Mars Sample Return (MSR) is the coordinated effort to collect carefully selected Martian rock, regolith, and atmospheric samples and bring them to Earth for scientific analysis. It sits at the intersection of planetary protection, international scientific cooperation, and the geopolitics of orbital infrastructure. For states in Africa, Latin America, Southeast Asia, and small island nations, MSR is not a distant technical matter. It is a live test of whether the legal architecture built for outer space can handle a mission with planetary-scale consequences.

The current MSR architecture is led by NASA and the European Space Agency, with the Perseverance rover already caching samples in Jezero Crater. Yet the legal and institutional questions remain unresolved. Who decides how samples are distributed? What happens if a containment breach occurs during return? Which bodies are accountable if a landing goes wrong? These are not hypotheticals. They are gaps in the existing treaty system that will shape the next decade of planetary governance.

The Legal Vacuum Around Sample Return

The Outer Space Treaty of 1967 declares that outer space, including the Moon and other celestial bodies, is the province of all humankind. But it says little about the return of materials from those bodies. The Moon Agreement attempted to create a more detailed regime, but it has been ratified by only a handful of states and rejected by every major spacefaring nation. The result is a governance gap: MSR is proceeding under bilateral and multilateral engineering agreements, not under a shared legal framework.

This matters because samples are not just scientific objects. They carry potential biological, chemical, and geopolitical significance. A sample could contain evidence of past Martian life. It could also contain unknown compounds that require strict containment. The decision to open a sample container, to share a gram of material, or to quarantine a facility is a decision with global implications. Without a clear agreement, those decisions will default to the states that control the hardware.

Planetary Protection as a Shared Obligation

Planetary protection is the practice of preventing biological contamination between Earth and other celestial bodies. For MSR, this means two things: protecting Mars from Earth organisms carried on spacecraft, and protecting Earth from any potential Martian organisms in returned samples. The Committee on Space Research (COSPAR) provides international guidelines, but those guidelines are not legally binding. They depend on national implementation and voluntary compliance.

For many non-spacefaring states, this is a familiar pattern. They are asked to accept the risks of a mission they did not design, while the benefits—scientific data, technology transfer, economic opportunity—remain concentrated in a few capitals. A global agreement on MSR would not eliminate that asymmetry, but it would create a forum where risk and benefit are weighed together.

Why the Current Bilateral Model Falls Short

NASA and ESA have decades of experience in cooperative missions. Their engineering coordination is strong. But a bilateral model cannot answer questions that are inherently multilateral. For example, the Outer Space Treaty requires states to conduct activities with “due regard to the corresponding interests of all other States.” What does due regard mean when a sample return capsule enters Earth’s atmosphere over the Pacific Ocean, potentially affecting air and sea routes used by dozens of countries?

Similarly, the Rescue Agreement and the Liability Convention were written for a different era. They assume a clear distinction between launching states and other states. MSR blurs that line. A capsule built in Europe, launched from the United States, carrying samples collected by a rover with instruments from several countries, landing in a remote area—who is the launching state? Who bears liability if something goes wrong? The current treaties do not provide clean answers.

The Distribution Question: Who Gets a Gram of Mars?

Sample distribution is often treated as a scientific afterthought. It is not. The first Mars samples will be among the most valuable materials ever brought to Earth. They will be studied for decades. The order of access, the conditions of storage, the rules for destructive analysis—these are governance decisions, not just laboratory logistics.

Current plans call for a sample curation facility, likely in the United States, with international participation. But the legal basis for that participation is thin. A global agreement could establish a sample allocation committee with representation from all regions, not just the states that built the hardware. It could set rules for open data, for long-term preservation, and for the return of unused material. Without such an agreement, sample access will be decided by a small group of space agencies, and the rest of the world will be asked to trust their judgment.

What a Global Agreement Could Look Like

A global agreement on MSR does not require a new treaty. It could take the form of a United Nations General Assembly resolution, a set of guidelines adopted by the Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space (COPUOS), or a multilateral memorandum of understanding. The key is that it must be negotiated openly, with participation from states that are not traditional space powers.

Three elements are essential. First, a clear statement of the legal status of returned samples. Are they the property of the launching states, or are they a shared resource of humanity? Second, a binding commitment to planetary protection standards, with independent verification. Third, a transparent process for sample distribution that includes scientific merit, equitable access, and long-term preservation.

Learning from Other Transnational Regimes

MSR is not the first time the international community has faced a governance challenge involving high-value, high-risk materials. The Antarctic Treaty system governs a continent claimed by no one, with strict rules on environmental protection and scientific cooperation. The World Health Organization’s Pandemic Influenza Preparedness Framework manages access to virus samples and benefits from their use. Both models offer lessons for Mars.

The Antarctic model shows that states can agree to freeze territorial claims and share scientific benefits. The WHO framework shows that access and benefit-sharing can be negotiated even when powerful states control the technology. Neither model is perfect, but both demonstrate that global agreement is possible when the stakes are high enough.

The Geopolitics of Orbital Infrastructure

MSR is not only about Mars. It is about the infrastructure that makes sample return possible: deep space communication networks, Earth return orbits, landing zones, and quarantine facilities. These are orbital and terrestrial assets with strategic value. States that control them gain influence in future negotiations over lunar mining, asteroid resources, and human missions to Mars.

For small island states, the landing zone question is particularly acute. A sample return capsule could be targeted to a remote ocean area, but the exact trajectory will cross multiple jurisdictions. A global agreement could require advance notification, contingency planning, and compensation mechanisms for any damage. It could also create a role for regional organizations in monitoring and response.

The Role of COPUOS and the UN

The Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space is the natural forum for MSR governance. It includes more than 100 member states, including many from Africa, Latin America, and Southeast Asia. It has a working group on the long-term sustainability of outer space activities. MSR could be added to that agenda, or a new working group could be created.

The advantage of COPUOS is that it operates by consensus. The disadvantage is that consensus can be slow. But MSR is not scheduled to return samples until the early 2030s. There is time to negotiate a meaningful agreement, if states choose to start now. The alternative is to wait until the samples are already on Earth, and then argue about the rules after the fact.

Why This Matters for the Global South

For many states in the Global South, space policy can feel like a spectator sport. They watch as a few countries launch missions, build infrastructure, and set the rules. MSR is a chance to change that dynamic. It is a concrete, time-bound mission with clear governance questions. It does not require a massive investment to participate in the conversation. It requires legal expertise, diplomatic engagement, and a willingness to ask hard questions.

The scientific benefits of MSR are real. Martian samples could reveal the history of water on Mars, the potential for past life, and the geological processes that shaped the planet. Those benefits should not be locked behind a paywall of hardware ownership. A global agreement can ensure that data, samples, and knowledge are shared in ways that build capacity in all regions.

Capacity Building and Technology Transfer

One of the most overlooked aspects of MSR is the opportunity for capacity building. Sample analysis requires specialized laboratories, trained personnel, and long-term funding. A global agreement could include provisions for training scientists from developing countries, for sharing analytical techniques, and for establishing regional sample repositories. This would not only spread the benefits of MSR; it would also strengthen the global scientific community.

Technology transfer is more contentious. Spacefaring states are often reluctant to share hardware designs or propulsion technologies. But MSR involves many non-sensitive technologies: sample handling, contamination control, data management, and public communication. These could be shared without compromising national security. A global agreement could create a framework for such sharing, with clear terms and mutual obligations.

Risks of Inaction

The risks of inaction are not abstract. If MSR proceeds without a global agreement, the precedent will be set for all future sample return missions. The Moon, asteroids, and other bodies will be treated the same way: as resources controlled by the states that can reach them. The Outer Space Treaty’s promise of shared benefit will become a dead letter.

There is also a practical risk. A containment breach, a landing accident, or a dispute over sample access could trigger a political crisis. Without agreed procedures, that crisis would be managed ad hoc, by the states with the most power. A global agreement would not prevent all problems, but it would provide a framework for resolving them peacefully.

