Decolonizing Native Histories: Collaboration, Knowledge, and Language in the Americas 9780822394853

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Decolonizing native Histories

​narrating native histories Series editors

Editorial Advisory Board

K.​Tsianina​Lomawaima​

Denise​Y.​Arnold

Florencia​E.​Mallon​

Charles​R.​Hale

Alcida​Rita​Ramos​

Roberta​Hill

Joanne​Rappaport​

Noenoe​K.​Silva

​

David​Wilkins

​

Juan​de​Dios​Yapita

Decolonizing native Histories

Collaboration, Knowledge, and Language in the Americas Edited​by​Florencia​E.​Mallon Selected​essays​translated​by​Gladys​McCormick Duke university Press

DurHam & lonDon

2012

©​2012​Duke​University​Press All​rights​reserved Printed​in​the​United​States​of​America​​ on​acid-​free​paper​♾ Designed​by​Amy​Ruth​Buchanan Typeset​in​Minion​and​Officina​Sans​​ by​Tseng​Information​Systems,​Inc. Library​of​Congress​Cataloging-​in-​​ Publication​Data​appear​on​the​last​​ printed​page​of​this​book.

contents

About​the​Series vii Florencia​e.​Mallon 1 Introduction.​Decolonizing​Knowledge,​​ Language,​and​Narrative

Part one

Land, Sovereignty, and Self-Determination​.......................................................  21 J.​Kehaulani​Kauanui 27 Hawaiian​Nationhood,​Self-​Determination,​​ and​International​Law riet​Delsing 54 Issues​of​Land​and​Sovereignty:​The​Uneasy​​ Relationship​between​Chile​and​Rapa​Nui

Part two

Indigenous Writing and Experiences with Collaboration​................................ 79 FernanDo​garcés​V. 85 Quechua​Knowledge,​Orality,​and​Writings:​​ The​Newspaper​Conosur Ñawpagman Joanne​rappaport​anD​abelarDo​raMos​pacho 122 Collaboration​and​Historical​Writing:​​ Challenges​for​the​Indigenous–Academic​Dialogue Jan​rus​anD​Diane​l.​rus 144 The​Taller​Tzotzil​of​Chiapas,​Mexico:​​ A​Native​Language​Publishing​Project,​1985–2002

Part tHree

Generations of Indigenous Activism and Internal Debates​............................ 175 brian​KlopoteK 179 Dangerous​Decolonizing:​Indians​​ and​Blacks​and​the​Legacy​of​Jim​Crow eDgar​esquit 196 Nationalist​Contradictions:​Pan-​Mayanism,​​ Representations​of​the​Past,​and​the​​ Reproduction​of​Inequalities​in​Guatemala Conclusion 219 References 221 Contributors 243 Index 247

vi contents

about tHe series

Narrating​Native​Histories​aims​to​foster​a​rethinking​of​the​ethical,​methodological,​and​conceptual​frameworks​within​which​we​locate​our​work​on​Native​ histories​and​cultures.​We​seek​to​create​a​space​for​effective​and​ongoing​conversations​between​North​and​South,​Natives​and​non-​Natives,​academics​and​ activists,​throughout​the​Americas​and​the​Pacific​region.​We​are​committed​to​ complicating​and​transgressing​the​disciplinary​and​epistemological​boundaries​ of​established​academic​discourses​on​Native​peoples. ​ This​ series​ encourages​ symmetrical,​ horizontal,​ collaborative,​ and​ auto-​ ethnographies;​work​that​recognizes​Native​intellectuals,​cultural​interpreters,​ and​alternative​knowledge​producers​within​broader​academic​and​intellectual​ worlds;​projects​that​decolonize​the​relationship​between​orality​and​textuality;​ narratives​that​productively​work​the​tensions​between​the​norms​of​Native​cultures​and​the​requirements​for​evidence​in​academic​circles;​and​analyses​that​ contribute​ to​ an​ understanding​ of​ Native​ peoples’​ relationships​ with​ nation-​ states,​including​histories​of​expropriation​and​exclusion​as​well​as​projects​for​ autonomy​and​sovereignty. ​ Decolonizing Native Histories​represents​an​innovative​effort​to​motivate​dialogue​between​scholars​living​in​the​North​and​South,​academics​and​nonacademic​activist​intellectuals,​indigenous​and​nonindigenous​researchers,​and​the​ different​but​overlapping​forms​of​knowledge​that​arise​out​of​these​subject​positions.​Bringing​together​research​on​Native​Latin​America,​North​America,​and​ the​Pacific,​this​book​enquires​into​a​series​of​pressing​issues:​How​do​debates​ over​Native​sovereignty​vary​over​the​three​regions?​What​does​it​mean​to​be​an​ indigenous​researcher,​and​how​might​nonindigenous​scholars​most​effectively​ collaborate​with​their​Native​counterparts?​How​should​scholars—whether​Native​or​non-​Native—who​are​committed​to​Native​struggles​ask​hard​questions​ of​activists?​What​routes​must​we​take​to​decolonize​scholarship​in​the​twenty-​ first​century?​The​answers,​which​range​from​examinations​of​Native​status​in​ Hawai‘i​and​Easter​Island,​to​evaluations​of​collaborative​research​and​writing​ techniques​in​Latin​America,​and​to​approaches​to​race​as​a​critical​component​ of​nativeness​in​North​America,​all​contribute​to​the​dialogue​we​will​need​to​ decolonize​our​scholarship​in​the​new​millennium.

Florencia e. mallon

Introduction

Decolonizing​Knowledge,​Language,​and​Narrative

This​book​was​born​at​a​conference​entitled​Narrating​Native​Histories​held​ at​the​University​of​Wisconsin,​Madison,​in​April​2005,​a​meeting​which​ itself​ was​ the​ result​ of​ exchanges​ and​ collaborations​ among​ faculty​ colleagues​from​various​disciplinary​departments​and​with​different​regional​ specialties​who​shared​an​interest​in​Native​studies.1​Narrating​Native​Histories​brought​together​intellectuals​and​scholar-​activists,​both​Native​and​ non-​Native,​from​Hawai‘i​and​the​Americas.​For​three​days​we​exchanged​ views​on​how​to​establish​collaborations​across​differences​of​language,​culture,​region,​ and​historical​ experience​ that​would​permit​us​to​disengage​ ethnography​as​well​as​other​forms​of​narrative​and​research​from​their​colonial​moorings. ​ Given​the​crucial​role​of​the​concepts​colonialism​and​decolonization​in​ the​project​of​our​conference,​in​the​book​series​by​the​same​name​that​it​ helped​generate,​and​in​this​book,​which​brings​together​a​selection​of​the​ papers​ originally​ presented​ in​ 2005,​ it​ is​ important​ to​ begin​ with​ at​ least​ some​rudimentary​definitions​of​them.​For​the​purposes​of​the​conference​ as​well​as​in​this​volume​we​have​used​these​notions​quite​expansively,​to​ define​relationships​of​domination​and​inequality​that​arose​historically​in​ different​parts​of​the​world​with​the​expansion​of​Europe.​As​these​notions​ apply​to​indigenous​peoples,​they​involve​the​conquest​and​expropriation​of​ territories;​massive​loss​of​life​through​war,​forced​labor,​and​disease;​erasure​ or​marginalization​of​cultures​and​languages;​and​the​redefinition​of​a​process​of​violent​conquest​as​“inevitable”​because​of​supposed​differences​in​ levels​of​“civilization.”​As​has​been​well​documented,​the​alleged​differences​ of​culture​and​so-​called​progress​between​colonizer​and​colonized​were​then​

used​to​construct​a​vision​of​a​world​order​in​which​certain​peoples​were​ always​lower​on​the​evolutionary​chain,​what​the​subalternist​scholar​Dipesh​Chakrabarty​has​termed​the​“not-​yet”​principle​of​historical​evolution​ (Chakrabarty​ 2000).​ Among​ the​ notions​ central​ to​ this​ worldview​ is​ the​ racial​construction​of​white​privilege.​Decolonization,​therefore,​involves​the​ questioning​of​the​racial​and​evolutionary​bases​of​colonial​power,​and​how​ these​have​tended​to​underlie​the​construction​of​knowledge.2 ​ We​came​together​in​Madison​animated​by​a​common​agenda.​Since​the​ 1970s,​when​Native​leaders​from​the​Americas​joined​their​fellow​activists​ from​other​parts​of​the​world​in​reformulating​the​un ​agenda​for​indigenous​ peoples’​rights​as​a​part​of​international​human​rights,​indigenous​demands​ for​ political​ and​ cultural​ recognition​ have​ generated​ a​ series​ of​ strong,​ identity-​based​ Native​ movements​ that​ have​ challenged​ the​ integrationist​ policies​ of​ nation-​states.​ As​ part​ of​ this​ new​ political​ and​ cultural​ dynamism,​Native​peoples​have​generated​their​own​intellectuals,​who​have​taken​ center​stage​in​debates​over​cultural​interpretation​and​translation​and​over​ the​narration​of​Native​histories.​In​such​a​context,​the​intellectual​agency​ of​Native​peoples​themselves​has​been​placed​squarely​on​the​agenda​of​all​ research​and​writing​about​and​with​indigenous​societies.​Scholars​working​ on​and​collaborating​ with​Native​ societies,​ whether​ themselves​ Native​or​ non-​Native,​have​therefore​been​challenged​to​rethink​the​ethical,​methodological,​and​conceptual​frameworks​within​which​we​locate​our​work​on​ questions​of​Native​histories​and​cultures. ​ Yet​despite​these​challenges,​the​anthropologist​and​activist​Víctor​Montejo​suggested​nearly​a​decade​ago​that,​despite​declarations​to​the​contrary​ since​the​mid-​1980s,​change​on​the​ground​was​slow​in​coming​(Montejo​ 2002).​While​critiques​of​traditional​research​methods​and​postures​started​ an​animated​and​prolonged​debate​in​anthropology​(see​especially​Clifford​ and​Marcus​1986),​we​still​have​a​long​way​to​go​in​moving​such​debates​ more​ fully​ into​ the​ area​ of​ concrete​ ethnographic​ and​ dialogic​ methodologies​and​political​positions.​Inspired​in​part​by​the​pioneering​efforts​of​ such​Native​scholars​as​Devon​Mihesuah​(1998,​2004),​Linda​Tuhiwai​Smith​ (1999),​and​Angela​Cavender​Wilson​(1998a,​1998b,​2004),​we​wished​to​look​ comparatively​across​distinct​regional,​tribal,​and​historical​differences​in​ order​to​attempt​to​formulate​a​broader​ethical​and​methodological​agenda. ​ This​vision,​as​implied​above,​not​only​inspired​the​conference,​but​also​ inaugurated​the​series​Narrating​Native​Histories.​Several​volumes​that​take​ seriously​the​principles​discussed​at​the​conference,​as​well​as​reflecting​the​ 2 introDuction

synergy​between​intellectual​vision​and​debate,​on​the​one​hand,​and​concrete​projects​and​methodologies​on​the​other,​have​already​found​a​home​ there.​ In​ both​ the​ conference​ and​ the​ series,​ moreover,​ we​ were​ and​ are​ committed​to​troubling​relations​between​North​and​South​and​between​the​ Americas​and​the​Pacific​region.​At​the​conference​our​method​was​to​discuss,​with​the​help​of​simultaneous​language​interpretation,​common​issues​ across​differences​of​culture,​region,​and​history.​We​began​by​asking​ourselves​questions​around​five​themes. ​ First,​building​from​the​perception​that​traditional​academic​narratives​ about​indigenous​peoples​are​still​embedded​in​a​colonial​framework,​both​ epistemologically​and​politically,​we​wondered​what​it​would​mean​to​shift​ ethnography​and​other​forms​of​research​and​narrative​away​from​more​traditional​and​vertical​forms​of​engagement​toward​more​symmetrical,​horizontal​approaches​or​counternarratives.​How​would​we​nurture​collaborative​relationships​that​respect​the​rights​of​Native​people​and​their​cultural​ experts​to​make​decisions​about​the​use​to​which​their​knowledge​is​put​as​ well​as​their​right​to​be​recognized​as​coauthors​or​participants​in​the​production​of​knowledge?​Who​gets​to​talk​about​what,​and​in​which​language? ​ Second,​ we​ wished​ to​ consider​ the​ relationship​ of​ language​ to​ power​ and​also​to​empowerment.​In​addition​to​recognizing​the​urgent​nature​of​ projects​to​recover​and​strengthen​indigenous​languages—projects​on​which​ a​number​of​the​conference​participants​have​worked​and​are​working—we​ discussed​the​inescapable​interactions​between​language,​the​legitimation​ of​voice,​and​the​power​relations​embedded​in​all​research​contexts.​How​ do​social,​political,​economic,​and​cultural​factors​shape​the​research​we​do​ and​the​stories​we​tell?​As​researchers​and​writers​committed​to​the​cultures​ about​which​we​write,​what​can​we​do​to​further​the​process​of​recognition​ of​Native​intellectuals,​cultural​interpreters,​and​alternative​knowledge​producers​within​the​broader​academic​and​intellectual​worlds? ​ Third,​as​a​matter​related​to​issues​of​language​and​power,​we​talked​about​ some​ of​ the​ ways​ in​ which​ colonialism​ had​ marked​ orality​ as​ inferior​ to​ textuality,​and​thus​had​considered​societies​with​different​record​systems​ as​“primitive”​or​“prehistorical.”​If​language,​the​law,​and​the​archive​have​ historically​served​as​instruments​of​colonialism,​we​wondered,​how​could​ these​same​instruments​be​used​in​the​construction​of​autonomy?​As​researchers,​what​is​our​role​in​the​process​of​recovery,​preservation,​and​extension​of​Native​literary​and​narrative​traditions?​What​is​the​relationship​ between​orality​and​textuality​in​this​process?​Is​it​possible​to​decolonize​ introDuction 3

language,​law,​and​history​so​that​they​become​tools​in​the​construction​of​ horizontal​relations​between​peoples? ​ Fourth,​we​considered​the​importance​of​storytelling​traditions.​Among​ many​indigenous​peoples​storytelling​has​served​as​a​form​of​cultural​preservation​ and​ protection,​ memory​ and​ empowerment,​ legitimacy​ and​ autonomy.​Is​it​possible​to​productively​work​through​the​tensions​between​ these​broader​intellectual​narratives​within​Native​cultures​and​the​requirements​of​evidence​in​the​academy?​How​can​academic​researchers​weave​ distinct,​divergent,​and​sometimes​conflictual​strands​into​their​stories​without​betraying​their​own​principles​or​those​of​their​interlocutors? ​ Finally,​we​recognized​the​many​challenges​associated​with​making​autonomy​a​viable​option​in​today’s​world.​As​indigenous​movements​throughout​the​world​have​demanded​respect​for​cultural,​political,​and​territorial​ autonomy,​questions​concerning​citizenship,​political​coalitions,​policy​options,​ and​ the​ legal​ ramifications​ of​ autonomy​ have​ become​ increasingly​ complex.​How​can​we​establish​a​useful​dialogue​among​the​extremely​diverse​experiences​with​and​practices​of​autonomy​and​sovereignty​that​exist​ in​the​Americas​and​the​Pacific​region?​How​can​researchers​profitably​involve​themselves​in​these​debates​in​a​way​that​is​useful​to​Native​societies? ​ Beginning​with​these​five​themes,​we​threaded​them​through​particular​ topics,​including​indigenous​sovereignty;​collaboration​and​truth​telling​in​ research​methodologies;​intercultural​conversations​on​translation,​inscription,​and​the​boundaries​between​inside​and​outside;​and​the​nature​of​intellectual​and​cultural​authority.​Part​of​what​we​found​along​the​way​was​exhilarating,​in​the​sense​that​there​were​points​of​commonality​and​solidarity​ across​otherwise​seemingly​unbridgeable​distances—geographical,​cultural,​ and​linguistic.​People​who​could​communicate​only​through​simultaneous​ interpretation​nevertheless​found​that​they​could​recognize​their​common​ struggles​to​recover​Native​languages​and,​through​them,​a​distinct​voice.​Or​ they​shared​perspectives​in​which​the​lines​between​academic​and​activist,​ inside​and​outside,​oral​and​written​could​be​and​had​been​questioned,​leading​to​a​mutual,​deep​cross-​fertilization​between​theory​and​practice,​analysis​and​experience.​And​all​of​us,​whether​Native​or​non-​Native,​recognized​ a​certain​commonality​in​our​intellectual​work​as​translators,​as​people​who​ inhabit​frontiers​between​worlds,​or​as​bisagras​(hinges)​who​serve​as​connections​between​disparate​knowledges,​cultures,​and​places. ​ Part​ of​ what​ we​ discovered​ was​ sobering,​ for​ the​ challenges​ before​ us​ seemed​ daunting​ and​ at​ times​ overwhelming.​ We​ noted​ deep​ differences​ 4 introDuction

between​North​and​South,​both​in​the​historical​experience​of​indigenous​ peoples​with​colonialism​and​in​the​place​of​indigenous​intellectuals​in​societies​ and​ academies.​ We​ saw​ distinctions​ among​ indigenous​ experiences​ within​ both​ North​ and​ South,​ within​ indigenous​ groups​ themselves,​ and​ between​the​Americas​and​the​Pacific​world.​We​perceived​internal​hierarchies​along​lines​of​race,​region,​language,​and​gender. ​ One​of​the​most​challenging​themes​we​discussed​during​the​conference,​ one​which​emerges​in​this​book​generally,​was​the​relationship​between​academic​and​activist​forms​of​narration​and​collaboration.​This​was​an​especially​ vibrant​ theme​ in​ the​ presentations​ about​ Latin​ America.​ Six​ of​ the​ nine​papers​presented​on​Latin​America​analyzed​experiences​of​collaboration​in​which​scholar-​activists​participated​in​projects​intended​to​put​new​ technologies​and​tools—writing,​social​science​or​linguistic​theory,​video— at​the​service​of​indigenous​peoples​who​wished​to​use​them​for​their​own​ purposes.​In​the​three​essays​about​this​topic​that​are​included​here—those​ on​the​Tzotzil​Maya​of​Chiapas,​the​Nasa​of​Colombia,​and​the​Quechua​of​ Bolivia—non-​Native​collaborators​involved​themselves​in​ongoing​negotiation​with​indigenous​leaders​who​envisioned​the​use​of​these​tools​in​political​and​intellectual​projects​of​their​own​making.​While​these​collaborators​ were​all​educated​in​the​university,​not​all​had​established​themselves​within​ the​academy.​And​the​projects​in​which​they​were​participating​demanded​ that​Native​agendas​be​given​priority​at​all​times. ​ The​ three​ papers​ presented​ at​ the​ conference​ that​ dealt​ with​ Native​ peoples​in​Hawai‘i​and​the​continental​United​States​were​all​by​Native​academics​and,​while​diverse​in​theme​and​scope,​shared​two​goals.​First,​they​ aimed​to​bring​indigenous​political​and​historical​questions​into​the​heart​ of​academic​discussion​and​to​highlight​how​the​presence​of​Native​scholars​ in​the​academy​changed​the​nature​of​intellectual​conversation.​Second,​the​ three​papers​were​interested​in​using​the​tools​of​academic​analysis​to​foster​debate​within​Native​societies​that​would​lead​to​greater​empowerment.​ The​two​that​appear​here,​by​J.​Kehaulani​Kauanui​on​Native​Hawaiian​options​for​autonomy​and​Brian​Klopotek​on​notions​of​race​among​Louisiana​ Choctaws,​are​the​work​of​committed​indigenous​academics​who​wish​to​ use​the​analytical​tools​at​their​disposal​to​move​debates​on​sovereignty​and​ autonomy​forward. ​ While​overall​the​papers​read​at​our​conference​cannot​be​taken​as​representative,​they​do​suggest​distinct​histories​of​articulation​of​academic​and​ intellectual​ knowledge​ to​ indigenous​ activism​ between​ North​ and​ South.​ introDuction 5

In​the​United​States,​indigenous​scholars​and​intellectuals,​facing​immense​ obstacles,​have​been​making​inroads​into​the​academy​and​into​public​debate.​While​such​participation​is​not​a​panacea,​it​does​open​up​new​venues​ of​ academic​ and​ political​ debate​ that​ were​ not​ present​ before.​ In​ Latin​ America,​while​indigenous​political​and​intellectual​revivals​are​also​beginning​to​open​public​space​for​Native​perspectives—for​example,​among​the​ Aymara​in​Bolivia,​the​Mapuche​in​Chile​and​Argentina,​the​Maya​in​Guatemala,​the​Miskito​along​Nicaragua’s​Atlantic​Coast,​and​the​Maya,​Zapotec,​ and​other​groups​in​Mexico—in​general​it​has​been​less​possible​historically​ for​Native​intellectuals​in​the​South​to​claim​real​space​in​the​academy.​In​ providing​examples​of​the​experiences​and​struggles​of​indigenous​peoples​ in​concrete​historical​contexts​and​in​relation​to​particular​constellations​of​ political​and​economic​power,​we​hope​to​deepen​our​comparative​conversations​in​ways​that​will​be​useful​to​indigenous​peoples​and​their​movements. ​ Perhaps​the​most​important​unifying​theme​of​the​conference,​and​thus​ of​the​book,​was​the​need​to​collaborate​in​the​process​of​decolonization​or,​ as​Roberta​Hill​put​it​during​her​conference​comments,​to​“get​colonialism​ off​our​backs.”​All​the​chapters​address​the​issue​of​decolonizing​methodologies​in​one​way​or​another,​and​the​theme​of​decolonization​serves​as​a​ kind​of​backbone​of​the​book.3​As​Klopotek​explains​in​his​essay,​the​double​ meaning​of​the​phrase​is​productive,​in​the​sense​that​we​aim​both​to​decolonize​the​methodologies​used​in​research​and​writing​and​to​elaborate​ methodologies​ that​ decolonize​ the​ relationship​ between​ researchers​ and​ subjects.​At​the​same​time,​however,​the​authors​represented​in​the​book​develop​varying​takes​on​what​this​means. ​ In​the​first​part​of​the​book,​the​essays​by​J.​Kehaulani​Kauanui​and​Riet​ Delsing​(whose​essay​is​the​only​one​in​the​book​that​did​not​originate​in​ a​conference​presentation)​solidify​the​dialogue​between​the​Americas​and​ the​Pacific​that​is​an​important​part​of​our​project.​Although​the​historical​ differences​between​the​two​cases​are​quite​large,​we​find​surprising​similarities​and​parallels.​One​of​these​is​the​timing​of​the​forced​incorporation​ of​the​territories​into​distant​nation-​states,​separated​by​only​a​decade​(1888​ for​Rapa​Nui​or​Easter​Island’s​annexation​to​Chile,​1898​for​Hawai‘i’s​annexation​to​the​United​States).​This​is​not​surprising,​since​the​last​decades​ of​the​nineteenth​century​were,​across​the​world,​a​time​of​intensification​of​ colonialism​and​of​global​relations​of​trade,​two​reasons​the​Pacific​islands​ were​attractive​to​economically​and​militarily​expansive​nation-​states.​In​this​ regard​it​is​equally​telling​that,​at​the​respective​moments​of​forcible​annexa6 introDuction

tion,​both​Chile​and​the​United​States​had​just​emerged​victorious​from​expansionist​wars​and​territorial​conquest,​Chile​from​the​War​of​the​Pacific​ (1879–84)​and​the​conquest​of​Mapuche​autonomous​territory​in​1883,​the​ United​States​from​the​Spanish-​American​War​(1898). ​ Despite​the​vast​geographical​distance​separating​Rapa​Nui​from​Hawai‘i,​ taken​together​they​remind​us​that​the​process​of​colonialism​is​at​the​very​ heart​of​the​history​of​indigenous​peoples.​One​example​of​that​centrality​ is​how​territory,​including​both​land​and​other​resources,​is​expropriated​ through​illegal​means.​In​both​Rapa​Nui​and​Hawai‘i,​as​Delsing​and​Kauanui​make​clear,​concessions​that​were​understood​by​Native​peoples​to​involve​use​rights​were​fraudulently​and​forcibly​transformed​into​property​ rights.​Even​though​the​political​status​of​the​two​regions​differed​greatly— Rapa​Nui​was​a​rural,​kinship-​based​society​at​the​time​of​annexation,​while​ Hawai‘i​was​an​independent​kingdom​and​had​been​recognized​as​such​by​ European​powers​and​the​United​States​for​nearly​a​century—colonial​violence​can​prove​to​be​a​strong​leveling​force.​At​the​same​time,​the​distinct​ historical​ experiences​ of​ Rapa​ Nui​ and​ Hawai‘i​ dramatically​ differentiate​ their​present-​day​options​from​those​of​other​indigenous​peoples​who​inhabit​the​continental​United​States​and​mainland​Chile. ​ Through​a​detailed​analysis​of​Hawai‘i’s​sovereign​history​in​conversation​with​present-​day​international​debates​about​the​status​of​indigenous​ peoples,​Kauanui​changes​the​terms​of​the​discussion​about​indigenous​autonomy.​ Given​ the​ earlier​ history​ of​ the​ Kingdom​ of​ Hawai‘i,​ there​ is,​ in​ international​law,​a​historical​basis​for​making​a​claim​to​independent​status.​ A​part​of​the​movement​for​autonomy​in​Hawai‘i​thus​supports​the​notion​ of​total​independence​based​on​international​law.​There​is,​however,​a​sizable​ sector​in​Hawai‘i​whose​vision​for​self-​determination​would​pass​through​ U.S.​law;​this​group​prefers​to​make​claims​within​the​U.S.​system​of​federal​recognition​that​has​evolved​in​relation​to​the​indigenous​nations​on​ continental​soil.​Kauanui​makes​clear​that​achieving​federal​recognition​for​ Native​Hawaiians​would​indeed​foreclose​both​the​decolonization​and​the​ deoccupation​models​for​achieving​autonomy,​since​it​would​define​Kanaka​ Maoli,​or​indigenous​Hawaiians,​as​a​“domestic​dependent”​nation​with​no​ recourse​to​independent​status. ​ Delsing​ demonstrates​ in​ her​ discussion​ of​ struggles​ over​ sovereignty​ in​Rapa​Nui​that​the​perspectives​of​the​Rapanui​and​the​history​of​their​ struggle​cannot​be​folded​neatly​either​into​Chilean​history​or​into​the​indigenous​histories​connected​to​the​Chilean​mainland.​Originally​a​PolyintroDuction 7

nesian​people,​the​Rapanui​continue​to​be​linked​to​the​Pacific​region.​And​ while​today​the​Rapanui​are​internally​divided​over​the​most​appropriate​ strategies​to​follow​in​their​ongoing​confrontation​with​Chilean​assimilationist​policies,​a​significant​minority​movement​has​formed​around​the​idea​ of​pursuing​political​independence​in​dialogue​with​other​Pacific​peoples. ​ Part​2​of​the​book​discusses​the​interrelated​themes​of​cross-​cultural​collaboration,​translation,​and​writing.​Joanne​Rappaport​and​Abelardo​Ramos​ Pacho,​who​have​formed​part​of​a​collaborative​research​team​led​by​Nasa​ intellectuals​in​Colombia​for​many​years,​address​the​question​of​collaboration​most​systematically.​Ramos​conceptualizes​intellectual​and​theoretical​ collaboration​ as​ a​ minga,​ a​ project​ of​ collective​ work​ for​ collective​ benefit,​which​provides​us​with​the​opportunity​to​think​through​the​connections​between​physical​and​intellectual​labor​and​the​tensions​between​academic​analysis​and​political​usefulness.​Inevitably,​he​writes,​collaboration​ produces​tensions;​but​these​become​productive​through​work.​For​Rappaport,​this​work​involves​a​dialogue​among​ways​of​knowing—a​diálogo de saberes—in​ which​ indigenous​ epistemology​ is​ primary​ but​ not​ exclusive.​ Interculturalism,​she​suggests,​must​be​a​grass-​roots​practice​that​goes​far​ beyond​multiculturalism​as​an​encounter​within​a​context​already​hegemonized​ from​ one​ side.​ Building​ such​ horizontal​ relationships​ is​ a​ work​ in​ progress,​and​its​success​will​be​found​in​the​political​articulation​of​indigenous​and​nonindigenous​cultural​registers. ​ Rappaport​and​Ramos​also​explore​the​concept​of​translation​and​its​relationship​to​writing​or​inscription.​Translation,​in​this​context,​is​inseparable​ from​ indigenous​ theorizing,​ for​ it​ is​ a​ project​ of​ appropriation,​ rethinking,​ and​ reconfiguration​ of​ language​ and​ concepts​ from​ indigenous​ perspectives.​This​means​the​improvement​and​transformation​of​reality,​not​ only​its​analysis​or​representation​in​a​different​language.​Cultural​as​well​as​ linguistic​translation,​therefore,​opens​up​new​potentials​and​possibilities​ and​gives​access​to​an​intercultural​space​where​new​strategies​of​negotiation​ and​new​ways​of​living​can​potentially​be​suggested.​Ramos​concludes,​along​ these​lines,​by​suggesting​that​one​goal​may​be​an​indigenously​grounded​ objectivity​in​which​the​line​between​academic​rigor​and​political​necessities​ and​desires​can​be​more​effectively​troubled. ​ Jan​Rus​and​Diane​L.​Rus​discuss​how​they​built​on​their​long-​term​presence​in​the​highlands​of​Chiapas​among​the​Chamulas​to​contribute​to​the​ Taller​Tzotzil,​an​already​existing​Tzotzil-​language​publishing​project,​beginning​in​the​1980s.​The​Ruses’​legitimacy​within​the​Tzotzil​community— 8 introDuction

they​had​been​given​Tzotzil​names,​which​appear​at​the​back​of​the​volumes​ produced​by​the​Taller—served​as​a​crucial​entry​point​into​the​project​of​ translation​and​inscription​in​which​they​collaborated.​Their​long​presence​ in​the​region​also​helped​them​understand​more​fully​issues​of​alphabet​and​ orthography,​which​called​to​mind​the​presence​of​Bible​translators​as​well​ as​Protestant​missionaries​and​questions​of​dialect​and​the​diversity​of​voices​ present​within​the​narratives.​Indeed,​the​Ruses’​project​revealed​how​deep​ the​negotiations​and​knowledges​involved​in​a​successful​project​of​translation​and​inscription​are,​a​matter​discussed​by​other​authors​and​summarized​by​one​of​our​panel​commentators,​Frank​Salomon,​when​he​suggested​ that​indigenous​language​accounts​become​text​through​a​collaboration​that​ involves​decontextualization​and​then​recontextualization​and​hence​multiple​translations. ​ But​ even​ more​ important,​ the​ Ruses’​ work​ on​ the​ Tzotzil​ publishing​ project​is​an​especially​dramatic​example​of​an​option​taken​by​many​principled​ intellectuals​ and​ professionals​ in​ Latin​ America​ in​ the​ 1960s​ and​ 1970s—that​ of​ the​ committed,​ engagé​ collaborator.​ Rappaport,​ who​ has​ nearly​three​decades​of​experience​with​the​Nasa​and​Cumbal​peoples​of​ Colombia,​is​another​example​of​someone​who​took​this​option,​though​in​ her​case​she​has​claimed​a​place​within​the​academy​in​the​United​States,​ something​ the​ Ruses​ have​ eschewed.​ In​ part​ activist​ anthropology​ in​ the​ mold​of​Alcida​Rita​Ramos​and​Terrence​Turner,​who​also​presented​papers​ at​our​conference,​this​practice​of​engagé​collaboration​had​its​origins​in​the​ radical​mobilizations​of​the​1960s​and,​by​the​early​1970s,​was​inspired​as​ well​by​liberation​theology​and​the​radical​pedagogy​of​Paulo​Freire,​mentioned​by​the​Ruses. ​ These​forms​of​activist​collaboration,​which​existed​in​many​parts​of​the​ so-​called​Third​World​in​the​1970s​and​1980s,​took​on​a​particularly​intense​ quality​in​Latin​America.​Part​of​the​reason​for​this​had​to​do​with​the​specific​ history​ of​ revolutionary​ movements​ in​ the​ region,​ movements​ that​ often​placed​at​their​very​center​the​collaboration​between​urban​intellectuals​on​the​Left​and​the​rural​poor,​a​significant​proportion​of​whom​were​of​ indigenous​descent.​At​the​same​time,​the​very​nature​of​Latin​America’s​political​and​economic​crises​ate​away​at​earlier​coalitions​between​indigenous​ people​and​the​Left,​so​that​in​a​number​of​areas​relationships​of​collaboration​that​had​rested​on​these​earlier​coalitions​either​fell​apart​entirely​or​had​ to​be​renegotiated.​This​has​been​the​case​with​the​Chilean​Mapuche,​whose​ intellectuals​have​increasingly​taken​center​stage​in​defining​research​and​ introDuction 9

activist​agendas,​and​it​has​also​happened​in​other​areas​of​Latin​America,​ such​as​Guatemala​and​Nicaragua’s​Atlantic​coast. ​ As​Ramos​and​Rappaport​and​the​Ruses​demonstrate,​collaborative​relationships​tend​to​endure​when​they​involve​ongoing​negotiations.​In​reflecting​on​their​long-​standing​collaboration​through​the​Consejo​Regional​ Indígena​ del​ Cauca​ (cric),​ Ramos​ and​ Rappaport​ demonstrate​ that​ it​ is​ precisely​the​moment​of​friction,​of​discomfort,​in​collaboration​that​is​the​ most​productive.​Ramos​suggests​that​it​becomes​so​through​work:​in​other​ words,​through​concrete​tasks​and​discussions​that​help​deepen​a​common​ commitment​to​a​joint​project.​The​Ruses,​for​their​part,​built​on​their​long-​ lasting​ relationship​ with​ Tzotzil​ Maya​ communities​ in​ the​ Chiapas​ highlands,​ especially​ in​ Chamula,​ to​ configure​ a​ unique​ indigenous​ language​ publishing​project​that​has​spanned​two​decades,​adapting​its​goals​according​to​the​changing​nature​of​conditions​in​the​region​as​well​as​in​response​ to​feedback​from​the​participants​themselves.​If​their​project​began​with​the​ purpose​of​recovering​pieces​of​community​indigenous​history​and​making​ them​more​broadly​available​across​the​Chiapas​region,​it​was​transformed​ in​the​1990s​and​beyond,​not​only​by​the​Zapatista​uprising​of​1994,​but​also​ by​the​deepening​economic​crisis​that​reconstructed​the​spatial​locations​of​ Tzotzil​Maya​people,​forcing​many​to​migrate​to​the​local​capital​city​of​San​ Cristóbal​de​las​Casas​and​then​increasingly​across​the​U.S.-​Mexican​border​ into​southern​California. ​ Similar​ multifaceted​ moves​ are​ at​ the​ center​ of​ the​ project​ described​ by​Fernando​Garcés​V.​in​his​essay.​As​a​nonindigenous​linguist​originally​ from​Ecuador​who​has​been​working​on​a​Quechua-​language​newspaper​in​ Bolivia,​Garcés​considers​his​positioning​to​be​a​crucial​part​of​his​project.​ A​political​process​at​its​very​core,​the​production​of​the​newspaper,​Conosur Ñawpagman,​combines​its​distribution​at​political​events​and​peasant​ gatherings​in​Cochabamba​with​the​recording​of​new​interviews​and​testimonials​ for​ the​ next​ round​ of​ articles.​ At​ the​ heart​ of​ the​ newspaper’s​ project,​Garcés​argues,​is​what​he​calls​the​intertextual​play​between​orality​ and​writing.​Inscribing​orality​in​text​is​not​only​the​reproduction​of​speech​ in​writing,​but​a​new​act​of​communication​that​involves​political​mediation.​ Intertextuality,​in​such​a​context,​includes​orality​in​a​process​in​which​both​ the​reception​and​construction​of​texts​are​crucial.​Moving​beyond​a​purist​ or​academically​grounded​notion​of​the​preservation​of​classical​Quechua​ in​text,​Garcés​argues​for​the​interaction​between​Quechua​and​the​Spanish​ written​word​in​order​to​create​new​usages​and​to​strengthen​the​Quechua​ 10 introDuction

language.​As​he​suggested​in​his​oral​remarks​at​the​conference,​the​point​is​ not​to​preserve​Quechua​either​by​limiting​it​to​academic​use​or​putting​it​in​ a​museum​(museoficar),​but​to​revitalize​the​social​strength​of​the​language​ by​supporting​its​life-​giving​and​lively​usages​in​daily​practice. ​ Garcés’s​ participation​ in​ the​ publication​ of​ a​ Quechua​ newspaper​ has​ been​ framed,​ as​ in​ the​ case​ of​ Rappaport​ and​ Ramos​ and​ of​ the​ Ruses,​ within​a​broader​history​of​collaboration​with​indigenous​peasant​organizations.​For​him,​therefore,​intellectual​goals​must​of​necessity​be​interlaced​ with​issues​of​empowerment​and​social​justice.​While​his​knowledge​as​a​linguist​helps​him​conceptualize​the​value​of​a​grass-​roots​newspaper​in​terms​ of​the​larger​project​of​Quechua​language​revitalization,​his​experience​as​an​ activist​provides​him​with​the​tools​through​which​he​can​value​a​real-​life​ process​of​language​recuperation​in​which​everyday​usage,​when​inscribed​ in​text,​allows​for​new​practices​that​creatively​extend​the​relevance​of​the​ language. ​ The​emphasis​on​the​revitalization​of​indigenous​languages​through​dynamic​ and​ creative​ forms​ of​ translation​ and​ inscription​ and​ through​ the​ honoring​of​indigenous​practices​and​epistemologies​that​includes​all​levels​ of​society​is​a​powerful​theme​in​the​chapters​by​Garcés,​Ramos​and​Rappaport,​and​the​Ruses.​These​notions​reverberate​strongly​with​the​call​made​ by​Edgar​Esquit​to​extend​and​deepen​our​understanding​of​the​multiplicity​ of​Maya​histories​and​knowledges.​Among​some​educated​pan-​Maya​intellectuals​in​Guatemala,​he​suggests,​the​uncovering​of​a​unified​Maya​history​can​present​a​past​heretofore​hidden​by​official​Guatemalan​versions​ of​history.​While​this​is​an​important​task,​when​the​members​of​a​particular​professional​sector​among​the​Maya​elaborate​it,​in​dialogue​with​other​ knowledges​outside​of​and​unknown​to​Maya​oral​traditions,​they​can​create​ their​own​official​history​that​positions​them​as​“civilized”​in​relation​to​their​ Maya​brothers​and​sisters. ​ It​is​precisely​these​kinds​of​internal​tensions​and​divisions,​and​how​they​ might​unexpectedly​help​to​reproduce​existing​relationships​of​discrimination​and​inequality,​that​form​the​core​of​Klopotek’s​and​Esquit’s​explorations​in​part​3.​In​his​work​with​the​Louisiana​Choctaws,​Klopotek​examines​the​ways​in​which​racial​classification​systems​specific​to​the​U.S.​South,​ themselves​the​result​of​colonial​relationships​of​racial​power,​are​reflected​in​ the​definitions​of​indigeneity​used​by​southern​Indian​communities.​He​suggests​that​a​fuller​critique​of​the​racial​hierarchies​embedded​in​the​general​ system​of​white​privilege,​of​how​the​“one-​drop​rule”​as​applied​to​people​of​ introDuction 11

African​descent​has​led​to​anti-​Black​sensibilities​among​Native​Americans​ as​a​mechanism​of​self-​defense,​might​in​the​long​run​be​a​positive​move​for​ indigenous​people. ​ Esquit,​for​his​part,​questions​current​uses​of​the​notion​of​internal​colonialism​ by​ pan-​Maya​ intellectuals.4​ When​ the​ concept​ is​ used​ to​ explain​ political​relations​between​Maya​and​ladinos​as​separate​yet​homogeneous​ groups,​he​suggests,​it​may​hide​as​much​as​it​reveals.5​To​what​extent,​he​ asks,​might​such​a​usage​result​in​an​understanding​of​a​people’s​rights​and​ culture​ as​ separate​ from​ economics?​ Would​ it​ not​ be​ more​ productive​ to​ think​of​political​relations​as​organized,​in​a​more​complex​way,​along​many​ lines​of​difference​and​hierarchy​that​exist​between​and​inside​both​Maya​and​ ladino​groups?​In​this​context​Esquit​suggests​that​we​consider​instead​the​ colonial​shape​of​power​relations,​which​allows​us​to​connect​class​to​notions​ of​race​and​ethnicity,​thus​opening​the​way​for​a​deeper​recognition​of​the​ multiplicity​of​experiences,​perspectives,​and​history​among​the​Maya.6 ​ Both​Klopotek​and​Esquit,​as​young​indigenous​intellectuals,​are​raising​ questions​about​the​political​and​intellectual​practices​of​a​previous​generation​of​leaders.​Their​locations​within​very​different​societies—Klopotek​is​ a​Choctaw​academic​in​the​United​States,​Esquit​a​Maya​anthropologist​in​ Guatemala—configure​their​options​as​they​negotiate​between​activism​and​ intellectual​work.​Yet​at​the​same​time,​they​share​a​desire​to​expand​definitions​of​indigenous​identity​and​belonging​so​that​broader​coalitions​of​ people​who​identify​as​indigenous,​including​those​traditionally​excluded​ from​leadership,​can​work​more​effectively​to​define​common​goals. ​ The​ desire​ to​ open​ up​ indigenous​ politics​ to​ wider​ coalitions​ involves​ as​well​the​question​of​gender,​as​Esquit​explains​in​his​paper​and​as​also​ emerges​in​the​Tzotzil​publishing​project.​As​the​Ruses​explain,​Diane​Rus’s​ collaboration​with​Maruch​Komes​on​Komes’s​life​history​initiated​a​broader​ discussion​of​a​Maya​women’s​weaving​and​embroidering​cooperative​as​an​ economic​response​to​crisis.​Yet​even​as​this​generated​new​resources​for​the​ cooperative​it​created​deep​debates​about​women’s​economic​autonomy.​Internal​tensions​over​gendered​power​relations​have​also​emerged​in​other​ contexts​of​indigenous​mobilization,​as​is​divulged​in​the​recent​autobiography​by​the​feminist​Mapuche​leader​Isolde​Reuque,​who​was​present​at​the​ conference.7 ​ Taken​together,​then,​the​presentations​at​the​conference​and​the​essays​ in​this​book​explore​a​myriad​of​themes​relating​to​the​challenges​of​decolonization—intellectual,​ academic,​ and​ political.​ Noenoe​ Silva​ and​ Stéfano​ 12 introDuction

