for extraction or recreation but used by people,” said Andrew Gonzalez, a professor of conservation biology at McGill University. “We’re in them.”

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AI Charlie Kirk tributes are a new version of this old response to violent American deaths



By Art Jipson, Associate Professor of Sociology, University of Dayton.

An AI-generated image of Charlie Kirk embracing Jesus. Another of Kirk posing with angel wings and halo. Then there’s the one of Kirk standing with George Floyd at the gates of heaven.

When prominent political or cultural figures die in the U.S., the remembrance of their life often veers into hagiography. And that’s what’s been happening since the gruesome killing of conservative activist and Turning Point USA co-founder Charlie Kirk.

The word hagiography comes from the Christian tradition of writing about saints’ lives, but the practice often spills into secular politics and media, falling under the umbrella of what’s called, in sociology, the “sacralization of politics.” Assassinations and violent deaths, in particular, tend to be interpreted in sacred terms: The person becomes a secular martyr who made a heroic sacrifice. They are portrayed as morally righteous and spiritually pure.

This is, to some degree, a natural part of mourning. But taking a closer look at why this happens – and how the internet accelerates it – offers some important insights into politics in the U.S. today.

From presidents to protest leaders

The construction of Ronald Reagan’s post-presidential image is a prime example of this process.

After his presidency, Republican leaders steadily polished his memory into a symbol of conservative triumph, downplaying scandals such as Iran-Contra or Reagan’s early skepticism of civil rights. Today, Reagan is remembered less as a complex politician and more as a saint of free markets and patriotism.

Among liberals, Martin Luther King Jr. experienced a comparable transformation, though it took a different form. King’s critiques of capitalism, militarism and structural racism are often downplayed in most mainstream remembrances, leaving behind a softer image of peaceful dreamer. The annual holiday, scores of street re-namings and public murals honor him, but they also tame his legacy into a universally palatable story of unity.

Even more contested figures such as John F. Kennedy or Abraham Lincoln show the same pattern. Their assassinations were followed by waves of mourning that elevated them into near-mythic status.

Decades after Kennedy’s death, his portrait hung in the homes of many American Catholics, often adjacent to religious iconography such as Virgin Mary statuettes. Lincoln, meanwhile, became a kind of civic saint: His memorial in Washington, D.C., looks like a temple, with words from his speeches etched into the walls.

Why it happens, what it means

The hagiography of public figures serves several purposes. It taps into deep human needs, helping grieving communities manage loss by providing moral clarity in the face of chaos.

It also allows political movements to consolidate power by sanctifying their leaders and discouraging dissent. And it reassures followers that their cause is righteous – even cosmic.

In a polarized environment, the elevation of a figure into a saint does more than honor the individual. It turns a political struggle into a sacred one. If you see someone as a martyr, then opposition to their movement is not merely disagreement, it is desecration. In this sense, hagiography is not simply about remembering the dead: It mobilizes the living.

But there are risks. Once someone is framed as a saint, criticism becomes taboo. The more sacralized a figure, the harder it becomes to discuss their flaws, mistakes or controversial actions. Hagiography flattens history and narrows democratic debate.

After Queen Elizabeth II’s death in 2022, for example, public mourning in the U.K. and abroad quickly elevated her legacy into a symbol of stability and continuity, with mass tributes, viral imagery and global ceremonies transforming a complex reign into a simplified story of devotion and service.

It also fuels polarization. If one side’s leader is a martyr, then the other side must be villainous. The framing is simple but powerful.

In Kirk’s case, many of his supporters described him as a truth seeker whose death underscored a deeper moral message. At Kirk’s memorial service in Arizona, President Donald Trump called him a “martyr for American freedom.” On social media, Turning Point USA and Kirk’s official X account described him as “America’s greatest martyr to free speech.”

In doing so, they elevated his death as symbolic of larger battles over censorship. By emphasizing the fact that he died while simply speaking, they also reinforced the idea that liberals and the left are more likely to resort to violence to silence their ideological enemies, even as evidence shows otherwise.

Digital supercharge

Treating public figures like saints is not new, but the speed and scale of the process is. Over the past two decades, social media has turned hagiography from a slow cultural drift into a rapid-fire production cycle.

Memes, livestreams and hashtags now allow anyone to canonize someone they admire. When NBA Hall-of-Famer Kobe Bryant died in 2020, social media was flooded within hours with devotional images, murals and video compilations that cast him as more than an athlete: He became a spiritual icon of perseverance.

Similarly, after Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s death, the “Notorious RBG” meme ecosystem instantly expanded to include digital portraits and merchandise that cast her as a saintly defender of justice.

The same dynamics surrounded Charlie Kirk. Within hours of his assassination, memes appeared of Kirk draped in an American flag, being carried by Jesus.

In the days after his death, AI-generated audio clips of Kirk styled as “sermons” began circulating online, while supporters shared Bible verses that they claimed matched the exact timing of his passing. Together, these acts cast his death in religious terms: It wasn’t just a political assassination — it was a moment of spiritual significance.

Such clips and verses spread effortlessly across social media, where narratives about public figures can solidify within hours, often before facts are confirmed, leaving little room for nuance or investigation.

Easy-to-create memes and videos also enable ordinary users to participate in a sacralization process, making it more of a grassroots effort than something that’s imposed from the top down.

In other words, digital culture transforms what was once the slow work of monuments and textbooks into a living, flexible folk religion of culture and politics.

Toward clearer politics

Hagiography will not disappear. It meets emotional and political needs too effectively. But acknowledging its patterns helps citizens and journalists resist its distortions. The task is not to deny grief or admiration but to preserve space for nuance and accountability.

In the U.S., where religion, culture and politics frequently intertwine, recognizing that sainthood in politics is always constructed — and often strategic — can better allow people to honor loss without letting mythmaking dictate the terms of public life.

  • Arthur “Art” Jipson is an Associate Professor of Sociology in the Department of Sociology, Anthropology, and Social Work at the University of Dayton. For 11 years he was the Director of the Criminal Justice Studies program.