The Precautionary Principle in Planetary Governance

The precautionary principle holds that when an action carries a risk of serious or irreversible harm, lack of full scientific certainty should not be used as a reason to postpone protective measures. For MSR, this means that the burden of proof should be on those who claim that sample return is safe, not on those who worry about contamination. A global agreement could codify this principle, requiring independent risk assessment and public transparency.

This is not anti-science. It is the opposite. Science thrives on open scrutiny and shared standards. A global agreement on MSR would strengthen the scientific enterprise by making its rules clear, its risks visible, and its benefits accessible.

Frequently Asked Questions

What is Mars Sample Return?

Mars Sample Return is a multi-mission effort to collect samples of Martian rock, soil, and atmosphere and bring them to Earth for detailed laboratory analysis. NASA’s Perseverance rover is currently collecting and caching samples. Future missions will retrieve those samples, launch them into Mars orbit, and return them to Earth.

Why does MSR need a global agreement?

MSR raises legal and governance questions that cannot be answered by bilateral agreements between space agencies. These include planetary protection, sample distribution, liability for accidents, and the rights of non-spacefaring states. A global agreement would create a shared framework for these decisions, rather than leaving them to a small group of powerful states.

What is planetary protection?

Planetary protection is the practice of preventing biological contamination between Earth and other celestial bodies. For MSR, it means ensuring that returned samples do not harm Earth’s biosphere and that Earth organisms do not contaminate Mars. COSPAR provides international guidelines, but they are not legally binding without national implementation.

Who would participate in a global agreement on MSR?

Ideally, all states with an interest in outer space would participate, including those that do not have space programs. The Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space (COPUOS) is the natural forum, as it includes more than 100 member states and operates by consensus. Regional organizations, scientific bodies, and civil society could also contribute.

What happens if there is no global agreement?

Without a global agreement, MSR will proceed under the control of the states that build the hardware. Sample access, planetary protection standards, and liability rules will be set by a small group of space agencies. This would set a precedent for future missions and weaken the Outer Space Treaty’s promise that space is the province of all humankind.

Next Steps for the cosparhq.org Community

This article is the first in a series on sample return governance. Future pieces will examine the legal status of returned materials, the design of sample curation facilities, and the role of regional organizations in planetary protection. If you have questions or perspectives from your region, we welcome them. The conversation about Mars Sample Return is just beginning, and it needs voices from every part of the planet.

Space sustainability is the capacity to use orbital and cislunar environments safely, equitably, and without degrading the conditions that future missions and future generations will need. It sits at the intersection of orbital debris mitigation, spectrum coordination, collision avoidance, and the broader governance of shared space infrastructure. For states in Africa, Latin America, Southeast Asia, and small island nations, the question is not whether space sustainability matters, but whether the institutions that measure and enforce it will reflect their interests. A Space Sustainability Index would make visible the gap between treaty language and operational reality, and it would give smaller space actors a tool to hold larger ones accountable.

This article argues that a public, independently maintained index is a necessary institutional response to the accelerating congestion of low Earth orbit. It is not a substitute for binding rules, but a mechanism for making non-binding norms legible, comparable, and politically actionable. The index should be designed with the same care as the orbital systems it evaluates.

Why an Index, and Why Now

The current governance architecture for space sustainability is fragmented. The Outer Space Treaty of 1967 establishes broad principles, including the obligation to avoid harmful contamination of space and celestial bodies. The Liability Convention and Registration Convention create partial accountability mechanisms. The Inter-Agency Space Debris Coordination Committee has produced widely cited debris mitigation guidelines, and the UN Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space has endorsed a set of long-term sustainability guidelines. Yet none of these instruments provides a clear, comparable measure of how individual states or operators are performing over time.

An index would fill that gap. It would aggregate data on debris production, post-mission disposal rates, collision avoidance practices, registration completeness, and compliance with international guidelines. It would not replace the existing treaty system, but it would make the system’s implementation gaps harder to ignore.

The urgency is not hypothetical. The number of tracked objects in orbit has risen sharply with the deployment of large constellations. The European Space Agency estimates that more than 36,000 objects larger than 10 centimeters are currently tracked, with many more smaller objects untracked. Even a small fraction of these objects colliding can generate cascading debris, a scenario known as the Kessler syndrome. For equatorial and low-latitude states, the risk is not evenly distributed. Debris in low Earth orbit passes over all latitudes, but the capacity to track, predict, and avoid it is concentrated in a handful of spacefaring nations.

What the Index Should Measure

A credible Space Sustainability Index must be built on observable behavior, not aspirational statements. The following categories are essential.

1. Debris Mitigation Compliance

This includes the share of a state’s or operator’s spacecraft that successfully complete post-mission disposal within the recommended 25-year window, the use of passivation measures to prevent explosions, and the release of mission-related debris. The index should distinguish between design compliance and operational compliance. A satellite may be designed to deorbit, but if it fails before the maneuver is completed, the design promise means little.

2. Collision Avoidance Transparency

States and operators receive conjunction warnings from the U.S. Space Surveillance Network and, increasingly, from commercial providers. The index should track whether operators publish their collision avoidance policies, share ephemeris data, and participate in data-sharing platforms such as the Space Data Association. Transparency here is not a bureaucratic nicety; it is a form of risk reduction for everyone.

3. Registration and Identification

The Registration Convention requires states to register space objects with the UN. Yet many objects remain unregistered or are registered late. An index should measure registration timeliness, completeness, and the accuracy of orbital information. For smaller states, this is a matter of legal clarity: if an object causes damage, the victim must be able to identify its owner.

4. Spectrum and Orbital Slot Discipline

Radio frequency interference and orbital slot squatting are sustainability problems too. The International Telecommunication Union allocates spectrum and orbital positions, but enforcement is weak. An index could track how often operators exceed their assigned power levels, cause harmful interference, or fail to bring satellites into use within the required timeframe.

5. Capacity Building and Equitable Access

Sustainability is not only about avoiding harm; it is also about ensuring that the benefits of space are shared. The index should include a measure of how states contribute to capacity building, data sharing, and training for emerging space actors. This is particularly relevant for the blog’s focus regions, where space agencies are young and budgets are limited.

Design Principles for the Index

An index is only as good as its methodology. The following principles should guide its design.

Independence from Single-State Control

The index should not be owned by any single spacefaring nation. A consortium of universities, research institutes, and civil society organizations from multiple regions would be more credible. The Space Sustainability Rating, developed by the World Economic Forum, the European Space Agency, and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, is a useful starting point, but it is voluntary and operator-focused. A state-level index would complement it.

Open Data and Reproducibility

Every score should be traceable to public data sources. If a state disputes its score, it should be able to see exactly which data points were used and how they were weighted. This is not just a technical requirement; it is a legitimacy requirement. An index that cannot be audited will not be trusted.

Differentiated Baselines

Not all states have the same capacity to comply with sustainability guidelines. A state that has launched three satellites should not be judged on the same scale as one that has launched three thousand. The index should use per-capita or per-launch metrics where appropriate, and it should include a separate measure of capacity-building contributions so that smaller states are not penalized for their size.

Forward-Looking Indicators

The index should not only measure past behavior. It should also track commitments, such as pledges to join the Zero Debris Charter or to adopt the UN long-term sustainability guidelines. These forward-looking indicators create incentives for improvement, not just punishment for past failures.

What the Index Would Reveal

A well-designed index would expose several uncomfortable truths. First, the gap between treaty ratification and treaty implementation is wide. Many states have ratified the Outer Space Treaty and the Registration Convention but have not enacted domestic legislation to enforce their obligations. Second, the largest space actors are not necessarily the most sustainable. High launch rates can mask low compliance rates if the denominator is large enough. Third, the burden of space debris is not shared equally. States that have contributed little to the problem may face disproportionate risks because they lack the tracking and avoidance infrastructure to protect their assets.