Varese,​given​the​perhaps​impossible​task​of​summing​up​the​papers​and​ our​discussions​as​a​prelude​to​a​last​general​plenary​session,​represented​in​ their​comments​some​of​this​complexity​of​solidarity​and​difference.​Silva,​ a​Native​Hawaiian​political​scientist​whose​work​has​demonstrated​how​the​ recovery​of​Hawaiian​language​sources​changes​the​history​of​U.S.​annexation​and​our​understanding​of​Hawaiian​intellectual​life​(Silva​2004,​2007),​ emphasized​the​importance​of​stories​and​language​to​the​empowerment​of​ peoples,​illustrating​her​points​throughout​with​narratives​from​her​own​experiences​and​those​of​her​people.​She​also​spoke​of​the​importance​and​the​ difficulty​of​fostering​Native​scholars.​She​underlined​both​the​possibilities​ and​the​dangers​connected​to​this​task,​but​in​the​end​she​suggested​that​only​ by​having​Native​voices​and​presence​in​the​academy​can​we​aspire​to​a​truly​ intercultural​education​in​which​indigenous​epistemologies​and​languages​ have​a​powerful​voice​and​standing​for​all. ​ Stéfano​Varese,​on​the​other​hand,​an​activist​anthropologist​educated​in​ Peru​but​who​has​worked​on​indigenous​activism​and​sovereignty​throughout​the​Americas,​focused​on​the​power​of​political​mobilization.​He​stressed​ the​danger​inherent​in​the​academy’s​absorption​of​projects​aimed​at​sovereignty,​ the​ recuperation​ of​ language​ and​ territory,​ and​ the​ rewriting​ of​ history,​suggesting​that​indigenous​intellectuals​need​to​be​organic​in​the​ Gramscian​sense.​He​emphasized​the​political​dimensions​of​the​projects​of​ recovery​and​reclaiming,​whether​these​involved​language​or​landscape,​history,​memory,​or​sovereignty.​Ultimately,​he​warned​against​overly​academic​ projects​that,​even​in​the​hands​of​indigenous​intellectuals,​might​recolonize​indigenous​knowledge.​The​differences​of​emphasis​and​vision​in​the​ general​comments​of​Silva​and​Varese​can​help​frame​a​last​set​of​reflections​ that​emerged​from​and​were​prompted​by​our​discussions​at​the​conference.​ As​the​subsequent​conversations,​both​formally​at​the​plenary​and​along​the​ edges​in​more​informal​one-​on-​one​exchanges,​made​clear,​these​differences​ arose​precisely​from​the​diversity​of​experience​and​historical​context​that​ exists​today​among​indigenous​peoples​in​the​Americas​and​the​Pacific.​But​ they​can​also​be​seen​in​the​context​of​our​common​project​of​decolonization,​which​must​involve​an​understanding​of​how​a​respect​for​and​understanding​of​variation​can​lead​to​new​forms​of​creativity. ​ In​her​discussion​of​the​power​of​language​and​stories,​Silva​was​drawing​on​a​deep​tradition​of​struggle​to​honor​the​truths​and​epistemological​ perspectives​contained​in​Native​oral​traditions.​As​several​of​the​essays​in​ this​book​argue,​the​development​of​more​horizontal​and​respectful​forms​of​ introDuction 13

research​and​analysis​must​necessarily​pass​through​a​rethinking​of​and​reencounter​with​the​forms​of​knowledge​contained​in​and​passed​on​through​ oral​tradition.​At​the​confluence​of​several​intellectual​debates,​discussions​ about​oral​history​and​alternative​forms​of​knowledge​and​narrative​have​become​increasingly​wide​ranging​in​recent​years.​Whether​in​the​form​of​testimonio,​oral​history,​or​subaltern​studies,​these​conversations​and​confrontations​have​spanned​the​globe.​While​not​all​the​discussions​have​concerned​ indigenous​issues,​many​of​them​have,​and​Native​and​non-​Native​scholars​ of​indigenous​cultures​have​played​prominent​roles​in​them.​While​even​a​ representative​sample​of​these​conversations​is​too​large​to​cite​here,​often​ the​main​issues​at​stake​concern​the​assessment​of​claims​to​truth​according​ to​established​rules​of​evidence.8​Given​the​distinct​nature​of​oral​tradition​ and​oral​history​as​a​performative​medium​based​on​imparting​knowledge​ and​wisdom​gained​through​direct​personal​experience​or​connection,​the​ rules​of​evidence​associated​with​the​scientific​method​are​less​relevant​or​ applicable.​For​some,​this​makes​oral​tradition​a​lesser​form​of​evidence,​precisely​because​it​is​not​verifiable.9 ​ Two​ complementary​ answers​ to​ this​ challenge​ have​ taken​ shape.​ One​ takes​on​the​academic​project​of​verifiable​research​results​and​demonstrates​ how​alternative​forms​of​knowledge​production​and​transmission,​especially​ oral​tradition,​contribute​new,​important,​and​distinct​perspectives​to​our​ quest​for​knowledge.​They​do​so​precisely​because​they​are​not​data​but​systems​ of​ thought​ that​ provide,​ as​ Julie​ Cruikshank​ writes​ in​ her​ work​ on​ Yukon​communities,​“a​window​on​the​ways​the​past​is​culturally​constituted​ and​discussed.​In​other​words,”​she​continues,​“stories​were​not​merely​about​ the​past,​they​also​provided​guidelines​for​understanding​change”​(Cruikshank​2002,​13).​Similar​claims​are​made​in​a​very​different​context​by​the​ oral​historian​Alessandro​Portelli,​who​argues​that​the​performative​and​apparently​subjective​form​of​oral​history​is​its​greatest​strength,​precisely​because​it​allows​us​to​dig​beyond​fact​to​meaning​(Portelli​1991,​1997).​And​ it​is​precisely​in​this​access​to​meaning​and​interpretation​that​we​can​find​ a​practical​answer​to​the​challenge​set​forth​by​Chakrabarty​(2000)​when​ he​calls​on​us​to​resist​the​positivist​closure​of​narrative​that​keeps​us​from​ understanding​alternative​versions​of​history​that​do​not​start​from​and​end​ in​Europe.10​A​second​way​to​confront​the​objectivist​critique​has​been​to​ question​the​assumption​of​superiority​on​which​it​is​based.​Some​scholars,​including​Linda​Tuhiwai​Smith​(1999),​have​used​postcolonial​and​other​ forms​of​critical​theory​in​dialogue​with​indigenous​knowledge​ to​evalu14 introDuction

ate​the​intellectual​basis​upon​which​dominant​theories​and​methodologies​ have​been​built.​Others,​such​as​Devon​Mihesuah​and​Angela​Cavender​Wilson​(1998,​2004),​have​addressed​specific​historiographies​and​their​minimization​or​erasure​of​Native​sources. ​ It​ was​ precisely​ this​ rich​ tradition​ that​ Silva​ referred​ to​ when​ she​ discussed​the​power​of​stories.​She​also​was​making​reference​to​her​own​work​ on​Hawaiian​language​sources,​and​how​the​highlighting​of​new​versions,​ whether​ oral​ or​ written,​ can​ and​ should​ turn​ our​ interpretations​ of​ both​ the​past​and​the​present​on​their​heads.​And​for​Silva,​doing​so​within​the​ academy,​through​the​increasing​presence​of​Native​scholars​within​its​gates,​ is​an​absolutely​crucial​priority.​This​is​also​the​most​important​point​put​forward​in​the​recent​anthology​Indigenizing the Academy​(Mihesuah​and​Wilson,​2004),​not​in​the​sense​merely​of​inclusion​but​also​of​transformation.​ As​Silva​noted​in​her​comments,​several​of​the​authors​represented​in​that​ book,​including​Mihesuah​and​Taiaiake​Alfred,​demonstrate​that​bringing​ indigenous​perspectives​into​the​academy​makes​sense​if​and​when​a​critical​ mass​of​indigenous​scholars​can​begin​to​change​the​way​in​which​academic​ knowledge​itself​is​organized,​produced,​and​taught.11​This​means​not​only​ claiming​a​space​within​academic​circles​for​indigenous​points​of​view,​but​ envisioning​a​time​when​indigenous​languages,​histories,​and​epistemologies​ are​part​of​the​knowledge​that​everyone​seeks​out. ​ On​this​point,​Silva​and​Varese​brought​the​most​distinct​perspectives​ to​the​table.​Historical​differences​between​North​and​South—how​Native–​ state​relations​have​been​negotiated,​the​role​of​academic​learning​in​society,​ the​nature​of​indigenous​social​and​political​movements​and​their​relationship​to​other​forms​of​resistance—help​explain​in​part​the​diverse​visions​ of​indigenous​participation​in​the​academy.​If​today​a​second​generation​of​ indigenous​scholars,​on​the​basis​of​much​struggle​and​sacrifice,​is​establishing​a​beachhead​in​university​systems​in​the​United​States,​Canada,​and​New​ Zealand,​such​is​not​yet​the​case,​with​few​exceptions,​in​Latin​America.12​The​ always-​present​ danger​ of​ the​ academy​ colonizing​ the​ indigenous​ scholar,​ rather​than​the​other​way​around,​is​a​serious​threat​in​the​South.​But​perhaps​even​more​stark​is​the​variation​in​the​depth​and​degree​of​participation​ by​indigenous​activists​in​class-​based​movements​for​social​change. ​ Indeed,​as​Armando​Muyolema​argued​in​his​presentation​at​the​conference,​one​of​the​central​distinguishing​characteristics​of​indigenous​movements​ in​ Latin​ America​ historically​ has​ been​ their​ close​ interaction​ and​ interrelation​with​popular​class-​based​movements.​In​Latin​America​the​lack​ introDuction 15

of​treaty​or​nation-​to-​nation​negotiations​led​to​an​early​fragmentation​of​ Native​territories​into​small​communities​and​to​direct​negotiation​between​ national​states​and​these​small,​land-​based​political​units.​As​a​result,​the​indigenous​question​was​deeply​embedded​in​the​broader​land​question,​and​ in​the​majority​of​cases​the​most​promising​line​of​struggle​lay​in​a​class​alliance​with​other​landless​or​rural​poor.​This​alliance​was​buttressed​by​the​ generally​dependent​status​of​Latin​American​countries,​which​increased​the​ pressure​for​a​common​coalition​in​favor​of​national​development,​especially​ in​the​heady​years​of​reform​between​the​Second​World​War​and​the​end​of​ the​Vietnam​War. ​ During​these​three​decades​national-​popular​states​based​on​coalitions​of​ leftist​intellectuals​and​political​parties,​trade-​union​organizations,​and​some​ peasant​groups​held​out​promises​of​egalitarian​reform​as​they​confronted​ entrenched​oligarchies​and​landowning​elites,​while​at​the​same​time​promoting​relations​of​so-​called​internal​colonialism​in​which​some​of​the​poor​ ended​up​being​more​deserving​than​others.​Still,​at​a​moment​in​history​ when​change​seemed​possible,​many​found​it​more​important​to​maintain​ the​unity​of​all​popular​forces​than​to​take​exception​to​the​ongoing​forms​of​ inequality​within​the​reformist​alliance.​The​greater​strength​of​class-​based​ social​and​political​movements​in​Latin​America,​moreover,​increased​the​ attraction,​among​laboring​indigenous​peoples​in​city​and​countryside,​of​ a​class-​based​coalition.​One​major​exception​to​these​tendencies​could​be​ found​among​lowland​indigenous​peoples,​particularly​in​the​Amazonian​ regions​of​Venezuela,​Colombia,​Peru,​Bolivia,​and​especially​Brazil,​where​ Native​peoples​had​little​permanent​interaction​with​emerging​nation-​states​ except​through​violent​extractive​industries​and​the​spread​of​epidemic​diseases​(Ramos​1995,​1998;​Turner​1995,​2002;​Varese​1970). ​ It​was​only​with​the​generalized​failure​of​national-​democratic​and​socialist​attempts​at​reform​and​national​liberation,​therefore—most​notably​in​ the​1970s​and​early​1980s—that​the​class-​alliance​strategy​was​finally​brought​ to​crisis​for​many​indigenous​peoples​in​Latin​America.​Yet,​as​Charles​R.​ Hale​and​Rosamel​Millamán​have​recently​argued​(2006),​the​evolution​of​ culture-​based​demands​for​indigenous​peoples​has​led​to​a​new​kind​of​trap​ for​activists​interested​in​autonomy,​since​neoliberal​states​in​process​of​transition​toward​democratic​rule​have​articulated​a​rights-​based​discourse​that​ provides​limited​new​privileges​for​indigenous​peoples​within​the​context​of​ the​new​political​order.​This​has​given​rise,​in​their​estimation,​to​the​emer-

16 introDuction

gence​of​(borrowing​a​term​from​the​Aymara​historian​and​activist​Silvia​ Rivera​Cusicanqui)​the​indio permitido,​or​“permissible​Indian,”​a​new​figure​ who,​in​return​for​limited​new​cultural​and​political​rights,​is​colonized​into​ the​existing​system.​So​in​the​end,​it​seems​that​for​a​host​of​historical​reasons​ many​ Native​ intellectuals​ in​ the​ South​ have​ perhaps​ a​ deeper,​ more​ enduring​suspicion​of​and​hostility​toward​institutions,​both​political​and​ academic.​This​was,​in​part,​the​perspective​reflected​in​Varese’s​concluding​ comments. ​ And​yet​we​must​not​overdraw​the​contrasts​between​North​and​South​ but​use​them—as​we​use​other​differences​and​tensions—as​entry​points​ for​deeper​reflection.​In​our​final​plenary​session,​Leilani​Basham,​a​Native​ Hawaiian​ scholar,​ addressed​ the​ nonindigenous​ people​ in​ our​ midst,​ reminding​us​that​respect​for​difference​and​for​the​integrity​of​cultures​must​ lie​at​the​heart​of​all​forms​of​collaboration.​The​minute​we​start​to​feel​proprietary,​she​implied,​it’s​time​to​let​go,​to​establish​a​respectful​distance.​ Jennifer​Denetdale​added​to​this​observation​that,​as​Wilson​has​noted,​not​ only​colonialism​but​decolonization​as​well​engenders​violence.​“When​we​ speak​and​we​speak​honestly​and​we​speak​across​cultures,”​Denetdale​said,​ “one​of​the​things​that​will​happen​is​that​there​will​be​tension,​it​will​be​ uncomfortable.​Don’t​be​afraid,​stay​there,​see​what​it​feels​like,​see​what​it​ tastes​like.”13​Denetdale’s​comments​echoed​Ramos’s​earlier​suggestion​that​ collaboration​inevitably​leads​to​tension,​but​that​tension​and​contradiction​ can​be​productive​through​work.​They​also​raised,​once​again,​the​painful​ or​uncomfortable​quality​of​the​frontier,​that​place​where,​as​Gloria​Anzaldúa​wrote,​“the​Third​World​grates​against​the​first​and​bleeds”​(Anzaldúa​ 1987,​3). ​ As​intellectuals,​scholars,​researchers,​and​writers​who​inhabit​a​variety​of​ frontiers,​we​face​these​contradictions​daily.​Attempting​to​build​nonviolent​ knowledge​must,​perhaps,​inevitably​be​done​along​the​frontier—between​ worlds,​between​cultures​and​languages,​between​histories​and​territories.​ What​tools​do​we​have?​Many,​including​the​law,​history,​the​archive,​the​ academy,​ and​ writing​ itself,​ have​ also​ been​ the​ tools​ of​ colonialism.​ And​ given​the​history​of​our​world,​could​it​be​any​other​way?​To​build​nonviolent​knowledge​with​tools​steeped​in​violence​may​be​the​core​of​our​project.​ And​we​need​to​build​such​knowledge​globally,​since​the​forces​that​oppose​ it​are​global,​too.​As​Ramos​suggested​during​the​discussions,​it​is​indeed​a​ challenge​to​use​the​same​tools​the​colonizers​have​used.​But,​he​insisted,​it​

introDuction 17

is​a​challenge​we​can​take​on​creatively​and​ambitiously,​with​the​purpose​of​ transforming​both​their​use​and​their​meaning.​We​offer​this​book​in​that​ spirit.

Notes ​ 1.​ Colleagues​ at​ Wisconsin​ who​ participated​ in​ the​ early​ intellectual​ planning​ stages​for​the​conference​are​Ned​Blackhawk,​Ada​Deer,​Roberta​Hill,​Patricia​Loew,​ Larry​Nesper,​Frank​Salomon,​and​Theresa​Schenck.​Ned​Blackhawk​in​particular​ was​most​helpful​in​identifying​potential​participants​working​on​Hawai‘i,​the​United​ States,​and​Canada.​Our​conference​was​held​in​conjunction​with​the​graduate​student​conference​of​the​ cic ​American​Indian​Studies​Consortium,​organized​that​ year​in​Madison​by​Ned​Blackhawk.​Some​of​the​participants​made​important​contributions​ to​ our​ plenary​ discussions.​ For​ logistical​ and​ organizational​ support,​ I​ owe​thanks​to​the​Institute​for​Research​in​the​Humanities​and​especially​to​Loretta​ Freiling;​and​to​the​American​Indian​Studies​Program,​especially​to​Denise​Wyaka.​ Financial​support​for​the​conference​was​provided​by​the​Burdick​Vary​Fund​of​the​ Institute​for​Research​in​the​Humanities;​the​Anonymous​Fund​and​the​University​ Lectures​Committee​of​the​University​of​Wisconsin;​and​the​naVe ​Fund​of​the​Latin​ American,​Caribbean,​and​Iberian​Studies​Program.​The​following​programs,​offices,​ and​divisions​of​the​University​of​Wisconsin​contributed​to​the​purchase,​housing,​ and​maintenance​of​the​simultaneous​interpretation​equipment​used​at​the​conference,​which​is​now​available​on​campus​for​use​by​other​interpreters:​the​Language​ Institute;​the​Global​Studies​Program;​the​Office​of​Human​Resource​Development;​ the​Division​of​International​Studies;​the​Department​of​History;​the​Office​of​Facilities,​Planning​and​Management;​the​Division​of​University​Housing;​the​Medical​ School;​the​Wisconsin​Union;​and​Learning​and​Support​Services.​Simultaneous​interpretation​was​provided​by​Gladys​McCormick,​Adan​Palau,​Yesenia​Pumarada​ Cruz,​and​Donna​Vukelich.​I’m​grateful​to​Roberto​Galo​Arroyo​for​permission​to​ use​his​art​on​the​cover​of​the​paperback​book.​At​Duke​University​Press​I’m​grateful,​ as​always,​to​Valerie​Millholland,​Mark​Mastromarino,​and​Miriam​Angress.​Carol​ Roberts​did​her​usual​excellent​work​on​the​index. ​ 2.​The​literature​on​these​issues​is​too​extensive​to​cite​here.​Among​the​pioneers​ in​the​application​of​colonial​and​postcolonial​theory​to​a​study​of​indigenous​issues​ is​Linda​Tuhiwai​Smith​(1999).​Other​starting​points​for​postcolonial​theory​might​ include​Said​1978;​Chatterjee​1986;​Guha​and​Spivak​1988;​Prakash​1995;​Dirlik,​Bahl,​ and​Gran​2000;​Loomba,​Kaul,​Bunzl,​Burton,​and​Esty​2005. ​ 3.​The​phrase​“decolonizing​methodologies”​comes​from​the​title​of​Smith​1999. ​ 4.​Originally​formulated​as​a​concept​ by​Pablo​González​ Casanova​(1965)​and​ Rodolfo​Stavenhagen​(1965),​“internal​colonialism”​has​been​taken​up,​and​its​mean-

18 introDuction

ing​ transformed,​ by​ indigenous​ intellectuals​ in​ Guatemala​ and​ Bolivia.​ See​ Cojtí​ Cuxil​1996;​Rivera​Cusicanqui​and​Barragán​1997;​Qayum​2002. ​ 5.​In​modern​Guatemala,​the​word​ladino​is​used​to​designate​a​Hispanicized​person,​usually​of​mixed​European​and​indigenous​descent;​in​many​other​parts​of​Latin​ America​that​person​would​be​termed​mestizo. ​ 6.​This​call​for​more​consciously​inclusive​forms​of​indigenous​politics​is​echoed​ as​well​by​Víctor​Montejo​(2005). ​ 7.​Indigenous​women,​Reuque​suggested​at​the​conference,​can​be​doubly​marginalized​or​doubly​invisible;​and​yet,​as​her​experience​with​her​book​has​demonstrated,​indigenous​women​are​also​a​source​of​great​cultural​and​political​dynamism.​ See​Reuque​Paillalef​2002a,​b. ​ 8.​Some​examples​are​Cruikshank​2002;​Howe​2002;​James​2000;​Mallon​2001,​ 2002,​2005;​Montejo​1987,​1999;​Portelli​1991,​1997;​Wilson​1998. ​ 9.​An​example​of​these​debates​can​be​found​in​Hispanic American Historical Review​(1999). ​ 10.​I​engage​in​a​dialogue​with​Chakrabarty​on​these​issues​in​Mallon​2005. ​ 11.​See​especially​Mihesuah’s​essay​“American​Indian​History​as​a​Field​of​Study”​ and​Alfred’s​essay​“Warrior​Scholarship,”​both​in​Mihesuah​and​Wilson​2004. ​ 12.​ One​ might​ argue​ that​ within​ Latin​ America​ indigenous​ intellectuals​ have​ made​limited​progress​in​entering​academic​circles​in​Bolivia,​Guatemala,​Colombia,​Chile,​and​on​Nicaragua’s​Atlantic​coast,​but​all​gains​are​partial​and​very​hard​ to​maintain,​given​the​financial​difficulties​of​universities​in​general.​The​tendency​is​ for​indigenous​intellectuals​to​develop​their​own​institutions,​which​are​financially​ fragile​as​well.​An​especially​trenchant​example​of​these​problems​is​represented​in​ Chile​by​the​publication​of​Marimán,​Caniuqueo,​Millalén,​and​Levil​2006,​a​book​ of​essays​by​four​young​Mapuche​historians,​of​whom​only​one,​Marimán,​has​so​far​ had​access​to​a​Ph.D.​program. ​ 13.​Jennifer​Denetdale,​General​Comment,​Plenary​Session,​Conference​on​Narrating​Native​Histories,​University​of​Wisconsin,​Madison,​10​April​2005,​transcription​from​recording​of​the​session.

introDuction 19

since tHe 1970 s​the​internationalization​of​indigenous​mobilization​and​the​

formation​of​globalized​coalitions​of​Native​peoples​have​changed​the​face​ of​indigenous​cultural​politics​and​of​indigenous​claims​to​autonomy.​One​ of​the​venues​through​which​Native​activism​has​been​most​dramatically​felt​ has​been​the​United​Nations,​where​indigenous​peoples​have​successfully​ pressured​for​the​passage​of​broad-​ranging​resolutions​supporting​Native​ rights​to​self-​determination,​autonomy,​and​territorial​and​cultural​integrity.​ Both​the​International​Labor​Organization’s​(ilo)​Convention​169,​adopted​ in​June​1989​and​put​in​force​in​September​1991,​and​the​United​Nations​ Declaration​on​the​Rights​of​Indigenous​Peoples,​ratified​in​September​2007,​ have​broken​new​ground​in​the​area​of​international​recognition​of​indigenous​rights. ​ During​the​1990s,​as​Native​peoples​pressured​existing​nation-​states​to​ ratify​and​observe​the​principles​of​ ilo ​Convention​169​in​their​dealings​ with​indigenous​peoples​within​their​borders,​it​became​clear​that​un ​resolutions​can​serve​as​powerful​weapons​for​mobilization.​Additionally,​the​ intensification​and​deepening​of​international​debate​on​indigenous​issues,​ buttressed​by​back-​to-​back​Decades​of​Indigenous​Peoples​declared​by​the​ United​Nations​(1990–2000,​2000–2010),​have​increased​consciousness​on​ the​ question​ of​ Native​ peoples​ and​ their​ rights,​ not​ only​ among​ political​ elites​ but​ also​ in​ intellectual​ and​ academic​ communities​ worldwide.​ And​ this​new​awareness​has​doubled​back​into​Native​societies,​encouraging​new​ forms​of​activism. ​ The​two​essays​in​part​1​situate​the​struggles​of​two​indigenous​peoples,​ the​ Kanaka​ Maoli​ of​ Hawai‘i​ and​ the​ Rapanui​ of​ Rapa​ Nui,​ or​ so-​called​ Easter​ Island,​ squarely​ within​ this​ evolving​ story​ of​ international​ indigenous​mobilization.​Informed​by​literatures​in​international​politics,​international​human​rights,​and​debates​over​indigenous​self-​determination,​these​ essays​take​a​broad​view​of​the​interactions​between​indigenous​peoples​and​ the​states​that​colonized​them.​The​focus​is​not​on​local​forms​of​cultural​ practice​or​historical​memory,​but​on​the​historically​changing​alternatives​ available​to​indigenous​peoples​as​a​whole​in​their​struggle​to​retain​land,​ culture,​and​resources​and​to​achieve​sovereignty​and​self-​determination. ​ Kehaulani​Kauanui​places​the​historical​struggle​of​Kanaka​Maoli​both​ in​the​context​of​U.S.​federal​government​debates​and​within​discussions​in​

international​law.​As​she​makes​clear,​the​case​of​Hawai‘i​is​in​some​ways​ unique​because,​during​the​nineteenth​century,​the​Kingdom​of​Hawai‘i​received​ international​ treaty​ recognition​ as​ a​ sovereign​ state.​ Subsequently,​ however,​the​U.S.-​backed​overthrow​of​the​kingdom​in​1893,​the​illegal​annexation​of​Hawai‘i​as​a​U.S.​territory​in​1898,​and​the​irregular​vote​that​led​ to​statehood​in​1959​have​all​added​layers​of​complexity​and​colonialism,​ making​ questions​ of​ national​ sovereignty,​ deoccupation,​ and​ indigenous​ rights​deeply​conflictual​among​the​islands’​inhabitants.​Indeed,​as​Kauanui​ explores​in​her​essay,​none​of​the​alternatives​existing​today—whether​indigenous​self-​determination​under​U.S.​federal​law​or​under​international​ law,​decolonization​under​international​law,​or​deoccupation​based​on​the​ kingdom’s​ previous​ existence​ as​ an​ independent​ state—attend​ simultaneously​and​effectively​to​the​needs​of​all​those​involved. ​ Consciously​developing​a​different​kind​of​anthropological​perspective,​ Riet​ Delsing​ traces​ the​ revitalization​ and​ recovery​ of​ identity​ and​ memory​in​Rapa​Nui​both​as​a​story​embedded​in​the​narrative​of​the​Chilean​ nation-​state​and​as​an​international​practice​framed​by​the​last​generation​ of​ globalized​ indigenous​ mobilization.​ Delsing​ shows​ how​ the​ history​ of​ Chilean​expropriation​and​colonization​of​the​Rapanui​is​both​embedded​ in​the​evolution​of​the​Chilean​nation-​state​and​is​a​chapter​in​the​broader​ story​of​Chilean​Pacific​imperialism​and​territorial​expansion.​At​the​same​ time,​she​traces​the​links​between​the​evolution​of​a​new​Rapanui​consciousness​and​the​development​of​a​Pacific-​based​indigenous​consciousness.​In​ the​end,​she​suggests​that​the​recent​turn​to​militancy​by​a​sector​of​Rapanui​ activists​is​articulated​to​the​expansion​of​international​indigenous​activism​ and​to​the​Rapanui’s​recognition​of​themselves​as​a​Polynesian,​rather​than​ an​American,​people. ​ Taken​together,​the​two​essays​assume​three​important​tasks​of​the​collection​as​a​whole.​First,​they​show​how,​in​two​specific​historical​cases,​the​ international​indigenous​movement​and​ un ​debates​on​indigenous​rights​ have​changed​the​struggles​for​autonomy​and​self-​determination​over​the​ last​two​generations.​The​richness​of​historical​context​provided​is​extremely​ important,​because​some​analysts​have​tended​to​assume​that,​rather​than​ coming​to​fruition​in​the​context​of​the​ un ​debates,​indigenous​struggles​ actually​originated​in​them.​These​essays​demonstrate,​to​the​contrary,​that​ the​changing​international​context​has​afforded​new​venues​and​languages​ within​which​to​place​already​existing​and​ongoing​struggles​over​cultural​ recognition,​resources,​and​self-​determination. Sovereignty and Self-Determination 23

Louisiana

Chiapas

Hawaii

Chimaltenango Cauca Valley

PAC I F I C O C E A N Cochabamba Valley

Rapa Nui

Map​of​regions​discussed​in​the​book. Credit:​Cartographic​Laboratory,​University​of​Wisconsin,​Madison. Mallon 5 x 4 in

​ 08.09.10 The​second​task​the​essays​take​on​is​to​decenter​the​focus​of​the​volume​from​the​Americas.​By​concentrating​on​the​Pacific​region,​and​specifically​on​two​Polynesian​peoples,​the​authors​remind​us​to​look​outside​ our​national,​or​even​continental,​boundaries​in​considering​the​relationship​ between​indigenous​peoples​and​colonialism.​Despite​the​dramatic​differences​in​the​history​of​Hawai‘i​and​Rapa​Nui,​certain​similarities​in​historical​periodization​and​even​in​linguistic​terminology​(for​example,​the​use​of​ the​word​canaca​in​Rapa​Nui​and​kanaka​in​Hawai‘i​to​denote​indigenous​ people)​stand​out.​This​process​of​decentering​can​perhaps​be​best​appreciated​visually​by​looking​at​the​accompanying​map.​As​the​reader​will​see,​in​ order​to​show​Hawai‘i​it​was​necessary​to​cut​off​a​portion​of​eastern​South​ America,​giving​the​image​a​certain​counterintuitive​feel. ​ The​third​task​these​essays​perform​is​to​raise​the​question​of​methodology​in​the​writing​of​indigenous​history​and​Native​narrative.​We​tend​to​ assume​that​Native​history,​because​it​is​about​indigenous​communities,​is​ best​written​from​an​ethnographic​perspective​that​seeks​to​get​inside​the​ cultures​about​which​we​write.​Certainly​a​close​understanding​of​cultural​ 24 part​one

categories​and​practices,​of​people’s​narratives​and​memories,​must​stand​ at​the​center​of​how​Native​history​is​rendered.​Yet​at​the​same​time,​as​we​ reflect​in​this​book​on​notions​of​decolonization,​we​must​also​take​to​heart​ the​ fact​ that​ broad​ national​ and​ international​ narratives​ and​ analysis​ are​ equally​important​as​Native​peoples​continue​to​engage​nation-​states,​intellectuals,​political​organizations,​and​academic​practitioners.​Perhaps,​in​this​ sense,​decolonization​can​also​begin​at​home,​as​we​think​through​the​multiple​ways​and​registers​in​which​to​render​indigenous​narratives,​history,​ and​experience​in​the​ever​more​globalized​world.

Sovereignty and Self-Determination 25

J. keHaulani kauanui

Hawaiian​Nationhood,​Self-​Determination,​​ and​International​Law

This​measure​does​not​preclude​Native​Hawaiians​from​seeking​alternatives​in​the​international​arena.​This​measure​focuses​solely​on​self-​determination​within​the​framework​of​ federal​law​and​seeks​to​establish​equality​in​the​federal​policies​extended​towards​American​Indians,​Alaska​Natives​and​Native​Hawaiians. —U.S.​Senator​Daniel​Kahikina​Akaka​(2001a) Let​me​be​clear—It​is​not​my​intention,​nor​the​intention​of​the​delegation,​to​preclude​ efforts​of​Native​Hawaiians​at​the​international​level.​The​scope​of​this​bill​is​limited​to​ federal​law. —U.S.​Senator​Daniel​Kahikina​Akaka​(2001b)

U.S.​Senator​Daniel​Kahikina​Akaka’s​assurances,​made​in​2001,​were​in​regard​to​a​legislative​initiative​to​recognize​a​Native​Hawaiian​nation​within​ the​confines​of​U.S.​federal​policy​on​Tribal​Nations​that​still​remains​before​ the​U.S.​Congress.​Beginning​in​the​106th​U.S.​Congress​in​2000​and​continuing​at​least​through​the​111th​Congress​in​2011,​Akaka,​a​Native​Hawaiian​Democrat​from​the​State​of​Hawai‘i,​introduced​this​federal​legislation​in​ order​to​secure​the​recognition​of​Native​Hawaiians​as​an​indigenous​people​ who​have​a​“special​relationship”​with​the​United​States​and​thus​a​right​to​ internal​self-​determination.​Passage​of​the​bill​would​lay​the​foundation​for​a​ nation-​within-​a-​nation​model​of​self-​governance​defined​by​U.S.​federal​law​ as​“domestic​dependent​nations”​to​exercise​the​right​to​self-​government.​ The​U.S.​government​has​included​Kanaka​Maoli​(indigenous​Hawaiians)​in​ over​160​legislative​acts​relating​to​Native​Americans.1​However,​it​has​not​included​Kanaka​Maoli​in​its​policy​on​Native​self-​determination.​Akaka’s​assertions​that​passage​of​the​bill​would​not​preclude​Kanaka​Maoli​from​seek-

ing​“alternatives​in​the​international​arena”​have​been​his​standard​response​ to​ challenges​ posed​ to​ him​ by​ individuals​ and​ organizations​ opposed​ to​ the​legislation​because​they​favor​Hawaiian​independence​from​the​United​ States—that​is,​the​restoration​of​a​Hawaiian​state​under​international​law.​ These​groups​include​Hui​Pu​as​well​as​those​who​are​part​of​the​Hawaiian​ Independence​Action​Alliance:​the​Pro-​Kanaka​Maoli​Independence​Working​Group,​Ka​Pakaukau,​Komike​Tribunal,​ honi ​(Hui​o​Na​Ike),​Ka​Lei​ Maile​Ali‘i​Hawaiian​Civic​Club,​Koani​Foundation,​‘Ohana​Koa,​ nFip — Hawai‘i,​Spiritual​Nation​of​Kū—Hui​Ea​Council​of​Sovereigns,​Living​Nation,​Settlers​for​Hawaiian​Independence,​Mana ​(Movement​for​Aloha​No​ Ka​‘Aina),​as​well​as​the​Hawai‘i​Institute​for​Human​Rights. ​ Akaka’s​response,​however,​echoed​repeatedly​by​Hawai‘i’s​state​and​federal​officials​over​the​past​decade,​speaks​only​to​the​rights​of​indigenous​ peoples​under​international​law​(Namuo​2004).​But​because​his​mention​ of​“alternatives​in​the​international​arena”​here​and​elsewhere​is​ill-​defined,​ he​has​led​many​to​infer​that​Kanaka​Maoli​could​pursue​full​independence​ in​a​postfederal​recognition​political​scenario,​if​they​so​desire.​What​proponents​of​the​Akaka​bill​refuse​to​acknowledge​is​that​this​strategy​differs​ from​the​prevalent​Hawaiian​independence​position​from​the​outset.​While​ many​proponents​of​U.S.​federal​recognition​presume​that​activists​in​the​ Kanaka​Maoli​independence​movement​merely​want​continued​access​to​the​ United​Nations​as​indigenous​peoples,​the​vast​majority​of​proindependence​ Kanaka​Maoli​support​two​entirely​different​legal​strategies​under​international​law,​decolonization​and​deoccupation,​neither​of​which​is​based​on​ indigeneity.​ Decolonization​ is​ specific​ to​ colonized​ peoples​ in​ non-​self-​ governing​territories,​while​deoccupation​pertains​to​occupied​states. ​ The​history​of​the​Kingdom​of​Hawai‘i,​which​was​recognized​as​a​state​ by​ all​ major​ global​ powers​ throughout​ the​ nineteenth​ century,​ provides​ Kanaka​Maoli​and​others​with​a​rare​legal​claim​that​shows​the​current​state-​ driven​push​for​federal​recognition​to​be​problematic​for​outstanding​sovereignty​claims.2​This​essay​critically​analyzes​the​limits​of​both​Akaka’s​federal​proposal​for​internal​self-​determination​and​the​rights​of​indigenous​ peoples​under​international​law​to​argue​that​passage​of​the​Native​Hawaiian​Government​Reorganization​Act​would​indeed​threaten​the​independence​claims​of​the​Hawaiian​nation,​which​are​not​necessarily​protected​ by​the​Declaration​on​the​Rights​of​Indigenous​Peoples.​In​other​words,​I​ show​how​the​independence​claim​for​the​sovereignty​of​the​Hawaiian​kingdom​exceeds​the​current​rights​accorded​to​indigenous​peoples​at​the​United​ 28 J.​Kehaulani​Kauanui

Nations​because​the​monarchy​was​recognized​as​a​state​prior​to​the​U.S.-​ backed​overthrow​in​1893. ​ The​case​of​Hawai‘i​illuminates​the​limitations​of​international​law​as​a​ remedy​ for​ the​ politically​ fraught​ history​ of​ the​ kingdom​ and​ of​ Kanaka​ Maoli​as​an​indigenous​people.​First,​I​offer​some​historical​background​in​ order​to​delineate​the​diplomatic​relations​of​the​Hawaiian​kingdom​and​the​ United​States,​the​U.S.-​backed​overthrow​of​the​kingdom,​and​unilaterally​ imposed​U.S.​annexation​and​contested​statehood​for​Hawai‘i​as​the​fiftieth​ state​of​the​American​Union.​Next,​I​critically​examine​the​prospect​for​internal​self-​determination​under​U.S.​domestic​policy​as​proposed​in​the​Native​Hawaiian​Government​Reorganization​Act​of​2009,​also​known​as​the​ Akaka​bill,​in​order​to​assess​the​limits​of​that​model​of​governance​as​it​is​ detailed​in​the​legislation.​I​also​explore​the​ways​in​which​the​bill,​if​passed,​ could​work​to​preempt​and​preclude​the​Hawaiian​sovereignty​claim​under​ international​law. ​ The​ next​ section​ delineates​ the​ terrain​ of​ indigenous​ peoples’​ rights​ under​international​law​as​distinct​from​the​rights​of​states.​I​suggest​that​ although​indigenous​peoples’​rights​are​expanding,​they​still​pose​limits​for​ the​Hawaiian​sovereignty​claim—given​the​legal​genealogy​of​the​Hawaiian​ kingdom,​an​independent​state—as​it​currently​exists​because​of​the​way​that​ international​law​continues​to​privilege​the​rights​of​states​over​the​rights​of​ peoples.​Independence​proponents​who​advocate​restoration​of​the​kingdom​reject​both​indigenous​self-​determination​under​U.S.​policy​as​well​as​ indigenous​self-​determination​under​international​law​as​legal​strategies​for​ recuperating​Hawaiian​sovereignty.​Most​also​reject​decolonization​under​ the​United​Nations​Charter,​for​reasons​discussed​below,​and​instead​advocate​for​deoccupation.​However,​that​legal​strategy​also​has​shortcomings​ vis-​à-​vis​the​plight​of​Kanaka​Maoli,​which​I​address. ​ The​history​of​occupation​and​colonialism​has​generated​a​variety​of​options,​but​none​of​them​seem​sufficient​in​their​current​scope​since​each​has​ serious​limitations​and​demands​an​alternative​approach​to​begin​to​address​ this​complicated​historical​legacy​in​a​way​that​promotes​restorative​justice.

