Unclaimed, Therefore Ours: The Issue With Colonial Logic in Space

Space exploration may be new terrain, but there is nothing new about the idea of claiming uninhabited land, even when it’s millions of miles away. We speak of “colonizing Mars,” and “pioneering the Moon,” as if space is merely the next opportunity for human ambition, when in reality it is much more than that. These terms, often used without hesitation, are not innocuous metaphors. They reflect a worldview that is deeply rooted in settler colonialism and a system that justifies dominance through the framing of land as empty, available, and waiting to be claimed. 

The pursuit of scientific discovery, technological advancement, and a deeper understanding of space is both exciting and necessary. But if we are to venture beyond Earth, we must do so with intention, challenging the historical narratives we risk carrying with us.

One of the clearest indications of colonial logic in space policy is the language itself. Terms such as “frontier,” “colonize,” and “pioneer” are used casually and consistently by policymakers, corporations, and media alike. But they do not arise in a vacuum. These words recall centuries of imperial expansion, when colonial powers justified conquest by framing new lands as uninhabited and thus claimable. Mars, like the Americas once were, is framed as a place with no history, no rights, and no voice. While we have found no definitive evidence of life on Mars, upcoming missions like China’s Tianwen-3 and the joint NASA-ESA Mars Sample Return (MSR) program are specifically designed to verify whether microbial life ever existed. Still, even as the jury is still out, the prevailing language and policies often assume that the absence of recognizable life equates to absence of value, a deeply anthropocentric and imperial perspective.

But even if we take away metaphors, the actions behind these words reflect the same mindset. The 2015 US Commercial Space Launch Competitiveness Act grants American companies the right to extract and claim resources from asteroids, making space a commercial zone. This kind of legal positioning prioritizes economic opportunity over ethical foresight, favoring those with capital and launch capacity. Though the Outer Space Treaty of 1967 forbids national sovereignty over celestial bodies, it does little to regulate how private actors extract, profit from, or impact those bodies, creating a contradiction. On Earth, we have seen how settler states declared land unowned for the purpose of redistributing it to settlers and corporations. In space, the absence of formal sovereignty was meant to prevent national ownership. In practice, however, this legal ambiguity is often exploited by powerful actors to pursue control. As a result, the issue is not with the treaty’s principles, but with the ways its gaps are used to validate extractive logic that sovereignty was supposed to restrain.

Some argue that because space is empty, it is exempt from ethical concerns. But this assumption itself is deeply colonial. It reflects what scholar Mirjam Held might call an epistemic hierarchy: a belief that only certain forms of knowledge, life, or presence matter. It erases not only the possibility of non-human or non-anthropocentric systems of value, but also the worldviews that have long understood land and space as relational rather than extractive.

In 2021, the Indigenous Studies Working Group released a statement critiquing the Breakthrough Listen project, a Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence (SETI) initiative. They challenged the assumptions embedded in the idea of “first contact,” drawing parallels between space exploration and Western imperialism. Just as European empires framed Indigenous people as primitive and in need of discovery, space agencies today often frame potential alien life as passive and waiting to be found. The group called for interspecies communication to be rooted not in domination, but in ethics. This same framework could be applied to discussions around microbial life on Mars: if we do discover even the smallest trace of life, should our instinct be to study or to preserve? Just as imperial powers dismissed the rights and agency of Indigenous people, we risk replicating that logic on other planets unless we take a more relational rather than extractive approach.

The implications for space policy are clear: exploration must not reproduce the violence of colonialism under the guise of progress. At the same time, it is crucial to acknowledge that we are not yet harming living beings in space, at least not to our current knowledge. However, that lack of immediate harm should not justify a lack of caution. We have already seen the consequences of unchecked extraction and environmental degradation on Earth. One could argue that our renewed interest in space isn’t just about curiosity or survival; it's a way of seeking new frontiers to exploit after exhausting this one.

Environmental policy further exemplifies colonial ideology disguised as neutral science. Many planetary protection policies emphasize sterilization and contamination prevention, particularly with missions to Mars. These efforts, however, are rarely framed in terms of relational ethics. Instead, they focus on preserving the integrity of human-led research and ensuring the safety of Earth, goals that, while valid, are often framed through scientific utility or Earth-centric safety, rather than broader relational ethics. Efforts to prevent forward contamination, though important, are rarely discussed in terms of how we relate to the environments we enter, but rather how we protect our research interests or technologies. While NASA’s Office of Planetary Protection has detailed protocols for minimizing biological contamination, these are primarily framed around preserving scientific integrity. This ultimately leaves very little room for reflecting on why and how we explore, even as we face crises on Earth. Conservation, in this model, becomes another way of controlling space rather than respecting it.

Commercialization adds additional challenges. Private companies are not bound by the same frameworks as public institutions like NASA. Their priorities are often shaped by a return on investment, shareholder pressure, and national prestige. SpaceX, for example, has framed its Mars plans in explicitly colonial language, describing Mars as a “new frontier,” and speaking of building a self-sustaining city there.

This issue extends past language and symbolism. The institutions that govern space are shaped by a small group of powerful nations and corporations. The 1967 Outer Space Treaty, for example, was drafted during the Cold War during a conflict greatly dominated by the United States and the Soviet Union. While it does declare that space is the “province of all mankind,” it offers no methods for enforcement. Today, with commercial actors like SpaceX and Blue Origin joining in on space exploration, the divide between legal principles and actual practices continues to expand.

Attempts to build more inclusive space governance have been largely performative. Proposals for a “common heritage of mankind” model, similar to the outlines used for the deep seabed and Antarctica, have failed to gain traction. Florian Rabitz, writing in the International Journal of the Commons, notes that global space governance is unlikely to be fair or possible under current geopolitical conditions. The same nations and corporations that benefit most from extractive policies are the ones shaping the rules. Without structural change, even the best intentioned agreements will reproduce inequality.

A decolonial space would need a fundamental shift in how we relate to space itself. Instead of viewing celestial bodies as lifeless land waiting to be claimed, we should understand them as places that deserve respect regardless of their value to us. This does not mean we should halt exploration altogether, that this will result in a complete utopia, or that we can erase greed and competition overnight. But even small shifts in framing and regulation can be a starting point for more just futures. For example, space agencies and companies could replace colonial language with metaphors that are rooted in stewardship and reciprocity. Regulatory bodies like NASA already conduct environmental assessments under the National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA), but these often focus on the Earth-based impact of missions. Expanding this framework to include ethics and relational considerations for space could be a meaningful next step. While these shifts won’t dismantle power structures overnight, they can challenge the assumptions that shape both policy and practice.

It must also reject the common myth of inevitability. There is nothing inevitable about extraction, competition, or conquest in space. These are choices, shaped by history and ideology. If space is a mirror of our values, then this moment gives us a rare chance to reflect. 

We can choose differently. We can choose cooperation over ownership. We can choose care over control. We can choose community over conquest. We should strive to carry forward not only our technologies, but our responsibilities. This means recognizing that space policy is not neutral. It is a reflection of who we are, and who we are willing to become.

But change won’t come from institutions alone. Public awareness is key, As long as space policy remains invisible to the general population, it will continue to be shaped by corporate interests, elite institutions, and geopolitics without scrutiny. For more just futures to happen, individuals must recognize what's on the line and demand accountability from elected officials and decision-makers alike.