For the blog’s core audience, these findings matter. A state in Southeast Asia that is planning its first Earth observation satellite needs to know which launch providers and which orbital regimes are safest. A small island state that relies on satellite communications for disaster response needs to know whether the constellations it depends on are managed sustainably. An index would give these states a common reference point.

Objections and Tradeoffs

Critics will argue that an index is too soft, that it cannot force compliance, and that it may be gamed. These objections have merit. An index is not a treaty. It cannot impose sanctions or revoke licenses. But soft instruments can shape behavior when they are tied to reputation, market access, and diplomatic standing. The Corruption Perceptions Index and the Environmental Performance Index have influenced national policy without any binding force. The same can happen in space.

There is also a risk that an index could be captured by the very actors it is meant to evaluate. To mitigate this, the index should be governed by a multi-stakeholder board with representation from all regions, and its methodology should be subject to periodic independent review. No single state or company should have veto power over the indicators.

Finally, some will argue that an index is premature because the data are incomplete. It is true that many states do not publish detailed information about their space activities. But the index can be designed to work with the data that are available, while also creating pressure for more transparency. A state that refuses to publish its debris mitigation data would receive a low transparency score, which is itself a meaningful signal.

A Regional Perspective

The index should not be a tool of the Global North. It should be co-designed with input from Africa, Latin America, Southeast Asia, and small island states. These regions have a direct stake in space sustainability, but they are often absent from the technical working groups where the rules are written. An index that is developed in Geneva or Washington and then exported to the rest of the world will not be legitimate.

One practical step is to establish regional data hubs that collect and verify sustainability data from local operators. These hubs could be hosted by regional space agencies or universities, and they could feed into the global index. This would build local capacity while also improving data quality. It would also create a natural next step for this blog: a recurring column that tracks the index’s development and highlights regional contributions.

From Measurement to Action

An index is not an end in itself. It is a tool for changing the conversation. Once states and operators can be compared on a common scale, the next step is to use that comparison to drive policy. The index could inform launch licensing decisions, insurance premiums, and bilateral cooperation agreements. It could also be cited in UN debates and in national space legislation.

For the blog’s editorial thesis, the index is a natural fit. It connects the abstract language of international space law to the concrete realities of orbital infrastructure. It gives smaller states a way to assert their interests without waiting for a new treaty. And it creates a durable content pillar: a series of articles that explain the index’s methodology, profile its regional partners, and analyze its findings.

The case for a Space Sustainability Index is not a case for more bureaucracy. It is a case for making the existing system work better. The treaties and guidelines already exist. What is missing is a way to see whether they are being followed. An index would provide that visibility, and visibility is the first step toward accountability.

Frequently Asked Questions

What is a Space Sustainability Index?

A Space Sustainability Index is a composite measure that scores states or operators on their adherence to space sustainability practices, including debris mitigation, collision avoidance transparency, registration compliance, and capacity building. It is designed to make non-binding guidelines comparable and politically actionable.

How would a Space Sustainability Index help smaller space actors?

Smaller states often lack the tracking and avoidance infrastructure to protect their satellites. An index would give them a common reference point to assess the sustainability of launch providers, orbital regimes, and constellation operators. It would also create pressure for more transparent data sharing, which benefits all actors but especially those with limited resources.

Is a Space Sustainability Index legally binding?

No. An index is a soft governance instrument. It cannot impose sanctions or revoke licenses. However, soft instruments can shape behavior through reputation, market access, and diplomatic standing. The Corruption Perceptions Index and the Environmental Performance Index have influenced national policy without binding force, and a space sustainability index could do the same.

Who should maintain the index?

The index should be maintained by a multi-stakeholder consortium of universities, research institutes, and civil society organizations from multiple regions. It should not be controlled by any single spacefaring nation. Regional data hubs in Africa, Latin America, Southeast Asia, and small island states could feed into the global index, building local capacity while improving data quality.

This article is part of a series on institutional design for space governance. A follow-up piece will examine how regional data hubs could be structured and funded.

Celestial bodies — the Moon, Mars, asteroids, and other planetary surfaces — are not simply scientific destinations. They are sites of legal contest, economic ambition, and cultural meaning. The treaties that protect them sit at the intersection of space law, planetary governance, and the unfinished project of decolonising the cosmos. For states in Africa, Latin America, Southeast Asia, and small island nations, these instruments are not abstract texts. They are tools for resisting a future in which orbital and lunar infrastructure is built by a handful of actors while the rest of humanity watches from the margins.

This article examines how international treaties protect celestial bodies, where the gaps lie, and why the current moment demands a more inclusive reading of the law. It is written for readers who understand that treaty language is not neutral; it encodes power, and it can be renegotiated.

The Legal Architecture: What the Treaties Actually Say

The protection of celestial bodies rests on a small but consequential set of instruments. The most important is the Outer Space Treaty of 1967, which establishes that outer space, including the Moon and other celestial bodies, is not subject to national appropriation by claim of sovereignty, use, occupation, or any other means. This is the legal foundation for treating celestial bodies as a shared domain rather than a frontier for territorial expansion.

Two other instruments refine this principle. The Moon Agreement of 1979 declares the Moon and other celestial bodies to be the common heritage of mankind and calls for an international regime to govern resource exploitation. The Rescue Agreement and the Liability Convention address human activity and damage, but they do not create a comprehensive environmental or cultural protection regime. The result is a legal architecture that is strong on principle and weak on implementation.

The Outer Space Treaty: A Ban on Appropriation, Not a Ban on Use

Article II of the Outer Space Treaty is often quoted but rarely examined in full. It prohibits national appropriation, yet it does not explicitly prohibit private or commercial extraction. This ambiguity has become the central fault line in contemporary space governance. The United States, Luxembourg, and a few other states have enacted domestic laws that permit companies to own resources extracted from celestial bodies. They argue that extraction is not appropriation of the body itself. Many legal scholars from the Global South reject this reading, noting that it turns a treaty designed to prevent colonial patterns into a licensing scheme for the same behaviour.

For a reader in Jakarta or Accra, the question is not academic. If a company can extract water ice from the lunar south pole and sell it, who benefits? The treaty’s silence on benefit-sharing means the answer is likely to be the company and its home state. The protection of celestial bodies, in this reading, is inseparable from the protection of equitable access.

The Moon Agreement: A Stronger Standard, a Weaker Ratification Base

The Moon Agreement offers a more demanding framework. It explicitly prohibits any threat of disruption to the existing balance of a celestial body’s environment and requires that exploitation be governed by an international regime. But the Agreement has been ratified by only a small number of states, and none of the major spacefaring powers. This is not a failure of the text; it is a failure of political will. The Agreement’s common heritage language is precisely what makes it unpalatable to states that prefer bilateral or unilateral control.

Yet the Moon Agreement remains relevant. It is the clearest expression of a legal principle that many non-spacefaring states still invoke: that celestial bodies are not resources to be claimed but environments to be stewarded. The challenge is to translate that principle into binding rules that can survive contact with commercial ambition.

Implementation Gaps: Where the Treaties Fall Short

The most honest assessment of the current legal regime is that it protects celestial bodies in principle but not in practice. Three gaps are especially consequential for the blog’s audience.

No Environmental Protection Regime

There is no treaty that requires an environmental impact assessment before a mission lands on the Moon or Mars. The Outer Space Treaty requires states to avoid harmful contamination and to conduct activities with due regard to the corresponding interests of other states, but these terms are undefined. A mining operation that permanently alters a lunar crater or a rover that introduces terrestrial microbes to a Martian valley would not clearly violate any binding rule. The Committee on Space Research has issued planetary protection guidelines, but they are voluntary and focused primarily on scientific missions, not commercial ones.