From Kingdom to U.S.-Occupied Colony Official​diplomatic​relations​between​the​Kingdom​of​Hawai‘i​and​the​United​ States​transpired​over​five​decades.​The​treaties​negotiated​between​the​two​ were​made​after​the​U.S.​government​and​other​nations​had​already​recogHawaiian Nationhood 29

nized​the​kingdom​as​an​independent​state.​In​1842​King​Kamehameha​III​ dispatched​a​delegation​to​the​United​States​and​later​to​Europe​that​was​endowed​with​the​power​to​secure​the​recognition​of​Hawaiian​independence​ by​the​major​world​powers​of​the​time.​On​19​December​1842​the​delegation​ secured​the​assurance​of​President​John​Tyler​of​the​United​States​of​American​recognition​of​the​independence​of​the​Kingdom​of​Hawai‘i,​and​subsequently​it​secured​formal​recognition​by​Great​Britain​and​France. ​ The​treaties​between​the​Kingdom​of​Hawai‘i​and​the​United​States​were​ not​concerned​with​land​or​governance;​they​specified​only​relations​of​peace​ and​friendship,​commerce,​and​navigation.​The​first,​signed​at​Washington​ on​20​December​1849,​delineated​protocols​for​perpetual​peace​and​amity​ between​the​countries.​It​provided​for​reciprocal​commerce​and​navigation,​ including​the​regulation​of​duties​and​imports​at​favored​foreign​nation​rates​ and​permission​for​U.S.​whaling​ships​to​dock​at​selected​Hawaiian​ports.​ The​second​treaty​was​negotiated​in​1870​and​concerned​an​arrangement​ between​the​postal​services​of​the​kingdom​and​the​United​States.​The​third​ treaty,​known​as​the​Reciprocity​Treaty,​was​signed​in​1875.​This​agreement​ for​commercial​reciprocity​meant​no​export​duty​was​imposed​on​Hawai‘i​ or​the​United​States​and​allowed​for​tax-​free​goods​exchanged​between​the​ two​nations​to​enter​and​leave​Hawaiian​and​U.S.​ports.​In​1884​the​two​nations​negotiated​a​convention​to​renew​and​supplement​the​treaty​of​1875.​ This​allowed​the​United​States​privileged​access,​over​other​nations,​to​use​ Pearl​Harbor.​The​convention​specified​that​the​U.S.​government​had​exclusive​right​to​enter​the​harbor​and​to​establish​and​maintain​there​a​coaling​ and​repair​station​for​the​use​of​U.S.​vessels.​Contrary​to​popular​opinion,​ this​supplement​to​the​treaty​ceded​nothing​to​the​United​States​in​the​way​ of​territory.​Last,​in​1882​the​two​nations​negotiated​a​convention​between​ the​Post​Office​Department​of​the​United​States​and​the​Post​Office​Department​of​the​Kingdom​of​Hawai‘i​concerning​the​exchange​of​money​orders. ​ Although​ neither​ lands​ nor​ sovereignty​ were​ ceded​ in​ any​ of​ these​ treaties​by​either​party,​the​number​of​elite​foreigners​residing​in​Hawai‘i​ eventually​ grew​ to​ the​ point​ where​ they​ threatened​ the​ autonomy​ of​ the​ kingdom.​White​Americans​had​migrated​to​the​Hawaiian​Islands​from​the​ time​of​the​first​Christian​mission​in​1820​sponsored​by​the​American​Board​ of​Commission​for​Foreign​Missions.​As​Lilikala​Kame‘eleihiwa​(1992)​has​ documented,​white​Americans​and​European​merchants​constituted​the​foreign​population​in​Hawai‘i​by​the​1840s,​when​the​missionaries’​descendants​ pressured​King​Kamehameha​III​to​privatize​communal​landholdings.​The​ 30 J.​Kehaulani​Kauanui

Mahele​land​division​of​1848​increased​the​wealth​of​these​foreigners,​who​ managed​to​secure​vast​extensions​of​land​(Kame‘eleihiwa​1992).​In​turn,​ white​settlers’​presence​and​power​increased​on​the​islands​throughout​the​ nineteenth​century​(Silva​2004;​Osorio​2002;​Kame‘eleihiwa​1992).​Anglo-​ American​legal​impositions​transformed​Hawaiian​society​throughout​that​ period​and​made​for​a​distinct​form​of​colonialism​accompanied​by​global​ movements​of​capitalism​and​Christianity​that​affected​the​everyday​lives​of​ Hawaiians​with​regard​to​work,​family,​marriage,​and​even​sexuality​(Merry​ 2000). ​ Eventually,​ the​ foreign​ elites​ formed​ their​ own​ militia,​ the​ Honolulu​ Rifles,​ associated​ with​ the​ U.S.​ military​ (Silva​ 2004,​ 122;​ Osorio​ 2002,​ 239–40).​In​1887​the​Honolulu​Rifles​seized​strategic​points​in​the​city,​and​ mounted​armed​patrols​forced​the​ruling​monarch,​King​Kalakaua,​to​sign​ what​became​known​as​the​Bayonet​Constitution,​a​document​that​stripped​ him​of​his​most​important​ executive​powers​and​diminished​ the​Kanaka​ Maoli​voice​in​government.​The​king​was​no​longer​able​to​appoint​members​ to​the​House​of​Nobles.​The​Bayonet​Constitution​created​an​oligarchy​of​the​ haole​planters​and​businessmen​by​primarily​empowering​white​Americans​ and​Europeans.​The​new​constitution​gave​U.S.​citizens​the​right​to​vote​in​ Hawaiian​elections,​while​a​large​sector​of​the​Kanaka​Maoli​electorate​was​ excluded​through​rigorous​property​qualifications​and​Asians​were​entirely​ disenfranchised​as​aliens​(Osorio​2002,​243–45,​251–54;​Kent​1993,​55).​Every​ decision​would​have​to​have​the​approval​of​the​cabinet,​now​made​up​of​ foreigners.​In​addition,​the​new​order​prevented​the​king​from​dismissing​ the​cabinet​himself​since​the​power​was​given​to​the​legislature,​which​could​ dismiss​any​cabinet​with​a​simple​majority​vote​(Silva​2004,​122–26;​Osorio​ 2002,​194–97). ​ Although​the​House​of​Nobles​never​properly​ratified​the​Bayonet​Constitution,​Queen​Lili‘uokalani’s​attempt​to​promulgate​a​new​constitution​to​ replace​ it​ (once​ she​ succeeded​ to​ the​ throne​ after​ her​ brother​ Kalakaua’s​ death)​prompted​the​unlawful​overthrow​of​the​kingdom.​In​1893​U.S.​Minister​of​Foreign​Affairs​John​L.​Stevens,​with​the​support​of​a​dozen​white​ settlers,​organized​to​overthrow​Queen​Lili‘uokalani.​The​queen​yielded​her​ authority​under​protest​because​she​was​confident​that​President​Benjamin​ Harrison​would​endeavor​to​undo​the​actions​led​by​one​of​his​ministers.​ However,​this​was​not​the​case,​and​those​who​overthrew​the​kingdom​established​the​provisional​government.​Eventually,​after​sending​an​investigator​on​the​matter,​the​next​president,​Grover​Cleveland,​declared​the​action​ Hawaiian Nationhood 31

under​ Stevens​ an​ act​ of​ war​ and​ acknowledged​ that​ the​ coup,​ backed​ by​ U.S.​Marines,​was​unlawful​(Cleveland​1893).​But​he​never​moved​to​restore​ formal​recognition​to​the​queen. ​ As​ this​ struggle​ for​ control​ was​ taking​ place,​ the​ provisional​ government​established​the​Republic​of​Hawai‘i​on​4​July​1894,​with​Sanford​Ballard​Dole​as​president​(Trask​1993;​Silva​2004).​Besides​asserting​jurisdiction​ over​the​entire​island​archipelago,​this​group​seized​roughly​1.8​million​acres​ of​land—Kingdom​Government​and​Crown​Lands—and​declared​them​free​ and​clear​of​any​trust​or​claim.​This​de​facto​government​ceded​these​same​ lands​to​the​United​States​when​it​illegally​annexed​Hawai‘i​in​1898.​This​is​ the​land​base​at​stake​in​the​political​struggle​today,​one​sorely​contested​ through​contemporary​legal​challenges. ​ The​United​States​did​not​annex​the​Hawaiian​Islands​by​treaty.​Rather,​it​ purportedly​annexed​the​archipelago​through​its​own​internal​domestic​law,​ the​Newlands​Resolution.​This​legislation​passed​in​1898​despite​massive​indigenous​opposition,​as​documented​by​Noenoe​Silva​(1998,​2004).​Kanaka​ Maoli​organized​into​two​key​nationalist​groups,​Hui​Aloha​‘Aina​and​Hui​ Kalai​‘Aina,​each​of​which​submitted​petitions​representing​the​vast​majority​ of​the​indigenous​people;​the​combined​signatures​amounted​to​over​thirty-​ eight​thousand.​Because​only​one​of​the​two​petitions​has​been​recovered,​it​ is​unclear​how​many​individuals​signed​both​petitions.​However,​only​forty​ thousand​Kanaka​Maoli​resided​in​Hawai‘i​at​the​time​(Silva​1998,​2004).​In​ the​two​petitions,​Kanaka​Maoli​clearly​stated​their​opposition​to​becoming​ part​of​the​United​States​“in​any​shape​or​form.” ​ In​1897​the​U.S.​Senate​accepted​these​petitions,​and​in​the​face​of​such​ resistance​found​it​impossible​to​secure​the​two-​thirds​majority​vote​needed​ for​a​treaty.​Regardless,​under​President​William​McKinley,​proannexationists​proposed​a​joint-​senate​resolution,​even​though​admitting​Hawai‘i​in​ this​way,​that​is,​as​a​new​territory​and​not​a​state,​violated​the​U.S.​Constitution.​A​joint-​senate​resolution​could​pass​with​only​a​simple​majority​in​ both​ houses​ of​ Congress.​ The​ Newlands​ Resolution​ passed​ in​ 1898​ when​ the​U.S.​government​“annexed”​Hawai‘i.​The​resolution​also​mandated​that​ the​republic​cede​absolute​title​to​the​public​lands​formerly​belonging​to​the​ Hawaiian​Kingdom​and​Crown.​The​U.S.​government​incorporated​Hawai‘i​ as​a​colonial​territory​through​the​Organic​Act​of​1900,​which​created​specific​laws​to​administer​the​allegedly​public​lands.​These​laws​again​stated​ that​the​lands​were​part​of​a​special​trust​under​the​federal​government’s​ oversight​(Resolution​No.​55,​2nd​Session,​55th​Congress,​July​7,​1898;​30​Sta.​ 32 J.​Kehaulani​Kauanui

at​L.​750;​2​Supp.​R.​S.​895).​These​lands​remain​the​centerpiece​in​the​struggle​ to​restore​Hawaiian​independence​because​even​though​they​amount​to​only​ slightly​ less​ than​ one-​third​ of​ the​ lands​ throughout​ the​ archipelago,​ they​ have​never​fallen​into​private​hands.

From Non-Self-Governing Territory to Fiftieth State of the United States of America In​ 1946​ the​ United​ Nations​ compiled​ a​ list​ of​ non-​self-​governing​ territories​ on​ which​ the​ U.S.​ government​ included​ Hawai‘i​ (Trask​ 1994).​ Although​ Hawai‘i​ was​ on​ the​ list​ and​ was​ therefore​ entitled​ to​a​ process​ of​ self-​determination​to​decolonize,​the​U.S.​government​predetermined​statehood​as​the​status​for​Hawai‘i​by​treating​its​political​status​as​an​internal​ domestic​issue.​The​ballot​used​in​1959​when​the​people​of​Hawai‘i​voted​to​ become​a​state​of​the​Union​included​only​two​options:​integration​and​remaining​a​U.S.​colonial​territory​(Trask​1994,​68–87).​Among​those​allowed​ to​take​part​in​the​vote,​settlers​as​well​as​military​personnel​outnumbered​ Hawaiians.​ Citing​ the​ internal​ territorial​ vote,​ the​ U.S.​ State​ Department​ then​misinformed​the​United​Nations,​which​in​turn​considered​the​people​ of​Hawai‘i​to​have​freely​exercised​their​self-​determination​and​chosen​to​incorporate​themselves​as​part​of​the​United​States​(Trask​1994).3 ​ By​un ​criteria​established​in​1960,​but​already​in​debate​the​previous​year​ and​thus​known​to​the​United​States​at​the​time​of​the​earlier​vote,​the​ballot​should​have​included​independence​and​free​association​as​choices.​On​ 14​December​1960,​the​United​Nations​General​Assembly​issued​a​Declaration​on​the​Granting​of​Independence​to​Colonial​Countries​and​Peoples— Resolution​1514​(XV).4​Also​in​1960,​the​assembly​approved​Resolution​1541​ (XV),​which​defined​free​association​with​an​independent​state,​integration​ into​an​independent​state,​or​independence​as​the​three​legitimate​options​ of​full​self-​government.5​United​Nations​General​Assembly​Resolution​1541​ refers​to​territories​that​are​“geographically​separate​and​distinct​ethnically​ and/or​culturally”​without​specifying​what​“geographically​separate”​must​ entail​(Barsh​1986,​373).​Nonetheless,​this​chapter​of​the​resolution​has​been​ accepted​as​applicable​mainly​to​overseas​colonization,​while​relegating​indigenous​peoples​to​a​condition​of​“internal​colonization”​(Barsh​1986,​373).​ At​stake​is​prohibiting​the​indigenous​claim​to​the​same​self-​determination​ granted​to​“blue​water”​colonies​by​Resolution​1514,​“which​can​logically​lead​ to​ independence”​ (Griswold​ 1996,​ 101n14).​ Hence​ the​ phrase​ “all​ peoples​ Hawaiian Nationhood 33

have​the​right​of​self-​determination”​has​been​mainly​applied​to​inhabitants​ of​territories​destined​for​decolonization​rather​than​to​indigenous​peoples​ (Griswold​1996,​93). ​ Since​1960​only​peoples​recognized​as​colonized​have​had​the​right​to​ freely​determine​their​political​status.​For​example,​in​the​case​of​East​Timor​ in​1999,​the​East​Timorese​finally​had​the​opportunity​to​vote​on​their​political​status​through​a​un -​sponsored​plebiscite,​and​they​voted​to​fully​decolonize​from​Indonesia.​Although​the​East​Timorese​are​an​indigenous​people,​ it​was​the​status​of​East​Timor​as​a​colony​of​Indonesia​since​1975​(and​before​that​of​Portugal​since​the​mid-​sixteenth​century)​that​qualified​them​for​ the​right​to​full​self-​determination,​not​their​status​as​an​indigenous​people​ per​se.​It​seems​reasonable​to​infer​that​the​right​of​the​East​Timorese​to​ full​self-​determination​is​due​to​the​blue​water​doctrine​under​international​ law,​which​defines​colonial​territories​plainly​as​those​far​from​the​colonial​ metropoles​asserting​rule​over​them. ​ At​the​same​time,​the​United​Nations​recognized​Hawai‘i​as​a​non-​self-​ governing​territory​from​1946​to​1959,​during​which​time​Kanaka​Maoli​and​ others​were​eligible​for​full​decolonization.​Some​argue,​therefore,​that​the​ most​straightforward​legal​argument​in​support​of​independence​is​the​decolonization​model.​The​Pro–Kanaka​Maoli​Independence​Working​Group,​ Ka​Pakaukau,​and​the​Komike​Tribunal​have​consistently​worked​to​educate​ the​Hawaiian​community​about​the​aborted​option​under​the​decolonization​ model​ and​ have​ advocated​ that​ contemporary​ Kanaka​ Maoli​ should​ be​entitled​to​a​plebiscite​to​exercise​their​right​to​self-​determination​and​ determine​ what​ model​ of​ governance​ they​ prefer.​ However,​ many​ sovereignty​ activists​ who​ advocate​ for​ kingdom​ restoration​ reject​ this​ strategy​ of​reinscription​on​the​list​of​non-​self-​governing​territories.​They​make​a​ distinction​ between​ a​ colonial​ territory​ (e.g.,​ Guam,​ a​ U.S.​ territory)​ and​ an​occupied​state​such​as​the​Hawaiian​kingdom.​As​an​alternative,​those​ organized​to​restore​the​Hawaiian​kingdom​government​advocate​for​deoccupation​rather​than​decolonization​and​rely​on​the​international​laws​of​ occupation​by​drawing​on​regulations​created​during​The​Hague​Convention​IV​of​1907,​specifically​Article​43​(Sai​2001).6​Accordingly,​those​who​ identify​as​subjects​of​the​kingdom​are​demanding​that​the​recovery​process​as​well​as​all​charges​against​the​United​States,​be​guided​by​The​Hague​ Regulations,​not​by​the​ un ​Charter​providing​for​self-​determination​ (Sai​ 2001).​In​other​words,​they​avoid​an​analysis​of​colonialism​because​they​ assume​that​to​talk​about​colonialism​in​Hawai‘i​is​to​legitimate​Hawai‘i​as​a​ 34 J.​Kehaulani​Kauanui

former​U.S.​colony​rather​than​an​occupied​state.​Because​the​kingdom​had​ already​secured​recognition​of​its​independence​in​1842,​deoccupation​supporters​declare​their​status​as​kingdom​nationals​of​a​nation​that​has​already​ achieved​self-​determination.​Since​the​U.S.​Congress​unilaterally​annexed​ Hawai‘i​ through​ its​ own​ domestic​ law,​ supporters​ of​ deoccupation​ argue​ that​the​kingdom​was​never​really​annexed​and​therefore​its​territory​continues​to​be​merely​occupied​by​the​United​States.​Unfortunately,​this​political​discourse​of​achievement​has​been​framed​in​a​way​that​is​demeaning​to​ indigenous​peoples​who​have​not​formed​states​and​reveals​a​reluctance​to​ emphasize​oppression​specific​to​Kanaka​Maoli​living​under​U.S.​domination.​Many​proponents​of​kingdom​restoration,​much​like​the​neoconservatives​opposed​to​the​Akaka​bill,​have​dismissed​indigenous​self-​government​ as​race-​based​government,​and​they​have​done​so​by​casting​the​kingdom​ as​a​“colorblind”​government​because​non–Kanaka​Maoli​were​included​as​ kingdom​subjects.7 ​ To​complicate​matters​further,​there​is​no​acknowledgment​that​American​colonialism​arguably​began​long​before​the​formal​takeover​of​Hawai‘i​ by​the​United​States,​let​alone​that​the​assimilationist​policies​imposed​on​ Kanaka​Maoli​throughout​the​twentieth​century​are​colonial​in​nature.​Any​ discussions​ of​ decolonization—including​ those​ in​ the​ cultural​ arena​ not​ dependent​on​ un ​protocols,​such​as​indigenous​language​revitalization​in​ response​to​years​of​indigenous​language​suppression,​to​cite​just​one​example—are​too​quickly​dismissed​in​legal​terms.​The​problem​then​takes​ the​form​of​a​battle​over​international​law​rather​than​focusing​on​the​white​ supremacist​practices​and​policies​that​are​part​and​parcel​of​the​colonial​ subordination​ of​ Kanaka​ Maoli,​ whether​ one​ considers​ Hawai‘i​ a​ former​ U.S.​colony​or​not.​The​myriad​of​oppressions​faced​by​the​vast​majority​of​ Kanaka​Maoli​include​high​infant​mortality​and​low​life​expectancy;​disproportionate​rates​of​diabetes,​hypertension,​heart​disease,​cancer,​depression,​ and​suicide;​intergenerational​trauma;​criminalization​and​high​rates​of​incarceration;​as​well​as​other​social​ills​linked​to​indigenous​land​dispossession​and​poverty​induced​by​colonial​status. ​ The​formation​of​Hawai‘i​as​the​fiftieth​state​of​the​Union​has​been​used​ to​silence​the​possibility​of​decolonization​from​the​United​States.​Here,​it​ seems​that​the​blue​water​doctrine​holds​no​effective​meaning,​even​though​ Hawai‘i​is​over​two​thousand​miles​from​California​and​nearly​five​thousand​ miles​from​Washington,​D.C.​Therein​lies​the​paradox.​While​Hawai‘i​was​a​ distant​U.S.​colony​during​the​first​half​of​the​twentieth​century,​it​was​an​ Hawaiian Nationhood 35

independent​state​before​the​U.S.​takeover,​which​complicates​conventional​ and​legal​notions​of​self-​determination​in​discussions​of​most​indigenous​ peoples.​And​yet,​it​is​clear​that​Kanaka​Maoli​are​also​an​indigenous​people.

Internal Self-Determination: The Akaka Bill Proposal One​of​the​main​rationales​offered​by​Akaka​for​his​legislative​proposal​for​ federally​organizing​a​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity​is​the​U.S.​congressional​Apology​Resolution​of​1993​(Public​Law​103–150),​in​which​the​U.S.​ government​apologized​to​the​Hawaiian​people​for​the​U.S.​military’s​role​in​ the​overthrow.​This​joint-​senate​resolution,​signed​by​President​William​J.​ Clinton​ came​ about​ as​ a​ result​ of​ efforts​ by​ Akaka,​ who​ worked​ to​ have​ the​resolution​passed​during​the​one-​hundred-​year​anniversary​of​the​overthrow.​Although​the​apology​includes​a​disclaimer​at​the​end,​stating​that​ nothing​it​contains​can​be​used​to​settle​a​case​against​the​United​States,​it​ still​is​a​finding​of​fact.​The​apology​maintains​that​“the​indigenous​Hawaiian​ people​never​directly​relinquished​their​claims​to​their​inherent​sovereignty​ as​a​people​or​over​their​national​lands​to​the​United​States,​either​through​ their​monarchy​or​through​a​plebiscite​or​referendum”​(U.S.​Public​Law​103– 150,​ 103d​ Congress​ Joint​ Resolution​ 19).8​ The​ apology​ also​ calls​ for​ some​ form​of​reconciliation​and​self-​governance​for​Native​Hawaiians.​It​specifically​ states​ that​ Congress​ “expresses​ its​ commitment​ to​ acknowledge​ the​ ramifications​of​the​overthrow​of​the​Kingdom​of​Hawaii,​in​order​to​provide​a​proper​foundation​for​reconciliation​between​the​United​States​and​ the​Native​Hawaiian​people;​and​.​.​.​urges​the​President​of​the​United​States​ to​also​acknowledge​the​ramifications​of​the​overthrow​of​the​Kingdom​of​ Hawaii​and​to​support​reconciliation​efforts​between​the​United​States​and​ the​Native​Hawaiian​people”​(U.S.​Public​Law​103–150,​103d​Congress​Joint​ Resolution​19).​Akaka​has​framed​his​legislative​proposal,​the​Native​Hawaiian​Government​Reorganization​Act​of​2009,​as​the​step​toward​reconciliation​supported​in​the​Apology​Resolution.​But​it​was​also​prompted​by​the​ case​of​Rice v. Cayetano,​in​which​the​U.S.​Supreme​Court​ruled​Hawaiian-​ only​voting​conducted​by​the​state​Office​of​Hawaiian​Affairs​for​trustee​elections​unconstitutional.9​Shortly​after​the​ruling,​Akaka​set​up​a​Task​Force​on​ Native​Hawaiian​Issues​and​then​proposed​legislation​to​federally​recognize​ a​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity​as​a​domestic​dependent​nation​with​ the​aim​of​creating​an​internal​government​that​would​be​immune​to​legal​ challenges​to​the​14th​and​15th​constitutional​amendments.​As​a​result,​many​ 36 J.​Kehaulani​Kauanui

Native​Hawaiians​staffing​state​agencies​such​as​the​Office​of​Hawaiian​Affairs​and​the​Department​of​Hawaiian​Home​Lands,​which​are​dependent​on​ state​and​federal​funding​for​specifically​indigenous​projects​like​Papa​Ola​ Lokahi​(Native​Hawaiian​Healthcare)​and​Nā​Pua​No’eau​(Center​for​Gifted​ and​Talented​Native​Hawaiian​Children),​and​the​vast​majority​of​Hawaiian​ civic​clubs​support​the​legislation. ​ The​Akaka​bill​sets​up​the​process​for​the​formation​of​a​governing​entity​ to​be​approved​by​the​U.S.​government.​The​entity​would​be​formed​by​a​ commission​ of​ nine​ members​ appointed​ by​ the​ secretary​ of​ the​ interior,​ whose​duty​first​and​foremost​would​be​to​report​to​the​secretary.10​The​legislation​allows​for​the​recognition​only​of​a​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity​ and​not​of​the​rights​of​that​entity,​which​would​be​subject​to​later​negotiation​between​the​U.S.​federal​government,​the​Native​Hawaiian​entity,​and​ the​Hawai‘i​state​government. ​ The​bill​was​first​introduced​in​2000​in​the​106th​Congress,​where​it​did​ not​survive​committee,​and​during​each​subsequent​Congress​it​has​been​ defeated​by​Republican​opposition​(Kauanui​2005b).​Conservatives’​refusal​ to​support​the​measure​became​more​pronounced​when​the​administration​ of​George​W.​Bush​took​a​position​against​the​legislation,​opposition​which​ lasted​throughout​that​administration.​Although​throughout​that​period​the​ legislation​gained​committee​approval​in​both​the​House​and​the​Senate,​it​ remained​stalled​when​it​came​to​a​floor​debate.​Despite​multiple​revisions​ and​reintroductions​of​new​drafts​aimed​at​satisfying​the​concerns​of​the​ Department​ of​ the​ Interior​ and​ appeasing​ Republican​ critics,​ who​ called​ the​proposal​a​plan​for​“race-​based​government,”​the​legislation​never​progressed​to​a​vote.11 ​ Under​the​new​leadership​of​President​Barack​Obama​there​is​widespread​ support​for​the​bill.​Since​the​start​of​the​111th​Congress​on​3​January​2009​ three​sets​of​proposals​have​been​made,​all​titled​the​Native​Hawaiian​Government​Reorganization​Act​of​2009:​S.​381​and​H.R.​862,​introduced​on​ 4​February​2009;​S.​708​and​H.R.​1711,​introduced​on​25​March​2009;​and​ S.​1011​and​H.R.​2314,​introduced​on​7​May​2009.​S.​1011​was​given​a​hearing​ before​the​U.S.​Senate​Committee​on​Indian​Affairs​on​6​August​2009​and​ H.R.​2314​was​given​a​hearing​before​the​U.S.​House​Committee​on​Natural​ Resources.​At​the​time​of​this​writing​both​await​a​floor​debate​and​vote.12 ​ Those​who​support​independence​oppose​federal​recognition​because​at​ the​very​most​it​would​allow​for​no​more​than​a​domestic​dependent​entity​ under​the​full​and​exclusive​plenary​power​of​Congress.​Most​immediately,​ Hawaiian Nationhood 37

federal​recognition​would​set​up​a​process​for​extinguishing​most​claims​to​ land​title—except​for​whatever​the​state​of​Hawai‘i​and​the​federal​government​may​be​willing​to​relinquish​in​exchange​for​that​recognition—and​ even​then​the​U.S.​federal​government​would​hold​it​in​trust.​What​is​at​stake​ here​is​the​1.8​million​acres​of​former​Kingdom​Crown​and​Government​ Lands​and​the​obliteration​of​the​Hawaiian​nation’s​title​to​them.​As​the​U.S.​ Supreme​Court​case​of​2009​regarding​these​lands​shows,​there​is​absolutely​ no​guarantee​that​any​future​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity​would​hold​ any​of​these​lands.13 ​ Counter​to​Akaka’s​assurances,​there​is​also​the​likelihood​that​passage​ of​the​bill​could​foreclose​the​sovereignty​claim​for​Hawaiian​independence​ under​international​law.​The​legislation​appears​to​be​a​preemptive​attempt​ to​ squash​ outstanding​ sovereignty​ claims​ unsuccessfully​ extinguished​ by​ Hawai‘i’s​being​admitted​as​the​fiftieth​state​of​the​American​Union.​If​the​ bill​passes,​the​will​of​the​people​will​seem​to​have​been​expressed—as​a​ form​of​self-​determination​in​support​of​federal​recognition—in​a​way​that​ would​ make​ international​ intervention​ much​ more​ far-​fetched,​ given​ the​ likelihood​that​the​world​community​would​see​the​Hawaiian​question​as​ even​more​of​a​U.S.​domestic​issue​than​it​does​today.​In​any​case,​it​would​ certainly​entrench​the​Hawaiian​sovereignty​claim​further​within​the​U.S.​ government​since​the​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity,​as​proposed​in​the​ Akaka​bill,​would​be​subordinate​to​both​the​Hawai‘i​state​government​and​ the​U.S.​federal​government. ​ Alternatively,​supporters​of​federal​recognition​insist​that​nothing​in​the​ Akaka​bill​would​compromise​Hawai‘i’s​national​claims​under​international​ law.​But​they​do​not​attend​to​the​ways​in​which​the​United​States​asserts​its​ plenary​power​to​keep​indigenous​sovereigns​both​domestic​and​dependent.​ In​this​context​it​is​important​that​a​provision​included​in​S.​708​was​swiftly​ removed​from​the​later​version,​S.​1011.​Section​11​of​S.​708.​was​titled​“Disclaimer”​and​stated,​“Nothing​in​this​Act​is​intended​to​serve​as​a​settlement​ of​any​claims​against​the​United​States,​or​to​affect​the​rights​of​the​Native​ Hawaiian​people​under​international​law.”​Despite​this​change,​neoconservative​ opponents​ to​ the​ bill​ have​ sought​ to​ spread​ misinformation​ about​ the​legislation.​This​had​led​Akaka​to​provide​further​assurances​in​direct​ contradiction​to​those​he​once​provided​to​supporters​of​Hawaiian​independence.​In​a​hearing​before​the​U.S.​Senate​Committee​on​Indian​Affairs,​ he​repeatedly​asserted​that​the​bill​does​not​allow​Hawai‘i​to​secede​from​the​ United​States​(Akaka​2009). 38 J.​Kehaulani​Kauanui

​ This​legislation​limits​Hawaiian​self-​determination​because​of​its​fundamental​legal​distinction​between​Indian​tribes​and​foreign​nations​under​the​ U.S.​Constitution​and​federal​law​with​specific​regard​to​the​unextinguished​ sovereignty​of​the​Hawaiian​kingdom.​The​name​alone​represents​what​is​ problematic​for​Hawaiian​sovereignty​and​nationhood​under​international​ law.​Embedded​in​its​title,​the​“Native​Hawaiian​Government​Reorganization​Act​of​2009,”​is​a​fundamental​historical​lie:​there​can​be​no​attempt​to​ reorganize​a​Native​Hawaiian​government​because​the​Kingdom​of​Hawai‘i​ was​an​internationally​recognized​state​that​in​the​nineteenth​century​afforded​citizenship​status​to​more​than​just​indigenous​Hawaiian​people.​This​ name​misconstrues​the​nature​of​the​government-​to-​government​relationship​the​United​States​had​with​the​kingdom.​The​bill​should​be​named​more​ accurately​as​the​“Native​Hawaiian​Government​Organization​Act.” ​ The​bill​asserts​that​“the​Constitution​vests​Congress​with​the​authority​ to​ address​ the​ conditions​ of​ the​ indigenous,​ native​ people​ of​ the​ United​ States,”​drawing​on​Article​I,​Section​8,​Clause​3​of​the​U.S.​Constitution,​ which​reads​as​follows:​“The​Congress​shall​have​power​.​.​.​to​regulate​commerce​ with​ foreign​ nations,​ and​ among​ the​ several​ states,​ and​ with​ the​ Indian​tribes.”​The​U.S.​Supreme​Court​has​ruled​time​and​time​again​that​ this​clause,​known​as​the​Commerce​Clause,​means​the​U.S.​federal​government​has​total​and​complete​power​over​tribal​nations​(Wilkins​1997).​Section​(3)​of​the​bill​also​states​that​“the​United​States​has​a​special​political​and​ legal​relationship​to​promote​the​welfare​of​the​native​people​of​the​United​ States,​including​Native​Hawaiians.”​In​other​words,​the​U.S.​government​ calls​it​“special”​because​it​regards​tribal​nations​as​internal​nations​that​are​ both​domestic​and​dependent​because​they​are​forced​to​exist​within​the​ broader​legal​boundary​asserted​by​the​U.S.​government.​Yet​the​U.S.​government​never​legally​regarded​the​Hawaiian​kingdom​as​domestic​or​dependent.​Under​the​U.S.​Constitution,​the​Kingdom​of​Hawai‘i​was​regarded​as​ a​foreign​nation,​an​independent​sovereign​state. ​ The​U.S.​Congress​has​repeatedly​delegated​its​authority​to​the​executive​ branch​of​the​U.S.​government.​With​regard​to​Indian​tribes,​it​delegates​its​ authority​specifically​to​the​U.S.​Department​of​the​Interior.​This​matters​for​ the​purposes​of​the​bill​since​the​legislation​proposes​to​create​and​empower​ the​U.S.​Office​for​Native​Hawaiian​Relations,​within​the​U.S.​Department​ of​the​Interior,​to​coordinate​the​“special​political​and​legal​relationship​between​the​United​States​and​that​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity.”​Foreign​ nations​do​not​have​any​relationship​to​the​U.S.​Department​of​the​Interior​ Hawaiian Nationhood 39

precisely​because​that​department​is​concerned​with​areas​considered​by​the​ U.S.​government​to​be​internal​to​the​United​States,​areas​such​as​Indians​ tribes,​U.S.​Island​Territories,​and​National​Parks.​Foreign​nations​relate​to​ the​U.S.​Department​of​State. ​ Section​4,​which​details​the​purpose​of​the​bill,​claims​that​it​will​“provide​a​process​for​the​reorganization​of​the​single​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity​and​the​reaffirmation​of​the​special​political​and​legal​relationship​between​the​United​States​and​that​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity​ for​purposes​of​continuing​a​government-​to-​government​relationship.”​At​ the​same​time,​it​makes​it​clear​how​the​legislation​limits​the​scope​of​self-​ determination:​“Native​Hawaiians​have—(A)​an​inherent​right​to​autonomy​ in​their​internal​affairs;​(B)​an​inherent​right​of​self-​determination​and​self-​ governance;​(C)​the​right​to​reorganize​a​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity;​ and​(D)​the​right​to​become​economically​self-​sufficient”​(Section​4,​part​5). ​ Sections​5​and​6​of​the​bill​give​the​U.S.​Department​of​Defense​free​rein.​ Whereas​Section​5​requires​the​proposed​U.S.​Office​of​Native​Hawaiian​Relations​to​consult​with​the​Native​Hawaiian​Governing​Entity​“before​taking​ any​actions​that​may​have​the​potential​to​significantly​affect​Native​Hawaiian​resources,​rights,​or​lands,”​it​makes​an​exception​for​anything​having​ to​do​with​the​needs,​wants,​and​desires​of​the​U.S.​Department​of​Defense:​ “This​section​shall​have​no​applicability​to​the​Department​of​Defense​or​ to​ any​ agency​ or​ component​ of​ the​ Department​ of​ Defense.”​ This​ means​ that​U.S.​militarism​in​and​from​Hawaiian​waters​and​lands​can​continue​ without​end​and​that​neither​the​Office​nor​the​Native​Hawaiian​Governing​ Entity​could​do​anything​to​stop​it​according​to​U.S.​law.​Similarly,​Section​6,​ after​outlining​the​composition​and​duties​of​the​Interagency​Coordinating​ Group​set​up​to​coordinate​federal​programs​that​address​the​conditions​of​ Native​Hawaiians​and​are​administered​by​federal​agencies​other​than​the​ Department​of​the​Interior,​reiterates​that​“this​section​shall​have​no​applicability​to​the​Department​of​Defense​or​to​any​agency​or​component​of​the​ Department​of​Defense.” ​ Section​8​reaffirms​the​delegation​of​U.S.​government​authority​to​the​ State​of​Hawai‘i​in​order​to​address​the​condition​of​Native​Hawaiians​under​ the​Hawai‘i​state​admissions​act.​With​regard​to​negotiations,​this​section​ specifies​that​after​the​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity​is​created,​both​the​ United​States​and​the​State​of​Hawai‘i​may​enter​into​negotiations​with​the​ Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity.​This​sets​the​bill​apart​from​other​forms​ of​federal​recognition​of​Native​nations,​which​do​not​typically​give​state​ 40 J.​Kehaulani​Kauanui

governments​any​part​in​the​negotiations,​with​the​exception​of​matters​related​to​Indian​gaming.​This​bill​allows​the​State​of​Hawai‘i​to​sit​at​the​table​ to​negotiate​matters​including​the​transfer​of​lands,​natural​resources,​and​ other​assets​and​the​protection​of​existing​rights​related​to​such​lands​or​resources;​the​exercise​of​governmental​authority​over​any​transferred​lands,​ natural​resources,​and​other​assets,​including​land​use;​the​exercise​of​civil​ and​criminal​jurisdiction;​the​delegation​of​governmental​powers​and​authorities​to​the​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity​by​the​United​States​and​ the​State​of​Hawai‘i;​any​residual​responsibilities​of​the​United​States​and​the​ State​of​Hawai‘i;​and​grievances​regarding​assertions​of​historical​wrongs​ committed​against​Native​Hawaiians​by​the​United​States​or​by​the​State​of​ Hawai‘i.​None​of​these​things​are​guaranteed​in​the​bill—not​land,​not​jurisdiction,​not​assets,​not​governmental​power.​They​are​all​open​to​negotiation​ once​representatives​of​a​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity​sit​down​with​ federal​and​state​agents.​There​is​no​equal​footing​here;​all​negotiations​must​ take​place​within​the​framework​of​U.S.​federal​law​and​policy​with​regard​ to​Indian​tribes​and​under​U.S.​plenary​power,​where​the​U.S.​government​ asserts​total​and​complete​power,​and​in​this​case​the​State​of​Hawai‘i​will​ have​an​equal​role.14 ​ Notably,​Section​(e)​of​the​bill​states,​“Nothing​in​this​Act​alters​the​civil​ or​criminal​jurisdiction​of​the​United​States​or​the​State​of​Hawai‘i​over​lands​ and​persons​within​the​State​of​Hawai‘i.”​It​further​states,​“The​status​quo​of​ Federal​and​State​jurisdiction​can​change​only​as​a​result​of​further​legislation,​if​any,​enacted​after​the​conclusion,​in​relevant​part,​of​the​negotiation​ process​established​in​section​8(b).”​In​other​words,​when​the​representatives​of​the​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity​sit​at​the​table​to​negotiate​with​ federal​and​state​agents,​they​cannot​negotiate​for​civil​or​criminal​jurisdiction​over​any​land.​In​order​for​them​to​do​so,​more​legislation​would​need​ to​be​passed. ​ This​section​of​the​bill​also​includes​a​disclaimer:​nothing​in​the​act​can​ create​a​cause​of​action​against​the​United​States​or​any​other​entity​or​person,​or​alter​“existing​law,​including​existing​case​law,​regarding​obligations​ on​the​part​of​the​United​States​or​the​State​of​Hawai‘i​with​regard​to​Native​ Hawaiians​or​any​Native​Hawaiian​entity.”​It​further​states​that​nothing​in​ the​bill​can​create​any​new​obligation​to​Native​Hawaiians​under​federal​law,​ and​it​specifically​outlines​and​protects​the​federal​government​through​sovereign​immunity​against​lawsuits​for​breach​of​trust,​land​claims,​resource-​ protection​ or​ resource-​management​ claims,​ or​ similar​ types​ of​ claims​ Hawaiian Nationhood 41

brought​by​or​on​behalf​of​Native​Hawaiians​or​the​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity.​And​it​asserts​that​the​State​of​Hawai‘i​“retains​its​sovereign​ immunity,​unless​waived​in​accord​with​State​law,​to​any​claim,​established​ under​any​source​of​law,​regarding​Native​Hawaiians,​that​existed​prior​to​ the​enactment​of​this​Act.” ​ This​last​section,​among​others,​especially​raised​concerns​within​the​Native​Hawaiian​Bar​Association​(nhba).​On​11​June​2009,​the​nhba ​submitted​testimony​to​the​House​Committee​on​Natural​Resources​regarding​the​ House​version​of​the​Akaka​bill​(H.R.​2314).​Although​the​nhba ​expressed​ its​support​for​the​bill,​its​testimony​outlined​some​major​concerns.​The​first​ is​the​role​of​the​U.S.​Department​of​Defense​as​it​relates​to​the​Office​of​Native​Hawaiian​Relations​and​the​Native​Hawaiian​Interagency.​The​second​is​ the​role​of​the​U.S.​Department​of​Justice​(DoJ)​because,​unlike​earlier​versions​of​the​bill,​the​current​legislation​does​not​include​a​provision​authorizing​the​designation​of​a​ DoJ ​representative​to​assist​in​the​implementation​ and​ protection​ of​ the​ rights​ of​ Native​ Hawaiians​ and​ their​ political,​ legal,​and​trust​relationship​with​the​United​States.​The​third​concern​was​the​ section​of​the​bill​relating​to​“claims​and​sovereignty​immunity.”​The​nhba​ notes, We​ believe​ it​ is​ unnecessary​ and​ premature​ to​ include​ provisions​ on​ claims​and​sovereign​immunity​prior​to​federal​recognition​of​a​Native​ Hawaiian​Government​and​recommend​that​these​provisions​under​section​8(c)​be​taken​out​of​the​bill.​Such​provisions​could​be​contemplated​ during​implementation​legislation​after​federal​recognition​is​conferred​ and​negotiations​between​the​Native​Hawaiian​Governing​Entity​and​the​ State​of​Hawai‘i​and​Federal​Government​are​completed.​The​bill’s​provisions​on​claims​and​federal​sovereign​immunity​appear​to​be​overly​broad​ and​may​prohibit​lawsuits​by​individual​Native​Hawaiians​for​claims​that​ could​be​pursued​by​any​other​member​of​the​general​population. In​response,​Rep.​Neil​Abercrombie​of​Hawai‘i​suggested​the​legislation​be​ revisited​to​assess​whether​another​revision​was​needed.15 ​ Although​the​U.S.​Senate​Committee​on​Indian​Affairs​proceeded​to​hold​ a​hearing​for​the​companion​bill​to​H.R.​2314,​S.​1011,​the​intervention​by​the​ nhba ​may​serve​to​slow​down​the​process​to​allow​more​critical​analysis​of​ the​proposal​overall,​at​least​among​those​in​the​Kanaka​Maoli​communities​ both​within​the​islands​and​throughout​the​U.S.​continent.​However,​should​ the​Akaka​bill​pass,​Kanaka​Maoli​would​be​shut​out​of​the​decolonization​ 42 J.​Kehaulani​Kauanui

model,​ which​ would​ technically​ leave​ open​ the​ venue​ for​ redress​ offered​ by​ the​ United​ Nations​ Declaration​ on​ the​ Rights​ of​ Indigenous​ Peoples.​ But,​as​we​shall​see​below,​for​a​variety​of​reasons​this​is​an​unsatisfactory​ ​alternative.