This gap matters because celestial bodies are not empty. They hold scientific data, potential subsurface water, and, for many cultures, spiritual significance. The absence of a binding environmental regime means that the first actor to arrive can define the baseline. That is a recipe for irreversible damage.

No Benefit-Sharing Mechanism

The Outer Space Treaty says that exploration and use of outer space shall be carried out for the benefit and in the interests of all countries, irrespective of their degree of economic or scientific development. But it does not say how. There is no fund, no royalty, no technology transfer obligation. The Moon Agreement’s international regime was supposed to address this, but it has never been negotiated. As a result, the benefits of lunar and asteroid resources are likely to flow to the states and corporations that can afford to extract them.

For small island states and developing nations, this is not a hypothetical concern. The same pattern has played out in deep seabed mining, where the International Seabed Authority has struggled to ensure that the common heritage of mankind translates into tangible benefits for those who cannot mine. Space is repeating the pattern, but without even the institutional scaffolding that exists for the oceans.

No Binding Dispute Resolution for Non-State Actors

The Liability Convention creates a framework for state-to-state claims, but it is slow, underused, and ill-suited to disputes involving private companies. If a commercial lander damages a historically significant site or interferes with another state’s scientific equipment, there is no clear path to accountability. The treaties were written for an era of two superpowers and a handful of government missions. They were not written for a landscape of dozens of private actors, some of whom are more powerful than the states that license them.

The Geopolitics of Orbital Infrastructure

Protecting celestial bodies is not only about the bodies themselves. It is about the infrastructure that surrounds them: lunar orbits, relay satellites, landing zones, and the radio frequencies that connect them to Earth. These are the chokepoints of the next decade. Whoever controls the orbital infrastructure around the Moon will control access to the lunar surface.

The International Telecommunication Union allocates radio frequencies and orbital slots, but its rules were designed for geostationary satellites, not for lunar relay networks. There is no equivalent body for allocating safe landing zones or protecting historically significant sites such as the Apollo landing areas. The Artemis Accords, a set of bilateral agreements led by the United States, attempt to fill this gap by creating safety zones around lunar operations. But the Accords are not a treaty. They are a political arrangement that excludes many states and does not include binding benefit-sharing or environmental standards.

For the blog’s audience, the Artemis Accords are a case study in how institutional design can either include or exclude. A state that signs the Accords gains access to a network of like-minded partners. A state that does not sign is left to negotiate bilaterally or to rely on the thin protections of the Outer Space Treaty. The result is a two-tier system: one for the signatories, another for everyone else.

What a More Protective Regime Would Look Like

A treaty regime that genuinely protects celestial bodies would need to do three things. First, it would define harmful interference and harmful contamination with enough precision to be enforceable. Second, it would create a benefit-sharing mechanism that does not depend on the goodwill of extracting states. Third, it would establish a body with the authority to review mission plans before they launch, not after damage has occurred.

None of this is impossible. The Antarctic Treaty System offers a partial model. It prohibits military activity, suspends territorial claims, and requires environmental impact assessments. It is not perfect, but it demonstrates that states can agree to protect a shared environment when the political cost of not doing so becomes clear. The Moon Agreement was an attempt to apply a similar logic to space. It failed to attract major powers, but its principles remain the most coherent starting point for a more protective regime.

The question is whether the current generation of spacefaring states and companies will accept limits before a crisis forces them to. The history of environmental law on Earth suggests that they will not. The history of treaty-making, however, also shows that coalitions of smaller states can shift the terms of debate. The Group of 77 did this in the law of the sea. A similar coalition could do it in space.

Why This Matters for Africa, Latin America, Southeast Asia, and Small Island States

The protection of celestial bodies is often framed as a scientific or environmental issue. It is also a question of planetary justice. The states that will be most affected by lunar mining, orbital congestion, and the militarisation of space are the states that have the least influence over the rules. They are not passive observers, however. They are parties to the Outer Space Treaty. They have votes in the United Nations Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space. They can propose resolutions, form coalitions, and insist that the common heritage principle be given real content.

This is not a call for confrontation. It is a call for engagement. The treaties that protect celestial bodies are not fixed. They are living instruments that can be interpreted, supplemented, and, where necessary, replaced. The next decade will determine whether they become meaningful constraints or rhetorical ornaments. The states that have been excluded from the first wave of space activity have a particular interest in ensuring that the second wave is governed by rules that they helped to write.

Frequently Asked Questions

Does the Outer Space Treaty actually protect the Moon from mining?

The Outer Space Treaty prohibits national appropriation of the Moon, but it does not clearly prohibit commercial extraction of resources. Some states argue that extracting resources is a legitimate use of space, not an appropriation of the celestial body itself. This interpretation is contested, and the treaty’s silence on benefit-sharing means that the legal protection is weaker than it appears.

Why is the Moon Agreement so controversial?

The Moon Agreement declares the Moon and other celestial bodies to be the common heritage of mankind and calls for an international regime to govern resource exploitation. Major spacefaring states have refused to ratify it because they see the common heritage language as a threat to commercial and national interests. The Agreement remains in force but has limited practical effect because so few states have joined it.

What are the Artemis Accords, and do they protect celestial bodies?

The Artemis Accords are a set of bilateral agreements led by the United States that establish principles for lunar exploration, including safety zones and transparency. They are not a treaty and do not include binding environmental standards or benefit-sharing obligations. They protect celestial bodies only to the extent that signatories choose to follow the principles, and they exclude many states from the decision-making process.

Can small states influence space law?

Yes. Small states are parties to the Outer Space Treaty and participate in the United Nations Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space. They can form coalitions, propose resolutions, and insist on interpretations that protect the common heritage principle. The history of the law of the sea shows that coalitions of smaller states can shift the terms of international negotiations.

This article is part of a continuing series on treaty implementation gaps in space governance. A follow-up piece will examine the legal status of lunar safety zones and their implications for equatorial launch states.

Look up at the Moon on a clear night. The shadows pooling in its craters, the vast basaltic plains—these are no longer just objects of wonder. They’re coordinates. As spacefaring ambition accelerates, driven by established agencies and a surge of new programs from Africa, Latin America, and Southeast Asia, a hard question has moved from academic panels into urgent policy rooms: how do we stop these celestial bodies from being wrecked before we’ve even understood them? The main legal tool we have is the 1967 Outer Space Treaty (OST). It’s old, it’s broad, and it’s the closest thing we have to a constitution for the cosmos. But its principles are groaning under the weight of new actors, commercial mining schemes, and a glaring lack of enforcement. For nations in the Global South—often entering the space domain without the legacy debris or lunar footprints of older powers—the treaty system is both a shield against exclusion and a framework that demands their active, informed presence.

The Outer Space Treaty: A Constitution for the Cosmos

The Treaty on Principles Governing the Activities of States in the Exploration and Use of Outer Space, including the Moon and Other Celestial Bodies—mercifully shortened to the Outer Space Treaty—came into force in 1967. It was born from a rare Cold War moment of clarity, a shared terror that the superpowers would turn the Moon into a nuclear artillery range. The treaty’s protective core sits in Articles I, II, IV, and IX. Article I says exploration and use of space must be for the benefit of all countries, regardless of how rich or scientifically advanced they are. Article II is the blunt instrument: “Outer space, including the Moon and other celestial bodies, is not subject to national appropriation by claim of sovereignty, by means of use or occupation, or by any other means.”

That non-appropriation clause is the bedrock. No flag-planting ceremony gives a state the right to claim a crater, an asteroid, or a patch of lunar regolith as its own. For small island states and developing nations, this isn’t legal poetry—it’s a bulwark. Without it, a new scramble for territory would simply replicate terrestrial inequities on a cosmic scale. The treaty also demilitarizes celestial bodies, restricting them to peaceful purposes and banning weapons of mass destruction in orbit or on their surfaces. Article IX adds an environmental whisper, requiring states to act with “due regard to the corresponding interests of all other States” and to avoid “harmful contamination.” That whisper is now a roar of contention.