Self-Determination and the Rights of Indigenous Peoples On​13​September​2007,​the​United​Nations​General​Assembly​adopted​the​ Declaration​on​the​Rights​of​Indigenous​Peoples.​The​result​of​nearly​three​ decades​of​activism,​it​is​the​most​comprehensive​international​human​rights​ document​addressing​the​rights​of​indigenous​peoples​all​over​the​world.​Indigenous​peoples​worldwide​have​worked​for​decades​to​ensure​that​their​ preexisting​human​rights​are​recognized​and​upheld​by​global​nation-​states,​ especially​since​the​domestic​laws​in​most​settler​states​have​not​protected​ their​ability​to​assert​their​self-​determination.​Key​issues​of​struggle​include​ the​ right​ of​ ownership​ and​ control​ of​ territory​ and​ resources,​ protection​ of​sacred​sites​and​lands,​self-​governance,​and​decision-​making​authority​ vis-​à-​vis​ the​ dominant​ population.​ Central​ to​ all​ of​ these​ is​ the​ question​ of​indigenous​peoples’​right​to​self-​determination​under​international​law.​ Because​the​basic​criteria​defining​colonies​under​international​law​include​ foreign​domination​and​geographical​separation​from​the​colonizer,​indigenous​peoples​up​until​now​have​been​at​a​disadvantage​in​terms​of​the​application​of​decolonization​protocols,​an​issue​heatedly​debated​throughout​ the​world​community​because​indigenous​peoples​are​often​considered​to​be​ subject​to​internal​colonization. ​ This​ limitation​ reflects​ the​ long-​term​ battle​ over​ whether​ indigenous​ peoples​should​be​considered​peoples​in​the​context​of​Chapter​XI​of​the​ United​Nations​Charter​of​1945,​which​includes​the​Declaration​Regarding​ Non-​Self-​Governing​Peoples​in​Article​73​and​within​United​Nations​General​Assembly​Resolution​1514,​which​reads,​“All​peoples​have​the​right​to​ self-​determination;​by​virtue​of​that​right,​they​freely​determine​their​political​ status​ and​ freely​ pursue​ their​ economic,​ social,​ and​ cultural​ development.”16​ Regarding​ the​ question​ of​ self-​determination​ for​ indigenous​ peoples,​the​still-​cited​report​by​José​Martinez​Cobo,​commissioned​by​the​ United​Nations,​states,​“Self-​determination​constitutes​the​exercise​of​free​ choice​by​indigenous​peoples,​who​must,​to​a​large​extent,​create​the​specific​content​of​this​principle,​in​both​its​internal​and​external​expressions,​ which​do​not​necessarily​include​the​right​to​secede​from​the​State​in​which​ Hawaiian Nationhood 43

they​may​live​and​to​set​themselves​up​as​sovereign​entities.​This right may in fact be expressed in various forms of autonomy within the State”​(emphasis​ added). ​ There​is​no​consensus​on​whether​indigenous​peoples​have​the​right​to​ full​ self-​determination—an​ option​ that​ would​ allow​ for​ the​ development​ of​ nation-​states​ that​ are​ independent​ of​ their​ former​ colonizers,​ like​ the​ postcolonial​Third​World—or​whether​that​right​is​limited​to​internal​self-​ determination​within​the​existing​nation-​states​in​which​they​are​included.​ The​use​of​the​term​peoples,​which​signifies​legal​rights​under​international​ law​over​and​above​the​term​people,​has​been​the​most​contentious​part​of​ this​debate.​This​form​of​discrimination​can​be​traced​to​the​Law​of​Nations,​ which​institutionalized​the​international​legal​discrimination​against​indigenous​peoples​(Newcomb​2008). ​ The​establishment​in​1982​of​the​Working​Group​on​Indigenous​Populations​(Wgip),​under​the​United​Nations​Economic​and​Social​Council,​led​ the​effort​to​draft​a​specific​instrument​under​international​law​that​would​ protect​ indigenous​ peoples​ worldwide.​ The​ Wgip ​ was​ informed​ by​ early​ organizations,​such​as​the​International​Indian​Treaty​Council,​formed​in​ 1977,​which​was​the​first​organization​of​indigenous​peoples​to​be​reorganized​as​a​Non-​Governmental​Organization​(ngo)​with​Consultative​Status​ to​the​United​Nations​Economic​and​Social​Council.​Another​example​is​the​ American​Indian​Law​Alliance,​founded​in​1989,​which​also​has​special​consultative​status​with​the​Economic​and​Social​Council​of​the​United​Nations. ​ Initially,​the​ Wgip ​submitted​a​first​draft​of​a​declaration​on​the​rights​ of​indigenous​peoples​to​the​Sub-​Commission​ on​the​Prevention​of​Discrimination​and​Protection​of​Minorities,​which​was​eventually​approved​ in​1994.17​The​draft​was​sent​to​the​United​Nations​Commission​on​Human​ Rights​ for​ further​ discussion.​ The​ declaration​ was​ stalled​ for​ many​ years​ because​ of​concerns​ by​ states​ with​ regard​ to​ some​ of​its​ core​ statements,​ namely,​the​right​to​self-​determination​of​indigenous​peoples​and​the​control​over​natural​resources​existing​on​indigenous​peoples’​traditional​lands.​ By​1995​an​open-​ended​intersessional​working​group​was​formed​with​the​ understanding​that​some​version​of​the​declaration​would​be​adopted​by​ the​General​Assembly​within​the​International​Decade​of​the​World’s​Indigenous​Peoples​(1995–2004).​The​United​Nations​Commission​on​Human​ Rights​ extended​ the​ mandate​ of​ the​ Wgip ​ into​ the​ Second​ International​ Decade​of​the​World’s​Indigenous​Peoples​(2005–2015)​and​also​urged​it​to​

44 J.​Kehaulani​Kauanui

present​for​un ​adoption​a​final​draft​declaration​on​the​rights​of​indigenous​ people. ​ The​Human​Rights​Council​of​the​United​Nations​was​the​first​to​adopt​ the​ Declaration​ on​ the​ Rights​ of​ Indigenous​ Peoples,​ in​ June​ 2006,​ and​ offered​a​recommendation​that​it​be​adopted​by​the​General​Assembly.18​In​ the​vote​of​the​General​Assembly,​the​declaration​was​passed​with​a​vote​of​ 143​in​favor,​4​against,​and​11​abstentions.​Notably,​the​4​votes​against​the​ adoption​came​from​white​settler​states,​all​with​a​strong​indigenous​presence​in​terms​of​political​resistance​to​First​World​domination:​Australia,​ Canada,​New​Zealand,​and​the​United​States.​Many​attribute​the​opposition​ of​these​states​to​governmental​fears​that​indigenous​peoples​would​secede​ and​seek​independence,​acts​which​potentially​threaten​to​disrupt​the​contiguous​land​mass​of​the​settler​nation-​states​that​encompass​them. ​ Regarding​the​issue​of​self-​determination,​however,​the​newly​adopted​ Declaration​ on​ the​ Rights​ of​ Indigenous​ Peoples​ is​ ambiguous.​ On​ the​ one​ hand,​ Article​ 3​ states,​ “Indigenous​ peoples​ have​ the​ right​ of​ self-​ determination.​By​virtue​of​that​right​they​freely​determine​their​political​ status​and​freely​pursue​their​economic,​social,​and​cultural​development.”​ But​on​the​other​hand,​the​last​article,​Article​46,​states,​“Nothing​in​this​ Declaration​may​be​.​.​.​construed​as​authorizing​or​encouraging​any​action​ which​would​dismember​or​impair,​totally​or​in​part,​the​territorial​integrity​or​political​unity​of​sovereign​and​independent​States.”​For​example,​the​ U.S.​government​would​surely​be​threatened​if​the​Navajo​Nation​were​to​ seek​independence,​given​that​the​asserted​boundaries​of​the​states​of​New​ Mexico,​Colorado,​Utah,​and​Arizona​fall​within​the​Diné’s​traditional​territory.​Given​these​two​seemingly​contradictory​articles,​how​are​we​to​understand​what​the​right​to​self-​determination​means​and​to​what​extent​that​ right​can​be​realized​by​indigenous​peoples? ​ Article​26​states​the​following​with​regard​to​traditional​lands: ​ 1.​ Indigenous​ peoples​ have​ the​ right​ to​ the​ lands,​ territories​ and​ resources​which​they​have​traditionally​owned,​occupied​or​otherwise​ used​or​acquired. ​ 2.​ Indigenous​peoples​have​the​right​to​own,​use,​develop​and​control​ the​lands,​territories​and​resources​that​they​possess​by​reason​of​traditional​ownership​or​other​traditional​occupation​or​use,​as​well​as​ those​which​they​have​otherwise​acquired. ​ 3.​ States​shall​give​legal​recognition​and​protection​to​these​lands,​terHawaiian Nationhood 45

ritories​and​resources.​Such​recognition​shall​be​conducted​with​due​ respect​to​the​customs,​traditions​and​land​tenure​systems​of​the​indigenous​peoples​concerned. Parts​1​and​2​here​are​explicit​in​terms​of​the​right​to​land.​They​could​certainly​ be​ cited​ in​ support​ of​ the​ Hawaiian​ sovereignty​ proponents​ in​ the​ reclamation​of​the​Hawaiian​Kingdom​Crown​and​Government​Lands​controlled​by​the​state​government​of​Hawai‘i​under​the​United​States,​as​well​ as​other​lands​in​the​archipelago​heretofore​unalienated​under​the​kingdom​ during​the​Mahele​land​division​of​1848,​which​privatized​traditional​communal​lands.​The​question​remains​how​the​claim​to​traditional​lands​by​indigenous​peoples​can​be​asserted​in​light​of​the​article​meant​to​protect​the​ territorial​integrity​of​states. ​ Since​Kanaka​Maoli​(among​the​vast​majority​of​kingdom​heirs)​live​in​ a​ historically​ occupied​ state,​ the​ question​ of​ territorial​ integrity​ could​ be​ evoked​by​those​supporting​an​independent​Hawaiian​state,​not​simply​the​ settler​ state​ of​ the​ United​ States.19​ The​ principle​ of​ territorial​ integrity​ is​ usually​operative​vis-​à-​vis​other​states:​that​is,​one​state​is​prohibited​from​ invading​and​accessing​another​state’s​territory,​although​this​happens​nonetheless.​Article​46​can​be​used​as​political​leverage​to​advocate​for​the​territorial​integrity​of​the​Kingdom​of​Hawai‘i​as​a​state.​The​U.S.​government​ violated​the​Hawaiian​state’s​territorial​integrity​when​it​supported​an​illegal​ overthrow​and​unilaterally​annexed​Hawai‘i​in​contravention​to​U.S.​federal​ law,​its​treaties​with​the​kingdom,​and​international​law​operative​at​the​time.​ Hence,​ deoccupation​ supporters​ demand​ that​ the​ U.S.​ government​ withdraw​from​Hawai‘i.​Still,​the​U.S.​government​casts​independence​claims​as​ attempts​at​secession,​a​complete​misnomer. ​ Prior​to​the​passage​of​the​declaration​many​governmental​officials​assumed​that​the​right​of​indigenous​groups​to​self-​determination​would​lead​ to​secession,​and​this​assumption​was​used​to​deny​indigenous​peoples​this​ right​(Lâm​1992).​Even​members​of​the​Wgip ​and​the​un ​special​rapporteurs​ have​shared​this​assumption​of​states​(Lâm​1992).​Maivân​Clech​Lâm​suggests​that​it​is​possible​for​indigenous​peoples​to​exercise​self-​determination​ without​threatening​the​territorial​integrity​and​sovereignty​of​the​surrounding​state,​especially​since​most​have​visions​of​becoming​autonomous​without​becoming​nation-​states.​In​fact,​most​seek​mutually​negotiated​free​association​(Lâm​1992;​Griswold​1996,​98).​Situations​differ​depending​on​the​ state​in​question​and​its​location.​For​example,​most​indigenous​movements​ 46 J.​Kehaulani​Kauanui

throughout​North​and​South​America​continue​to​fight​for​an​expansion​of​ cultural,​political,​and​territorial​autonomy​within​the​respective​settler​states​ that​encompass​them.​Within​these​debates​is​the​continuous​contestation​ over​the​concepts​of​sovereignty,​self-​determination,​self-​government,​and​ autonomy,​which​differ​in​meaning​and​intention​within​different​​contexts. ​ In​the​context​of​the​United​States,​even​if​indigenous​peoples​have​no​ vision​of​becoming​nation-​states,​the​most​basic​components​of​fuller​autonomy​would​likely​disrupt​the​territorial​integrity​of​the​surrounding​state.​ For​example,​if​the​U.S.​government​were​to​honor​and​abide​by​all​of​the​ treaties​it​signed​with​indigenous​nations;​return​most​of​the​National​Parks​ to​the​indigenous​peoples​from​whom​they​were​taken;​federally​recognize​ all​tribal​nations​and​entities​who​seek​this​U.S.​domestic​model​of​acknowledgment​ (which​ includes​ over​ two​ hundred​ tribal​ entities​ that​ have​ submitted​their​petitions​and​remain​on​the​Bureau​of​Indian​Affairs’​waiting​ list);​and​restore​all​previously​terminated​tribes​with​federal​acknowledgment,​one​can​certainly​imagine​a​major​reordering​of​society​in​a​way​that​ would​affect​the​existing​state​and​the​territory​the​U.S.​government​currently​claims​as​its​own.​None​of​these​four​actions​need​be​tied​to​the​goal​ of​indigenous​nations​becoming​nation-​states;​however,​the​likelihood​that​ the​federal​government​would​act​on​any​of​these​matters​at​this​moment​in​ time​seems​quite​far-​fetched.​Indeed,​indigenous​possession​is​a​contradiction​inherent​in​the​U.S.​nation-​state​and​its​very​foundations. ​ Today,​international​lawyers​who​favor​nation-​states​argue​that​indigenous​peoples​do​not​have​an​unqualified​right​to​self-​determination​under​ international​law,​while​those​who​favor​indigenous​peoples​argue​that​they​ do​(Lâm​1992).​There​is​no​consensus​regarding​this​model,​which​is​why​so​ many​indigenous​activists​have​devoted​much​time​and​effort​to​advocating​that​the​United​Nations​and​the​Organization​of​American​States​(oas)​ adopt​the​Declaration​on​the​Rights​of​Indigenous​Peoples​affirming​that​indigenous​peoples​have​an​unqualified​right​to​self-​determination. ​ The​ Indigenous​ Caucus​ at​ both​ the​ United​ Nations​ and​ the​ oas ​ had​ consistently​taken​the​position​that​indigenous​peoples​are​colonized​and​ therefore​fall​under​the​decolonization​model.​un ​documents​and​international​practice​demonstrate​that​self-​determination​is​a​right​available​to​all​ peoples.​But​there​was​widespread​controversy​over​when​a​group​of​persons​ constitute​ a​ people​ who​ are​ entitled​ to​ self-​determination​ under​ international​law.​When​the​U.S.​National​Security​Council​took​a​position​on​indigenous​peoples​before​the​United​Nations​Commission​on​Human​Rights​ Hawaiian Nationhood 47

and​its​Working​Group​on​the​Draft​Declaration​on​Indigenous​Rights,​along​ with​a​similar​oas ​draft​declaration,​the​council​stated​that​the​United​States​ urged​the​use​of​the​term​internal self-determination​for​indigenous​peoples.​ In​other​words,​the​U.S.​position​was​that​using​the​term​self-determination​ was​advisable​only​if​it​was​defined​in​a​way​that​meant​that​the​right​to​self-​ determination​signified​indigenous​peoples’​right​to​negotiate​their​respective​political​statuses​within​the​framework​of​the​existing​nation-​state.​The​ debate​over​indigenous​peoples’​demand​for​the​use​of​the​term​peoples​was​ crucial​to​activist​demands​under​international​law.​The​U.S.​government​has​ continuously​opposed​the​use​of​the​term​peoples,​which​marks​distinction​ to​peoplehood​and​attendant​collective​rights​to​sovereignty.​However,​with​ the​adoption​by​the​United​Nations​of​the​Declaration​on​the​Rights​of​Indigenous​Peoples,​such​opposition​may​potentially​change—especially​if​the​ declaration​becomes​a​convention​with​the​full​force​of​international​law.

Conclusions The​complex​history​of​Hawai‘i​and​its​multiple​transitions​from​sovereign​ kingdom​to​occupied​colonial​territory​to​fiftieth​U.S.​state​presents​a​unique​ challenge​as​we​think​through​the​options​for​decolonization​that​are​available​to​Kanaka​Maoli​and​other​heirs​of​the​kingdom.​Given​the​layers​of​ history​and​foreign​intervention,​there​is​no​clear​or​easy​way​to​resolve​this​ problem,​especially​so​long​as​the​U.S.​government​continues​to​dominate​ nations​across​the​globe​with​its​political​and​military​power.​The​history​of​ both​American​colonialism​and​U.S.​occupation​has​generated​a​variety​of​ options—but​none​of​them​seem​sufficient​in​their​current​scope​since​each​ has​serious​limitations. ​ As​we​saw​in​the​discussion​of​the​Akaka​bill,​the​status​of​domestic​dependent​nation​that​would​be​granted​Native​Hawaiians​through​a​process​ of​federal​recognition​neither​recognizes​the​kingdom’s​history​of​sovereign​ existence​ nor​ takes​ into​ account​ the​ unjust​ occupation​ and​ overthrow​ of​ the​monarch​by​the​U.S.​government.​At​the​same​time,​relying​on​presently​ existing​international​law​regarding​indigenous​peoples​also​has​the​limitation​that,​in​its​present​state,​it​still​gives​priority​to​existing​nation-​states​ and​puts​the​preexisting​rights​of​indigenous​peoples​as​nations​on​the​back​ burner.​ While​ this​ may​ change,​ for​ the​ moment​ neither​ of​ these​ options​ gives​Kanaka​Maoli​or​other​heirs​of​the​kingdom​the​satisfaction​of​recognizing​their​previously​independent​status. 48 J.​Kehaulani​Kauanui

​ Yet,​as​we​also​saw​briefly,​the​deoccupation​model,​while​taking​account​ of​such​independent​status,​also​denies​the​internal​colonialism​in​terms​of​ culture,​language,​and​territory​to​which​the​Kanaka​Maoli​have​been​specifically​subjected.​It​seems​as​though​recognition​of​the​previous​sovereignty​of​ the​kingdom​currently​rests​on​the​denial​of​internal​forms​of​domination.​ In​the​end,​therefore,​there​does​not​seem​to​be​one​alternative​that​both​ recognizes​the​kingdom’s​history​of​sovereignty​and​provides​Kanaka​Maoli​ with​the​cultural​and​territorial​ restitution​ to​which​they​aspire.​Furthermore,​although​Kanaka​Maoli​constituted​the​majority​of​the​kingdom’s​subjects​prior​to​the​overthrow​in​1893,​Kanaka​Maoli​and​other​heirs​of​the​ kingdom​together​are​a​demographic​minority​in​Hawai‘i’s​current​population.​This​begs​the​question​as​to​how​the​kingdom​government​would​be​ restored​if​independence​became​a​feasible​political​goal,​since​within​the​ contemporary​world​community​minority-​led​governments​are​viewed​as​ unacceptable.​In​response​to​this​problematic,​the​normative​solution​under​ international​law​that​would​have​all​citizens​equally​enfranchised​without​ any​differential​status​for​Kanaka​Maoli​and​other​heirs​raises​the​possibility​ that​Kanaka​Maoli​would​once​again​be​a​vulnerable​indigenous​minority​ under​an​independent​Hawaiian​government​and​thus​have​to​rely​on​the​ indigenous​rights​provided​under​current​international​law,​as​it​is​now​in​ any​case. ​ In​an​“Urgent​Open​Letter​to​U.S.​President​Barack​Obama”​dated​13​April​ 2009,​a​self-​selected​group​of​Kanaka​Maoli,​kupuna​(elders),​kumu​(educators),​and​representatives​wrote​on​behalf​of​the​Kanaka​Maoli​people​as​ well​as​of​other​heirs​of​the​Kingdom​of​Hawai‘i.​Signatories​also​included​ a​number​of​our​kako‘o​(supporters)​who​were​invited​to​add​their​names.20​ The​letter’s​primary​purpose​was​to​inform​the​president​of​the​signatories’​ categorical​opposition​to​the​proposed​legislation.​It​also​proposed​an​alternative​bilateral​approach​to​begin​to​address​the​complex​legacy​detailed​in​ this​essay​in​a​way​that​promotes​restorative​justice.​The​letter​read​in​part​as​ follows: The​ Bill​ arrogantly​ attempts​ to​ unilaterally​ characterize​ the​ historical​ transgressions​ of​ the​ United​ States​ against​ our​ people​ and​ kingdom,​ and​to​unilaterally​specify​their​remedy.​We​insist​otherwise.​U.S.​crimes​ against​our​Kanaka​Maoli​people​and​other​Kingdom​heirs​from​1893​on​ require,​for​their​redress,​that​a​mechanism​composed​of​U.S.​agents​and​ wholly​independent​representatives​of​Kanaka​Maoli​and​Kingdom​heirs​ Hawaiian Nationhood 49

be​bilaterally​set​up​by​your​Administration​and​us​to​make​findings​of​ fact​and​conclusions​of​international​law​that​could​serve​as​a​road-​map​ for​the​resolution​of​the​political​and​legal​issues​now​outstanding​between​our​two​parties. As​this​essay​has​made​clear,​the​complex​histories​of​colonialism,​occupation,​and​discrimination​to​which​Native​peoples​have​been​subject​across​ the​globe​have​no​single​solution,​precisely​because​each​case​has​its​own​ particular​characteristics.​Given​the​especially​fraught​history​of​the​Hawaiian​case,​the​combination​of​international​law​and​honest​bilateral​dialogue​ might​ be​ the​ only​ venue​ open​ for​ redress.​ But​ it​ is​ also​ my​ hope​ that,​ if​ brought​to​fruition,​such​dialogue​might​provide​an​example​of​what​could​ be​possible​for​indigenous​nations​in​other​parts​of​the​world.

Notes This​essay​began​as​a​presentation​delivered​at​the​Native​American​Studies​Symposium​“Narrating​Native​American​History​in​the​Americas,”​University​of​Wisconsin,​Madison,​7–10​April​2005.​I​would​like​to​thank​Florencia​Mallon​and​Ned​ Blackhawk​for​inviting​me​to​present​my​work​there,​as​well​as​the​following​individuals​and​institutions​that​created​opportunities​for​me​to​present​various​working​ versions​ of​ this​ piece:​ Jessica​ Cattelino​ and​ Miranda​ Johnson​ for​ inviting​ me​ to​present​at​the​Comparative​Colonialisms​workshop​hosted​by​the​Anthropology​ Department​of​the​University​of​Chicago;​Aileen​Moreton-​Robinson​for​inviting​me​ to​present​an​earlier​version​for​the​inaugural​lecture​for​the​Indigenous​Studies​Research​Network,​Queensland​University​of​Technology​in​Brisbane,​Australia;​and​ Alyssa​Mt.​Pleasant​for​inviting​me​to​present​at​the​American​Studies​colloquium​ at​Yale​University. ​ 1.​ Congress​ has​ enacted​ numerous​ special​ provisions​ of​ law​ for​ the​ benefit​ of​ Native​Hawaiians​in​the​areas​of​health,​education,​labor,​and​housing.​Along​with​ American​Indians​and​Alaska​Natives,​Native​Hawaiians​have​been​included​in​over​ 160​federal​acts​for​Native​Americans​since​1903.​To​some​degree,​then,​the​U.S.​Congress​has​recognized​that​a​special​relationship​exists​between​the​United​States​and​ the​Native​Hawaiian​people​when​it​extended​some​of​the​same​rights​and​privileges​ accorded​to​American​Indian,​Alaska​Native,​Inuit,​and​Aleut​communities.​Relevant​ legislation​includes​the​Native​American​Programs​Act​of​1974​(42​usc ​2991​et​seq.),​ the​American​Indian​Religious​Freedom​Act​(42​ usc ​1996),​the​National​Museum​ of​the​American​Indian​Act​(20​usc ​80q​et​seq.),​the​Native​American​Graves​Protection​and​Repatriation​Act​(25​ usc ​3001​et​seq.),​the​National​Historic​Preservation​Act​(16​usc ​470​et​seq.),​and​the​Native​American​Languages​Act​(25​usc ​2901​ 50 J.​Kehaulani​Kauanui

et​seq.).​Also,​under​Title​VIII​of​the​Native​American​Programs​Act​of​1975,​Native​ Pacific​Islanders​are​defined​as​Native​Americans.​There​are​also​several​Hawaiian-​ specific​federal​acts,​comparable​to​those​providing​for​American​Indians​and​Alaskan​Natives,​such​as​the​Native​Hawaiian​Health​Care​Act​and​the​Native​Hawaiian​ Education​Act.​In​all​of​these​acts​Hawaiians​are​defined​by​the​most​inclusive​definition:​“Any​individual​who​is​a​descendent​of​the​aboriginal​people​who,​prior​to​ 1778,​occupied​and​exercised​sovereignty​in​the​area​that​now​constitutes​the​State​of​ Hawaii.” ​ 2.​The​United​States​and​members​of​the​international​community​also​recognized​ the​ Kingdom​ of​ Hawai‘i’s​ independence​ through​ treaty​ relations​ with​ the​ major​powers​of​the​world,​including​not​only​the​United​States​(1849,​1870,​1875,​ 1883,​and​1884),​but​also​Austria-​Hungary​(1875),​Belgium​(1862),​Denmark​(1846),​ France​(1846​and​1857),​Germany​(1879),​Great​Britain​(1836,​1846,​and​1851),​Italy​ (1863),​Japan​(1871​and​1886),​the​Netherlands​(1862),​Portugal​(1882),​Russia​(1869),​ Samoa​(1887),​Spain​(1863),​the​Swiss​Confederation​(1864),​and​Sweden​and​Norway​ (1852). ​ 3.​The​fiftieth​anniversary​of​U.S.​statehood​for​Hawai‘i,​in​2009,​marked​an​opportunity​ for​ scholars​ to​ investigate​ the​ details​ of​ the​ vote​ issued​ by​ the​ colonial​ administration​in​the​Hawaiian​Islands​at​the​time.​Some​of​the​issues​that​need​research​attention​include​the​executive​decisions​that​allowed​both​U.S.​military​and​ other​non-​Hawaiian​residents​to​vote​(regardless​of​whether​or​not​they​were​descendants​of​the​Kanaka​Maoli​and​non-​Hawaiians​residing​in​the​Islands​prior​to​ the​unlawful​U.S.​annexation),​and​a​careful​study​of​the​reports​issued​by​the​U.S.​ representative​to​the​United​Nations,​who​reported​that​Hawaiians​had​already​exercised​self-​determination​in​the​vote​of​1959​and​therefore​should​be​removed​from​ the​un ​list​of​non-​self-​governing​territories. ​ 4.​See​www.un.org/Depts./dpi/decolonization/declaration.htm. ​ 5.​ In​ 1962​ the​ General​ Assembly​ established​ a​ special​ committee,​ now​ known​ as​the​Special​Committee​of​24​on​Decolonization,​to​examine​the​application​of​ the​declaration​and​to​make​recommendations​on​its​implementation.​http://www​ .un.org/Depts/dpi/decolonization/declaration.htm. ​ 6.​See​also​http://www.hawaiiankingdom.org/. ​ 7.​Here,​too,​the​proponents​of​kingdom​restoration​engaging​in​this​problematic​ critique​do​not​acknowledge​that​indigenous​governing​systems​by​and​large​have​ always​managed​to​incorporate​outsiders​too,​even​if​they​do​not​do​so​under​the​ auspices​of​a​state​government.​Moreover,​there​seems​to​be​little​understanding​that​ contemporary​tribes​that​have​been​granted​U.S.​federal​recognition,​for​example,​ may​limit​their​citizenry​to​those​of​who​are​their​specific​indigeneity,​but​this​may​ also​be​because​the​U.S.​government​maintains​that​its​trust​obligation​is​limited​to​ those​who​have​ancestry​from​any​given​Native​Nation​and​not​non-​Natives. ​ 8.​Unfortunately,​as​discussed​below,​in​the​U.S.​Supreme​Court​ruling​in​State Hawaiian Nationhood 51

of Hawaii v. Office of Hawaiian Affairs, et al.,​the​court​ruled​that​the​apology​was​ merely​symbolic​and​had​no​legal​effect​when​it​comes​to​the​question​of​land​title. ​ 9.​For​a​critical​account​of​this​legal​case,​see​Kauanui​(2002). ​ 10.​This​process​of​appointments​already​set​the​proposal​apart​from​the​Indian​ Reorganization​Act​of​1934. ​ 11.​For​a​critical​analysis​of​the​neoconservative​forces​on​the​Islands​that​organized​against​the​legislation​because​they​regarded​it​as​a​proposal​for​race-​based​ government,​see​Kauanui​(2008). ​ 12.​For​information​on​S.​1011​and​H.R.​2314​and​their​predecessors,​see​http:// thomas.loc.gov/cgi-​bin​(accessed​11​August​2009). ​ 13.​On​31​March​2009​the​U.S.​Supreme​Court​issued​its​ruling​in​State of Hawaii v. Office of Hawaiian Affairs, et al.​The​State​of​Hawai‘i​asked​the​high​court​whether​or​ not​the​state​has​the​authority​to​sell,​exchange,​or​transfer​1.2​million​acres​of​land​ formerly​held​by​the​Hawaiian​monarchy​as​Crown​and​Government​Lands.​Prior​ to​the​state’s​appeal​to​the​U.S.​Supreme​Court,​the​Hawai‘i​Supreme​Court​unanimously​ruled​that​the​state​should​keep​the​land​trust​intact​until​Kanaka​Maoli’s​ claims​to​these​lands​are​settled​and​prohibited​the​state​from​selling​or​otherwise​ disposing​of​the​properties​to​private​parties;​it​did​so​based​on​an​Apology​Resolution​of​1993​issued​by​Congress​to​the​Hawaiian​people.​The​U.S.​Supreme​Court​ reversed​the​judgment​of​the​Hawai‘i​Supreme​Court​and​remanded​the​case​for​further​proceedings​with​the​stipulation​that​the​outcome​not​be​inconsistent​with​the​ U.S.​Supreme​Court’s​opinion.​The​contested​land​base​constitutes​29​percent​of​the​ total​land​area​of​what​is​now​known​as​the​State​of​Hawai‘i​and​almost​all​the​land​ claimed​by​the​state​as​public​lands.​These​lands​were​unilaterally​claimed​by​the​U.S.​ federal​ government​ when​ it​ unilaterally​ annexed​ the​ Hawaiian​ Islands​ through​ a​ joint​resolution​by​the​U.S.​Congress​in​1898,​after​they​had​been​“ceded”​by​the​Republic​of​Hawai‘i,​which​had​established​itself​a​year​after​the​armed​and​unlawful​ overthrow​of​the​Hawaiian​monarchy​under​Queen​Lili‘uokalani​in​1893.​The​Court​ insists​that​the​apology​does​not​change​the​legal​landscape​or​restructure​the​rights​ and​obligations​of​the​state.​The​ruling​states​that​the​apology​would​“raise​grave​constitutional​concerns​if​it​purported​to​‘cloud’​Hawai‘i’s​title​to​its​sovereign​lands​more​ than​three​decades​after​the​State’s​admission​to​the​union.”​The​Court​further​opined​ that​“Congress​cannot,​after​statehood,​reserve​or​convey​submerged​lands​that​have​ already​been​bestowed​upon​a​State.”​But​if​the​Apology​Resolution​has​no​teeth​in​ the​court​of​the​conqueror,​how​is​it​that​the​Newlands​Resolution​that​unilaterally​ annexed​Hawai‘i​does? ​ 14.​This​part​of​the​legislation​should​worry​Native​Nations​across​Indian​Country​ since​it​gives​state​governments​a​central​role​alongside​the​Native​governing​entity​ and​the​federal​government.​Although​Akaka,​ever​since​his​proposal​was​first​introduced​in​2000,​has​continuously​asserted​that​his​measure​seeks​to​establish​equality​ in​the​federal​policies​extended​toward​American​Indians,​Alaska​Natives,​and​Native​ 52 J.​Kehaulani​Kauanui

Hawaiians,​the​most​recent​version​of​the​legislation​makes​it​clear​that​that​is​not​at​ all​the​case.​Section​9,​titled​“Applicability​of​Certain​Federal​Laws,”​actually​spells​ out​the​inapplicability​of​certain​federal​laws—those​pertaining​to​federally​recognized​Indian​tribes​that​would​not​apply​to​the​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity.​All​ of​these​laws​that​exclude​the​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity​happen​to​be​laws​ that​greatly​benefit​tribal​nations.​The​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity​would​not​be​ allowed​to​claim​rights​under​the​Indian​Gaming​Regulatory​Act.​The​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity​would​not​be​allowed​to​have​the​secretary​of​the​interior​take​ land​into​trust​on​behalf​of​the​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity.​This​is​important​ because​only​land​held​in​trust​by​the​federal​government​on​behalf​of​Native​Nations​ is​allowed​to​be​used​by​Indian​tribes​as​part​of​their​sovereign​land​base​where​they​ can​assert​jurisdiction.​The​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity​would​not​be​allowed​ to​rely​on​the​Indian​Trade​and​Intercourse​Act​to​challenge​how​the​State​of​Hawai‘i​ acquired​the​Kingdom​of​Hawai‘i​Crown​and​Government​Lands.​No​other​Native​ Hawaiian​group​would​be​eligible​for​recognition​under​the​Federal​Acknowledgment​Process.​The​Native​Hawaiian​governing​entity​would​not​be​eligible​for​Indian​ Programs​and​Services. ​ 15.​Some​within​the​Native​Hawaiian​community​in​Hawai‘i​have​speculated​that​ Abercrombie’s​responsiveness​to​the​ nhba ’s​concerns​may​be​appropriately​linked​ to​his​campaign​for​election​as​Hawai‘i’s​state​governor​in​2010. ​ 16.​www.un.org/aboutun/charter. ​ 17.​www.un.org/esa. ​ 18.​www.ohchr.org. ​ 19.​ Thanks​ to​ Andrea​ Carmen,​ executive​ director​ of​ the​ International​ Indian​ Treaty​Council​(the​first​organization​of​indigenous​peoples​to​be​reorganized​as​a​ nongovernmental​organization),​who,​in​an​interview​for​my​radio​show,​“Indigenous​ Politics:​ From​ Native​ New​ Eng​land​ and​ Beyond,”​ explained​ that​ Article​ 46​ can​be​interpreted​for​the​benefit​of​Hawaiian​independence​from​the​United​States.​ Carmen​also​noted​that​the​article​became​a​catchall​for​states​and​that​it​was​inserted​after​2004​when​countries​that​supported​the​declaration,​including​Mexico,​ Guatemala,​Peru,​and​others,​prompted​such​a​move.​It​was​adopted​by​the​Human​ Rights​Council​in​2006.​For​more​information,​listen​to​the​interview,​which​aired​ on​13​January​2009​and​is​archived​online:​http://indigenouspolitics.mypodcast.com. ​ Also​featured​on​a​different​program​of​my​show​was​Tonya​Gonnella​Frichner,​ founder​and​president​of​the​American​Indian​Law​Alliance.​This​program​includes​ a​comprehensive​account​of​the​activist​history​that​led​to​the​passage​of​the​declaration​as​well​as​a​critical​analysis​of​the​politics​of​careful​negotiations​that​led​to​the​ compromises​over​these​seemingly​contradictory​articles​of​the​declaration. ​ See​http://indigenouspolitics.mypodcast.com. ​ 20.​ For​ a​ list​ of​ the​ signatories,​ see​ the​ letter​ as​ it​ appeared​ in​ Counterpunch:​ http://www.counterpunch.org/blaisde1104152009.html. Hawaiian Nationhood 53

riet Delsing

Issues​of​Land​and​Sovereignty The Uneasy Relationship between Chile and Rapa Nui

On​ New​ Year’s​ Eve​ 1999​ a​ large​ crowd​ gathered​ at​ the​ ceremonial​ site​ of​ Tahai​on​Rapa​Nui​to​celebrate​the​advent​of​the​new​millennium.1​Rapa​ Nui,​the​small​island​in​the​South​Pacific​also​known​as​Easter​Island,​was​ annexed​ by​ Chile​ in​ 1888.​ That​ same​ morning​ some​ Rapanui​ youths​ had​ damaged​the​Chilean​National​Television​(tVn)​equipment​set​up​on​the​ site​to​cover​the​celebrations.​They​were​protesting​against​the​violation​of​a​ sacred,​ceremonial​place​and​also​demanding​access​to​the​considerable​sum​ paid​by​tVn ​to​the​municipality​of​Rapa​Nui​for​the​rights​to​film​the​event,​ which​was​to​be​broadcast​live,​worldwide,​via​the​ bbc ​network.​Minutes​ before​midnight​the​best-​known​Chilean​television​hosts,​flown​in​from​the​ mainland​for​the​occasion,​distributed​flower​garlands​among​the​islanders​ and​the​tourists​participating​in​the​event,​so​that​the​world​could​enjoy​the​ exotic​character​of​this​most​unique​millennium​celebration. ​ When​fireworks​lit​up​the​spectacular​site,​with​its​famous​stone​statues​ (moai),​and​the​crowd​was​cheering,​some​of​us​noticed​that​this​was​not​the​ only​manifestation​of​“Rapanuiness.”​A​few​steps​away,​in​the​dark​night,​a​ small​group​of​Rapanui​wearing​traditional​mahute​(bark​cloth)​capes​and​ carrying​torches​stood​silently​against​the​starred​sky,​next​to​a​lonely​moai​ and​a​Chilean​flag​which​was​blowing​in​the​stiff​breeze.​The​flag​was​purposely​put​beneath​a​Rapanui​flag​as​a​challenge​to​Chilean​sovereignty​over​ the​island.​This​incident​illustrates​some​of​the​political​and​cultural​tensions​in​Rapa​Nui.​The​events​surrounding​the​millennium​celebration​show​ not​only​the​Rapanui’s​insistence​on​asserting​their​collective​cultural​identity,​but​also​their​entanglement​with​the​Chilean​nation-​state​and​tourism.​ Since​the​1990s​there​had​been​a​growing​awareness​among​Rapanui​of​their​

specific​cultural​identity,​expressed​in​practices​and​discourses​around​the​ issues​of​land,​language,​and​cultural​performances,​along​with​a​striking​increase​in​cultural​exchanges​with​other​Polynesians. ​ More​than​a​century​has​passed​since​the​annexation,​and​the​Chilean​ nation-​state​ has​ created​ not​ an​ environment​ leading​ to​ cooperation​ with​ the​Rapanui​people​but​one​of​resistance.​In​this​essay​I​explore​some​of​the​ issues​at​stake​in​this​enduring​conflict.​After​a​review​of​the​early​years​of​ Chilean​colonization​I​show​how​successive​Chilean​laws​have​attempted​to​ integrate​Rapa​Nui​into​the​nation-​state,​and​how​they​are​an​obstacle​to​traditional​Rapanui​relations​with​their​land​and​territory.​I​conclude​with​an​ examination​of​the​changing​forms​of​political​relationship​between​Chile​ and​Rapa​Nui. ​ My​work​is​based​on​several​years​of​anthropological​research​and​life​ experience​in​Rapa​Nui.​Starting​in​1996​I​have​conducted​fieldwork​on​the​ island​on​various​occasions​ranging​from​a​couple​of​weeks​to​ten​months.​ Since​then,​my​life​has​become​intertwined​with​the​people​of​Rapa​Nui,​with​ their​joys​and​their​struggles.​Over​the​past​decade​I​have​explored​Rapanui​gender​relations,​issues​of​globalization,​and,​in​the​context​of​my​dissertation​research,​cultural​politics,​Rapanui​relationships​with​the​Chilean​ nation-​state,​and​their​thrust​toward​self-​determination.​In​these​inquiries​I​ have​adopted​a​multisited​approach​(Marcus​1995;​Marcus​and​Fischer​1986)​ since​my​main​premise​is​that​the​movement​of​people,​ideas,​institutions,​ communication​systems,​and​capital​across​the​Pacific​Ocean​is​central​to​ the​articulation​of​a​modern​Rapanui​cultural​identity.​My​voice​is​that​of​an​ anthropologist,​inquisitive​and​curious​about​cultural​processes—the​subject​of​our​trade—but​also​that​of​somebody​with​a​personal​investment​in​ social​and​political​change​in​Rapa​Nui​and​elsewhere.