Article IX and the Contamination Dilemma

“Harmful contamination” sounds straightforward. It isn’t. In 1967, the main fear was forward contamination—hitchhiking Earth microbes erasing the very biosignatures we hoped to find. The Committee on Space Research (COSPAR) later built planetary protection guidelines that sort missions by their target’s potential for life. A Mars rover hunting for organic molecules gets baked and scrubbed far more aggressively than a lunar orbiter. But Article IX’s reach is wider. It also covers “adverse changes in the environment of the Earth resulting from the introduction of extraterrestrial matter”—the backward contamination that had Apollo astronauts and their moon rocks locked in quarantine. Today, the debate has swelled to include physical harm: the gouging of unique geological formations, the disruption of scientifically irreplaceable sites like the Moon’s permanently shadowed craters, and the sheer visual blight of industrial machinery grinding across untouched landscapes.

The treaty’s language is deliberately loose. That’s why it’s survived, but it’s also why it’s fragile. It sketches principles but provides no regulatory body, no enforcement teeth, no agreed definition of what “harmful contamination” actually means. Interpretation falls to individual states, and the predictable result is a race to the bottom—standards that favor commercial speed over long-term preservation.

The Moon Agreement: A Bolder Vision, Limited Adoption

By the late 1970s, the OST’s gaps were obvious. So the international community drafted the 1979 Agreement Governing the Activities of States on the Moon and Other Celestial Bodies—the Moon Agreement. This treaty tried to put flesh on the OST’s bones, especially around resource extraction and environmental protection. It declares the Moon and its natural resources the “common heritage of mankind,” a phrase lifted from the Law of the Sea. It calls for an international regime to govern exploitation once it becomes feasible, with equitable benefit-sharing and special consideration for developing countries.

The Moon Agreement also speaks more firmly on the environment. Article 7 tells states to prevent the disruption of the existing environmental balance and to avoid “harmfully affecting” it. But the treaty has been ratified by only a handful of nations, and none of the major spacefaring powers. India is a notable signatory from the Global South, but the United States, China, Russia, and most of Europe stayed away. The reasons are tangled: hostility to the “common heritage” framing, which some read as a moratorium on commercial mining; frustration with the treaty’s vagueness on how that future international regime would work; and, frankly, a lack of urgency. For many developing countries, the Moon Agreement is a ghost—a framework that could have guaranteed their voice in lunar governance but remains legally inert because the key players never showed up.

The Artemis Accords: A Parallel Track

In 2020, the United States launched the Artemis Accords, a set of bilateral agreements with partner nations to operationalize principles for civil lunar exploration. More than 30 countries have now signed, including several from Africa, Latin America, and Southeast Asia—Nigeria, Brazil, and Singapore among them. The Accords reaffirm the OST’s core tenets but push further in key spots. Section 11 explicitly greenlights the extraction and use of space resources, framing it as consistent with the non-appropriation principle. The Accords also introduce “safety zones” around operations to prevent harmful interference—a notion critics warn could harden into de facto exclusion zones that gut the OST’s ban on territorial claims.

For developing nations, the Artemis Accords are a knotty problem. Sign, and you get a seat at the table, access to data, and a potential role in a U.S.-led lunar program. Stay out, and you risk being shut out of the norms and infrastructure that will shape lunar governance for decades. But the Accords aren’t a multilateral treaty. They’re a political commitment with no binding dispute resolution and no mechanism for equitable benefit-sharing. A space agency head from a small island state told me recently, “We’re asked to sign a document drafted without us, for a regime that will be built without us, but which will decide whether our children have any say in the Moon’s future.” That’s the structural asymmetry the OST was supposed to prevent, and it’s exactly what current institutional design is failing to fix.

Implementation Gaps and the Geopolitics of Orbital Infrastructure

Treaties are only as good as their implementation, and here the gaps are yawning. The OST has no dedicated international body to monitor compliance, investigate incidents, or settle disputes. The UN Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space (COPUOS) runs on consensus—meaning a single state can block anything. The International Telecommunication Union (ITU) hands out orbital slots and frequencies, but its mandate stops well short of environmental protection or resource governance. This institutional mess leaves celestial bodies wide open to a “tragedy of the commons,” where the absence of clear rules and enforcement invites degradation.

Take orbital debris. It’s not a celestial body, but debris in lunar orbit or scattered across the Moon’s surface directly threatens the space environment. The current framework leans on voluntary guidelines, like the Inter-Agency Space Debris Coordination Committee’s (IADC) mitigation standards. There’s no binding treaty on debris removal, and the problem is swelling as more actors fling up constellations and plan lunar missions. A single collision in cislunar space could spawn a debris field that endangers access to the Moon for everyone—especially nations without the resources to harden their spacecraft. For equatorial countries hosting launch sites—Brazil’s Alcântara, Indonesia’s Biak—the risks aren’t abstract. They’re economic and environmental, right now.

Planetary Protection as a Norm, Not a Rule

Planetary protection protocols are scientifically solid, but they’re voluntary. COSPAR’s guidelines are implemented through national space agencies, with no international verification. A private company could, in theory, plunk a poorly sterilized rover onto Mars and face zero legal consequences under the OST—provided its home state doesn’t bother enforcing the guidelines. This regulatory hole is especially worrying for nations in Africa and Latin America that are building their own space programs. They often lack the domestic legislation to enforce planetary protection standards, even when they want to comply. Responsibility gets diffused, and accountability evaporates.

Consider the Moon’s polar regions. The permanently shadowed craters at the south pole likely hold water ice—a resource of immense scientific and practical value. They’re also among the most pristine environments in the inner solar system. The OST’s “due regard” principle suggests that any activity in these craters must weigh the interests of all states and avoid harmful contamination. But what does that mean on the ground? Can a state or company extract ice if doing so permanently alters the crater’s thermal environment? Can it keep others out to protect its equipment? The Artemis Accords’ safety zones try to answer the second question, but they do it without multilateral consensus, and the whiff of creeping appropriation is hard to ignore.

Building an Inclusive Governance Architecture

The way forward demands institutional creativity that centers the voices of those historically pushed to the margins of space governance. The OST’s principles are sound, but they need operational muscle. One model is the Antarctic Treaty System, which demilitarized a continent, banned resource exploitation (for now), and built a consensus-based decision-making mechanism among consultative parties. Another is the International Seabed Authority, which regulates deep-sea mining under the common heritage principle—a model that could directly inform a future lunar resources regime.

For developing nations, engagement isn’t optional. The current wave of space lawmaking—through the Artemis Accords, COPUOS working groups, and national legislation—will lock in the rules for decades. Countries in Africa, Latin America, and Southeast Asia need to build the technical and legal capacity to participate meaningfully. That means investing in space law expertise, contributing to the COPUOS Working Group on Space Resources, and, where it makes sense, negotiating bilateral agreements that include real capacity-building provisions. The recently established African Space Agency, headquartered in Cairo, is a step toward collective bargaining power, but its success hinges on sustained political will and funding.

The Role of Regional Cooperation

Regional blocs can amplify the voices of smaller states. The African Union’s space strategy, the Latin American and Caribbean Space Agency (ALCE), and the Asia-Pacific Space Cooperation Organization (APSCO) all offer platforms for harmonizing positions and pooling resources. These bodies can develop common positions on planetary protection standards, push for equitable benefit-sharing mechanisms, and coordinate contributions to global monitoring efforts. A network of ground-based telescopes spread across Africa, Latin America, and Southeast Asia could track lunar and cislunar objects, providing a public good that strengthens the argument for inclusive governance.

Small island developing states (SIDS) face a particularly sharp challenge. Many lack the resources for a national space program, yet they’re disproportionately exposed to the risks of space activities—from launch-related environmental hazards to the long-term consequences of space resource exploitation. Their participation in forums like COPUOS is essential, but it must be backed by capacity-building initiatives that cover technical expertise and travel funding. The OST’s promise that space shall be the “province of all mankind” rings hollow if the most vulnerable nations can’t even afford a seat at the table.