A Brief History The​annexation​of​Rapa​Nui​did​not​take​place​in​a​historical​vacuum.​It​was​ the​result​of​the​Chilean​Republic’s​imperialist​aspirations​in​the​late​nineteenth​century.​After​gaining​independence​from​Spain​in​1818,​Chile​was​ still​consolidating​its​territory​in​the​1880s​when​it​made​two​major​conquests​that​increased​its​territory​by​a​third.​To​the​south,​it​militarily​defeated​the​Mapuche​people,​who​had​struggled​for​three​hundred​years,​first,​ against​Spanish​and,​later,​Chilean​colonizers.​To​the​north,​Chile​defeated​ Bolivia​ and​ Peru​ in​ the​ War​ of​ the​ Pacific​ (1879–83),​ and​ Chile​ annexed​ Chile and Rapa Nui 55

substantial​parts​of​their​territories​that​were​inhabited​by​the​indigenous​ Aymara,​Quechua,​and​Colla​peoples.​The​major​objective​of​this​war​was​ to​gain​control​of​the​mineral​riches,​nitrate​in​particular,​of​the​Atacama​ desert,​part​of​which​was​located​in​Bolivian​and​Peruvian​territories​(Silva​ Galdames​1995). ​ But​Chile’s​expansionist​drive​did​not​limit​itself​to​the​American​continent.​A​growing​number​of​foreign​merchants,​mainly​British,​used​the​ Chilean​port​of​Valparaíso​as​a​way​station​for​trade​with​the​Pacific​coast​ before​the​opening​of​the​Panama​Canal​in​1914.​Valparaíso​became​the​most​ important​port​on​that​coast,​which​allowed​Chilean​merchants​to​create​ their​own​trade​routes​across​the​Pacific,​in​India​and​East​Asia,​in​search​of​ new​markets​for​Chile’s​copper​and​nitrates​(Bushnell​and​Macaulay​1988,​ 109).​ Before​ the​ end​ of​ the​ century​ Chilean​ consulates​ had​ been​ opened​ in​Shanghai,​Canton,​Manila,​Calcutta,​Sydney,​and​Brunei.​Chilean​sailors​ and​merchants​became​familiar​with​Polynesian​geography,​and​this​led​to​ dreams​ of​ western​ expansion​ into​ the​ Pacific​ (Porteous​ 1981).​ In​ the​ late​ 1800s​several​European​and​American​nations​annexed​islands​and​archipelagos​in​the​Pacific.​In​this​context​of​imperialist​fervor​Chile​annexed​ Rapa​Nui. ​ A​captain​of​the​Chilean​navy​by​the​name​of​Policarpo​Toro​Hurtado​ visited​Rapa​Nui​in​1875​and​again​in​1886.​After​his​second​visit​he​submitted​a​proposal​for​annexation​to​his​superiors​in​the​navy.​President​José​ Manuel​Balmaceda​of​Chile​approved​of​the​idea,​and​Toro​went​to​Tahiti​ in​1887​with​the​intention​of​buying​the​Rapanui’s​lands​and​animals,​which​ had​been​seized​by​European–Tahitian​businessmen​and​the​Tahitian​Catholic​Church​(Revista de Marina​1983,​316,​317).​Toro​then​annexed​the​island​in​ September​1888​by​signing​the​“Agreement​of​Wills”​(Acuerdo de Voluntades)​ with​the​Rapanui​chiefs. ​ The​official​Spanish​text​of​the​agreement​consists​of​two​parts:​the​“Cession,”​in​which​the​chiefs​grant​sovereignty​to​Chile,​and​the​“Proclamation,”​ in​which​Toro​accepts​the​cession​of​sovereignty​in​the​name​of​the​Republic​of​Chile​(Vergara​1939,​appendices​XII​and​XIII).​In​2001​the​Rapanui-​ language​version​of​these​documents​started​to​circulate​on​the​island.​A​ translation​of​this​version​back​into​Spanish​reveals​that​the​Rapanui​did​not​ hand​over​sovereignty​to​the​Chileans​in​the​sense​in​which​the​concept​is​ understood​in​current​international​law.2​This​disparity​coincides​with​oral​ tradition,​according​to​which​ariki​Atamu​Tekena​gave​a​bunch​of​grass​to​ Toro​but​put​a​handful​of​soil​in​his​own​pocket,​a​gesture​meant​to​express​ 56 riet​Delsing

that​he​was​allowing​the​Chileans​to​make​use​of​land​and​crops​but​that​ he​was​not​handing​over​Rapanui​territory.3​This​enactment​is​performed​ for​me​over​and​over​again​whenever​I​ask​Rapanui​about​their​political​relationship​with​Chile.

The Early Years of Chilean Colonization Misunderstandings​about​the​separateness​of​land​and​territory​were​present​ from​the​very​beginning​of​Chilean​colonization.​After​the​annexation​in​ 1888,​Toro’s​brother,​Pedro​Pablo,​stayed​in​Rapa​Nui​for​four​years​as​an​ “agent​of​colonization”​(Toro​1892)​and​wrote​an​interesting​report​about​his​ experiences.​Besides​his​observations​about​Chilean​versus​Rapanui​political​authority,​Chilean​“civilization”​versus​Rapanui​Polynesian​culture,​and​ the​Chilean​legal​system​versus​Rapanui​customary​law,​he​made​the​first​assessment​of​Rapanui​landownership​seen​through​the​eyes​of​a​Chilean​who​ had​firsthand​knowledge​of​the​situation.​“Private​and​permanent​ownership​ does​not​really​exist​in​the​countryside,”​he​said.​“Each​individual​cultivates​ and​sows​a​plot​of​land,​which​he​abandons​after​the​harvest​to​take​another​ one​later​on”​(Toro​1892,​205).​Toro​had​no​understanding​of​the​Polynesian​ system​of​land​tenure,​which​allowed​for​collective​use​of​clan​lands,​and​he​ may​not​have​been​aware​of​the​existing​clan​system. ​ Most​interesting​are​his​recommendations​to​the​Chilean​government,​ which​give​a​striking​vision​of​how​the​island​and​its​people​should​become​ integrated​into​the​Chilean​nation-​state.​His​suggestions​are​a​stunning​example​of​capitalist​discourse​on​the​advantages​of​private​property.​First,​he​ suggested​that​the​island​be​submitted​to​Chilean​jurisdiction​by​creating​a​ subdelegation​annexed​to​the​Department​of​Valparaíso.​Second,​he​proposed​to​constitute​indigenous​private​property​rights​by​equally​dividing​ the​land​in​plots,​“sufficient​to​satisfy​the​necessities​of​each​family”​to​maintain​itself​independently.​The​canacas​(natives)​should​be​obliged​to​fence​off​ their​respective​properties.​The​creation​of​private​property​would​stimulate​ work,​production,​and​exchange.​It​would​create​healthy​competition​since​ each​indígena​(indigenous​person)​would​see​himself​as​exclusive​owner​of​ his​property​and​“more​or​less​rich,”​according​to​his​own​efforts,​economic​ ability,​ and​ dedication.​ Toro​ supposed​ that​ in​ the​ beginning​ the​ canacas​ would​resist​these​innovations​concerning​the​private​property​of​land,​but​ that​such​resistance​would​never​be​serious,​and​the​canacas​would​slowly​ but​ surely​ become​ convinced​ of​ the​ advantages​ of​ the​ new​ system​ (Toro​ Chile and Rapa Nui 57

1892,​212).​Toro​also​thought​it​would​not​be​difficult​to​substitute​the​legal​ authority​of​the​whites​for​the​traditional​authority​of​the​indigenous​chiefs,​ among​whom​the​subdelegate​could​assign​his​subordinates.​It​is​remarkable​ how​prescient​Toro’s​vision​would​prove​to​be,​as​today​the​Western​concept​ of​individual​private​property​has​invaded,​slowly​but​surely,​Rapanui​customary​forms​of​communal​land​tenure​and​the​notion​of​kainga,4​or​ancestral​lands,​is​losing​ground​among​many​Rapanui. ​ After​the​initial​years​of​colonization​Chile​lost​interest​in​the​island,​possibly​because​of​the​country’s​bloody​civil​war​in​1891​and​the​realization​ that​it​was​not​the​tropical​paradise​Toro​had​imagined​it​to​be.5​The​Chilean​ government​ first​ rented​ out​ the​ island​ to​ a​ French–Chilean​ businessman​ based​in​Valparaíso​who​in​1903​passed​on​the​lease​to​Williamson​Balfour​ and​Company,​a​Scottish​trading​company​with​headquarters​for​South​and​ North​America​in​Valparaíso.​The​Compañía​(as​it​is​still​referred​to​today)​ converted​most​of​the​island​into​a​sheep​farm​for​the​export​of​wool,​and​ its​representatives​became​the​virtual​rulers​of​the​island​for​the​next​fifty​ years,​until​1953.​The​Chilean​government​was​present​in​the​form​of​its​navy,​ which​sent​a​ship​once​yearly​and​stayed​in​contact​with​the​representative​ of​the​Compañía.​However,​during​this​long​period​the​Rapanui​were​not​ treated​as​Chilean​citizens.​Chile’s​legal​system​was​put​into​practice​by​the​ navy​only​in​the​most​rudimentary​way,​while​its​administrative​and​institutional​structures​were​virtually​absent. ​ At​the​end​of​the​nineteenth​century​some​Rapanui​were​beginning​to​ lose​their​intimate​contact​with​and​deep​connection​to​the​kainga,​where​ they​had​been​living​according​to​tribal​affiliations​and​customary​practices​ in​which​the​land​was​intrinsically​inalienable.​Legend​says​that​the​island​ was​partitioned​into​two​territorial​confederacies,​the​Ko Tu’u Aro Kote Mata Nui,​the​major​clans​which​occupied​the​northern​and​western​part​of​the​ island,​and​the​Ko Tu’u Hotu Iti Mata Iti,​the​minor​clans​which​lived​in​the​ southeastern​part​(Routledge​1919;​Métraux​1940;​McCall​1976).​Each​confederation​was​divided​into​patrilineal​clans,​or​mata.​The​six​western​mata​ wielded​religious​and​political​power​and​emphasized​fishing,​while​the​four​ eastern​mata​were​mainly​agriculturalists.​These​specific​economic​activities​ made​them​dependent​on​one​another. ​ At​least​two​factors​were​involved​in​the​process​of​alienation​that​took​ place​in​the​late​nineteenth​century.​Owing​to​slave​raids​and​the​introduction​of​previously​unknown​diseases​only​slightly​more​than​one​hundred​ Rapanui​had​survived​by​the​time​of​the​Chilean​takeover,​out​of​a​popu58 riet​Delsing

lation​ of​ two​ thousand​ in​ the​ early​ 1860s.​ This​ suggests​ that​ some​ of​ the​ original​clan​lands​must​already​have​been​depopulated​toward​the​end​of​ the​century.​A​second​factor​is​that​the​Church​and​the​early​Chilean​colonizers​gathered​the​Rapanui​in​a​single​settlement,​Hanga​Roa,​for​purposes​ of​evangelization​and​colonial​control.​The​early​colonizers​also​prohibited​ the​islanders​from​using​their​original​clan​lands​for​planting​and​raising​ ​animals. ​ Early​documents​presented​by​Rapanui​to​the​Chilean​government​show​ that​several​islanders​complained​about​the​fact​that​their​lands​and​animals​were​taken​away.​These​lists​of​protests​started​the​process​of​alienation​from​tribal​lands.​The​very​act​of​listing​in​itself​brought​about​a​distancing​from​earlier​ways​of​relating​to​the​land​as​name,​age,​and​property​ were​recorded.6​Certain​lands​were​claimed​by​several​individuals,​sometimes​people​with​different​surnames,​suggesting​that​the​land​had​belonged​ to​specific​clans.​In​those​years​this​new​way​of​asserting​a​relationship​with​ the​land​may​have​gone​unnoticed,​but​in​hindsight​the​individualization​on​ paper​seems​to​be​a​first​step​toward​privatization.​Although​the​listing​of​ land​and​animals​shows​Rapanui​resistance​against​abuses​of​the​Compañía,​ it​also​introduced​the​idea​of​individual​property. The Chilean Republic Consolidates Its Hold on the Island ​ A​few​years​after​the​annexation​it​became​standard​practice​that​island​ disputes​were​arbitrated​by​naval​officers​during​their​yearly​visits​(Porteous​ 1981,​50).​While​the​Compañía​was​mainly​interested​in​the​profits​of​the​ wool​business,​the​navy’s​objective​was​to​carry​out​the​project​of​the​Chilean​ nation-​state.​Territorial​rights​and​landownership​remained​the​major​issues.​ Beginning​in​1917​the​navy​started​to​distribute​plots​to​be​used​for​agricultural​purposes​(Vergara​1939,​81).​The​Rapanui​had​to​convince​navy​personnel​that​they​needed​land​for​specific​purposes.​In​a​publication​of​1926​ entitled​Memorias, Balances, Inventarios y Registro de Propiedades,​the​navy​ lists​all​the​plots​assigned​to​Rapanui​up​to​that​year.​Afterward​it​became​ standard​practice​to​give​five​hectares​to​young​married​couples.​These​cessions​would​be​confirmed​by​the​commanders​of​the​navy​ships​during​their​ visits​to​the​island.​Each​land​title​was​accompanied​by​a​drawing​indicating​ the​size​and​location​of​the​plot.​The​navy​compiled​another​document​in​ 1962,​the​Libro de registros de propiedades llevado por la Armada de Chile, Isla de Pascua.​Like​all​navy​records,​these​publications​are​no​longer​available​ on​the​island​but​copies​were​made,​and​recently​the​Ministerio​de​Bienes​ Chile and Rapa Nui 59

Nacionales​got​hold​of​one.7​If​it​had​not​been​for​copies​made​by​individuals,​this​historical​information​would​be​lost,​as​was​the​case​with​the​treaty​ documents.​The​tone​and​content​of​the​land​titles​indicate​that​the​navy​ acted​as​a​colonial​agent,​applying​strict​military​rules​that​had​to​be​observed​by​the​islanders.​The​reiteration​of​the​navy’s​deeds​in​successive​registers​shows​that​it​was​quite​keen​on​keeping​things​in​order.​By​the​1960s,​ 525​provisional​land​titles​had​been​extended​(Andueza​Guzmán​2005),​and​ the​area​of​Hanga​Roa,​where​the​Rapanui​live​in​family​groups​according​ to​traditional​clan​distributions,​grew​over​the​years​from​one​thousand​to​ three​thousand​hectares. ​ The​Chilean​government’s​position​was​that​these​provisional​titles​allowed​the​beneficiaries​to​use​the​plots​of​land​for​agricultural​purposes,​but​ the​Chilean​state​reserved​ownership​to​the​land.​This​is​ironic,​to​say​the​ least,​if​one​considers​that​this​interpretation​is​a​reversal​of​what​the​Rapanui​offered​to​Chile​at​the​moment​of​annexation.​At​that​time​ariki​Atamu​ Tekena​assigned​the​usufruct​of​Rapanui​lands​to​the​Chilean​state​but​by​ putting​a​handful​of​soil​in​his​pocket​explicitly​expressed​the​wish​to​remain​ in​charge​of​the​kainga.​Interestingly,​the​Rapanui​considered​the​provisional​ titles​as​property​titles,​an​interpretation​the​state​did​not​object​to​in​future​ legal​determinations​about​land​use​in​Rapa​Nui.8​This​is​an​excellent​example​of​how​the​Rapanui​have​been​able​to​circumvent​Chilean​legal​decisions​and​interpret​them​according​to​their​cultural​needs. The Inscription of 1933 ​ In​the​1930s​Rapa​Nui​was​still​a​British​sheep​farm,​run​as​if​it​were​a​ship​ by​its​administrators​and​the​Chilean​navy​authorities.​By​then​the​foreign​ authorities​had​replaced​Rapanui​traditional​leaders,​stripped​them​of​their​ lands,​and​turned​them​into​farmhands.9​However,​an​important​change​was​ made​in​1933.​Tired​of​the​cat-​and-​mouse​game​being​played​over​Rapanui​ lands​by​the​Compañía​and​the​Chilean​state,​the​government​took​action.​ A​ high-​level​ government​ commission​ headed​ by​ a​ Chilean​ bishop​ determined​that​private​landownership​did​not​exist​on​the​island​according​to​ Chilean​ law,​ and​ in​ November​ 1933​ the​ government​ registered​ the​ entire​ island​as​Chilean​public​land​(tierra fiscal).​It​declared​itself​“owner​of​Easter​ Island,​also​called​Rapa​Nui,”​with​an​area​of​15,796​hectares.​The​document​ says​that​Chile​acquired​the​island​through​occupation​by​virtue​of​article​ 590​of​the​Civil​Code​(Vergara​1939,​appendix​XLI).​This​article​states​that​ “all​the​land​situated​within​the​territorial​limits​that​lacks​another​owner​is​ 60 riet​Delsing

state​property”​(Vergara​1939,​appendix​XLIV).​The​commission’s​arguments​ were​correct​in​that​the​early​transactions​and​sales​to​the​Compañía​had​not​ been​registered​in​the​proper​government​office​(Rochna-​Ramírez​1996,​40),​ and​when​the​government​renewed​the​lease​with​the​Compañía​for​another​ twenty​years​in​1936,​it​referred​to​the​whole​island​except​for​the​land​occupied​by​“the​natives,​the​lepers​and​the​naval​authority.”10 ​ In​the​inscription​of​1933​the​Chilean​state​ignored​once​again​the​very​ existence​of​the​Rapanui​as​a​people​with​ancestral​rights​to​their​land​and​ territory.​This​time​Chile​stated​that​it​had​acquired​the​island​through​occupation,​not,​as​it​had​asserted​in​1888,​through​cession.​This​claim​was​not​ mentioned​again​in​later​discussions​about​the​Chilean​state’s​political​relationship​with​the​island,​possibly​because​it​would​have​put​Chile​in​a​bad​ light​on​the​international​legal​stage.11​The​Rapanui​were​not​informed​about​ the​inscription​of​their​entire​territory​as​public​land​and​became​aware​of​ this​act​more​than​thirty​years​later.12 ​ In​hindsight,​the​inscription​has​benefited​the​Rapanui​because​neither​ foreigners​nor​non-​Rapanui​Chileans​are​allowed​to​own​land​on​the​island.​ This​unintended​consequence​has​become​a​major​tool​in​the​hands​of​contemporary​ Rapanui​ to​ make​ a​ case​ for​ collective​ private​ landownership.​ Contrary​to​what​has​happened​in​other​Polynesian​island​states,​such​as​ Hawai‘i,​where​non–Hawaiian​Americans​and​foreigners​can​own​land,​the​ blunder​by​the​Chilean​state​in​1933​allowed​Rapanui​to​secure​their​lands,​ albeit​under​the​tutelage​of​that​very​state.

Chilean Integrationist Policies and the Privatization of Rapanui Lands The Easter Law (Ley Pascua) and the Pinochet Law (Ley Pinochet) ​ Several​ decades​ passed​ before​ two​ Chilean​ laws​ dealing​ with​ Rapanui​ landholding​ were​ enacted.​ In​ Law​ number​ 16.441,​ the​ so-​called​ Ley​ Pascua​of​1966,​the​Rapanui​were​recognized​for​the​first​time​as​full-​fledged​ Chilean​citizens.​It​authorized​the​president​of​the​Republic​to​grant​individual​property​titles​(títulos de dominio)​to​Chilean​nationals​in​urban​territories​ belonging​ to​ the​ state​ (territorios fiscales urbanos),​ and​ stipulated​ that​most​rural​lands​belonging​to​the​state​(tierras fiscales rurales)​could​be​ given​in​concession​to​Chilean​government​institutions.​The​Ley​Pascua​is​ significant​in​that​it​represents​the​first​time​private​landownership​in​Rapa​ Chile and Rapa Nui 61

Nui​was​introduced​through​a​Chilean​law.​In​the​name​of​equality,​this​right​ was​extended​not​only​to​Rapanui,​but​also​to​non-​Rapanui​Chilean​citizens.​ However,​these​dispositions​did​not​have​a​major​effect​on​the​island.​The​ titles​to​individual​ownership​referred​only​to​the​urban​area​of​Hanga​Roa,​ where​virtually​all​Rapanui​lived.​The​vast​majority​did​not​bother​to​get​land​ titles​for​places​where​they​and​their​families​had​been​living​for​several​decades.​No​titles​were​given​to​Chileans​living​on​the​island​on​the​basis​of​ the​Ley​Pascua​(Barrientos​1998,​6).​For​several​years​to​come,​remarkably,​ Rapanui​ islanders​ continued​ living​ their​ lives​ in​ their​ Hanga​ Roa​ homesteads​without​significant​changes​as​far​as​land​tenure​was​concerned. ​ A​much​bigger​step​toward​individual​private​landownership​was​taken​ in​1979,​when​the​Chilean​military​dictator​Augusto​Pinochet​issued​a​decree​ with​the​force​of​law​(DL-​2885)​that​became​known​as​the​Ley​Pinochet.13​ General​Pinochet​showed​a​special​interest​in​Rapa​Nui,​in​accordance​with​ his​ geopolitical​ views​ and​ nationalist​ goals​ for​ Chile,​ which​ included​ the​ homogenization​and​integration​of​the​Chilean​population​into​the​nation-​ state.​Consequently,​the​Rapanui​were​not​referred​to​as​a​people.​The​decree​gave​the​president​the​authority​to​extend​free​titles​in​urban​and​rural​ public​areas​(terrenos fiscales)​to​Chileans​born​on​the​island​whose​father​or​ mother​also​had​been​born​there.​These​titles​could​also​be​given​to​Chileans​not​born​on​the​island​if​one​of​their​parents​had​been​born​there,​had​ lived​there​for​at​least​five​years,​and​exercised​a​profession​or​permanent​activity​on​the​island.​In​practice​this​meant​that​Pinochet​was​giving​land​titles​ to​Rapanui,​although​in​theory​non-​Rapanui​who​were​born​on​the​island​ could​own​Rapanui​land.​Once​again,​no​reference​was​made​to​the​fact​that​ the​law​was​applicable​only​to​the​roughly​three​thousand​hectares​(out​of​a​ total​of​sixteen​thousand)​comprising​Hanga​Roa​and​its​vicinities,​to​which​ the​Rapanui​had​been​reduced​in​the​late​1800s.​This​law​decree​had​a​much​ more​invasive​effect​than​the​Ley​Pascua​since​its​intention​was​to​oblige​the​ Rapanui​to​take​land​titles.​The​law​was​reinforced​by​an​offer​of​subsidized​ government​housing,​which​could​be​obtained​only​if​land​titles​were​accepted​and​inscribed. ​ The​Ley​Pinochet​met​with​massive​resistance​from​the​Rapanui,​who​ felt​that​individual​land​distribution​was​being​forced​upon​them.​Their​reaction​was​to​form,​in​1980,​a​Consejo​de​Ancianos​(Council​of​Elders).14​ The​council’s​opposition​to​the​Ley​Pinochet​was​based​mainly​on​the​argument​that​the​Chilean​state​did​not​have​the​authority​to​give​titles​to​Rapanui​land.​As​one​Rapanui​clearly​put​it,​“Why​do​we​have​to​accept​a​title​of​ 62 riet​Delsing

something​that​is​already​mine?​It​is​as​if​somebody​wants​to​give​me​the​ shirt​I​am​wearing”​(Revista Análisis,​February​1988).​Nevertheless,​Rapanui​ started​to​inscribe​their​properties​and​acquire​private​property​titles​during​ the​1980s;​by​1990​the​number​who​had​done​so​totaled​359​(Gómez​2004).​ The​law​decree​stipulated​that​if​people​could​prove​they​had​been​living​on​ or​using​a​piece​of​land​for​more​than​ten​years,​they​would​have​the​right​ to​a​land​title.​The​validation​of​land​occupancy​(poseedor regular)​became​ a​very​popular​way​for​the​Rapanui​to​accept​land​titles.​The​recognition​of​ a​relationship​between​land​and​people​appealed​to​Rapanui​cultural​idiosyncrasy​(see​Andueza​2005).​Living​on​or​using​a​plot​of​land​for​agricultural​purposes​(or​both)​for​a​considerable​amount​of​time​reinforced​these​ connections.​Thus​some​Rapanui​responded​to​Chilean​laws,​although​not​ altogether​for​the​reasons​intended​by​the​legislator,​whose​purpose​was​to​ instill​the​concept​of​individual​private​property​in​Rapanui​cultural​practice​ and​turn​them​into​regular​Chileans​for​whom​private​ownership​is​a​basic​ cultural​paradigm. The Indigenous Law (Ley Indígena) ​ The​situation​changed​again​after​Chile’s​return​to​democracy​in​1990.​The​ indigenous​cause​was​high​on​the​agenda​of​Patricio​Aylwin,​the​first​democratically​elected​president​after​the​dictatorship.​In​1993​a​special​law​was​ issued,​the​so-​called​Ley​Indígena​(No.​19,253),​which​established​norms​of​ protection,​promotion,​and​development​of​Chile’s​indigenous​population.​ In​contrast​to​the​Ley​Pinochet,​which​aimed​at​absorbing​indigenous​people​ into​the​Chilean​population,​this​law​recognized​the​existence​of​indigenous​ people​and​their​differences.​The​Ley​Indígena​recognized​that​land​was​the​ lifeblood​of​indigenous​cultures.​Some​Rapanui​suggested​that​rather​than​ include​Rapa​Nui​in​the​Ley​Indígena,​the​Ley​Pascua​of​1966,​which​was​ specific​to​the​Rapanui,​be​amended​to​reflect​the​new​situation,​but​this​ initiative​went​nowhere.​These​Rapanui​argued​that​the​differences​between​ Rapa​Nui’s​Polynesian​population​and​American​indigenous​peoples​on​the​ mainland​are​too​great​to​include​them​both​in​a​single​law.15​The​Ley​Indígena,​like​previous​laws,​maintained​the​concept​of​individual​private​property,​although​it​states​explicitly​for​the​first​time​that​only​people​of​Rapanui​ descent​can​own​land​in​Rapa​Nui​and​that​the​land​cannot​be​transferred​ to​ non-​Rapanui.​ The​ National​ Corporation​ for​ Indigenous​ Development​ (conaDi)​was​formed​to​implement​the​Ley​Indígena​in​each​of​the​places​ where​indigenous​people​live. Chile and Rapa Nui 63

​ In​hindsight,​it​can​be​suggested​that​the​Ley​Indígena,​although​designed​ to​benefit​the​Rapanui​as​a​people,​has​had​several​negative​consequences​ in​Rapa​Nui.​First,​it​divided​the​Rapanui​community,​a​division​that​still​ exists​today.​The​Council​of​Elders​split​on​the​issue​of​land​distribution.​ The​council’s​leader​and​some​other​council​members​who​had​been​fervently​opposed​ to​the​Ley​Pinochet​ became​ strong​ supporters​ of​the​Ley​ Indígena.​Members​of​the​dissident​group,​who​opposed​private​land​titles,​ maintained​that​it​was​not​the​right​of​the​Chilean​government​to​impose​ land​distribution​in​Rapa​Nui. ​ This​situation​was​mainly​caused​by​a​complicated​interaction​between​ Rapanui​leaders​and​Chilean​party​politics.​In​general,​Rapanui​identify​with​ neither​Chilean​party​politics​nor​the​political​and​ideological​paradigms​on​ which​they​are​based,​since​they​have​no​historical​and​cultural​relevance​in​ Rapa​Nui.​Nevertheless,​leaders​of​the​Council​of​Elders​had​strongly​supported​Aylwin,​the​candidate​of​the​Center-​Left​government​coalition,​and​ felt​committed​to​the​Ley​Indígena.​The​result​was​that​the​dissident​group​ of​the​council​lined​up​with​the​opposition​to​the​newly​elected​Democratic​ government,​which​consists​of​an​ideological,​extreme​Right—erstwhile​defenders​of​the​dictatorship—and​a​more​moderate​neoliberal,​big​business– oriented​central​Right. ​ The​Ley​Indígena​also​created,​solely​for​Rapa​Nui,​a​Development​Commission​(coDeipa),​whose​membership​would​be​made​up​partly​of​Rapanui​and​partly​of​mainlanders.​It​consists​of​the​Rapanui​governor,​the​Rapanui​mayor,​the​head​of​the​Council​of​Elders,​five​members​elected​by​the​ Rapanui​community,​and​six​representatives​of​various​Chilean​ministries​ that​operate​on​the​island,​five​of​whom​are​continental​Chileans.​This​composition​ guarantees​ a​ Rapanui​ majority​ in​ the​ coDeipa .​ It​ was​ to​ be​ in​ charge​of,​among​other​things,​land​distribution​through​one​of​the​Chilean​ ministries​ (Bienes​ Nacionales).​The​split​in​the​Council​of​Elders​ created​ a​problem​because​the​ultimate​leader​of​the​council​would​be​one​of​the​ commission’s​ members.​ With​ two​ individuals​ claiming​ the​ leadership​ of​ the​Council​of​Elders,​the​Development​Commission​could​not​be​put​into​ operation​until​1998,​when​elections​were​held​in​the​Council​and​the​original​leader​won​by​a​narrow​margin.16 ​ An​even​more​serious​effect​of​the​Ley​Indígena​was​the​distribution​of​ fifteen​hundred​hectares​of​government-​owned​land​to​the​Rapanui.17​The​ ministry​in​charge​assigned​these​lands​in​plots​of​five​hectares​rather​haphazardly,​often​not​respecting​the​tribal​affiliations​of​the​applicants,​which​ 64 riet​Delsing

created​ problems​ between​ and​ discontent​ among​ Rapanui.​ Two​ hundred​ fifty-​nine​individual​land​titles​were​handed​out​in​2001.​Today,​some​twelve​ hundred​Rapanui​are​waiting​for​a​second​redistribution.​Many​who​earlier​ resisted​land​titles​have​now​registered.​Although​most​Rapanui​still​do​not​ agree​with​the​system​in​their​discourse,​they​submit​to​it​in​practice.​However,​the​government​is​in​the​process​of​adjusting​the​criteria​for​distribution,​as​there​is​not​enough​land​available,​so​the​plots​will​be​smaller​this​ time​around.​The​process​has​been​delayed,​and​in​2006​the​ coDeipa ​was​ still​revising​the​records​of​each​applicant,​which​has​created​a​lot​of​discontent​and​mistrust​in​the​community.18​Also,​a​new​relationship​with​the​ Chilean​government​is​in​the​making​(see​below),​and​this​may​reverse​the​ landholding​situation​altogether. ​ Another​negative​effect​of​the​land​delivery​is​that​Rapanui​have​started​ to​trade​their​plots​of​land​for​motorcycles,​used​cars,​and​other​material​ goods​of​their​liking,​which​has​allowed​some​Rapanui​to​accumulate​land.​ This​has​stimulated​the​development​of​a​real​estate​market,​albeit​between​ Rapanui,​in​the​past​couple​of​years,​unheard​of​before.​This​circumstance​ implies​ a​ further​ erosion​ of​ the​ concept​ of​ kainga,​ since​ it​ separates​ the​ Rapanui​further​from​their​traditional​clan​lands​and​disintegrates​their​traditional​social​organization.​The​Ley​Indígena​allows​for​individual​private​ property​but​to​the​detriment​of​collective​private​property. ​ Loopholes​in​the​law​have​also​permitted​outsiders​to​invest​in​the​island,​ a​phenomenon​that​requires​close​supervision​on​part​of​the​Rapanui.​An​ emblematic​case,​the​first​of​its​kind,​was​the​construction​and​inauguration​ in​early​2008​of​a​five-​star​hotel​by​the​exclusive​Chilean​hotel​chain​Explora.​ The​Explora​hotels​belong​to​the​Chilean​Pedro​Ibañez,​a​wealthy​businessman​and​entrepreneur.​After​consulting​for​several​years​with​various​Rapanui​families,​Explora​officials​convinced​a​successful​Rapanui​businessman,​ Mike​Rapu,​to​acquire​land​from​his​family​and​obtain​a​second​plot​from​ another​Rapanui—a​total​of​9.6​hectares—to​execute​this​project.​With​the​ help​of​various​lawyers​the​Ley​Indígena​was​bypassed.​When​I​asked​Rapu​ why​ he​ went​ ahead​ with​ this​ project,​ he​ repeatedly​ stressed​ the​ trust​ the​ owner​of​the​Explora​hotels​had​put​in​him​and​the​mistrust​other​Rapanui​ had​inspired​(interview​Mike​Rapu​Pate,​2006).​It​is​interesting​that​personal​ relations​seem​to​have​played​a​major​factor​in​such​a​significant​financial​ operation.​Explora​has​set​a​precedent​and​opened​the​door​to​future​foreign​ investments. ​ On​the​other​hand,​thanks​ to​the​Ley​Indígena,​ permission​ to​build​ a​ Chile and Rapa Nui 65

casino​in​Rapa​Nui​was​denied​on​legal​grounds​in​September​2006,​namely,​ because​that​the​Chilean​casino​law​and​the​Ley​Indígena​are​mutually​incompatible​(El Mercurio,​9​September​2006).​This​decision​put​an​end​to​a​ heated​yearlong​debate​in​Rapa​Nui​and​on​the​mainland​about​the​advantages​and​disadvantages​of​having​a​casino​on​the​island.​The​casino​law​requires​a​fifteen-​year​permit​to​operate,​while​according​to​the​Ley​Indígena​ indigenous​lands​can​be​rented​out​for​a​maximum​period​of​only​five​years.​ Even​though​these​five-​year​periods​are​renewable​in​the​Ley​Indígena,​the​ casino​law​does​not​allow​for​this​figure.​Both​conaDi ​and​coDeipa ​were​ against​ the​ casino,​ as​ was​ a​ large​ part​ of​ the​ Rapanui​ community.​ Rapanui​ University​ students​ residing​ on​ the​ mainland​ organized​ various​ protests​during​2006​in​Santiago​and​Valparaíso,​protests​in​which​I​participated.​The​Council​of​Elders​and​the​mayor​of​Rapa​Nui​were​in​favor​of​the​ casino.​Their​argument​was​that​the​project​would​bring​cash​to​the​island.​ The​casino​project,​which​involved​an​investment​of​fourteen​million​dollars,​was​a​joint​venture​of​a​Chilean​investor​and​a​Rapanui​businessman. ​ The​Ley​Indígena​has​thus​been​manipulated​and​has​had​unpredictable​ consequences​for​the​Rapanui​community​and​Chilean​lawmakers​alike.​The​ Rapanui​have​certainly​not​benefited​from​the​rules​and​regulations​imposed​ by​ a​ nation-​state​ that​ insists​ on​ sovereignty​ over​ a​ territory​ which​ it​ has​ abused​historically.

From Colonialism to Self-Determination? These​ discrepancies​ in​ the​ interpretation​ and​ use​ of​ existing​ law​ and​ the​ interplay​between​the​Chilean​state’s​intentions​and​Rapanui​discourse​and​ practice​can​also​be​seen​in​the​various​stages​of​political​status​the​Chilean​ state​has​imposed​on​the​Rapanui​people​and​their​territory. ​ Three​distinct​moments​can​be​distinguished​in​Chile’s​political​relationship​with​Rapa​Nui.​The​first​is​the​Annexation​of​1888,​when​Chile​asserted​ sovereignty​over​the​island.​As​discussed​earlier,​the​Republic​of​Chile​then​ quickly​lost​interest​in​its​insular​possession,​and​the​island​was​turned​into​ a​sheep​farm.​Arguably,​during​those​first​years​of​colonization​the​Rapanui​ were​barely​aware​of​the​presence​of​a​nation-​state​exercising​sovereignty​ over​the​island.​Chile’s​judicial​and​administrative​systems​were​imposed​in​ the​most​rudimentary​way.​The​situation​changed​somewhat​in​1917,​when​ Chile​declared​Rapa​Nui​to​be​a​subdelegation​(Subdelegación​Marítima)​of​

66 riet​Delsing

the​Naval​Department​(Gobernación​Marítima)​of​the​port​of​Valparaíso.​ Navy​officials​were​then​officially​named​as​representatives​of​the​Chilean​ government​in​Rapa​Nui,​and​the​connection​with​the​central​government​ was​channeled​through​its​Ministry​of​Defense.​This​situation​lasted​for​five​ decades.​During​those​years​the​Rapanui​endured​physical​and​psychological​abuses​by​representatives​of​the​Compañía​and​navy​officials​and​had​no​ constitutional​rights​whatsoever.​Nevertheless,​their​cultural​practices,​especially​their​language​and​social​organization,​remained​largely​intact. La Ley Pascua ​ This​state​of​affairs​changed​drastically​in​1966​with​the​passage​of​the​Ley​ Pascua.​A​young​Rapanui​schoolteacher,​one​of​the​first​Rapanui​educated​ on​the​mainland,​staged​a​rebellion​in​1964.19​Partly​as​a​result​of​this​revolt​ the​Ley​Pascua​was​approved​by​the​National​Congress​in​1966.​The​law​put​ an​end​to​navy​rule​and​created​the​Department​of​Easter​Island​as​part​of​ the​province​of​Valparaíso,​with​its​own​municipality​and​public​services​ (Makihara​1999,​101).​The​most​important​consequence​of​the​Ley​Pascua​is​ that​the​Rapanui​were​finally​recognized​as​Chilean​citizens​and​were​given​ the​right​to​vote. ​ After​ the​ law​ was​ passed,​ three​ hundred​ newcomers,​ mostly​ Chilean​ functionaries​and​their​families,​arrived​on​the​island​to​set​up​the​new​administrative​system​in​representation​of​Chilean​ministries​and​other​institutions.​Chilean​workers​were​brought​in​from​the​continent​for​the​construction​of​the​airport,​as​well​as​some​60​American​army​personnel​who​ came​to​set​up​a​base​for​surveillance​of​artificial​earth​satellites​in​compliance​with​an​agreement​between​the​Chilean​and​U.S.​Air​Force.​By​1968​ the​outsiders​added​up​to​a​total​of​665​people,​as​compared​with​a​Rapanui​ population​of​1,200,​with​the​result​that​there​were​more​foreign​and​continental​adults​than​Rapanui​adults​on​the​island​(Cristino​et​al.,​1984).​One​ can​only​imagine​the​impact​this​arrival​of​nonislanders​had​on​Rapanui’s​ lifestyle​and​world.​Besides​the​influx​of​people,​there​was​an​influx​of​goods​ and​services.​Electricity​and​piped​water​lines​were​installed,​and​roads​were​ built.​Trucks​and​jeeps​were​imported.​The​improvement​in​communications​ realized​by​the​building​of​the​airport​and​the​subsequent​air​traffic​opened​ the​island​up​to​the​world​in​an​unprecedented​way.​The​concentration​of​ services​and​government​buildings​in​Hanga​Roa​made​it​the​only​inhabited​center​on​the​island,​a​fact​which​loosened​the​ties​between​the​Rapanui​

Chile and Rapa Nui 67

and​their​ancestral​lands​even​more.​None​of​this​was​adequately​planned​ nor​anticipated​in​the​Ley​Pascua.​The​Chilean​legislators​failed​to​comprehend​and​predict​the​impact​Chilean​laws​and​institutions​would​have​on​the​ daily​life​of​the​Rapanui.​On​the​other​hand,​the​Chileans​who​were​assigned​ to​the​island​did​not​have​enough​cultural​sensitivity​to​perceive​these​possible​alterations​of​Rapanui​culture​and​social​organization.​The​Ley​Pascua​ fomented​westernization​in​a​way​the​Rapanui​are​still​coping​with​today,​ and​it​did​not​provide​tools​to​safeguard​cultural​difference​and​enhance​self-​ determination. La Comisión de Verdad Histórica y Nuevo Trato para los Pueblos Indígenas (Commission on Historic Truth and New Relationship with Indigenous Peoples) ​ Today,​almost​fifty​years​after​passage​of​the​Ley​Pascua,​another​change​ in​political​status​for​Rapa​Nui​is​in​the​making.​The​protests​by​Rapanui​ in​ the​ 1980s​ over​ land​ and​ territory​ strengthened​ their​ awareness​ of​ cultural​difference,​while​in​Chile​in​those​same​years​the​first​protests​against​ the​military​regime​led​to​the​recovery​of​democracy​in​1990,​after​seventeen​years​of​dictatorship.​Indigenous​rights​and​demands​appeared​on​the​ national​ agenda​ through​ the​ creation​ of​ the​ Ley​ Indígena​ in​ 1993,​ which​ informed​Chilean​civil​society​about​indigenous​issues​and​demands.​This​ process​culminated​in​2001​in​the​creation​of​a​government​entity​known​as​ the​Commission​on​Historic​Truth​and​New​Relationship​with​Indigenous​ Peoples​(La​Comisión​de​Verdad​Histórica​y​Nuevo​Trato​para​los​Pueblos​ Indígenas).​Then-​president​of​Chile​Ricardo​Lagos​charged​the​commission​ with​studying​the​historic​relationship​between​Chile’s​indigenous​peoples​ and​the​Chilean​state​and​suggesting​recommendations​for​new​state​policies​(una política de estado). ​ The​truth​commission​put​out​its​final​report​in​2003,​and​its​recommendations​for​Rapa​Nui​included​the​ratification​of​the​“Agreement​of​Wills”​ of​1888​by​the​National​Congress,​the​creation​of​a​statute​of​autonomy,​the​ recognition​of​the​exclusive​right​of​the​Rapanui​to​landownership​on​the​ island,​and​the​promotion​and​financing​of​development​programs​in​Rapa​ Nui​(Informe de la Comisión).​These​recommendations​were​formulated​by​ the​Rapanui​authorities​who​were​recognized​as​such​by​the​Chilean​government:​the​mayor,​the​head​of​the​Council​of​Elders,​and​the​governor,​in​his​ capacity​as​head​of​the​Rapanui​Development​Commission.