FAQ: Protecting Celestial Bodies Under International Law

What does the Outer Space Treaty actually protect?

The Outer Space Treaty protects celestial bodies from national appropriation, military fortification, and weapons of mass destruction. It also requires states to avoid harmful contamination and to act with due regard to the interests of other states. But it doesn’t explicitly shield celestial environments from commercial exploitation or define what harmful contamination means, which leaves a lot of room for argument.

Can a private company mine the Moon under current treaties?

Under the OST, no state can claim sovereignty over the Moon, but the treaty is silent on private property rights. The Artemis Accords, signed by the U.S. and partner nations, say space resource extraction is permissible and doesn’t count as national appropriation. This interpretation isn’t universally accepted. The Moon Agreement would require an international regime to govern mining, but it lacks support from major spacefaring nations. The legal status of private lunar mining is, to put it mildly, unsettled.

How can developing countries influence space governance?

Developing countries can influence space governance by showing up actively in multilateral forums like COPUOS, joining regional space agencies, and building domestic space law expertise. They can also use bilateral agreements to negotiate terms that include technology transfer, data sharing, and capacity building. Collective action through regional blocs amplifies their voice in a domain long dominated by a few wealthy nations.

What happens if a state or company contaminates a celestial body?

Under the current framework, there’s no international enforcement mechanism to penalize contamination. The OST requires states to authorize and supervise their non-governmental entities, so a state could be held responsible if a company under its jurisdiction causes harm. But without a clear definition of harmful contamination or a body to adjudicate disputes, accountability is mostly political, not legal. That gap underscores the need for new institutional mechanisms.

The treaties that protect celestial bodies aren’t dusty relics. They’re living instruments that must evolve with technology and geopolitics. For the nations of Africa, Latin America, Southeast Asia, and the small island states, the task isn’t just to defend these principles—it’s to shape their next iteration. The Moon and other worlds belong to no one, and therefore to everyone. Turning that legal truth into equitable, sustainable practice is the defining governance challenge of our extraterrestrial age.

When we talk about protecting celestial bodies, we aren’t just discussing the preservation of distant rocks and ice. We’re wrestling with a deeper question: who gets to decide the future of the Moon, Mars, and the asteroids, and on what terms? For many nations in Africa, Latin America, Southeast Asia, and the small island developing states, this isn’t an abstract legal puzzle. It’s about economic survival, scientific parity, and preventing a new colonial order from taking root beyond Earth’s atmosphere. The treaties that govern outer space are the only tools we currently have to ensure the cosmos doesn’t become a playground for the powerful, but rather a shared heritage governed by law, not by might.

The existing framework, anchored by the 1967 Outer Space Treaty (OST), sets a baseline. It prohibits national appropriation, mandates that space be used for the benefit of all countries, and bars weapons of mass destruction in orbit. For many in the Global South, these principles feel like a half-built house. The treaty protects celestial bodies from sovereign claims, but it’s conspicuously silent on the extraction of resources by private companies. This gap is the central tension of modern space law, a void that threatens to render the treaty’s noble intentions meaningless for nations that lack the capital to launch their own mining missions.

The Outer Space Treaty: A Shield with a Hole

The OST is often called the Magna Carta of space. Its Article II is crystal clear: “Outer space, including the moon and other celestial bodies, is not subject to national appropriation by claim of sovereignty, by means of use or occupation, or by any other means.” This provision was a direct response to Cold War fears of a territorial land grab on the Moon. It effectively bans any country from planting a flag and declaring a lunar crater its own. For non-spacefaring nations, this is a vital, non-negotiable safeguard. It guarantees that their lack of a launchpad doesn’t translate into a lack of legal standing.

But the treaty’s silence on resource extraction has become deafening. Article I says space shall be free for exploration and use by all States, but does “use” include mining and selling what you find? The United States, through its 2015 Commercial Space Launch Competitiveness Act, and Luxembourg, with its 2017 Space Resources Act, have unilaterally answered “yes,” granting property rights to resources extracted by their citizens. This legislative interpretation, while not claiming sovereignty over the land itself, creates a de facto property regime that mirrors the historical “first-come, first-served” logic of colonial expansion. For a country like Nigeria, which has a growing space program but no near-term capacity for lunar mining, this approach risks building a system where the law protects the land but not the wealth it holds.

The Moon Agreement: A Path Not Taken

The 1979 Moon Agreement tried to close this loophole. Its Article 11 declares the Moon and its natural resources to be the “common heritage of mankind,” a concept borrowed from the Law of the Sea. It calls for an international regime to govern resource exploitation, ensuring equitable sharing of benefits, with special consideration for developing countries. The logic was straightforward: if the Moon’s resources are a common heritage, no single nation or corporation should be allowed to monopolize them before a fair governance system is in place.

Yet, the Moon Agreement has been ratified by only 18 states, none of which are major spacefaring powers. Why? The common heritage principle, while morally compelling, is seen by some as a moratorium on commercial activity. It demands a level of international consensus and wealth redistribution that powerful nations and their private sectors have been unwilling to accept. For many in the Global South, this rejection is a profound disappointment. It signals that the international community is willing to protect celestial bodies from national flags, but not from corporate extraction. The result is a legal vacuum, where the absence of a ratified regime is being filled by national legislation that prioritizes the interests of those who can get there first.

Planetary Protection and the Biosphere Bias

Another layer of protection, often overlooked in policy debates, is planetary protection. This isn’t about preventing resource exploitation, but about preventing biological contamination. The OST’s Article IX requires states to avoid “harmful contamination” of celestial bodies. This principle is operationalized through the Committee on Space Research (COSPAR) Planetary Protection Policy, which categorizes missions based on their target body’s potential for life.

For a nation like the Seychelles, a small island state deeply invested in the Blue Economy and vulnerable to climate change, the logic of planetary protection resonates. It’s a precautionary principle applied to the cosmos. However, the current framework is heavily biased toward protecting potential Martian biospheres for scientific study. It says little about protecting the pristine environments of celestial bodies for their own sake, or about the ethical and cultural dimensions of altering a landscape that has existed for billions of years. As more actors, including those from Africa and Asia, develop lunar missions, the conversation must expand beyond the narrow lens of Western astrobiology to include broader environmental ethics and the rights of future generations to inherit an unspoiled solar system.

The Artemis Accords: A Parallel Regime

The Artemis Accords, signed by over 30 nations as of 2024, represent a significant shift in how celestial bodies are governed. They are not a treaty but a set of bilateral agreements with the United States, operationalizing principles for lunar exploration. They explicitly endorse space resource extraction, framing it as permissible under the OST. The Accords also introduce the concept of “safety zones” around lunar operations, which, while temporary, raise concerns about de facto exclusion and the potential for a patchwork of claimed areas on the Moon.

For signatories like Rwanda and Nigeria, the Accords offer a seat at the table and a framework for collaboration. Yet, the Accords are not a universally accepted standard. Major space actors like China and Russia have not signed, and the legal community remains divided on whether the Accords’ interpretation of resource rights is consistent with the OST. This creates a fragmented governance landscape, where the protection of celestial bodies depends on which club you belong to. A more effective, multilateral approach, perhaps through the United Nations Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space (COPUOS), is essential to prevent a bifurcated legal order that leaves the majority of nations without a voice.

Institutional Design for the Next Generation

So, what does a just and effective protection regime look like? It must move beyond the binary of “no sovereignty” versus “free mining.” We need institutional designs that are adaptive, inclusive, and grounded in the realities of asymmetric capabilities. One model is an international registry for space resources, where all extraction activities are transparently logged, and a portion of the proceeds is channeled into a global fund for sustainable development. This would not stifle innovation but would ensure that the benefits of celestial resource use are shared, as the OST originally envisioned.