68 riet​Delsing

​ Another​set​of​recommendations​had​been​formulated​in​workshops​that​ took​ place​ on​ the​ island​ in​ 2002.​ The​ organizers​ of​ these​ workshops​ had​ been​elected​and​appointed​in​a​meeting​with​representatives​of​the​Chilean​ government​who​visited​the​island​in​February​2002​to​create​the​Rapanui​ chapter​of​the​truth​commission.​These​organizers​were​later​reconfirmed​in​ a​meeting​with​the​Rapanui​community.​Nevertheless,​their​final​report​was​ not​taken​into​consideration​and​was​replaced​by​a​text​presented​by​the​authorities​recognized​by​the​Chilean​government. El Parlamento Rapanui ​ Meanwhile,​ in​ 2001​ a​ group​ of​ Rapanui​ created​ the​ Rapanui​ Parliament,​several​of​whose​members​formerly​belonged​to​the​second​Council​ of​Elders,​which​virtually​dissolved​after​it​lost​the​elections​of​1998.​Their​ main​demand​was​that​the​Chilean​state​return​Rapanui​territory​and​that​ land​distribution​should​be​based​on​ancestral​principles.​They​also​declared​ autonomy​in​their​act​of​constitution​and​demanded​a​government​of​their​ own​ (Constitución Parlamentaria,​ 2001).​ The​ document​ does​ not​ specify​ what​exactly​is​meant​by​autonomy,​but​this​was​the​first​time​a​Rapanui​ organization​had​made​claims​to​self-government​during​the​Chilean​epoch. ​ Although​the​group​is​not​considered​to​be​a​serious​interlocutor​by​the​ Chilean​government​and​represents​only​a​minority​of​the​Rapanui​community,​it​has​earned​recognition​abroad​by​networking​informally​in​Polynesia​ and​the​Pacific.​Lately​they​have​also​represented​Rapa​Nui​in​international​ organizations​ in​ New​ York​ and​ Geneva,​ such​ as​ the​ United​ Nations​ Permanent​Forum​on​Indigenous​Issues,​the​United​Nations​Working​Group​ for​ Indigenous​ Populations,​ and​ the​ Indigenous​ Peoples​ Pacific​ Caucus,​ where​it​has​revealed​its​complaints​and​demands​to​the​Chilean​state.​In​ June​2006​some​members​of​the​Rapanui​Parliament​traveled​from​Rapa​ Nui​to​join​other​Rapanui​living​in​Europe​and​the​United​States​to​participate​in​a​meeting​of​the​nongovernmental​International​Forum​of​Indigenous​Peoples​(Fipau),​held​in​Pau,​France.​From​there​they​went​to​Geneva​ to​participate​in​ un ​meetings​held​parallel​to​and​in​conjunction​with​the​ important​meeting​of​the​recently​created​United​Nations​Human​Rights​ Council​in​July​2006.​In​both​instances​Rapanui​were​participating​in​international​arenas​as​indigenous​people​with​specific​rights​to​land,​territory,​ and​self​government,​thus​circumventing​a​nation-​state​they​consider​to​be​ in​violation​of​their​rights​as​a​people.

Chile and Rapa Nui 69

Special Status for Rapa Nui: A Special Territory with a Special Statute ​ For​several​years​Rapanui​authorities,​the​mayor​in​particular,​insisted​ on​the​need​for​a​política de estado​of​the​Chilean​government​toward​Rapa​ Nui.20​At​the​same​time​the​work​of​the​truth​commission​was​proceeding,​ Rapanui​authorities,​together​with​Chilean​public​personalities,​including​ ex-​president​Aylwin,​started​to​elaborate​a​proposal​for​a​Special​Statute​for​ the​Administration​of​Easter​Island.​It​took​almost​three​years​to​formulate​ and​was​completed​in​August​2005.​The​proposal​includes​a​reform​of​the​ Chilean​Constitution​in​order​to​create​Special​Territories​in​Easter​Island​ and​the​Archipelago​of​Juan​Fernández.​These​territories​would​have​a​certain​degree​of​administrative​autonomy​but​would​depend​directly​on​the​ central​government​(Propuesta​2005,​5–6). ​ In​the​meantime,​the​government​solicited​suggestions​from​the​Rapanui​community​as​to​what​should​be​included​in​the​proposal,​which​led​to​ passionate​discussions​on​the​island.​In​May​2006,​a​year​before​the​final​approval​of​the​special​territory​status,​the​local​office​of​conaDi ​organized​a​ seminar​that​lasted​several​days​and​gathered​some​seven​hundred​Rapanui​ to​discuss​a​government​proposal​similar​to​the​one​developed​by​the​public​ personalities​that​basically​maintains​the​existing​administrative​structure.​ The​difference​between​the​two​proposals​was​that​the​governor​of​Rapa​Nui​ would​no​longer​depend​on​the​Fifth​Region​(Valparaíso)​but​directly​on​the​ central​government​through​its​Ministry​of​the​Interior. ​ From​the​seminar​held​in​Rapa​Nui​several​discussion​groups​resulted,​ and​two​main​Rapanui​proposals​emerged​by​September​2006.​One​was​very​ similar​to​the​government’s​proposal​and​was​intended​to​increase​the​possibilities​of​being​taken​into​account​by​the​Chilean​government.​Nonetheless,​ this​group​of​Rapanui​insisted​that​there​should​be​a​local​government​at​ the​top​consisting​of​six​elected​Rapa​Nui​members,​alongside​the​governor​ (or​high​commissioner),​appointed​by​the​Chilean​president,​and​a​representative​of​the​Council​of​Elders.​The​other,​more​radical​proposal​insisted​ on​the​reinstallation​of​the​Kingdom​of​Rapa​Nui,​headed​by​an​ariki​and​ administered​by​a​Council​of​Elders​chosen​by​the​Rapanui​families,​with​ the​participation​of​one​representative​of​the​Chilean​government.​In​the​ discussions​of​these​two​proposals​the​importance​of​the​traditional​Rapanui​social​organization​based​on​the​thirty-​six​families​was​central,​as​was​ the​issue​of​land​and​territory​(kainga).​Even​the​more​moderate​proposal​ recommended​that​new​property​titles​not​be​extended​until​the​previously​ 70 riet​Delsing

completed​distribution​of​fifteen​hundred​hectares​had​been​properly​analyzed.​Both​proposals​also​insisted​that​any​future​land​distribution​should​ be​carried​out​according​to​the​territorial​divisions​of​each​clan.21 ​ To​assist​the​Rapanui​in​these​discussions​and​in​their​request,​the​Chilean​ government​appointed​an​international​consultant,​who​visited​the​island​in​ December​2006​and​made​recommendations​for​the​content​of​the​special​ statute.​He​emphasized​in​his​resulting​report​that​Chile’s​political​Constitution​determines​that​the​heads​of​regions​and​provincial​governors​have​the​ exclusive​trust​of​the​president​of​the​Republic​and​thus​cannot​be​elected​by​ popular​vote​(Gómez​2006).22​Unless​structural​changes​occur​in​the​highly​ centralized​model​of​the​Chilean​state,​it​will​be​difficult​for​the​Rapanui​to​ get​political​autonomy.​From​the​perspective​of​the​state,​the​only​thing​they​ can​aspire​to,​for​the​time​being,​is​administrative​autonomy. ​ Rapanui​have​complained​about​the​fact​that​they​do​not​have​the​appropriate​analytical​tools​to​discuss​the​Chilean​proposal​for​the​special​statute​ and​that​the​appointment​of​a​consultant​came​very​late​in​the​process.​The​ discussion​groups​worked​for​several​months​in​2006​on​a​daily​basis​without​fully​grasping​the​true​significance​of​the​centralized​character​of​the​ Chilean​state.​They​also​grappled​with​the​difficult​legal​language​in​which​ the​proposal​is​couched​and​would​sometimes​switch​from​Spanish​to​Rapanui​in​order​to​better​understand​the​meaning​of​specific​parts​of​the​proposal. ​ Toward​the​end​of​2006,​the​Chilean​government​organized​some​workshops​on​the​special​statute.​They​did​so​with​public​functionaries​on​the​ island​as​well​as​with​Rapanui​students​on​the​mainland.​On​both​occasions​ no​copies​of​the​government’s​document​were​made​available​to​the​participants​beforehand.​When​a​student​in​Santiago​asked​why​the​group​had​not​ received​this​relevant​documentation​so​they​could​have​studied​it​before​ the​meeting,​the​Rapanui​governor,​Carolina​Hotus,​who​was​present​at​the​ workshop,​answered​that​she​did​not​want​to​confuse​them​(personal​information).​This​lack​of​proper​orientation​seems​indicative​of​the​relations​the​ Chilean​government​maintains​with​the​Rapanui. ​ During​a​visit​by​President​Michelle​Bachelet​of​Chile​to​the​island​in​ November​ 2006,​ on​ her​ way​ back​ home​ from​ the​ yearly​ meeting​ of​ the​ Asia-​Pacific​Economic​Cooperation​held​in​Vietnam,​she​promised​more​ autonomy​for​Rapa​Nui,​but​she​did​not​differentiate​between​administrative​and​political​autonomy​and​thus​concealed​the​important​difference​between​the​two.​These​are​just​a​few​examples​of​how​the​Chilean​government​ Chile and Rapa Nui 71

is​still​not​sending​clear​signals​to​the​Rapanui​people​concerning​issues​of​ such​vital​importance​for​their​political​future.​There​may​be​more​than​one​ reason​for​this,​but​I​suggest​that​mistrust​of​the​Rapanui​people’s​capacity​ to​understand​Western​ways​of​thinking​is​one​of​them.​By​the​same​token,​ however,​Chileans​still​have​to​acquire​a​real​understanding​of​Rapanui​cultural​ways. ​ In​ January​ 2007​ a​ second​ seminar​ between​ the​ Rapanui​ discussion​ groups​and​Chilean​government​officials​from​the​Ministry​of​the​Interior​ took​place.​It​resulted​in​a​proposal​that​most​Rapanui​present​at​the​meeting​agreed​upon​(Propuesta unificada de Estatuto Especial de Administración de Rapa Nui).​The​main​points​of​this​proposal​are​the​following:​the​governor​of​Rapa​Nui,​appointed​by​the​Chilean​president,​would​form​part​of​ a​Council​(Koro Nui)​consisting​of​six​elected​members;​as​far​as​landholding​ goes,​ individual​ private​ landownership​ would​ be​ recognized​ only​ for​ those​individuals​who​already​have​secured​property​titles​to​date.​In​the​ rest​of​the​island​collective​landownership​would​be​applied​according​to​ “the​traditional​use​and​customs​that​existed​on​the​island​before​9​September​of​1888”;​all​public​land​being​used​for​government​purposes​would​be​ handed​over​to​a​Rapanui​corporation.23​The​proposal​about​collective​landownership​is​an​implicit​critique​of​all​Chilean​legislation​to​date​and​a​major​ manifestation​of​Rapanui​cultural​resilience​against​all​odds. ​ After​a​yearlong​process​of​discussions,​one​might​think​that​this​would​ have​been​the​final​consensus​proposal​on​the​part​of​the​Rapanui.​But​it​was​ not.​Mayor​Petero​Edmunds​blocked​the​proposal​by​sending​a​letter​to​the​ Ministry​of​the​Interior​in​February​2007​in​which​he​argued​that​the​signers​ of​the​draft​proposal​were​not​representative​of​the​Rapanui​people​and​as​a​ matter​of​fact​were​opposing​the​government​of​La Concertación—the​ruling​ government​coalition—and​that​he​and​the​head​of​the​Council​of​Elders,​ the​Rapanui’s​legitimate​representatives,​had​not​been​invited​to​participate​ in​the​discussions.24​He​also​stated​that​the​proposal​contradicts​the​Chilean​ Constitution​ and​ the​ principle​ of​ a​ unitarian​ state.​ Further,​ he​ expressed​ opposition​to​the​proposed​expropriation​of​the​land​for​the​Hotel​Hanga​ Roa,​defended​the​rights​of​Chilean​inhabitants​on​the​island,​and​stated​ that​the​majority​of​Rapanui​do​not​wish​to​be​separated​from​Chile.​He​also​ emphasized​that​all​the​preparatory​work​for​the​special​statute​had​already​ been​done​by​the​Grupo​de​Personalidades,​of​which​he​himself​formed​part. ​ In​July​2007,​Law​no.​20.193​reformed​the​political​Constitution​of​Chile,​

72 riet​Delsing

allowing​the​category​of​Special​Territory​to​Rapa​Nui​and​the​Archipelago​ Juan​ Fernández,​ whose​ government​ and​ administration​ has​ to​ be​ determined​by​a​special​statute​established​by​a​Ley orgánica constitucional​(constitutional​ organic​ law).​ Not​ until​ May​ of​ 2008​ was​ a​ new​ proposal​ for​ a​ special​statute​finally​presented​to​Congress,​without​any​further​input​or​ approval​from​the​Rapanui​community​in​open​meetings.​The​newly​elected​ representative​ of​ conaDi ,​ Rafael​ (Rinko)​ Tuki,​ who​ participated​ in​ the​ workshops​on​the​topic​in​2006​and​whose​signature​appears​on​the​draft​ proposal​of​January​2007,​does​not​agree​with​the​content​(personal​information). ​ One​can​distinguish​at​least​three​points​of​view​in​present-​day​Rapanui​ politics​ in​ the​ context​ of​ the​ discussions​ around​ Special​ Territory​ Status.​ One​group​of​Rapanui​proposes​to​try​to​convince​the​Chilean​state​to​incorporate​Rapanui​wishes​for​self-​government,​especially​in​relation​to​collective​landownership,​but​is​willing​to​compromise​as​to​the​ultimate​political​ authority​over​the​island.​Implicitly,​these​Rapanui​accept​de​facto​Chilean​ sovereignty​over​Rapanui​territory.​A​small​group,​mainly​belonging​to​the​ Rapanui​Parliament,​insists​that​the​Agreement​of​Wills​of​1888​was​illegal​ and​wants​to​proceed​from​that​point,​in​the​full​knowledge​that​the​Chilean​ state​will​not​respond​to​this​request.​It​is​not​quite​clear​what​the​political​ agenda​of​the​current​official​leaders​of​Rapa​Nui​is.​Although​they​have​ waged​a​historical​struggle​for​Rapanui​rights,​they​now​insist​on​the​rights​ of​the​Chilean​nation-​state​over​Rapa​Nui.

Conclusion I​ have​ shown​ here​ that​ the​ relationship​ between​ Chile​ and​ Rapa​ Nui​ is​ marked​by​Chile’s​insistent​claim​of​sovereignty​over​Rapanui​territory.​Successive​laws​and​decrees​have​put​a​strong​emphasis​on​the​privatization​of​ land,​in​order​to​replace​ideas​of​collective​private​landownership.​The​separation​of​the​Rapanui​from​their​ancestral​lands​(kainga)​and​the​relentless​ insistence​on​the​benefits​of​small-​scale​private​landownership​have​eroded​ Rapanui​customary​law,​as​was​predicted​by​Pedro​Pablo​Toro​more​than​a​ century​ago. ​ Chile’s​actions​on​the​island​are​determined​by​the​shifting​concerns​of​ successive​governments​and​by​the​persisting​concept​of​a​unitarian​state.​ Since​the​late​1960s—coinciding​with​the​integration​of​Rapa​Nui​into​the​

Chile and Rapa Nui 73

national​ administrative​ system—Chile​ has​ gone​ through​ various​ political​ stages,​ including​ the​ first​ freely​ elected​ Socialist​ government​ in​ Latin​ America​and​a​brutal​dictatorship.​Such​laws​as​the​Easter​Law​of​1966,​the​ Pinochet​Law​Decree​of​1979,​and​the​Indigenous​Law​of​1993​clearly​reflect​ the​ political​ philosophy​ of​ these​ respective​ governments.​ Nevertheless,​ Chilean​legislators​of​all​political​colors​have​insisted​on​the​importance​of​ individual​private​landownership,​the​trademark​of​Western​civilization. ​ These​legal​interventions,​based​on​a​political​system​alien​to​the​Rapanui​worldview,​have​caused​cultural​misunderstandings​that​are​little​understood​and​need​to​be​clarified​by​both​Rapanui​and​Chileans.​I​argue​that​ during​the​twentieth​century​Chilean​lawmakers​failed​to​conceptualize​the​ important​differences​between​individual​and​collective​private​landownership,​while​only​the​latter​makes​cultural​sense​for​many​Rapanui.​I​also​contend​that​over​the​past​several​years​Chilean​politicians​have​been​covering​ up​the​important​difference​between​administrative​and​political​autonomy,​ under​the​circumstance​that​self-​determination​is​so​important​if​the​Rapanui​are​to​achieve​their​cultural​goals. ​ It​can​also​be​suggested​that​the​Chilean​state’s​interventions​in​Rapa​Nui​ have​created​divisions​between​Rapanui​during​the​period​under​consideration​ in​ this​ essay.​ Because​ of​ Rapa​ Nui’s​ colonial​ dependence​ on​ Chile,​ Rapanui​leaders​are​virtually​obliged​to​work​within​both​systems​and​participate​in​the​intricate​institutional​and​political​structure​that​Chile​has​ imposed​on​Rapa​Nui.​Although​they​are​considered​by​Chilean​politicians​ as​ their​ main​ liaison​ with​ Rapa​ Nui,​ these​ leaders​ are​ often​ out​ of​ touch​ with​their​people.​The​consequence​has​been​a​lack​of​strong​leadership​over​ the​past​several​years,​causing​disinterest​in​common​cultural​goals​among​ a​considerable​part​of​the​Rapanui​community.​It​has​also​caused​internal​ power​struggles​between​Rapanui​that​are​difficult​to​assess​and​overcome.​ Cooptation​of​indigenous​leaders​is​a​well-​known​colonial​strategy,​and​one​ can​see​it​at​work​in​Rapa​Nui. ​ Chilean​ legislation​ has​ met​ with​ Rapanui​ resistance​ over​ the​ past​ decades,​as​we​saw​in​the​general​rejection​of​the​different​laws,​all​aimed​at​the​ privatization​of​Rapanui​land.​Several​Rapanui​now​insist​on​reviving​this​ connection​with​the​land​and​their​traditional​social​organization,​which​ are​so​intimately​connected.​At​the​same​time,​some​Rapanui​have​started​ to​ articulate​ their​ cultural​ difference​ as​ a​ Polynesian​ people​ and​ to​ organize​accordingly.​These​Rapanui​are​pointing​out​the​cultural​blunders​committed​in​every​single​piece​of​Chilean​legislation​and​are​asking​for​political​ 74 riet​Delsing

self-​determination,​even​if​within​the​Chilean​nation-​state.​Only​a​profound​ change​of​the​Chilean​Constitution​would​allow​this​to​happen. ​ Whatever​the​decisions​made​by​Chilean​governments,​the​Rapanui​will​ continue​on​the​path​toward​self-​determination,​supported​by​other​Pacific​ peoples​and​the​international​community.​At​the​same​time,​Chilean​civil​ society​will,​one​hopes,​guide​its​political​leaders​in​the​direction​of​a​participatory​democracy,​in​which​cultural​difference​becomes​an​asset​instead​ of​a​threat​to​sovereignty.​These​two​processes​of​social​and​political​change,​ in​Rapa​Nui​as​well​as​in​Chile,​have​a​certain​degree​of​urgency.

Notes ​ 1.​In​accordance​with​common​practice​in​the​literature​I​use​the​terms​Rapa Nui​ when​referring​to​the​island​and​Rapanui​when​referring​to​the​people,​the​language,​ etc. ​ 2.​This​translation​problem​can​be​compared​with​a​similar​one​surrounding​the​ Treaty​of​Waitangi,​accorded​between​the​Maori​of​Aotearoa/New​Zealand​and​the​ British​Crown​(see​Fenton​and​Moon​2002). ​ 3.​In​the​early​days​the​ariki-mau​was​the​head​of​the​Miru​clan,​the​paramount​ chief​and​undisputed​leader​of​the​island.​In​the​later​period​the​island​was​no​longer​ united,​and​the​leaders​of​the​clans​challenged​each​other​in​a​yearly​contest.​After​the​ dissemination​of​the​Rapanui​population​at​the​end​of​the​nineteenth​century​and​ the​breakdown​of​the​clan​system,​there​was​only​one​ariki,​whom​the​Rapanui​called​ kin,​after​the​Eng​lish​term​king.​I​have​heard​contemporary​Rapanui​argue​that​it​is​ not​clear​if​the​term​ariki​means​“chief ”​or​“king.” ​ 4.​The​concept​of​kainga​has​more​than​one​meaning.​I​use​it​here​as​a​territorial​ unit,​constituting​the​estate​of​a​clan​or​descent​group​(see​Métraux​1971;​Kirch​2000,​ 272) ​ 5.​President​José​Manuel​Balmaceda​(1886–91)​committed​suicide​in​1891,​at​the​ end​of​the​civil​war,​which​lasted​for​seven​months​and​caused​between​five​and​ten​ thousand​Chilean​deaths​(Loveman​2001,​159;​Subercaseaux,​1997,​16).​The​Chilean​ cultural​historian​Bernardo​Subercaseaux​argues​that​the​war​took​place​at​the​crossroads​of​Chile’s​passage​to​a​“social,​economic​and​political​modernity”​and​that​the​ year​1891​“has​been​conceived​as​a​kind​of​metaphor​of​the​modern​country”​(1997,​ 34–36).​Chile,​says​Subercaseaux,​forged​itself​as​a​modern​nation-​state​in​the​reconstruction​period​after​the​war,​in​which​a​new​political​and​ideological​landscape​ formed​and​new​social,​cultural,​and​political​actors​appeared.​This​difficult​process​ of​striving​for​internal​national​cohesion​may​have​distracted​attention​from​Chile’s​ adventure​in​the​Pacific. ​ 6.​E.g.,​Daniel​María​Teave,​thirty-​six​years​of​age,​owner​of​the​lands​between​ Chile and Rapa Nui 75

Hotu​’Iti​and​Hanga​Te’e;​Timoteo​Pate,​thirty-​six​years​of​age,​owner​of​part​of​Poike;​ Simeon​Riroroko,​twenty-​one​years​of​age,​owner​of​Anakena,​etc.​(El Consejo​1988,​ 297). ​ 7.​ This​ information​ comes​ from​ an​ interview​ I​ conducted​ in​ 2002​ with​ Naval​ Governor​Patricio​Carrasco,​who​told​me​that​no​navy​records​on​the​island​exist​ before​1990. ​ 8.​On​several​occasions​Chilean​governments​have​preferred​not​to​officially​intervene​in​Rapanui​concepts​of​land​tenure,​presumably​because​these​did​not​interfere​ in​Chilean​mainland​politics.​On​the​other​hand,​most​Rapanui​do​not​readily​make​ the​connection​between​sovereignty​and​territory.​Only​very​recently​have​some​Rapanui​started​to​openly​question​the​Chilean​claim​that​the​island​is​Chilean​territory. ​ 9.​Since​the​annexation​the​Rapanui​had​elected​ariki​in​place​who​were​in​constant​disagreement​with​the​Chilean​sheep​farmers.​The​situation​had​become​unsustainable​by​1902,​when​the​commander​of​the​yearly​navy​ship​General Baquedano​ named​Juan​Tepano,​a​Rapanui,​as​“chief​or​cacique​with​the​task​of​vigilance​and​representative​of​the​islanders​for​the​subdelegado marítimo​[port​captain]”​(Document​ of​the​Ministry​of​National​Defense).​This​was​a​strategic​colonial​decision,​since​ the​navy​needed​a​buffer​between​the​company​and​the​Rapanui.​As​a​youth​Tepano​ had​served​in​the​Chilean​army​during​the​War​of​the​Pacific​and​had​been​acculturated,​so​to​speak.​It​was​the​first​time​the​Chileans​intervened​in​Rapanui​leadership​ decisions.​The​commander​also​ordained​that​Tepano​was​to​be​subordinate​to​the​ company​representative​and​subdelegado,​and​he​took​five​of​the​resistance​leaders​to​ Chile​(Ministerio de Marina. Oficios de la Dirección General de la Armada,​1902). ​ 10.​This​information​is​extracted​from​a​document​of​1936​of​the​Chilean​Ministry​ of​Defense.​It​refers​to​“13.747​hectares”​out​of​15.796. ​ 11.​ Contemporary​ international​ law​ distinguishes​ four​ ways​ of​ exercising​ sovereignty​over​territories,​namely,​by​occupation,​prescription,​conquest,​or​cession​ (Wallace​1997,​92–100).​Occupation​refers​to​the​situation​in​which​a​state​establishes​ title​to​a​territory​which​is​terra nullius,​this​is,​owned​by​no​one​or​inhabited​by​savages.​The​argument​for​occupation​is​difficult​to​sustain​in​Rapa​Nui​because​it​was​a​ stratified​and​organized​Polynesian​society​at​the​time​of​the​Chilean​takeover.​After​ all,​it​was​the​ariki​who​signed​the​treaty​with​the​Chileans.​Prescription​refers​to​ the​situation​in​which​sovereignty​can​be​invoked​by​claimants​who​discovered​and​ occupied​a​territory​and​who​want​to​consolidate​their​claim.​A​state​can​validate​an​ initially​doubtful​title,​provided​that​the​display​of​authority​is​public,​peaceful,​and​ continuous.​Prescription​thus​involves​a​de​facto​exercise​of​sovereignty​(Wallace​ 1997,​ 97).​ This​ situation​ is​ also​ referred​ to​ as​ occupation​ cum animo domini.​ The​ Chilean​state​argues​that​it​exercised​public,​peaceful,​and​continuous​authority​over​ the​island.​However,​contemporary​international​law​establishes​that​“another​claimant​or​a​dispossessed​sovereign​can​bar​the​establishment​of​title​by​prescription”​ (Wallace​ 1997,​ 97).​ This​ is​ a​ possibility​ to​ be​ explored​ by​ contemporary​ Rapanui.​ 76 riet​Delsing

Sovereignty​through​conquest​refers​to​the​acquisition​of​enemy​territory​by​military​ force​in​wartime.​This​is​clearly​not​the​case​for​Rapa​Nui.​Cession​is​the​transfer​of​ sovereignty​by​one​sovereign​to​another.​This​is​the​argument​for​Chilean​sovereignty​ over​Rapa​Nui​most​frequently​used​today,​by​Chileans​and​Rapanui​alike.​However,​the​recent​translation​of​the​Rapanui​version​of​the​cession​and​proclamation​ documents​unsettles​this​argument,​as​it​shows​that,​according​to​this​translation​of​ the​Rapanui​version​of​the​treaty,​the​Rapanui​chiefs​did​not​cede​their​territory​to​ the​Chilean​state.​I​argue​that​the​only​way​for​Chile​to​claim​sovereignty​today​is​ through​prescription,​but​that​the​Rapanui​can​object​to​this​by​means​of​diplomatic​ protests​in​the​appropriate​international​forums​(Wallace​1997,​97). ​ 12.​Another​act,​carried​out​without​the​consultation​of​the​Rapanui,​was​the​creation​of​the​Rapanui​National​Park​and​its​nomination​as​a​National​Historic​Monument​in​1935​(Makihara​1999,​86). ​ 13.​This​decree​corresponded​to​a​more​general​policy​of​privatization​of​agricultural​lands,​mostly​belonging​to​indigenous​people​on​the​mainland,​mainly​the​ Mapuche.​In​1979​Pinochet​issued​a​decree​(DL​2.536)​that​did​away​with​Mapuche​ communal​ landownership.​ This​ was​ followed​ by​ another​ one​ in​ 1980​ (DL​ 3.516)​ allowing​for​the​division​of​land​into​small​plots​of​half​a​hectare,​thereby​violating​ Mapuche​cultural​principles.​These​decrees​formed​part​of​a​profound​legal​transformation​carried​out​between​1978​and​1981​that​reformulated​all​former​dispositions​ about​property​rights​over​natural​resources.​The​purpose​of​these​reforms​was​the​ implementation​of​an​economic​model​focused​on​exportation​(Toledo​2005,​5). ​ 14.​This​council​was​still​headed​by​its​first​leader,​Alberto​Hotus,​in​2007​and​still​ exists​today.​It​is​composed​of​representatives​of​the​thirty-​six​Rapanui​families​that​ trace​their​ancestry​to​the​original​tribes.​Its​purpose​is​to​defend​both​the​Rapanui’s​ right​to​their​land,​territory,​and​culture​and​other​Rapanui​interests​(see​El Consejo de Jefes de Rapa Nui . . . ,​1988). ​ 15.​Personal​communication,​Alfonso​Rapu. ​ 16.​ The​ head​ of​ the​ council​ has​ created​ a​ system​ of​ patronage​ over​ the​ years.​ Alongside​his​central​role​in​the​council,​he​has​held​several​important​government​ posts​and​has​built​a​power​base​on​the​island​and​on​the​mainland​that​is​hard​to​ match​and​difficult​to​contest.​His​consistent​support​on​the​mainland​can​be​explained​by​the​fact​that​he​has​been​loyal​to​the​Center-​Left​government​coalition​in​ power​since​the​return​to​democracy​in​1990.​Especially​through​his​role​as​national​ advisor​of​ conaDi ,​he​has​been​able​to​influence​the​intricate​Rapanui​family​network​by​handing​out​favors​in​exchange​for​votes. ​ 17.​This​gesture​corresponded​again​partly​to​a​Chilean​election​campaign. ​ 18.​ This​ information​ comes​ from​ interviews​ I​ conducted​ in​ 2001​ with​ Alvaro​ Durán​ (lawyer​ for​ conaDi )​ and​ Alvaro​ Lafuente​ and​ Rodrigo​ Sepúlveda​ (functionaries​of​the​Ministerio​de​Bienes​Nacionales),​and,​in​2006,​with​Luis​Guillermo​ Alvarez​(also​a​functionary​in​Bienes​Nacionales). Chile and Rapa Nui 77

​ 19.​A​Chilean​association​by​the​name​of​Friends​of​Easter​Island​had​arranged​ through​the​Ministry​of​Education​for​eleven​scholarships​to​be​awarded​to​students​ to​study​on​the​mainland,​since​no​secondary​education​existed​on​the​island.​One​ of​the​students,​Alfonso​Rapu​Haoa,​was​only​thirteen,​the​youngest​of​the​group.​He​ returned​to​the​island​eight​years​later​with​a​teaching​degree​in​hand.​He​says​that​ in​Santiago​he​was​“always​very​concerned​about​the​great​poverty​and​abandonment​ that​my​people​suffered,​my​family,​my​brothers​and​sisters,​and​I​started​to​think​ about​how​to​take​them​out​of​that​world,​get​them​out​of​the​darkness​and​put​them​ in​the​light,​so​they​would​be​able​to​walk”​(interview,​17​May​2002). ​ 20.​The​concept​of​política de estado​became​part​of​the​Chilean​political​vocabulary​at​the​beginning​of​the​2000s.​The​mayor​probably​adopted​the​term​from​Chile. ​ 21.​This​information​was​gathered​during​my​visit​to​the​island​in​August–December​2006,​during​which​I​participated​regularly​in​the​meetings​of​one​of​the​discussion​groups. ​ 22.​In​meetings​between​Gómez​and​Rapanui​that​participated​in​the​discussion​ groups,​he​said​that​nation-​states​have​made​indigenous​peoples​invisible,​that​there​ is​no​mutual​understanding​between​the​Chilean​state​and​Rapanui​as​yet,​and​that​ it​is​important​to​pay​attention​to​the​kind​of​language​employed​in​conversations​ between​the​two​parties.​He​also​emphasized​the​power​of​organizing. ​ 23.​The​proposal​also​contains​recommendations​for​a​special​budget,​the​creation​ of​a​special​body​for​the​defense​and​protection​of​Rapanui​culture​and​cultural​patrimony,​and,​crucially,​for​the​regulation​of​immigration​to​the​island.​Uncontrolled​ immigration​is​one​of​the​main​complaints​the​Rapanui​have.​Although​I​firmly​agree​ with​the​importance​of​this​issue,​I​do​not​address​it​in​this​essay. ​ 24.​By​not​participating​in​any​of​the​workshops​or​other,​more​general​meetings​organized​with​the​Rapanui​community​in​2006,​the​mayor​and​the​head​of​the​ Council​of​Elders,​Alberto​Hotus,​marginalized​themselves.

78 riet​Delsing

in​part​2,​bounded​on​both​sides​by​sections​that​establish​a​dialogue​between​North​and​South,​are​about​Latin​America.​Taken​ together,​they​tell​a​particularly​Latin​American​story​of​more​than​a​generation​of​activism​and​cross-​cultural​collaboration​between​Native​communities​and​their​intellectuals​on​one​side​and​non-​Native​radical​intellectuals​on​the​other.​While​the​three​essays​are​quite​different,​a​fact​I​explore​ below,​the​similarities​among​them​help​us​understand​an​especially​salient​ moment​in​the​history​of​continental​indigenous​peoples​across​the​Latin​ American​region. ​ In​ contrast​ to​ Native​ peoples​ based​ in​ the​ continental​ United​ States,​ whose​struggles​have​often​revolved​around​the​recognition​of​treaty-​based​ rights​and​the​achievement​of​federal​recognition—something​that​Kauanui’s​essay​on​Hawai‘i​in​part​1​helps​us​put​in​a​more​complex​context— indigenous​peoples​in​Latin​America​have​historically​struggled​mainly​at​ the​ individual​ community​ level.​ This​ is​ because​ the​ process​ of​ colonization​in​most​cases​reorganized​indigenous​society​from​the​start,​breaking​ down​regional​or​imperial​coalitions​and​rearticulating​local​societies​and​ their​leaders​to​an​emerging​colonial​state.​By​the​beginning​of​the​twentieth​century,​this​history​had​generated​two​interrelated,​though​sometimes​ contradictory,​ trends​ in​ the​ relationship​ between​ Native​ peoples​ and​ national​states.​While​Native​struggles​for​cultural​preservation​and​economic​ viability​were​usually​organized​around​the​protection​of​communal​political​autonomy,​often​the​only​way​to​protect​local​lands​was​by​demanding​ that​the​national​state​intervene​against​rapacious​regional​landowners.​As​ a​result,​indigenous​peoples​in​twentieth-​century​Latin​America​were​often​ caught​between​ethnocultural​imperatives​on​one​side​and​the​need​to​form​ part​of​broader​popular,​class-​based​coalitions​on​the​other. ​ These​ competing​ alliances​ and​ loyalties​ were​ made​ even​ more​ complicated​ by​ the​ emergence​ of​national-​popular​ states.​ Beginning​ with​ the​ Mexican​Revolution​of​1910​and​spreading​through​the​region​in​the​wake​ of​the​Great​Depression​of​the​1930s,​coalitions​of​middle-​class​politicians​ and​popular​sectors​instituted​welfare-​oriented​states.​While​in​some​cases,​ such​as​Mexico​and​Bolivia,​the​measures​instituted​by​these​states​included​ agrarian​reform,​everywhere​they​also​aimed​to​integrate​indigenous​peoples​ into​the​nation​through​education.​As​Native​peoples​confronted​the​promtHe tHree essays

ise​ of​ resources​ in​ conjunction​ with​ the​ requirement​ of​ integration,​ the​ emergence​of​indigenous​political​identities​occurred​both​from​within​and​ against​the​legacy​of​the​national-​popular​state.​And​given​the​two-​pronged​ nature​of​indigenous​political​mobilization,​non-​Native​collaborators​have​ been​an​important​presence​throughout​the​twentieth​century. ​ The​three​regions​treated​in​part​2​exhibit​some​important​contrasts​in​ this​general​history.​In​the​state​of​Chiapas,​in​southeastern​Mexico,​political​ and​economic​reform​has​been​postponed​through​much​of​Mexico’s​modern​history.​The​Mexican​Revolution​came​late​to​Chiapas​and​mainly​from​ outside,​ and​ when​ the​ indigenous​ communities​ were​ integrated​ into​ the​ emerging​postrevolutionary​state​in​the​1930s​it​was​at​the​cost​of​accepting​ the​emergence​of​a​new​local​elite​under​the​hegemony​of​the​official​revolutionary​party.​In​the​Cauca​Valley​in​Colombia,​where​the​indigenous​groups​ that​form​part​of​the​ cric ​are​located,​the​Nasa​and​Guambiano​peoples​ have​experienced​a​parallel​history​of​marginalization​and​postponement.​ At​the​same​time,​given​the​Colombian​state’s​ongoing​difficulties​with​effective​national​integration,​they​were​sometimes​able​to​transform​their​marginalization​into​a​form​of​cultural​preservation.​Still,​in​both​the​Mexican​ and​Colombian​cases,​the​indigenous​peoples​featured​here​have​lived​on​ the​margins​of​emerging​national​states.​The​Quechua​communities​of​the​ Cochabamba​Valley​in​Bolivia,​on​the​other​hand,​have​often​been​considered​the​showcase​of​the​agrarian​reform​realized​by​the​Bolivian​Revolution​ of​1952​and​have​historically​had​a​reputation​as​combative​and​central​to​the​ populist​politics​of​the​Bolivian​state.​The​importance​of​the​valley’s​peasant​ unions​and​the​close​relationship​they​have​with​Quechua​communal​organizations​emerge​in​large​part​from​this​history. ​ The​three​essays​presented​here​discuss​the​past​twenty​to​thirty​years,​ when​the​role​of​the​nonindigenous​collaborator​has​been​transformed​as​ the​viability​of​the​national-​popular​state​has​unraveled.​The​three​essays​explore​the​implications​of​this​transformation,​in​distinct​contexts​and​with​ different​results.​Not​only​are​the​rules​and​parameters​of​the​collaborations​ different,​but​so​is​the​nature​of​the​indigenous​society​and​of​the​political​ activity​to​which​the​collaborators​are​connected.​Equally​important,​the​collaborators​themselves​occupy​diverse​positions​within​their​own​societies. ​ As​ a​ nonindigenous​ Ecuadorian​ linguist​ specializing​ in​ Quichua,​ Fernando​ Garcés​ V.​ has​ chosen​ to​ collaborate​ with​ Conosur Ñawpagman,​ a​ Quechua-​language​newspaper​produced​and​circulated​in​the​southern​corner​of​the​Cochabamba​Valley.​In​this​politically​militant​region,​which​gave​ Indigenous Writing and Collaboration 81

birth​to​now-​president​Evo​Morales’s​Movimiento​Al​Socialismo,​the​newspaper​has​evolved​into​an​instrument​at​the​service​of​the​peasant​union​that​ connects​different​Quechua​communities​in​their​ongoing​struggle​to​preserve​their​land,​culture,​language,​and​local​knowledge.​Under​these​conditions,​ Garcés​ considers​ that​ the​ editorial​ team​ of​ the​ newspaper​ serves​ as​a​bridge​between​the​rich​metaphorical​lexicon​of​oral​Quechua​and​the​ conventions​of​the​written​word​and​can​be​a​powerful​example​of​more​ effective​ways​to​standardize​written​Quechua​on​the​basis​of​contemporary​ practice.​At​the​same​time,​the​language​itself​must​be​defended​through​ writing​and​through​the​creative​inscription​of​orality​in​written​form,​but​ with​the​specific​purpose​of​defending​the​culture​and​communal​resources​ from​colonial​appropriation.​As​a​result,​then,​the​newspaper​collaborates​ with​Quechua​peasant​organizations​in​a​sort​of​“globalization​from​below.” ​ The​dialogue​and​collaboration​featured​in​the​essay​by​Joanne​Rappaport​ and​Abelardo​Ramos​Pacho,​as​they​point​out,​has​been​ongoing​for​three​ decades,​although​the​specific​project​discussed​here​is​a​history​of​an​intercultural​ and​ bilingual​ education​ project​ formulated​ by​ Consejo​ Regional​ Indígena​del​Cauca​(cric).​Articulated​with​and​by​the​ cric ,​this​historical​research​project​was​successful,​the​authors​explain,​precisely​because​it​ articulated​different​cultural​registers​and,​through​their​mutual​interrogation,​reimagined​them​all.​The​intermediate​bridge​position​also​discussed​ by​Garcés​is​here​inhabited​by​both​Native​and​non-​Native​intellectuals​and​ researchers,​who​together​struggle​to​harness​their​research​agenda​to​the​ priorities​of​the​cric ,​which​are​themselves​the​collective​product​of​a​conversation​ among​ traditional​ communal​ authorities,​ shamanic​ specialists,​ local​teachers,​and​non-​Native​collaborators.​As​Ramos​explains,​one​can​ see​research​as​a​minga—collective​work​by​and​for​the​benefit​of​the​community.​This​is​an​example​of​indigenous​theorizing,​which​takes​shape​in​a​ multiethnic​and​intercultural​environment​in​which​translation​entails​the​ improvement​as​well​as​the​reinterpretation​of​ideas​and​concepts. ​ The​essay​by​Jan​Rus​and​Diane​Rus​takes,​in​their​own​words,​the​form​of​ a​diary​that​traces​the​emergence​of​the​Taller​Tzotzil,​an​indigenous​publishing​project,​in​the​context​of​a​dramatically​changing​world​among​Tzotzil​ Maya​communities​in​Chiapas​between​the​1970s​and​the​present.​In​contrast​to​the​other​essays,​which​strive​to​theorize​about​indigenous​knowledge​and​literacy​and​to​decolonize​existing​intellectual​categories​and​practices​from​the​perspective​of​indigenous​epistemologies,​the​Ruses’​narrative​ traces​ the​ economic,​ political,​ and​ cultural​ changes​ on​ the​ ground,​ so​ to​ 82 part​tWo

speak,​as​Tzotzil​Maya​communities​struggle​with​the​consequences​brought​ on​by​the​insertion​of​their​region​into​the​international​globalized​economy.​In​a​detailed​yet​ultimately​understated​way​the​Ruses​take​the​reader​ through​their​transformation​from​locally​committed​ethnographers​who​ were​deeply​connected​in​Chamula​in​the​1970s​to​scribe-​collaborators​who​ helped​bring​into​public​view​histories​and​narratives​that​had​previously​ been​considered​secret.​The​process​through​which​this​occurred,​and​the​ internal​as​well​as​broader​tensions​and​conflicts​that​accompanied​it,​unfold​ organically​through​an​account​of​how​the​Tzotzil​publishing​house​originated,​evolved,​and​changed​over​several​decades.​Among​the​larger​events​ woven​into​this​account​are​the​increasing​migration​of​community​members​to​the​United​States​and​the​Zapatista​uprising​of​1994. ​ As​is​clear​in​all​three​essays​in​part​2,​Native​knowledge,​education,​and​ literacy​are​deeply​embedded​in​indigenous​histories,​political​struggle,​and​ local​community​life.​Non-​Native​collaborators​work​within​these​specific​ contexts​and​establish​dialogues​and,​as​Ramos​would​put​it,​mingas​that​ are​appropriate​to​each​case.​At​the​same​time,​the​personal​and​intellectual​ trajectories​of​the​collaborators​themselves​play​a​role​in​the​relationships​ established.​As​a​practicing​member​of​the​U.S.​academy,​Joanne​Rappaport​ uses​her​experience​as​a​collaborator​to​rethink​and​retheorize​the​nature​of​ research​and​the​ways​in​which​intercultural​work​can​change​the​perspectives​we​bring​and​the​questions​we​ask.​Garcés​uses​the​experience​of​the​ newspaper​to​question​the​separation​between​orality​and​writing​and​the​ nature​of​intertextuality,​while​at​the​same​time​counterposing​the​forms​ of​local​knowledge​contained​in​Quechua​peasant​yachay​to​the​supposed​ universality​of​Western​categories.​And​Jan​Rus​and​Diane​Rus,​by​choice​ activist​anthropologists​who​have​eschewed​full​participation​in​the​U.S.​academic​mainstream,​strengthen​their​position​as​narrators​who​accompany​ Tzotzil​Maya​communities​as​they​make​sense​of​a​rapidly​changing​world. ​ In​the​final​analysis,​these​essays​help​us​trace​the​multiple​ways​in​which​ indigenous​narratives,​histories,​and​political​action​in​Latin​America​have​ not​only​participated​in​and​benefited​from​intercultural​collaboration,​but​ also​contributed​in​powerful​ways​to​the​development​of​grass-​roots​mobilization​more​broadly.​In​Colombia,​the​Constitution​of​1991,​written​in​ dialogue​with​indigenous​ organizations​ and​political​ activists,​ has​helped​ frame​in​new​ways​the​possibilities​of​multiethnic​nationhood.​In​Bolivia,​ the​indigenous​peasant​movement​that​generated​Morales’s​Movimiento​Al​ Socialismo​has​made​clear​that​effective​globalization​must​respect​and​colIndigenous Writing and Collaboration 83

laborate​with​local​needs​and​forms​of​knowledge,​and​it​has​helped​elect​ Morales,​Bolivia’s​first​indigenous​president.​And​in​Chiapas,​the​Maya​communities​that​helped​generate​the​Ejército​Zapatista​de​Liberación​Nacional​ continue​to​challenge​political​transitions​that​serve​only​the​interests​of​the​ political​and​economic​center​of​the​country.​These​large​transformations,​ too,​are​part​of​indigenous​history​and​must​be​interpreted​as​such.