Another critical element is the active participation of nations from Africa, Latin America, Southeast Asia, and small island states in the standard-setting bodies. Currently, technical standards for lunar operations are often developed by established space agencies and industry consortia, with limited input from the majority world. This can lead to standards that inadvertently exclude or disadvantage emerging space programs. A truly protective regime must be co-designed, not just presented for ratification. It must also address the specific concerns of equatorial nations, which host vital launch infrastructure, and small island states, which face existential threats from climate change and see space-based Earth observation as a lifeline.

Practical Steps and Current Context

The urgency is not theoretical. The rush to establish a permanent lunar presence is accelerating, with both state-led and commercial missions planned for the coming decade. The International Space Station’s planned decommissioning around 2030 will shift focus to lunar orbit and surface habitats. Without clear, equitable rules, we risk a “scramble for the Moon” that mirrors the worst chapters of terrestrial history. The protection of celestial bodies is not just about preserving craters; it is about preserving the principle that space is a shared domain, governed by law, not by power.

For policymakers in Abuja, Jakarta, or Suva, the immediate task is to build technical and legal capacity. This means investing in space law expertise, actively participating in COPUOS working groups, and forming coalitions with like-minded states to advocate for a multilateral resource governance framework. It also means engaging with the private sector to ensure that national space policies align with international obligations. The treaties are not self-executing; they require constant, informed vigilance to remain effective.

Frequently Asked Questions

Does the Outer Space Treaty ban all commercial activity on the Moon?

No. The Outer Space Treaty does not prohibit commercial activity. It prohibits national appropriation of territory but is silent on the extraction and sale of resources. This ambiguity has led to national laws, like those in the U.S. and Luxembourg, that permit private companies to own and sell resources they extract. The legality of these laws under the OST is a subject of ongoing international debate, with many states arguing that such unilateral actions violate the treaty’s principle that space should benefit all countries.

What is the “common heritage of mankind” and why is it controversial?

The “common heritage of mankind” is a legal principle that designates certain areas and resources as belonging to all humanity, to be managed collectively for the benefit of all, with special consideration for developing countries. It was applied to the deep seabed in the Law of the Sea and to the Moon in the 1979 Moon Agreement. It is controversial because it implies that no single nation or company can claim exclusive rights to resources, and that an international body must regulate exploitation and distribute benefits. Major spacefaring nations have rejected this as a barrier to commercial investment and innovation.

How can a country with no space program help protect celestial bodies?

Protection is not solely about physical presence. Non-spacefaring nations play a critical role in shaping the legal and normative framework through multilateral forums like the UN Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space (COPUOS). By building coalitions, submitting working papers, and advocating for equitable treaty interpretation, these states can influence the development of binding norms. They can also use their diplomatic weight to demand transparency and benefit-sharing mechanisms in bilateral agreements like the Artemis Accords, ensuring that the interests of all humanity are represented in the governance of celestial resources.

What are “safety zones” and why are they a concern?

Safety zones, as outlined in the Artemis Accords, are temporary areas established around lunar operations to prevent harmful interference. While practical for avoiding collisions and dust contamination, critics worry that these zones could become de facto exclusion zones, creating a patchwork of claimed areas that undermine the Outer Space Treaty’s non-appropriation principle. The size, duration, and notification requirements for these zones are still being defined, and their implementation will be a key test of whether the Accords can coexist with a truly multilateral governance framework.

Looking Ahead: A Recurring Column on Treaty Implementation

This article marks the beginning of a recurring column on cosparhq.org, where we will track the implementation gaps in international space law, with a specific focus on how these gaps affect the agency of nations in the Global South. In our next installment, we will examine the role of the International Telecommunication Union in allocating orbital slots and spectrum rights, a quiet but fierce battleground for digital sovereignty. The protection of celestial bodies is not a single treaty article; it is a continuous process of negotiation, interpretation, and, when necessary, resistance. The stars belong to no one, but the rules for reaching them must belong to all of us.

The image of our planet hanging in the blackness of space, as seen from the lunar surface, is a stark reminder of our shared vulnerability and collective responsibility. The treaties that protect celestial bodies are not just legal documents; they are a reflection of our capacity to govern beyond borders, to choose cooperation over competition in the face of the infinite.

Effective protection of the Moon and other bodies requires a dynamic, inclusive multilateralism. The negotiating tables at the United Nations in Vienna, where space law is shaped, must reflect the full diversity of our planet. Only then can we ensure that the rules are not written by the few for the many, but are a genuine product of global consensus.

As we stand on the cusp of a new era of lunar exploration, the choices we make today will echo for generations. The protection of celestial bodies is not a constraint on human ambition; it is the foundation for a just and sustainable future in space, one where a child in Lagos or Lima has as much stake in the cosmos as a boardroom in Houston or Beijing.

The Quiet Architecture of Planetary Protection

When we picture the Moon, it is usually a barren, grey wasteland—a place so far removed from our daily lives that the idea of protecting it feels almost absurd. But for many nations across Africa, Latin America, and the small island states, the question of how we govern celestial bodies is not an abstract thought experiment. It is a direct echo of the same power dynamics that carved up continents and plundered resources here on Earth. The legal framework that shields the Moon, Mars, and asteroids from unchecked national claims is not perfect, but it represents one of the few genuinely global efforts to manage a shared commons before it becomes a battlefield. These agreements—chiefly the 1967 Outer Space Treaty and the less-embraced 1979 Moon Agreement—are the primary defense against a new era of colonial extraction, this time playing out in the heavens.

The conversation around celestial protection is often dominated by the technological ambitions of a few wealthy states and their commercial sectors. Yet the legal architecture governing these activities was shaped by a much wider constituency, including many nations that have never launched a rocket. Understanding this architecture—its strengths, its blind spots, and its ongoing evolution—is essential for any country that wants to ensure the benefits of space resources are shared fairly and that the environments of other worlds are not sacrificed to a single model of development.

The Foundational Pillar: The Outer Space Treaty of 1967

The Treaty on Principles Governing the Activities of States in the Exploration and Use of Outer Space, including the Moon and Other Celestial Bodies, commonly known as the Outer Space Treaty (OST), is the bedrock of international space law. Ratified by over 110 countries, including all major spacefaring nations, it establishes two principles central to celestial protection. First, Article II explicitly prohibits national appropriation by claim of sovereignty, by means of use or occupation, or by any other means. No nation can plant a flag and declare a lunar crater or an asteroid its territory. Second, Article IX introduces a duty of environmental stewardship, requiring states to conduct their activities with “due regard to the corresponding interests of all other States Parties” and to avoid “harmful contamination” of celestial bodies.

For many developing nations, Article II is a shield against a future where the most powerful states carve up the solar system the way they once did continents. The prohibition on sovereignty is absolute, but its interpretation is under increasing strain. The United States, through the 2015 Commercial Space Launch Competitiveness Act, and Luxembourg, through its 2017 Space Resources Act, have asserted a right to extract and own space resources without claiming sovereignty over the land itself. This distinction—between owning a rock and owning the ground from which it was taken—is now a central tension in space law. The Artemis Accords, a set of bilateral agreements led by the United States and signed by over 30 nations as of 2024, further codify this interpretation, but they are not a treaty and do not bind non-signatories. For many African and Latin American states, the Accords represent a worrying shift away from multilateralism, where their voices carry less weight.

Article IX and the Meaning of “Harmful Contamination”

Article IX’s environmental mandate is both a strength and a weakness. It clearly obligates states to protect celestial environments, but it lacks a precise definition of “harmful contamination.” In practice, this has been interpreted through the lens of planetary protection—a set of guidelines developed by the Committee on Space Research (COSPAR) to prevent biological contamination. These guidelines classify missions based on their target body and whether they are flybys, orbiters, landers, or sample-return missions. For example, a lander on Mars, where life may exist or have existed, faces far stricter sterilization requirements than a lunar orbiter.