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FernanDo garcés v.

Quechua​Knowledge,​Orality,​and​Writings The Newspaper Conosur​Ñawpagman

In​this​essay​I​reflect​on​some​aspects​of​Quechua​knowledge,​orality,​and​ writing​found​within​a​concrete​case​inscribed​in​writing:​the​Conosur Ñawpagman​newspaper.1​To​this​end,​I​offer​reflections​on​this​means​of​communication,​focusing​on​its​objectives​as​well​as​its​linguistic​and​epistemic​ usage​practices.​I​concentrate​especially​on​the​inscription​of​oral​discourse​ and​ thereby​offer​ a​ pragmatic​ and​ epistemic​ defense​ of​ Quechua​ peasant​ yachay.2​I​begin​by​offering​three​clarifications​by​way​of​introduction:​how​ and​why​I​use​the​term​peasant;​what,​more​concretely,​I​mean​by​Quechua​ yachay;​and​a​short​reflection​on​my​authority,​as​an​outsider,​to​represent​ Quechua​voices. ​ In​contemporary​social​science​discourse,​scholars​are​working​to​move​ beyond​a​classist-​Marxist​vision​so​as​to​rightly​recognize​other​forms​of​exclusion.​Among​those​forms​of​exclusion,​ethnic​identity​occupies​a​privileged​ place.​ Events​ of​the​ past​ decades​ have​ contributed​ to​ the​ centrality​ of​ interest​ in​ culture​ and​ identity​ within​ social​ and​ political​ analyses​ of​ different​ national​ and​ multinational​ spaces​ (Garcés​ 2006).​ Several​ scholars​have​linked​this​newfound​attention​to​other​forms​of​exclusion​to​the​ changes​ contemporary​ global​ capitalism​ has​ suffered​ over​ the​ past​ thirty​ years​(Castro-​Gómez​2003;​Jameson​1984;​Žižek​1993).​In​the​case​of​Abya​ Yala,​scholars​have​increasingly​emphasized​that​the​colonial​restructuring​ of​local​societies​involved​systems​of​inequality,​based​on​social​class,​and​of​ exclusion,​based​on​categories​like​race​and​gender​(Quijano​2000;​Santos​ 2003).3​Under​such​conditions,​my​use​of​the​term​peasant​necessarily​calls​ for​a​rethinking​of​the​imaginary​of​class,​enriching​it​with​a​concern​for​the​ processes​by​which​contemporary​identities​are​politicized​(Regalsky,​2003).

​ A​second​reason​for​my​using​the​term​peasant​involves​the​term’s​historical​baggage​in​the​Bolivian​context.​What​can​be​called​the​indigenous​vein​ in​Bolivia​has​combined​the​experiences​of​organizations​with​so-​called​traditional​indigenous​structures​and​those​of​others​whose​historical​experiences​have​prompted​them​to​organize​their​interests​as​Andean​communities​through​the​structure​of​the​rural​union.​An​important​example​of​this​ is​the​Tiawuanaku​manifesto,​which​Sarela​Paz​describes​as​a​key​milestone​ in​the​maturation​of​the​notion​of​indigenous​peoples​in​the​Andean​world.​ Via​that​manifesto,​urban​and​rural​Aymara​sectors​converged​with​diverse​ peasant​sectors​around​Katarismo,​expressing​“the​culture’s​historical​horizons​and​ideological​themes.”​For​this​author,​“The​Manifesto​gathers​peasant​ Quechua/Aymara​ voices​ that​ revindicate​ their​ autochthonous​ culture​ and​the​origin​of​double​oppression:​economic​in​terms​of​peasants​and​cultural​in​terms​of​excluded​peoples”​(Paz​2005,​2). ​ Here​we​see​that​the​term​peasant​retains​a​presence​as​a​category​of​self-​ denomination​among​rural​Bolivians​and​within​Bolivian​social​movements,​ even​ as​ in​ the​ new​ context​ of​ struggle​ they​ have​ also​ reformulated​ their​ identities​as​aboriginal​or​indigenous.4​In​the​Department​of​Cochabamba,​ where​the​bilingual​newspaper​treated​in​this​essay​primarily​circulates,​it​is​ the​form​most​frequently​found.​None​of​the​above​denies​the​validity​of​discourses​and​practices​that​revindicate​the​aboriginal​and​indigenous​character​of​many​communities​and​collectivities​in​Bolivia.​I​think​that​in​this​ case​we​can​gain​more​from​a​comprehensive,​capacious​vision​than​from​a​ restrictive,​exclusive​one.

As​part​of​this​more​capacious​vision,​it​is​important​to​reflect​systematically​ on​the​term​Quechua yachay,​by​which​I​mean​the​collective​knowledge​produced​and​reproduced​orally​by​Quechua-​speaking​communities.​While​I​do​ not​believe​there​is​a​direct​and​exclusive​association​between​a​language,​a​ type​of​knowledge,​and​a​single,​distinct​nation​or​people,​I​nonetheless​prefer​the​term​Quechua yachay​to​other,​more​general​and​less​precise​ones.​ Andean knowledge,​for​example,​at​least​in​the​Bolivian​case,​includes​as​well​ Aymara​communities,​while​indigenous knowledge​refers​as​well​to​the​lowland​indigenous​peoples.​Thus,​Quechua yachay​has​a​certain​practical​use. ​ To​think​of​Quechua​knowledge​as​oral​also​forces​us​to​recognize​the​ geopolitics​ of​ knowledge​ that​ has​ colonially​ subalter[n]ized​ certain​ languages,​ among​ them​ Quechua​ (Garcés​ 2005a).​ My​ understanding​ of​ 86 FernanDo​garcés​V.

Quechua​ yachay​ as​ being​ fundamentally​ oral​ might​ seem​ to​ rearticulate​ the​colonial​imaginary​within​which​indigenous​languages​were​classified​ as​“lower”​because​they​did​not​express​modern,​abstract,​or​spiritual​ideas​ (Mannheim​1991,​61–79;​Mignolo​1999).​On​the​contrary,​I​want​to​emphasize​that​colonial​differentiation​has​also​provided​subalter[n]ized​languages​ with​a​certain​epistemological​power​reproduced​at​the​margins​or​in​the​ interstices​of​colonial​power​(Rivera​1987;​Mignolo​2002).​While​there​has​ been​a​history​of​permanent​contacts​between​orality​and​the​world​of​written​communication,​from​colonial​times​and​in​a​much​more​intense​way​in​ the​contemporary​period,​the​vast​majority​of​the​Andean​world​continues​ to​privilege​oral​knowledge​in​everyday​communicational​spaces.​As​I​will​ show,​this​is​because​Quechua​yachay​and​its​oral​production​and​reproduction​are​counterhegemonic​responses​to​a​global​colonial​epistemology.

My​final​clarification​has​to​do​with​the​pacha​from​where​I​think​and​articulate​my​own​intellectual​and​political​practice​with​regard​to​Quechua.5​ My​connection​with​the​Quichua​and​Quechua​languages​is​rooted​in​my​involvement​with​diverse​bilingual​education​programs,​my​support​for​local​ research​projects,​and​my​relationships​with​the​newspaper’s​editorial​team.​ Through​these​experiences​I​have​found​myself​in​a​growing​struggle​with​ my​own​personal​history​of​colonization,​aware​that​my​ability​to​partake​of​ this​process​of​reflection​and​intervention​places​me​in​a​position​of​power.​ I​thus​develop​my​ideas​about​Quechua​and​Quechua​yachay​in​a​highly​ charged​context​of​struggles​over​representation​in​which​I​myself​am​a​participant​(Castro-​Gómez​2000). ​ In​this​text,​as​I​attempt​to​map​politically​the​environments​in​which​ the​power​of​knowledge​and​languages​moves,​I​necessarily​involve​myself​ in​struggles​over​power​and​over​different​positions​concerning​Quechua​ and​its​yachay.​I​speak,​then,​from​a​location​marked​by​my​own​subjectivity​ and​history:​as​a​white​intellectual,​male,​native​Spanish​speaker,​and​as​full​ of​contradictions.​At​the​same​time,​I​constantly​labor​to​insert​myself​into​ a​learning​process​marked​by​crisis​and​rupture,​a​process​that​is​the​product​of​interaction​with​other​women​and​men​also​displaced​in​the​act​of​ speaking​and​knowing.​This​essay​emerges​from​a​kind​of​frontier,​a​position​where​I​know​myself​to​be​part​of​the​system​of​power​yet​am​also​in​ constant​conversation​with​other​forms​of​knowing,​thinking,​speaking,​and​ silencing. Quechua Knowledge and Writings 87

Background on the Conosur Ñawpagman The​Conosur Ñawpagman​newspaper​was​created​in​1983​in​association​with​ the​Portales​Center​of​the​Simón​Patiño​Foundation.6​Financed​with​Swiss​ aid,​the​newspaper​served​to​promote​reading​in​Mizque,​a​province​of​the​ Department​of​Cochabamba.​The​newspaper​was​created​through​an​agreement​ with​ the​ San​ José​ de​ Mizque​ Cooperative,​ under​ the​ name​ El Mizqueño.​Initially,​the​paper​was​geared​to​the​people​of​the​Mizque​community​and​supported​the​work​of​the​popular​libraries​that​the​Portales​Center​ had​created​in​different​provinces​of​the​department. ​ The​ year​ the​ Conosur​ was​ born​ was​ one​ of​ significant​ drought​ in​ the​ valleys​of​Cochabamba​and​marked​the​arrival​of​many​nongovernmental​ organizations​(ngo s)​that​brought​with​them​large​quantities​of​money​for​ peasant​communities.​The​Conosur​began​publication​in​an​attempt​to​analyze​the​impact​of​development​projects​in​the​communities.​The​first​issues​ of​the​newspaper​addressed​the​supposed​benefits​that​development​institutions​brought​to​the​countryside​and​the​opinions​of​peasants​who​opposed​ the​institutions’​overwhelming​presence.​The​following​year,​in​an​agreement​ with​the​Moyopampa​Agricultural​Union​(Totora,​Carrasco​province),​El Totoreño​emerged​and​essentially​reproduced​El Mizqueño’s​content​but​with​ different​headlines.​El Totoreño​sought​to​be​a​more​direct​nexus​with​the​ communities​and​separate​itself​from​the​small-​town​sector​to​which​it​was​ initially​linked. ​ The​Conosur​newspaper​explored​the​issue​of​appropriate​technologies​ and​began​to​conduct​research​in​different​communities​to​test​the​hypothesis​ that​ the​ introduction​ of​ modern​ technology,​ instead​ of​ benefiting​ the​ communities,​actually​accelerated​the​erosion​of​peasant​knowledge,​just​as​ it​eroded​the​soil​(Gonzalo​Vargas,​interview,​09/10/01).​In​Raqaypampa,​for​ example,​research​demonstrated​that​peasants​developed​their​own​strategies,​ in​ which​ families​ and​ local​ grass-​roots​ organizations​ acted​ together​ to​ counter​ the​ effects​ of​ introduced​ technologies​ and​ the​ constant,​ overwhelming​assault​of​the​market.​It​was​possible​to​observe​the​cultivation​of​ crops​linked​to​each​other,​the​use​of​diverse​ecological​niches,​highly​precise​ weather​forecasting,​seed​varieties,​and​so​forth. ​ At​a​meeting​in​1986​of​the​trade​union​centrals​of​the​three​southernmost​provinces​of​the​Department​ of​Cochabamba​ (Totora,​Mizque,​and​ Carrasco),​the​participants​asked​that​each​province​have​its​own​newspaper.​

88 FernanDo​garcés​V.

Taking​stock​of​limited​institutional​capacity,​the​participants​decided​to​create​one​newspaper​linked​to​peasant​organizations,​especially​the​Mizque​ Provincial​ Trade​ Union,​ the​ Moyapampa​ Union,​ and​ the​ Departmental​ Peasant​Federation​itself.7​At​the​same​meeting,​the​newspaper​was​given​ the​name​Conosur Ñawpagman​because​it​dealt​with​the​provinces​in​the​ department’s​southern​cone. ​ In​1988​the​Andean​Communication​and​Development​Center​(cenDa)​ considered​the​possibility​of​focusing​on​radio​communications.​As​a​result,​ the​Conosur’s​publication​was​suspended​for​almost​a​year,​and​the​newspaper​underwent​an​evaluation.​Pressure​from​organizations​and​the​political​ climate​ created​ by​ the​ upcoming​ general​ elections​ drove​ the​ editorial​ team​to​resume​publication​of​Conosur​and​to​define​the​newspaper’s​political​ stance.​ The​ paper’s​ initial​ regional​ focus​ thus​ became​ connected​ with​ national​concerns.​The​newspaper​resumed​publication​in​1989,​the​same​ year​the​Unified​Confederation​of​Bolivian​Workers​and​Peasants​(csutcb)​ was​ born​ at​ the​ Tarija​ Congress.​ At​ the​ congress,​ the​ delegates​ also​ discussed​the​possibility​of​creating​a​political​mechanism​to​support​peasant​ ​organizations. ​ The​ PCÑ ​has​gone​through​a​gradual​process​of​self-​definition​that​affected​its​stated​objectives.​By​1992​there​was​increasing​discussion​about​ the​issue​of​a​political​mechanism,​and​a​proposal​was​made​to​render​the​ union​organization​independent​of​traditional​political​parties.​The​Conosur​also​made​explicit​its​objective​and​defined​itself​as​a​tool​of​the​peasant​ movement’s​critical​intellectuals,​not​of​the​movement’s​leadership.​Starting​ with​the​promotion​of​Quechua​reading​and​writing​and​its​transcription​ of​speakers’​testimonies,​the​newspaper​began​to​define​itself​as​part​of​a​ greater​political​objective.​This​objective,​as​stated​earlier,​was​to​be​a​tool​for​ discussion​among​critical​thinkers​in​the​department’s​peasant​movement.​ The​ editorial​ team’s​ question​ was:​ Where​ is​ that​ sector​ of​ critical​ thinkers?​From​what​it​understood,​the​sector​never​took​shape,​not​even​after​ the​Movement​toward​Socialism​(Mas)​was​formed​as​the​desired​political​ mechanism.8 ​ The​role​the​newspaper​played​within​the​Quechua​peasant​movement​ was​therefore​not​as​an​immediate​means​of​communication,​but​as​a​space​ for​reflection​that​linked​the​ PCÑ ​to​the​particular​conjuncture​of​peasant​ mobilization.​The​sale​and​distribution​of​the​paper​became​massive​at​times​ of​social​mobilization​in​general​and​of​peasant​mobilization​in​particular.​It​

Quechua Knowledge and Writings 89

was​at​these​times​that​the​Conosur​responded​most​closely​to​its​objectives,​ serving​as​the​repository​of​memory​and​as​an​instrument​of​reflection​for​ the​peasant​political​movement. ​ Initially,​the​paper​was​aimed​at​the​leadership​sector.​Starting​in​1989,​ as​part​of​its​institutional​evaluation​and​renovation,​it​sought​closer​ties​to​ the​grass-​roots​among​the​department’s​peasants,​in​search​of​the​aforementioned​critical​sector.​That​sector,​in​general,​was​composed​of​people​with​ low​levels​of​education​in​reading​and​writing.​This,​however,​did​not​deny​ the​presence​of​the​leaders’​voices,​and​rural​teachers,​merchants,​truckers,​ and​ even​ semiurban​ neighborhood​ organizations​ requested​ copies​ of​the​ newspaper. ​ The​ PCÑ ​ is​ distributed​ in​ what​ can​ be​ called​ a​ personal​ manner,​ with​ representatives​visiting​the​department’s​important​fairs​and​attending​the​ various​events​held​by​the​department’s​peasant​organizations.​The​moment​ of​the​newspaper’s​distribution​is​at​the​same​time​the​moment​of​research​ through​specific​interviews​and​the​recording​of​speeches​at​the​events.​The​ resulting​articles​are​largely​testimonials,​recordings,​and​interviews.​Rather​ than​more​usual​forms​of​writing,​they​are​constructed​texts.9 ​ The​newspaper​is​published​bimonthly​(it​might​even​be​called​a​magazine),​ and​ it​ deals​ with​ such​ subjects​ as​ the​ Andean​ productive​ system;​ weather​prediction;​community​history;​education;​events​and​resolutions​ sponsored​by​peasant​and​indigenous​organizations​at​the​local,​regional,​ and​national​levels;​community​events;​national​and​international​news;​and​ the​ever-​present​personal​story.​Currently,​its​printing​varies​from​thirty-​five​ hundred​to​four​thousand​copies.​About​twenty-​five​hundred​to​three​thousand​copies​of​each​edition​are​commonly​sold,​although​at​times​of​mobilization​the​issue​sells​out.​An​important​fact​is​that​approximately​40​percent​of​the​issues​are​sold​in​Chapare,​a​zone​of​permanent​tension​because​ of​government​and​U.S.​efforts​to​forcibly​eradicate​coca.​While​the​newspaper​has​a​token​price​(3​bolivianos​in​the​city​and​1​or​1.50​in​rural​areas),​ it​is​never​given​away.​Significantly,​some​readers,​especially​children,​barter​ community​products​(grains,​potatoes,​and​so​on)​for​the​Conosur.

The Politics of Written Orality in the pcÑ One​of​the​ PCÑ ’s​characteristics​is​to​work​with​Quechua​writing​based​on​ the​orality​of​the​speakers.​This​involves​the​politics​of​inscribing​oral​discourse​(Marcone​1997)​that​is​not​limited​to​the​simple​reproduction​of​an​ 90 FernanDo​garcés​V.

act​of​speech​but​instead​creates​a​new​form​of​communication.​To​inscribe​ orality​becomes​a​political​act​that​involves​a​textual​selection​based​on​the​ editor’s​or​inscriber’s​needs​and​interests.​One​example​of​this​in​the​Conosur​involves​an​expanded​notion​of​intertextuality. ​ Literary​and​textual​linguistic​studies​frequently​use​the​concept​of​intertextuality​to​mean​the​construction​of​a​text​from​a​mosaic​of​references​as​ well​as​the​absorption​and​transformation​of​another​text​(Kristeva​1982).​ In​this​sense,​intertextuality​creates​new​texts​through​the​re-​elaboration​of​ existing​ones.​For​me,​intertextuality​has​a​different​meaning​with​regard​to​ the​Conosur’s​practice​of​inscription.​I​understand​intertextuality​not​only​ as​a​textual​interrelation​fashioned​on​paper,​but​also​as​the​construction​of​ a​series​of​plots​that​are​textual​(in​the​broadest​sense​of​the​word),​where​ diverse​visual,​textual​(in​the​sense​of​written),​and​oral​codes​are​in​figurative​battle.​Intertextuality​is​a​conflictual​process​whereby​diverse​actors​ construct​texts​as​they​move​in​different​cultural​imaginaries.​Intertextuality​ also​considers​the​diverse​contexts​of​textual​production​and​conflictive​and​ diverse​reception. ​ Intertextuality​can​be​exemplified​in​the​newspaper’s​inscribed​written​ (and​ visual)​practice.​The​ PCÑ ​publishes​ news​and​produces​ information​ in​Quechua​and​in​Spanish.​On​the​one​hand,​the​editors’​explicit​principal​ criterion​is​that​events​occurring​in​one​language​be​described​in​that​same​ language,​be​it​Quechua​or​Spanish.​On​the​other​hand,​anything​that​has​ to​do​with​the​world​outside​the​communities​and​the​organizations​(for​example,​national​and​international​news​or​agricultural​technical​subjects)​is​ written​in​Spanish,​while​matters​involving​internal​interests​(community​ history,​weather​forecasting,​evaluation​of​the​agricultural​cycle,​stories,​and​ so​forth)​are​written​in​Quechua.​This​is​the​general​tendency​that​emerges​ from​the​Bolivian​diglottic​framework​in​which​the​newspaper​exists.10 ​ One​could​also​describe​the​ PCÑ ’s​textual-​linguistic​economy​from​the​ perspective​of​the​confrontation​between​official​and​unofficial​discourses.​ From​ this​ perspective,​ official​ and​ legal​ discourse​ and​ the​ expressions​ or​ relations​of​the​discursive​and​hegemonic​state​environment​are​published​ in​Spanish.​For​example,​even​if​the​agenda​for​discussion​at​an​organization’s​local​meeting​is​written​in​Quechua,​its​resolutions​generally​appear​in​ Spanish.​This​occurs​because​said​resolutions​politically​position​the​organizations​and​communities​in​relation​to​the​mechanisms​of​state​domination.​In​this​way,​the​construction​of​news​not​mediated​by​orality​also​appears​in​Spanish.​That​which​forms​part​of​the​organizational​and​communal​ Quechua Knowledge and Writings 91

(not​necessarily​local)​discursive​environment​is​treated​in​Quechua.​Here,​ stories​and​weather​forecasting​are​as​much​a​part​of​the​discussion​as​local​ peasant​events​and​national​and​international​news​(Constitutive​Assemblies,​the​Free​Trade​Agreement​of​the​Americas​(Ftaa),​the​North​Atlantic​ Free​Trade​Agreement​(naFta),​World​Bank​policies​about​agriculture,​and​ so​on). ​ Nevertheless,​this​spatial-​textual​distribution​is​not​that​simple,​for​there​ are​also​frequent​intertextual​games.​For​example,​in​a​given​news​piece​the​ title​may​be​in​Spanish​and​most​of​the​information​in​Quechua​(or​vice​ versa).​Within​a​given​article,​there​may​be​changes​or​jumps​back​and​forth​ between​Quechua​and​Spanish. ​ According​to​the​rules​of​inscription,​there​are​three​criteria​to​follow​in​ the​face​of​the​Spanish​written​word:​to​the​extent​possible,​recover​endangered​Quechua​vocabulary;​create​neologisms​for​those​terms​that​are​not​ historically​found​in​the​language​and​that​current​communication​demands;​ and,​when​necessary,​incorporate​a​Spanish​term​by​either​keeping​the​original​spelling​in​Spanish​or​providing​a​phonetic​rendition​in​Quechua​(Plaza​ 1995,​58).​Under​these​criteria,​resorting​to​Spanish​is​a​last​resort,​reflecting​ an​explicit​policy​of​recovering​and​strengthening​Quechua.​The​presence​ of​Spanish​terms​is​considered​a​lesser​evil.​I​will​later​touch​on​the​topic​of​ the​PCÑ ’s​periodic​effort​to​recover​the​ancient​Quechua​vocabulary,​but​for​ now​I​will​focus​on​some​examples​of​the​newspaper’s​norm​for​dealing​with​ Spanish​terms. ​ The​ PCÑ ​does​not​have​an​explicit​policy​for​the​creation​of​neologisms​ in​the​sense​that​it​is​the​editorial​team​that​proposes​new​Quechua​terms.​ Nevertheless,​and​as​a​result​of​the​collection​of​oral​information,​I​can​offer​ a​few​examples​that​prove​speakers’​creativity.​In​some​cases,​that​creativity​ involves​the​description​of​characteristics,​while​in​others​it​involves​the​appropriation​and​conceptual​reformulation​of​the​original​Spanish​term.​We​ thus​have​a​physical​place​where​a​radio​functions,​wayra wasi​(54:12)​(lit.​ ‘wind​house’);11​for​airplane,​lata p’isqu​(63:4)​(lit.​‘iron​bird’);​for​handkerchief,​qhuña pichana​(61:11)​(lit.​‘snot​cleaner’);​for​members​of​the​Mobile​ Unit​for​Rural​Patrolling,​a​repressive​force​charged​with​the​aggressive​eradication​of​the​coca​leaf,​p’alta uma​(46:3)​(lit.​‘flat​head’);​to​refer​to​gringos​or​ foreigners​in​general,​jawa puka kunka​(50:4)​(lit.​‘red​neck​from​abroad’). ​ Beyond​ the​ effort​ of​ lexical​ recreation​ through​ neologisms,​ it​ is​ common​practice​in​the​PCÑ ​to​use​Spanish​terms,​written​according​to​Spanish​ grammar.​This​is​observed​at​different​levels,​such​as​the​following: 92 FernanDo​garcés​V.

a.​In​entire​phrases: [.​.​.]​lluksinankupaq​representantes​

For​them​to​become​genuine

genuinos de las provincias​

representatives of the provinces,

compañeros (39:3).​

comrades.

b.​In​the​lexical-​morphological​combination​of​Spanish​and​Quechua: Munayku​Escuela Fiscal​kananta,​

We​want​that​the​school be public,

mana privatizakunanta​campesinos​

that​it​be​not​privatized;​we​the

manachay escuelas privadasman​

peasants​would​not​be​able​to​pay

pagayta atiykumanchurayku​(44:19).​

for​these​private schools.

c.​In​the​consignation​of​different​types​of​acronyms​and​the​institution’s​

full​name: CSUTCB ​uchhika q’ayma kachkan,​ imata nisun?​Central Obrera​ Boliviana q’aymallataq, uraman​ yaykuyta munachkan​(79:6).​ ​ ​

The​CSUTCB ​is​a​little​bit​unenthusiastic​(lit.​‘insipid’),​what​would​we say?​The​Central Obrera Boliviana (Bolivian Workers’ Union)​is​also unenthusiastic​and​it​is​becoming down.12

Quechua in the pcÑ Few​studies​deal​with​the​presence​of​indigenous​languages​in​the​media​ (Albó​1998),​even​though​there​is​a​relatively​strong​presence​of​Aymara​and​ Quechua​on​urban​radio​stations​in​La​Paz​and​Cochabamba,​respectively.13​ In​the​written​press,​the​daily​Presencia​published​one​page​in​Quechua​and​ another​in​Aymara​every​day​for​a​year.​Unfortunately,​this​experiment​in​ the​media​ended​because​the​newspaper​closed.​Albó​and​Anaya​(2003)​describe​the​experience​of​the​newspaper​Jaima.​It​initially​published​texts​in​ Aymara,​and​now​it​also​does​so​in​Quechua​and​Guaraní​as​a​weekly​under​ the​new​name​of​Kimsa Pacha Ara Mboapi,​which​is​distributed​together​ with​the​daily​La Prensa.​The​Conosur​is​thus​one​of​very​few​means​of​diffusion​outside​of​the​academy​that​generates​information​in​an​indigenous​ language​in​Bolivia.14 ​ The​first​issues​of​newspapers​like​El Mizqueño​and​El Totoreño​distinguished​themselves​by​their​limited​use​of​Quechua.​Nevertheless,​with​the​ New Era​of​the​Conosur​(starting​in​1989)​the​revaluation​of​Quechua​beQuechua Knowledge and Writings 93

came​a​priority.​A​new​era​of​debate​over​standardization​begins,​which​can​ be​summarized​as​“do​we​completely​normalize​Quechua​or​respect​the​testimony?”​(Julia​Román,​interview,​05/10/01).​Asked​in​a​more​conciliatory​ way:​how​to​achieve​equilibrium​between​the​norm​and​an​inscribed​written​variety​that​readers​could​understand​even​without​a​high​level​of​standardization?​ In​ the​ PCÑ ,​ the​ basic​ criterion​ was​ to​ use​ a​ comprehensible​ Quechua​even​though​it​did​not​entirely​conform​to​the​current​exigencies​ of​standardization.​This​practice​began​from​thinking​through​the​writing​ from​the​actual​words​of​the​speakers.​However,​there​was​a​moment​(PCÑ​ numbers​44​to​55)​when​the​newspaper​explicitly​intervened​idiomatically​to​ purge​the​newspaper’s​Quechua​speech​of​excessive​use​of​Spanish​vocabulary.15 ​ The​ PCÑ ’s​thematic​sections​move,​disappear,​or​reappear​from​issue​to​ issue.​There​is,​however,​an​inalterable​section​that​is​not​subject​to​the​political​articulation​of​the​moment:​the​story.​In​each​issue​the​story​appearing​ on​the​last​page​is​unchanged​not​only​in​its​appearance,​but​also​in​the​linguistic​code​it​represents.​In​the​story,​we​find​Quechua​in​its​purest​form,​ as​if​it​managed​to​condense​forms​impervious​to​modern​communication​ requirements. ​ I​ have​ carefully​ studied​ the​ PCÑ ’s​ greater​ or​ lesser​ observation​ of​ the​ norms​of​written​Quechua​(Garcés​2005b).16​Overall,​and​in​spite​of​the​editorial​team’s​effort​during​a​specific​period​of​time,​I​could​generally​not​find​ orthographic​consistency.​The​newspaper’s​editors​have​a​basic​knowledge​of​ grammatical​norms​and​rules,​since​they​occasionally​attend​training​seminars​or​courses​on​the​normalization​of​Quechua,​but​they​do​not​necessarily​ apply​them​directly.​This​is​because​the​paper’s​unique​strength​is​dealing​ with​Quechua​writing​based​on​its​informants’​orality—the​voice​of​those​ who​offer​their​testimonies​and​speak.17

Traces of Orality in the pcÑ Conosur​is​a​space​of​textual​production,​starting​from​the​inscription​of​ oral​ discourse.​ In​ the​ hands​ of​ the​ newspaper’s​ editors,​ this​ is​ a​ political​ practice​that​implies​a​process​of​textual​selection​and​reconstruction.​In​ my​view,​this​practice​responds​to​three​main​issues​in​the​extensive​literature​about​the​relations​between​orality​and​writing.​First,​it​contradicts​the​ idea​that​orality​is​less​valuable​than​writing,​largely​because​it​contributes​ little​or​nothing​to​the​configuration​of​abstract​thought​and​the​develop94 FernanDo​garcés​V.

ment​of​intellect​(Goody​1968;​Olson​1994;​and​Ong​1982,​1992).​Second,​it​ problematizes​the​notion​that​there​is​rupture​rather​than​continuity​in​the​ relationship​of​orality​to​writing,​what​Street​(1984)​and​others​have​called​ the​“great​divide.”​And​third,​it​provides​an​alternative​to​the​quandary​we​ face​ when​ elaborating​ written​ forms​ of​ subordinated​ languages​ from​ the​ model​of​the​dominant​languages,​thus​producing​a​functional​and​political​ copy​that​also​reproduces​the​linguistic​colonialism​present​in​our​societies​ (Garcés​2005a,​2005b).​Indeed,​through​these​interventions​Conosur​serves​ as​an​example​of​the​political​uses​of​subaltern​sectors’​writing,​which​some​ authors​have​noted​can​impart​a​sense​of​history​to​local​struggles​(Portelli​ 1989)​or​counter-​hegemonize​or​negotiate​with​the​written​inscribed​officiality​(Rappaport​1990).18​With​the​aim​of​contributing​to​the​debates​about​ linguistic​politics​and​the​practice​of​written​interventions​in​Quechua​and​ Aymara,​I​offer​examples​of​the​most​frequent​and​important​cases​of​the​ oral​presence​that​I​found​in​Conosur’s​writing. ​ One​example​of​the​oral​presence​in​Conosur​is​the​appearance​of​conversational​ties,​including​í,​which​in​Bolivian​Quechua​allows​the​speaker​ to​express​uncertainty​and​doubt,​while​also​asking​the​interlocutor​to​voice​ their​own​opinion​on​the​topic​in​question​(Herrero​and​Sánchez​de​Lozada​ 1979).​In​PCÑ ​68:14,​we​find​the​following:​Nuqaykup lugarniykumanta papa muju​í, Laqmu tarpuyku​(“It​is​a​potato​seed​from​our​place,​you see;​we​sow​ laqmu​.​.​.”).​The​presence​of​í​would​be​normal​in​an​oral​interaction,​where​ one​of​the​speakers​demands​the​participation​of​the​other​speaker. ​ Another​way​in​which​the​PCÑ ​reproduces​the​context​of​oral​conversation​in​the​written​text​is​by​trying​to​reproduce​the​performative​aspects​ of​the​linguistic​event.​Issue​84:11,​for​example,​details​the​experience​of​a​ Workshop​for​the​Handling​of​Potato​and​Corn​Varieties​organized​by​the​ Women’s​Organization​of​Kuyupaya.​The​expert​in​distinct​varieties​of​potatoes​ and​ corn​ seeds​ carried​ out​ a​ demonstration​ for​ the​ attendees​ at​ the​ workshop.​The​newspaper​covered​this​presentation​in​the​same​way​the​linguistic​event​unfolded: Ñuqa apamurkani saritasta, papitasta​

I​had​brought​some​corn​(maize)​and

riqsichinaykupaq. Riqsichisaykichiq:​

potatoes​for​display.​I​will​show​them

Yuraq sara waltaku, ranqhanapaq,​

to​you:​the​Waltaku​white​corn,​is​for

sara lluch’usqapipis walliqllataq;​

selling;​it​is​also​good​for​being

Guinda sara nisqa jank’apaq;​kaytaq​

peeled;​the​purple​corn​(is​good​for)

Q’illu sara Lurivayu, lawapaq,​

being​toasted;​and​this​one​the​yellow Quechua Knowledge and Writings 95

jank’apaqpis, jak’upis sumaq,​

corn​(called)​Lurivayu,​for​soup,​for

bajiyupi puqun, patapipis kallantaq.​

being​toasted,​it​is​also​good​for

Kaytaq​Uchpa sarita jank’apaq,​

flour;​it​grows​in​the​lowlands​and

ranqhanapaq;​kay​Yuraq sara rosada​

also​in​the​highlands.​And​this​one​is

jina, tukuy imapaq; Phasanqalla sara,​

the​Ashes​corn,​good​for​being​toasted

muchhaspa jank’anchiq.​Kaytaq​

and​for​selling;​this​white,​pinkish

Yuraq sara, puka q’uruntañataq​

one,​is​good​for​everything;​this​is

lluch’usqapaq, ranqhanapaq, tukuy​

popcorn​corn,​it​is​toasted​getting​the

imapaq​.​.​.​(84:11).​

grains​out​from​the​cob.​And​this​one

​

is​the​White​corn,​it​has​a​red​corn-

​

cob,​it​is​good​for​being​peeled,​for

​

selling,​for​everything​.​.​.

The​text​is​accompanied​by​a​photo​of​a​lady​presenting​different​corn​varieties.​In​this​way,​the​newspaper​attempts​to​insert​the​reader​into​the​interactional​context​and​moment​of​speaking.​By​reproducing​the​environment​ in​which​text​is​produced,​this​type​of​textual​construction​distances​itself​ from​the​rules​of​objectivity​that​should​mark​a​formal​written​text​and​that​ give​writing​its​character​as​a​technology​of​abstract​intellectual​development.19 ​ Another​important​presence​of​orality​in​the​newspaper​occurs​in​its​quotation​system.​In​the​following​example​we​see​reproduced​the​most​common​Quechua​quotation​practice: gobiernopunicha kachamun “runasta​

It​is​most​possible​that​it​was​the

maqamuychis”​nispa​fruta sach’asta​

government​itself​that​sent​them,

aqnata machitiyamuychis​nispa​

“go​ahead,​go​to​beat​the​peasants,”

(72:15).​

saying,​“go​and​cut​them​down​with

​

machetes​as​if​they​were​fruit​bearing

​

trees,”​saying.

​ In​addition​to​the​classic​system​of​quotation​unique​to​Quechua’s​discursive​structure,​in​its​testimonies​the​ PCÑ ​often​relies​on​a​generalizing​ anonymity​through​constructions​like​“it​was​said,”​“a​leader​said,”​and​“the​ peasant​delegates​said.”​On​other​occasions​the​testimony​directly​attributes​ the​words​to​their​speaker: Compañera cocata puquchik​

The​coca​producer​comrade​Eugenia

Eugenia Blanco​jaqay Central​

Blanco​from​the​Copacabana​Union

96 FernanDo​garcés​V.

Copacabanamanta kay jinata​

has told us this:​“That’s​the​way​they

willariwayku: “Kay jinata cocaykuta​

ripped​off​our​coca​plants,​they​left​us

t’irapuwayku, mana cocayuqta​

without​any​coca,​now​how​are​we

saqirpawayku, kunan imawantaq​

going​to​feed​(raise)​our​children.​If

wawasniykuta uywasqayku. Coca​

there​is​no​coca​how​are​we​going

mana kaptin imawan kawsasqayku,​

to​live,​I​only​get​money​from​(selling)

cocallamanta qullqi jap’ikuq kani, ​

coca,​nothing​else​grows​here.”

mana ni ima puqunchu kaypi”​(85:​11).

But​in​a​third​example,​in​PCÑ ​41:​B6–B8,​after​a​page​and​half​of​discussion​ on​Ch’iñi laqatu​(Andean​weevil)​in​a​clearly​journalistic​style,​the​article​ suddenly​ poses​ the​ following​ question:​ Imata ruwaq kanku ñawpa runas chay khuruta pisiyachinankupaq mana anchá jatarinanpaq?​ (“What​ did​ people​used​to​do​to​control​the​bugs,​so​that​they​do​not​proliferate?”).​An​ unidentified​interviewee​directly​responds:​Bueno, yachasqayman jina​.​.​.​ (“Well,​according​to​what​I​know​.​.​.”).​As​of​this​moment,​since​the​text​contains​no​quotes​or​any​other​sign​that​divulges​its​production​or​authorship,​ we​do​not​know​with​certainty​what​belongs​to​the​newspaper’s​editors​and​ what​belongs​to​the​interviewee. ​ A​dramatic​instance​of​orality’s​presence​in​the​newspaper​is​the​use​of​ oral​formulas.​As​mentioned​earlier,​one​of​the​enduring​features​in​the​PCÑ​ is​the​concluding​story.​With​an​exception​here​and​there,​all​of​the​newspaper’s​stories​conclude​with​the​explicit​formula​of​oral​narration.​For​example,​ PCÑ ​46:19–20​states,​Kunan kuti chayllapi tukukun kay kwintituqa. Waq kutikama​(“On​this​occasion​this​little​tale​ends​just​there.​See​you.”);​ or​also​Kaypi tukukun kay willanita​(“This​little​tale​ends​here.”)​(49:16).​In​ addition,​attempts​to​reproduce​oral​onomatopoeic​or​interjective​forms​appear​as​often​in​the​stories​as​in​other​testimonial​texts:​yuthuqa,​churrrrrr​ nichkaqta pawarikapusqa​(77–78:16)​(“The​partridge​flew​away​‘churrrrr’​ saying”);​Chaymantaqa compadren nisqa: —Ayyy​kumpa, mana ajinatachu luz k’anchaytaqa wañuchina, kay botonllata ñit’ina, chaywan wañun​(91:12)​ (“Then​his​compadre​said:​—hey​buddy,​that​is​not​the​way​to​turn​off​the​ light,​you​just​have​to​press​this​button,​that​turns​it​off ”);​or​the​important​ case​of​the​cover​of​ PCÑ ​45:​Kunan uqharikuna . . . a.a.a . . . !​(“Now​let​us​ riseeee​.​.​.​!).”20

Quechua Knowledge and Writings 97

Everyday Metaphors and Similes in the pcÑ “Our​ordinary​conceptual​system,​in​terms​of​what​we​think​and​act,​is​fundamentally​of​a​metaphoric​nature,”​write​Lakoff​and​Johnson​(1980,​39).​ They​show​how​the​metaphor​impregnates​language,​thought,​and​action.​ Metaphors​are​constructed​and​circulated​in​an​everyday​linguistic​market.​ They​are​not​the​fruit​of​specialists,​as​the​Western​literary​intellectual​class​ would​prefer.​Indeed,​we​find​in​metaphors​the​key​to​understanding​relations​between​language,​culture,​and​the​comprehension​of​reality. ​ In​such​a​context,​the​fact​that​the​ PCÑ ’s​metaphoric​world​is​especially​ evident​in​sociopolitical​discourse​demands​attention.​In​reference​to​the​ Law​of​Popular​Participation,​for​example,​whose​negative​implications​for​ peasant​movements​could​not​be​clearly​understood,​the​newspaper​stated,​ Imaynatacha​ katarita ch’uskirinchik, kikinta kay kamachiyta ch’uskikurqa​ (“Just​as​we​peel​off​a​snake,​likewise​we​peeled​off​this​law”)​(62:3).​On​other​ occasions,​we​see​a​much​more​visual​comparison​than​traditional​political​ parties​are​able​to​conjure: Eleccionespiqa​imaynatachus​ch’uspi​

In​the​elections​just​as​the​flies​fall

leche mankaman urmaykun ajinata​

into​the​milk​pot,​they​fall​into​the

wakin partidos tradicionalespaq​

rear​of​some​traditional​political

qhipanman urmaykunku, paykunapaq​

parties,​the​votes​for​them​appear.

votos rikhurin (84:5).