However, COSPAR’s planetary protection policy is a scientific standard, not a binding legal instrument. It is adopted by space agencies voluntarily. This creates a governance gap: what happens when a private company, perhaps registered in a state with lax oversight, plans a mission that could contaminate a pristine lunar crater or an asteroid? The Outer Space Treaty holds the “appropriate State Party” responsible for authorizing and continuously supervising the activities of its non-governmental entities, but the treaty provides no enforcement mechanism. For small island states that depend on international law to protect shared resources, this gap is deeply familiar—it mirrors the challenges of enforcing environmental standards on the high seas.

The Moon Agreement: A Bolder Vision, a Smaller Audience

The Agreement Governing the Activities of States on the Moon and Other Celestial Bodies, adopted in 1979 and in force since 1984, attempted to fill the gaps left by the Outer Space Treaty. It declares the Moon and its natural resources to be the “common heritage of mankind” and calls for the establishment of an international regime to govern resource exploitation when it becomes feasible. The Moon Agreement also explicitly prohibits any disruption of the environmental balance of celestial bodies and requires states to take measures to prevent harm to the environment.

Despite its comprehensive approach, the Moon Agreement has been ratified by only a handful of states, and notably, none of the major spacefaring nations are parties to it. For many developing countries, the Moon Agreement represents the kind of equitable framework they would prefer—one that ensures resource extraction benefits all of humanity, not just the technologically advanced. However, its lack of adoption by key players has rendered it largely symbolic. The debate over the Moon Agreement highlights a fundamental divide: should celestial resources be governed by a multilateral body under a “common heritage” model, or should they be accessible on a first-come, first-served basis under a “freedom of use” model? For nations in the Global South, the former offers a path to shared prosperity; the latter risks replicating the extractive inequalities of Earth’s colonial past.

Planetary Protection in Practice: The COSPAR Framework

While the treaties set the legal boundaries, the practical work of protecting celestial bodies falls to the scientific community, particularly through the Committee on Space Research (COSPAR). COSPAR’s Planetary Protection Policy categorizes missions into five groups based on their destination and the likelihood of biological contamination. A mission to the Moon, for instance, falls under Category II, requiring only documentation of impact targets and end-of-mission plans. A mission to Mars, however, is Category IV, demanding rigorous sterilization of spacecraft to prevent Earth microbes from hitchhiking to a potentially habitable environment.

This framework is not static. In recent years, COSPAR has updated its guidelines to address the growing interest in lunar polar craters, which contain water ice and are considered “scientifically sensitive” sites. The concern is that a poorly planned lander could contaminate these craters with organic compounds or heat, destroying the very scientific evidence that makes them valuable. For nations without their own space programs, COSPAR’s work is a vital, if indirect, form of protection. It ensures that the scientific value of celestial bodies—a global commons—is preserved for future research, not just for the nations that can afford to get there first.

Why This Matters for Africa, Latin America, and Small Island States

The governance of celestial bodies is not a distant concern. It is deeply intertwined with issues of equity, resource distribution, and the prevention of a new colonial frontier. Consider the following:

• Resource Equity: The Moon and asteroids contain vast quantities of rare minerals and water ice. If extraction rights are defined solely by technological capability and national legislation, the economic benefits will flow to a small number of already-wealthy states. A strong international regime, as envisioned by the Moon Agreement, could ensure that a portion of these benefits supports development in other nations.
• Environmental Precedent: The legal principles we establish for celestial bodies will influence how we govern other global commons, such as the deep seabed and Antarctica. Weak protections in space could embolden extractive practices in these other domains, directly impacting small island states that rely on the International Seabed Authority for a share of deep-sea mining revenues.
• Scientific Access: Pristine celestial environments are unique laboratories for understanding the origins of our solar system and the potential for life elsewhere. Contaminating them through unregulated activity robs all of humanity of irreplaceable knowledge.

Current Tensions and the Path Forward

The legal landscape is now under significant strain. The Artemis program, while promising a return to the Moon, is being built on bilateral agreements that sidestep the multilateral treaty-making process. The Artemis Accords include a section on “Protecting Heritage,” which commits signatories to preserving historically significant sites like the Apollo landing areas, but they do not create a comprehensive environmental protection regime. Meanwhile, the United Nations Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space (COPUOS) continues to debate a new international mechanism for space resources, but progress is slow.

For nations in Africa, Latin America, and small island states, the most effective strategy is sustained, informed participation in these forums. This means building domestic expertise in space law and planetary science, forming regional blocs to amplify their negotiating power, and insisting that any new rules for resource extraction include mandatory environmental impact assessments and benefit-sharing mechanisms. The African Space Agency, established in 2023, and the Latin American and Caribbean Space Agency (ALCE) are promising steps in this direction. They provide institutional platforms for these regions to shape the rules rather than simply receive them.

The Role of Non-Binding Instruments

In the absence of new binding treaties, soft law instruments are gaining importance. The United Nations Guidelines for the Long-term Sustainability of Outer Space Activities, adopted by COPUOS in 2019, provide a set of voluntary best practices. Guideline B.8, for example, calls on states to “ensure that space activities are conducted in a manner that avoids harmful contamination of celestial bodies.” While not legally enforceable, these guidelines create a normative framework that can influence state behavior and inform future treaty-making. They also provide a benchmark against which civil society and the media can hold spacefaring nations accountable.

Frequently Asked Questions

Can a private company own land on the Moon?

No. Under Article II of the Outer Space Treaty, no state can claim sovereignty over the Moon or other celestial bodies, and this prohibition extends to private entities, which must be authorized and supervised by their state. However, the question of whether a company can own resources extracted from the Moon is legally ambiguous. The United States and Luxembourg have enacted laws granting property rights over extracted space resources, but these laws are not universally accepted. The debate hinges on whether extraction constitutes “national appropriation” or a legitimate use of space.

What is the difference between the Outer Space Treaty and the Moon Agreement?

The Outer Space Treaty (1967) is the foundational treaty, ratified by over 110 states, including all spacefaring nations. It prohibits national appropriation of celestial bodies and establishes basic environmental protections. The Moon Agreement (1979) goes further, declaring the Moon and its resources the “common heritage of mankind” and calling for an international regime to govern resource extraction. However, it has been ratified by only a small number of states, none of which are major space powers, limiting its practical impact.

How are celestial environments protected from biological contamination?

Protection is primarily achieved through the COSPAR Planetary Protection Policy, a set of scientific guidelines that categorize missions based on their destination and the risk of contamination. These guidelines require varying levels of spacecraft sterilization and operational constraints. While not legally binding, they are widely followed by space agencies and are often incorporated into national licensing requirements for private missions.

What can non-spacefaring nations do to influence these rules?

Non-spacefaring nations play a critical role in the multilateral forums where space law is developed, particularly the UN Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space (COPUOS) and its Legal Subcommittee. By building regional coalitions, developing domestic expertise, and actively participating in these discussions, they can advocate for equitable resource-sharing mechanisms and strong environmental protections. The growing number of regional space agencies in Africa and Latin America is a positive sign of this engagement.

Conclusion: A Shared Responsibility

The treaties that protect celestial bodies are not static relics; they are living instruments that must be interpreted and strengthened to meet the challenges of a new era of space exploration. The Outer Space Treaty’s prohibition on national appropriation and its environmental mandate provide a solid foundation, but the gaps—particularly around resource extraction and private sector oversight—demand urgent attention. For the nations of Africa, Latin America, Southeast Asia, and small island states, the stakes are high. The legal principles we defend today will determine whether the Moon and other celestial bodies become a shared heritage or simply the next frontier of extraction. The time to engage is now, before the first commercial mining operation begins, and while the architecture of space governance can still be shaped by all of humanity, not just a privileged few.