And​ throughout​ different​ Quechua​ texts​ of​ the​ PCÑ ,​ we​ see​ the​ popular​ comparison​of​different​organizational​situations​of​the​peasant​movement​ with​the​movement​of​ants​(see,​for​example,​50:3​and​50:4): Sik’imira​jina, ch’inllamanta tukuy​

As​ants,​quietly​all​the​women,

warmikuna, wawa uqharisqa, uk runa​

holding​our​babies,​just​as​one​single

jinalla, auto yankuna wisq’asunchis​

person,​will​close​down​the​roads

(69:5).​

(will​block​the​roads).

​ Perhaps​one​of​the​richest​sets​of​metaphoric​uses​from​Quechua​involves​ elements​of​human​corporeity:​uma​(head),​sunqu​(heart),​maki​(hand),​and​ llawar​(blood).​Uma​means,​among​other​things,​the​center​of​desires​and​ intentions​as​well​as​of​ways​in​which​ideas​are​received: Kunitan​gobiernop umanpiqa​

Right​now​in​the​mind​of​the​govern-

campesinosta wich’uy munachkan jaqay​

ment​they​are​thinking​of​driving​the

98 FernanDo​garcés​V.

Parque Isiboro Sécuremanta, chayman​

peasants​from​the​Isiboro​Sécure​Park,

gringosta sat’inankupaq​(64:​5).​

to​place​the​gringos​there.

Participación Popular, mana​

The​Grass​Roots​participation​(idea)

umaykuman yaykunchu​(57:13).​

does​not​enter​in​our​minds.

Starting​ with​ these​ first​ examples,​ we​ can​ better​ understand​ the​ fact​ that​ uma​is​in​permanent​relation​with​intentions,​deceit,​or​confusion: [. . .] uk yana uwija warmikunaq​

A​black​sheep​had​appeared​inside​the

qutuchakuynin ukhupi rikhurisqa,​

women’s​organization,​swirling​their

umaninkuta muyuchiyta​munaspa,​

minds,​thereby​feeding​the​women​to

jinamanta atuqman qarananpaq​

the​fox.

warmi masisninta​(46:17).

Uma​also​metaphorically​designates​the​leaders​and​important​posts​of​peasant​organizations: Kunanqa musuq​umallichik​kayku,​

Nowadays​we​are​the​new​leaders,​this

chaytaq jatun thaskiriy, Federacionqa​

is​a​great​step​(for​us),​(for)​the​Union

manamin pukllakuyku​(51:​3).​

is​not​a​game.

This​is​precisely​why​uma​also​refers​to​the​lack​of​leadership​of​a​determined​ social​entity.​We​see​this,​for​example,​in​critiques​of​the​government​for​incompetent​social​leadership:​Kay gobiernoqta​mana tiyanchu uman, qhasimanakaq​(88:3)​(“This​government​has​no​head,​it​is​there​in​vain”). ​ The​other​organ​of​the​body​that​is​a​key​starting​point​for​the​formulation​ of​ Quechua​ metaphors​ is​ the​ heart.​ Sunqu​ is​ a​ very​ versatile​ word​ because​of​its​many​metaphoric​connections​to​multiple​realities,​states​of​ being,​and​situations.​Through​sunqu,​it​is​possible​to​speak​truthfully​and​ not​just​with​words: Dirigentesta qullqiwan umata muyu-​

The​leaders​are​swirling​the​minds

chichkanku, chayrayku dirigentes​

with​money,​that​is​why​the​leaders

kanku cuchillo de ambos filos, qull-​

are​double​edged​knives,​for​the

qirayku mayladomanpis kutirillanku,​

money​they​will​go​in​any​direction,

simillawan k’achituta parlanku,​mana​

they​speak​beautifully​with​their

sunqunkuwanchu​(94:8).​

mouths,​not​with​their​hearts.

But​sunqu​also​refers​to​the​center​of​a​given​reality,​in​its​conception​of​the​ “middle,”​“importance,”​and​“clandestine”​character.​For​example,​with​respect​to​the​night,​we​find​these​types​of​sentences: Quechua Knowledge and Writings 99

Chawpi​tutaq sunqunpi​sublevacionta​

We​had​made​a​rebellion​in​the

ruwarqayku​(suplem.​77–78:1).​

middle​of​the​night.

In​terms​of​the​earth: Chayniqta Reservas Fiscales, Parques​

That​is​why​they​are​delivering​the

nispa jallp’akunata Instituciones-​

state​reservations,​the​parks,​the

Empresaspaq makinman jaywarapu-​

lands​to​the​hands​of​the​(private)

sanku. Imapaq? Astawan Pachamama​

enterprises.​What​for?​For​them​to

jallp’aq sunqunta​waqcha runakunaq​

squeeze​the​heart​of​Mother​Earth

pulmonisninta ch’irwanankupaq​

and​the​lungs​of​the​poor​people.

(70–71:2).

​ A​group​of​important​associations​with​the​term​sunqu​relate​to​the​fact​ this​is​an​organ​thought​to​be​the​seat​of​satisfaction,​conformity,​rest,​and​ rejoicing.​In​contrast,​to​say​that​you​are​not​with​junt’a sunqu​indicates​you​ are​disquieted,​dissatisfied,​and​anguished: Mana sunquy junt’achu​Instrumento​

My​heart​is​not​happy​due​to​the​fact

Politicota vendesqankumanta​

that​they​have​sold​out​the​Political

(73–74:3).​

Instrument​(of​the​people).

In​terms​of​calmness,​tranquility,​serenity,​the​effect​is​achieved​through​the​ formula​sunqu tiyaykuy: Sindicatos p’utusqanmantapacha​

Since​the​birth​of​the​unions​our

sunquyku tiyaykun​(suplem.​77–78:1).​

hearts​are​in​peace.

The​pain​of​the​heart​vivifies​situations​of​suffering,​at​the​same​time​its​absence​indicates​insensitivity: Gobiernuqta​mana sunqun nananchu​

The​heart​of​the​government​does​not

waqcha runakunamanta, payta nanan​

ache​for​the​poor​people,​it​aches​for

chay qhapaq runamasinmanta​(92:7).​

the​rich​people.

​ The​topic​of​social​and​political​control​is​expressed​by​resorting​to​the​ metaphoric​construction​of​“being​in​the​hands​of.​.​.​.”​In​this​sense,​the​ formula​maki​+​(nominal​suffix​of​a​person)​+–pi ~–man​is​used​to​express​ the​idea​of​having​someone​subjected​to​the​power,​control,​and​authority​of​ another​person: Tawa diputados indígenas​basespaq​

The​four​indigenous​deputies​are​in

makinpi​(75:1).​

the​hands​of​the​grass​roots.

100 FernanDo​garcés​V.

Estados Unidospaq​makinpi​

They​make​us​dance​in​the​hands​of

tusuchiwachkanchik​(67:​3).​

the​USA.

Additionally,​adding​the​root​tusu​in​this​last​example​demonstrates​that​this​ control​is​manipulative,​managing​others​as​if​they​were​puppets​that​could​ be​made​to​dance​on​demand. ​ Another​element​of​human​corporality​frequently​used​as​a​metaphoric​ base​is​llawar.​“I​do​not​have​blood”​indicates​insensitivity,​not​feeling​in​the​ presence​of​the​other: Gobiernoqa k’ullu, uk rumi churakun​

The​government​does​not​listen​to

mana llawarniyuq​gobierno​(67:4).​

(the​people),​making​themselves​hard

​

as​a​rock,​it​does​not​have​blood.

In​contrast,​to​do​something​“with​blood”​indicates​effort,​suffering: Federacionqa manamin pukllakuyku,​

The​Union​is​not​a​game,​but​we

manataq uk institucion jina qhawa-​

cannot​consider​it​just​as​any​other

sunmanchu, ni Prefecturawan, ni​

institution,​neither​as​the​Prefecture,

Alcaldiawan, ni Policiatawan, chay-​

nor​the​municipality,​nor​the​police,

kunaqa qullquiwan ruwasqa kanku,​

those​are​made​with​money,​but​our

Federacionninchiktaq​llawarwan​

Union​is​made​out​of​blood.

ruwasqa kachkan​(51:3).

​ A​special​type​of​metaphor​found​in​the​newspaper​refers​to​the​personification​of​nature.​Quechua​testimonials​in​the​ PCÑ ​refer​to​nature​or​its​ elements​as​entities​that​get​tired,​walk,​know,​predict,​get​angry.21​Here​are​ some​examples: Pitaq juchayuq kay​pacha sayk’usqa​

Whose​fault​it​is​that​nature​is​tired?

kananpaq?​(46:1). Sach’akuna​waliq wata waqyamuch-​

The​trees​are​predicting​a​good​year

kawanchik​(53:8).​

for​us​[lit.​‘calling​for’].

wakin​yakusqa phiñas chullchuya-​

Some​waters​are​mean,​they​might

chiwasunman​(35:7).​

make​us​sick.

​ In​ the​ same​ way,​ peasant​ knowledge​ is​ anthropomorphized​ because​ it​ exists,​it​grows,​and​it​stays​with​the​Quechua​speaker: Yachayniykuqa​nuqaykuwan kashan.​

Our​knowledge​is​with​us.​This

Wawita kasqaykumanta pacha kay​

knowledge​of​ours​has​to​grow​(multi-

yachayniykuqa​miranan tiyan​

ply)​ever​since​we​were​children​and Quechua Knowledge and Writings 101

wiñaypaq wiñayninpaq, kay yachayqa​

forever​and​ever,​this​knowledge

ni jaykaq tukukunanchu tiyan​

cannot​ever​end.

(Seminario​sobre​Escuela​Campesina de​Raqaypampa,​in​44:​6). Kawsayniyku,​yachayniykuqa,​

Our​life,​our​knowledge​live​with​us

unaymantapachapuni nuqaykuwan​

from​time​immemorial.

kawsan (Pedro​Olivera,​in​79:13).

​ Overall,​the​newspaper’s​metaphoric​world​offers​many​possibilities​for​ idiomatic​development.​The​role​of​bridge​that​the​PCÑ ’s​editorial​team​plays​ is​significant​given​that​its​members​are​also​Quechua​speakers​who​move​ between​the​world​of​oral​informants​and​that​of​the​writing​skills​required​ for​the​newspaper’s​journalistic​function.​On​the​one​hand,​they​intuitively​ use​the​Quechua​metaphors​mobilized​by​villagers​and​leaders​and,​on​the​ other​hand,​they​permanently​struggle​to​render​writing​that​is​comprehensible​to​readers​because​it​follows​certain​norms.

Yachayniyku, or the Politics of Quechua Knowledge In​the​past,​the​knowledge​produced​by​subaltern​groups​was​used​to​think​ about​ them​ and​ formulate​ policies​ for​ them.​ Today​ we​ seek​ the​ revaluation​ of​ local​ knowledge​ and​ the​ active​ participation​ of​ the​ actors​ themselves​in​policymaking.​Three​factors​have​influenced​these​changes.​First,​ the​ transformation​ of​ global​ capitalism​ requires​ the​ further​ expansion​ of​ transnational​ markets​ and​ access​ to​ new,​ often​ scarce,​ resources​ (Lander​ 2002a,​2002b).​Second,​postmodern​discourses​have​highlighted​the​essentialist​and​binary​character​of​modern​knowledge,​making​its​positivisms​ and​absolutisms​more​flexible​(Coronil​2004).​Third,​and​in​contrast,​many​ counterhegemonic​groups​have​made​the​defense​of​place​a​theoretical,​political,​and​ecological​project​(Escobar​1999,​2000). ​ At​the​same​time,​we​continue​to​exist​within​a​framework​that​Mignolo​ calls​the​geopolitics​of​knowledge​(2000,​2001).​Eurocentrism​(in​its​historical​form)​and​North-​centrism​(in​its​current​form),​both​characteristic​of​ contemporary​global​coloniality,​have​canonized​and​validated​one​knowledge​as​legitimate​and​considered​it​universal.​Local​knowledge,​that​of​the​ colonial​and​global​peripheries,​is​dismissed​as​local,​aboriginal,​indigenous,​ or​“ethnic”​knowledge.​It​is​useful​but​not​legitimate—a​knowledge​that​can​ be​studied​and​learned​but​that​is​not​worthy​of​incorporation​into​the​para102 FernanDo​garcés​V.

digmatic​knowledge​of​thinking​and​living​(Garcés​2005a).​What​is​forgotten​ in​this​context​is​that​so-​called​universal​knowledge​is​also​a​local​knowledge,​ but​ one​ that​ managed​ to​ impose​ itself​ onto​ the​ emerging​ capitalist​ world-​system.​As​a​result,​this​knowledge​defined​itself​as​universal​and​led​ others​to​recognize​it​as​such​(Santos​2003). ​ In​the​Conosur​newspaper,​we​see​a​space​for​the​communication​of​a​ wide​gamut​of​topics​related​with​the​yachay—local​knowledge,​in​the​deepest​sense—in​Quechua​communities.​Some​are​technical​or​agricultural​in​ nature:​types​of​soils;​elements​of​Andean​technology,​including​the​construction​of​ditches​and​furrows;​control​of​plagues​such​as​the​saq’u​and​the​ ch’iñi laqatu;​weather​forecasting;​native​seeds;​water​source​management;​ forest​management.​Others​involve​the​communal​management​of​health,​ including​ traditional​ medicine,​ medicinal​ plants,​ and​ animal​ sanitation.​ And​still​others​deal​with​sociopolitical​or​symbolic​aspects:​reciprocity​institutions​like​the​ayni;​community​history;​the​mapping​of​Andean​territory;​rituals​associated​with​productive​and​spatial​control​like​the​q’uwa,​ the​ch’alla,​and​the​pijchu;​local​educational​institutions;​and​narrative​traditions​like​riddles​and​stories.​Throughout​the​Conosur,​four​major​themes​ emerge​ in​ relation​ to​ Quechua​ yachay:​ its​ value;​ its​ location​ in​ different​ physical​ spaces;​ its​ relationship​ to​ language;​ and​ its​ roots​ in​ community​ production​and​cultural​practices.​I​will​provide​some​concrete​examples​ of​each. ​ A​basic​affirmation​in​the​Conosur​is​that​Quechua​peasant​knowledge​is​ better​than​Western​or​urban​knowledge,​that​it​is​professional​and​should​ not​be​lost.​These​beliefs​can​be​seen,​for​example,​in​references​to​knowledge​ about​weather​forecasting​and​tending​the​land: Chay campesinoq yachaynin aswan​

The​knowledge​of​the​peasant​is

sumaq kasan. Nuqaykutaq taripayku​

better.​We​realized​that,​long​before,

ñawpaqpi kanan chay campesinoqta​

peasants​had​knowledge.​They​know

yachaynin. Pay yachan tiempota qha-​

how​to​observe​the​weather​for​the

wayta uj wata tarpuypaq. Imaynachus​

yearly​planting.​They​recognize​the

jamuq wata kananpaq señasta riq-​

signs​for​the​coming​year.​Or​else,

sillantaq. Mana chayqa, imaynatachus​

(they​know)​how​their​ancestors

jallp’ata waqaychaq kanku achachis-​

knew​how​to​take​care​of​the​land.

ninku​(37:7). Profesionales kanchiq yachayninchiq-​

We​are​professionals​in​our​knowl-

manta (Clemente​Salazar,​in​46:4).

edge. Quechua Knowledge and Writings 103

Nuqanchis unaymanta pachapuni​

We​knew​from​times​past​how​to​take

montesninchikta jallch’ayta yachaq​

care​of​our​forests.

kanchiq”​(Zacarías​Ortiz​76:4). Nuqaykuqa mana munaykuchu ya-​

We​do​not​desire​that​our​knowledge

chayniyku wiqch’usqa kananta (54:14).​

be​put​aside.

Nevertheless,​even​though​this​expert​knowledge​has​responded​to​the​environment​better​than​Western​capitalist​knowledge,​it​is​met​with​disrespect​ and​scorn: “Tecnología científicamanta” técnicos,​

The​technicians,​institutions,​govern-

instituciones, gobiernos, Estado ima​

ments,​even​the​State​continue

ch’ipakullankupuni, comunidadpata​

swarming​around​“scientific​tech-

yachayninta manaraqpuni wali-​

nology,”​(and)​they​do​not​value​the

chinkuchu. Ch’irwarkullaytapuni ​

knowledge​of​the​community.​They

munawayku​(63:14).​​

still​want​to​squeeze​us.

There​is​a​contempt​for​peasant​goods​and​labor​which​rests​on​a​type​of​ racism​that​values​production​and​knowledge​from​a​colonial​point​of​view: Campesinospata productonchis mana​

Our​crops​are​not​appreciated,​our

valenchu, trabajonchis mana valenchu;​

work​is​not​appreciated;​not​happy

todavía chaywan mana contentaku-​

with​that​(work),​the​town​people,

wanchiqchu kay pueblopi kaqkuna kay​

the​rich,​are​getting​disgusted​by​us,—

khapaq runas, paykuna noqanchista​

what​does​an​ignorant​Indian​know—

millachikusawanchis, imatá yachan

saying,​comrades.

kay indio bruturi nispa compañeros (Valeriano​Romero,​34:6).

As​a​result,​peasant​production​and​knowledge​are​degraded​as​a​result​of​ changes​introduced​by​modern​technology​and​its​ideology.​Peasant​yachay​ is​subordinated​to​urban​and​scientific​knowledge​at​the​service​of​dominant​sectors: [. . .] ñawpataqa allinta puquykunata​

In​the​past​we​knew​how​to​handle

apayqachasarqayku, jallp’apis sumaq​

the​crops​well,​the​soil​was​also​very

kallpayuq kachkarqa mana kunan​

fertile,​not​as​it​is​today.​The​chemicals

jinachu, chayman chayanapaqqa karqa​

that​appeared​led​us​to​this​situation,

rikhurimusqan chay kimiku, maychus​

the​so-​called​modern​technology,​the

jamun tecnología moderna nisqawan,​

town​people​resort​to​this​discourse.

104 FernanDo​garcés​V.

llaqtarunakuna kay parlayta apayqa-​

Nowadays​the​soil​has​become​hard.

chanku. Kunanqa jallp’akunaqa chuqru-​

Our​fellow​countrymen​have​seen

man tukun, compañeros rikunku kay​

that​these​chemicals​are​a​poison​for

kimiku jallp’apaq uk veneno kasqanta.​

the​soil.

Chaywanpis, llaqtarunaqa Universidad​

In​spite​of​that,​the​ones​who​have

yachay wasipi yachaqkunaqa mana​

studied​at​the​universities​do​not

campesinota valechinkuchu, ninku:​

value​the​peasant’s​knowledge.​They

–imata campo runa yachanri nuqayku​

said–what​does​the​peasant​know?​We

Universidadpi yachayku, yachaykutaq​

studied​at​the​university,​and​we​know

kimiku venenochus manachus–,​

whether​the​chemical​(fertilizer)​is

ajinata paykunapis parlanku, jinapis​

poisonous​or​not.​That​is​the​way​they

compañeros, yachanchik imaptinchus​

speak,​comrades.​Thus​comrades,​we

parlanku chayta, mana kimikusta​

know​why​they​speak​like​that.​If​we

rantisunman chayqa, mana qulqi

did​not​buy​those​chemicals,​there

yaykunmanchu qhapaqkunapaq,​

would​be​no​income​for​the​rich.

chayta yachaspa paykunaqa, chay​

Because​they​know​that,​the​techni-

tecnicosqa, comunidadespi yachachispa​

cians​are​teaching​in​the​communities

kanku qhapaq runaq kawsayninman​

the​ways​of​the​rich,​they​defend​the

jina, paykunaqa qhapaq runaq​

way​of​life​of​the​rich.

kawsayninta jark’akunku​(Florencio Alarcón,​in​60:​4).

​ The​second​major​theme​in​the​Conosur​is​that​Quechua​yachay​is​expressed​and​socialized​in​many​places,​but​here​I​will​limit​myself​to​showing​ the​tension​of​two​locations:​the​school​and​the​community.​At​its​most​fundamental​level,​education​takes​place​within​the​community​and​the​organization: Sapa comuna ukhupi nuqayku pura​

Inside​every​community,​we​teach

yachachinakuyku​(Fructuoso​Vallejos,​

each​other.

in​64:10). Jatuchik tantakuykunaqa​

The​large​meetings​[congresses​and

chaqrarunakunapaqqa uk yachay​

union​leaders​meetings]​are​like

wasipis kanman jina​(67:6).​

schools​for​us​the​peasants.

Likewise,​there​is​a​clear​awareness​that​the​family​provides​a​better​education​than​schools​and​that​schools​must​respond​to​the​community’s​way​of​ life​and​productive​system:

Quechua Knowledge and Writings 105

Yachayqa mana yachay wasi​

Knowledge​is​not​found​only​in​the

ukhullapichu (64:10).​

schools.

Aswan allin wasipi mama tataq​

The​teachings​of​our​parents​at​home

yachachisqan, mana ni qhillqayta,​

were​better,​(even)​without​knowing

nitaq ñawiyta yachan​(64:11).​

how​to​read​or​write.

Educación nuqanchikpaq kawsaynin-​

Let​education​for​us​be​according​to

chikman jina, nuqanchikpaq​

our​culture,​according​to​our​work.

llank’ayninchikman jina kachun​(57:14).

​ A​specific​historical​case​that​illustrates​the​tension​between​family​and​ community​on​one​side​and​the​school​on​the​other​occurred​in​1986​in​Raqaypampa,​in​the​Mizque​highlands.​The​community​criticized​the​teachers​ for​being​arrogant​with​parents​and​community​leaders;​for​impeding​the​ children’s​ learning​ by​ teaching​ in​ Spanish​ instead​ of​ Quechua;​ and,​ perhaps​ most​ important,​ for​ not​ respecting​ the​ community’s​ work​ calendar.​ In​response,​the​parents​took​their​children​out​of​the​school.​The​following​ year​the​community​named​“peasant​teachers”​to​manage​the​school​in​the​ neighboring​community​of​Rumi​Muqu.​In​an​experiment​under​the​name​ Ayni​School​(Garcés​and​Guzmán​2006),​the​community​paid​these​teachers​with​products​and​labor​in​their​fields,​and,​in​turn,​the​teachers​taught​ in​Quechua​and​worked​from​June​24​to​September​24. ​ The​ conflict,​ which​ persisted​ until​ 1992,​ revolved​ around​ two​ central​points:​the​school​calendar​and​who​had​jurisdictional​authority.​On​ the​first​point,​community​members​argued​that​if​their​children​were​in​ school​when​they​were​needed​for​agricultural​work,​they​missed​the​opportunity​to​be​educated​by​their​parents​(Arratia​2001;​Garcés​and​Guzmán​2006).​On​the​second​point,​the​community​felt​that​the​school,​being​ practically​the​only​state​representative​in​the​community,​had​to​submit​ to​communal​authority​(Garcés​and​Guzmán​2006;​Regalsky​2003).​The​ Conosur​articles​from​those​years,​therefore,​emphasized​that​the​schools​ responded​to​the​interests​of​the​rich,​not​to​the​desires​and​needs​of​the​ peasant: yachanchik jina kunankamaqa educa-​

As​we​know,​up​to​this​date​(formal)

ción qhapaqkuna yachakunankupaq​

education​has​been​for​the​rich;​it​has

jina, mana nuqanchikpaq munaynin-​

not​been​(designed)​according​to​our

chikman jinachu (Florencio​Alarcón,

needs.

in​56:6). 106 FernanDo​garcés​V.

​ Building​from​this​experience,​people​emphasize​that​Educacionqa kawsayninchikmanta kawsayninchikpaq kanan tiyan​(“Education​has​to​be​[designed,​implemented]​from​our​life​and​for​our​life”)​(Garcés​and​Guzmán​ 2003).​On​the​basis​of​this​principle,​the​Educación​Intercultural​Bilingüe​ project​(Intercultural​Bilingual​Education,​or​eib )​is​criticized​as​being​imposed​ from​ outside​ and​ as​ being​ unsuitable​ to​ peasant​ life​ because,​ even​ though​ the​ project​ is​ bilingual,​ it​ does​ not​ respect​ the​ community’s​ time​ and​rhythms.​In​that​context,​the​experience​of​Rumi​Muqu​serves​as​a​valid​ counterproposal. Nuqa uchhikitanta niyta munani chay​

I​would​like​to​say​a​little​about​that

iskay qallupi yachanakuymanta (Edu-​

education​in​two​tongues​(Intercul-

cación Intercultural Bilingüe), nuqan-​

tural​Bilingual​Education),​we​are

chik chaqra llank’aypi tarikunchik​

peasants​but​those​teachings​(of

manataq kay yachakuykunamanta​

formal​education)​are​not​for​us,​are

mana nuqanchikpaq mana kawsaynin-​

not​designed​according​to​our​way​of

chikman jinachu. Chaytataq nuqa kay-​

life.​I​would​like​to​request​to​our

patamanta autoridadesninchikmanta​

authorities​up​here,​that​the​school​

mañakuni, nuqanchikpaq kawsaynin-

calendar​be​designed​according​to​our

chikman jina, calendario escolar ruwa​

life.​For​a​few​years,​we​have​placed​a

kunanta. Ñawpaq watamanta pachaña​

peasant​teacher​in​ayni​(reciprocity

nuqanchik aynipi uk campesino yacha-​

system),​and​he​is​teaching​according

chik churakuspa llank’aynin chikman​

to​our​work.​I​wish​they​work​in​just

jina risan, kikillantapuni llank’ananta​

that​manner,​as​in​the​Rumi​Muqu

yachay wasin Rumi Muqupi munani,​

school;​we​are​used​to​that.

chaywan nuqanchik yachasqa kachkanchik​(Nicolas​Pardo​in​52:4).

​ The​central​criterion​is​that​the​indigenous​organization​must​control​any​ educational​proposal.​School​calendars,​teachers,​and​curriculum​must​all​ respect​community​values.​On​the​question​of​calendars,​if​the​school​functions​during​the​seasonal​peak​of​agricultural​labor,​it​breaks​the​community’s​educational​time: Nuqaykupaq chay tiempo escuela kanan​

For​us,​for​all​the​peasants​the​school

mana waliq kasqanta k’ala entero​

time​is​not​good.​I​had​thought​that

agricultorespaq. Nuqa qhawarqani​

the​time​we​relax​in​our​farming,

mayk’aqchus ima tiempochus nuqayku​

that’s​when​the​schools​for​the​chil-

llank’ayniykumanta llawqiyaykuman​

dren​should​start.​The​fact​is​that​our Quechua Knowledge and Writings 107

chaymanta qallarinman escuelas​

life​is​of​one​kind,​and​the​life​of​the

wawaspaq . . . Nuqaykuqta kawsayniy-

cities​is​of​another​type.

kuqawaqjinataq, llaqtaq kawsaynin waqjinataq (Luis​Albarracín,​in​38:13).

On​the​question​of​teachers​and​curriculum,​for​the​school​truly​to​belong​to​ the​community,​it​must​have​its​own​peasant​teacher​so​that​Quechua​children​can​study​according​to​their​own​knowledge​and​language​and​at​the​ same​time​benefit​from​the​knowledge​of​their​elders: Waturirqayku, imaraykutaq mana​

We​asked​why​are​there​not​teachers

kanchu maestros campesinos wawa-​

to​teach​the​peasants’​children?​It

kunata yachachinapaq? Waliq kanman​

would​be​good​that​the​children​at

wawakuna escuelapi yachakunanku​

school​learn​about​what​we​have​on​

imataq jallp’a patapi kapuwasqan-​

the​soil,​about​our​knowledge,​our

chikmanta, yachayninchikmanta,​

organization​as​unions,​and​all​of

organización sindicalmanta, kay​

this​in​our​Quechua​tongue.​We

tukuytaqa qhichwa qallunchikpi.​

could​also​make​an​exchange​of​the

Atillasunmantaq intercambio de​

so-​called​knowledges,​resorting​to​the

conocimientos nisqata ruwayta, kuraq​

knowledge​of​our​elders,​so​we​could

tatakunaq yachayninta uqharispa, ​

walk​according​to​that​(knowledge).

chayman jina purinapaq (Un comunario​de​Tacachi,​in​83:7).

​ The​third​major​theme​in​the​Conosur​on​the​subject​of​Quechua​peasant​ yachay​is​its​close​linkage​to​the​language​in​which​it​is​expressed​(Garcés​ 2005a).​From​the​perspective​of​the​geopolitics​of​knowledge,​indigenous​ languages​have​been​subalter(n)ized,​or​constructed​as​inferior,​in​the​process​of​colonial​differentiation.​The​knowledge​expressed​in​indigenous​languages​has​been​dismissed​as​a​knowledge​that,​in​the​best​of​cases,​expresses​ the​emotive​environment​of​these​communities​of​speakers​(Ong​1982).​eib​ programs,​on​the​other​hand,​have​attempted​to​normalize​and​standardize​ indigenous​languages,​to​give​them​an​inscribed​written​form,​and​to​revalorize​indigenous​knowledge.​Among​the​psycholinguistic​justifications​for​ eib ​programs​has​ been​the​promise​ of​better​cognitive​ development​ and​ scholarly​results​through​learning​in​the​mother​tongue​(López​and​Küper​ 2000). ​ What​we​find​in​Conosur,​however,​is​that​the​Quechua​language​cannot​ be​studied​in​isolation​from​the​power​relations​in​which​it​is​embedded.​The​ 108 FernanDo​garcés​V.

discrimination​experienced​by​the​Quechua​peasant​is​seen​as​similar​to​the​ discrimination​Quechua​suffers​as​a​language: Qhishwa parlayninchista k’alata​

They​are​allowing​our​Quechua

kunankamaqa saruchisanku kastillanu​

language​to​be​completely​stepped

rimaywan​(33:12).​

upon​by​the​Spanish​language.

Because​of​this,​Quechua​positions​itself​conflictively​and​in​opposition​to​ Spanish;​to​compete​with​Spanish​means​to​defend,​value,​and​develop​one’s​ own​culture: Qhishwata pataman tanqananchik​

We​have​to​push​Quechua​upward

tiyan maqanachinapaq waq qalluwan.​

so​that​it​can​compete​with​another

Chantapis kulturanchikta astawan​

tongue.​Also​to​raise​our​culture

pataman uqharinapaq​(Pablo​Vargas,​

higher.

in​59:10).

The​study​of​Quechua​is​never​an​end​in​itself.​In​order​to​serve​as​a​tool​of​ liberation,​it​must​operate​in​tandem​with​other​strategies,​such​as​its​written​inscription​according​to​its​oral​use​and​not​according​to​what​a​group​ of​planners​says: Tukuy campesinos qhishwa parlay-​

All​the​peasants​who​are​speaking​in

ninchispi rimaspa qhilqasunchis.​

our​language​will​also​write.​From

Kunan manta ñawpaqmanjinamanta​

now​on,​in​this​way​we​shall​raise​our

par layninchista uqharisunchis, kay​ KULLASUYU llaqtanchispi imaray-​ kuchus kay phisqapachaq wataña​ qhishwa parlaq runaqa engañasqa​ rikukuyku tukuy imapi. Chaymanta​ qhishwa rimayninchispi qhilqasunchis​ chayqa librostapis ruwasunchis parlay-​ ninchisman jina (Santos​Albarracín, in​39:16).

language.​Because​in​the​Qulla​Suyu, we​the​Quechua-​speaking​people​have found​ourselves​deceived​in​every thing​for​five​hundred​years.​That’s why,​if​we​write​in​our​Quechua language,​we​will​make​the​books according​to​our​own​speech.

​ In​this​sense,​Quechua​can​be​an​instrument​of​liberation​or​oppression,​ as​happened​in​the​colonial​period.​It​would​seem​that​the​key​matter​is​not​ only​to​develop,​inscribe​in​writing,​or​intellectualize​the​language,​but​to​ determine​what​practical​purposes​and​sociopolitical​practices​the​language​ can​serve.​In​this​sense,​the​language—like​communal​institutions​themselves—can​be​put​in​the​service​of​systems​of​state​control: Quechua Knowledge and Writings 109

Gobierno qallunchikpi apay munach-​

The​government​is​trying​to​lead​us​to

kawanchik paykunaq yuyayninllanku-​

their​thinking​in​our​own​tongue.

manta​(Félix​Santos,​in​57:14).

​ This​brings​me​to​the​fourth​and​final​theme​in​the​Conosur​dealing​with​ Quechua​yachay,​which​is​that​Quechua​peasant​knowledge​has​two​closely​ related​roots​that​feed​it:​the​peasant​system​of​production​and​reproduction​and​the​indigenous​peasant​community.​In​relation​to​the​first​root,​the​ Conosur​collects​Quechua​knowledge​on​such​topics​as​how​granaries​are​ built,​which​varieties​of​corn​seed​are​known,​and​what​medicinal​plants​ are​present​in​a​particular​area​and​how​should​they​be​used.​It​also​uses​research​ cenDa ​has​conducted​in​Raqaypampa​over​many​years​to​demonstrate​the​benefits​of​the​Quechua​productive​system. ​ Perhaps​one​of​the​most​important​topics​is​weather​prediction,​and​the​ Conosur​has​dedicated​abundant​space​to​it.​As​a​front-​page​headline​in​PCÑ​ 32​proclaimed,​“Predicting​the​weather​is​peasant​wisdom.”​Later​on​in​the​ same​issue​(8–9),​several​community​members’​testimonies​on​the​topic​are​ presented​in​a​section​entitled,​“The​principal​peasant​art​is​weather​forecasting.”​The​section​then​concludes​in​Spanish:​“The​principal​art​of​peasants​continues​to​be​predicting​the​exact​behavior​of​the​rains​and,​accordingly,​to​organize​the​planting​of​different​crops​in​the​best​places​and​on​the​ best​soils​to​ensure​the​rains’​maximum​advantage”​(32:20).​This​continuous​ concern​is​perhaps​best​represented​in​the​annual​Weather​Prediction​Contest.​In​64:8,​we​find​an​annual​announcement: Kay wata 1995–1996 qallarikullanña-​

This​year​1995–1996​has​already

taq, imaynataq kay wata kanqa,​

begun,​how​is​this​year​going​to​be?

watuna kachkan, amañana siñakuna​

We​have​to​ask,​we​need​to​predict

qhawayta: sach’akuna, wayra, chiri,​

how​it​will​be,​accustomed​as​we​are

uywakuna, phuyukuna, waqkuna ima​

to​reading​the​signs:​the​trees,​the

chayllamanta astawan waliq kanan​

wind,​the​domestic​animals,​the

tarpuyninchik. Kay watapaq para​

clouds​and​other​things;​for​making

imaynataq kanqa, mayqin makistataq​

our​farm​fields​better.​How​will​the

para yanapanqa, manachayqa luku​

rain​for​this​year​be,​who​will​the​rain

parachu kanqa, imaynataq?​

help,​or​will​the​rain​be​a​downpour,

​

how​will​it​be?

The​newspaper​interviews​participating​elders​and​publishes​the​different​ versions​of​their​forecasts​for​the​upcoming​agricultural​year.​At​the​end​of​ 110 FernanDo​garcés​V.

each​cycle,​the​newspaper​evaluates​the​cycle​in​relation​to​the​readers’​testimonies​and​selects​the​elder​with​the​closest​prediction.​By​means​of​this​ contest​the​newspaper​seeks​to​preserve​and​stimulate​the​circulation​of​the​ Quechua​yachay​about​weather​prediction​and​hopes​that​writing​will​safeguard​this​yachay​given​that​global​climate​change​is​endangering​weather​ prediction: Ñawpa kuraqkuna astawan yachaq​

The​elders​are​the​ones​who​know

kanku kay tiempo qhawaymantaqa.​

more​about​these​weather​predictions.

Kay tiempo runasqa mana anchata​

The​people​of​today​do​not​know

yachankuñachu. Yachaymanchus​

very​much.​If​I​knew​how​to​read

ñawiyta, qhilqayta imaqa, tukuy​

and​write,​I​would​write​down​all​my

qhawasqayta sapa wata qhilqiyman​

predictions​for​the​year​on​paper​so

papelpi mana qunqanapaq. Ikillapis​

that​they​are​not​forgotten.​Probably,

tukuy yachankuman tiempoman​

all​would​already​know​about​the

jinañachu. Chaytaq qhasiman rin​

weather​in​that​way​(written​down

llank’anku​(Fermín​Vallejos,​in​39:8).​

on​paper).​But​they​work​in​vain

​

(if​they​do​not​observe​the​signs).

​ The​newspaper​works​as​well​to​preserve​knowledges​that​serve​to​control​ plagues​like​the​ch’iñi laqatu​(weevils​of​the​Andes)​and​degenerative​diseases​like​the​saq’u.​As​the​newspaper​affirms,​Yachayninchiqwan khurukunamanta jark’akuna​(104:14)​(“With​our​knowledge​let​us​defend​ourselves​ from​the​plagues”).​The​topic​of​traditional​medicine​is​covered​in​articles​ on​the​uses​of​traditional​medicinal​plants​such​as​rosemary​and​horsetail​ (PCÑ ​38:7). ​ The​second​root​that​sustains​peasant​knowledge​is​the​social​organization​of​the​community.​Because​modern​techniques​often​seek​to​destroy​ communal​organizations​by​imposing​a​different​rationality​of​production​ on​them,​one​of​the​principal​topics​of​the​Quechua​yachay​deals​with​the​ subject​and​practices​of​development.​ PCÑ ​32:8​reports​that​state​institutions​as​well​as​agrochemical​companies​and​their​sales​representatives​pressure​peasants​to​“modernize.”​According​to​them,​peasant​agriculture​would​ benefit​ through​ the​introduction​ of​improved​ seeds,​ the​increased​use​ of​ chemical​fertilizers,​pesticides,​herbicides,​and​insecticides,​and​the​introduction​of​mechanization.​Mechanization​is​also​achieved​through​regularizing​the​size​(medianización)​of​the​agricultural​plots.​Afterward,​the​newspaper​cites​cenDa ​experiments​that​show​a​rather​different​reality,​namely,​ that​“the​introduction​of​improved​seeds​or​the​increase​in​fertilizers​and​ Quechua Knowledge and Writings 111

pesticides​are​of​secondary​importance​and​sometimes​detrimental​to​crop​ yields;​while​traditional​peasant​knowledge​about​weather​prediction​(in​relation​to​soils​and​plants)​continues​to​be​what​defines​the​success​or​failure​ of​a​crop.”22 ​ cenDa ,​in​agreement​with​a​local​organization,​carried​out​a​series​of​ tests​on​fifteen​plots​of​land​in​Raqaypampa​community​during​the​1987–88​ agricultural​cycle.​The​results,​presented​in​ PCÑ ​32,​contained​three​main​ points.​First,​the​local​varieties​of​potato​are​more​productive​than​the​newly​ introduced​“improved”​variety,​since​they​have​the​advantage​of​suitability​ to​the​type​of​rain​and​soils​of​the​area.​Second,​fertilization​does​not​ensure​greater​production​because​a​hailstorm​or​lack​of​rain​can​reverse​its​ positive​effects.​And​third,​the​technological​element​of​greatest​importance​ is​ weather​ management,​ which​ implies​ weather​ forecasting​ in​ relation​ to​ suitable​varieties​for​the​types​of​terrain,​the​dates​of​planting​chosen​according​ to​ the​ types​ of​ soil​ and​ varieties,​ and​ the​ management​ of​ family​ members’​labor.​“In​other​words,”​the​article​concludes,​“the​most​important​ techniques​in​the​region’s​agriculture​are​based​entirely​on​peasants’​traditional​knowledge​and,​by​comparison,​‘modern​technology’​can​make​few​ solid​and​effective​contributions.”23 ​ A​series​of​articles​in​the​Conosur​critiques​patents,​the​appropriation​of​ peasant-​indigenous​knowledge​by​transnational​agro-​food​and​pharmaceutical​companies,​and​institutions​that​introduce​into​the​communities​technological​packages​inherited​from​the​green​revolution.​Examples​of​the​first​ case​are​found​in​ PCÑ ​nos.​76​and​77–78,​which​discuss​the​patent​of​quinoa,​the​protest​by​the​National​Association​of​Quinoa​Producers,​and​the​ patent’s​subsequent​annulment.​ PCÑ ​86:8​contains​an​article​denouncing​ Monsanto’s​attempts​to​introduce​transgenetic​seeds​into​the​country. ​ The​link​between​the​yachay​and​communal​organization​is​a​subject​of​ great​importance​to​the​newspaper.​It​could​be​said​that​knowledge​is​valued​ because​of​the​ways​in​which​it​contributes​to​strengthening​communal​organization.​While​individual​knowledge​may​be​more​prestigious​in​a​national​imagined​community,​it​does​not​work​at​the​community​level:24 ñawpata papasusninchik mana qill-​

In​the​past​our​parents​did​not​know

qayta, ñawiyta yacharqankuchu, jinapis​

how​to​read​or​write,​but​in​spite​of

organización sindical sumaq purichik​

this​they​made​the​Union​function

kanku. Nuqanchik ñawpata jina uk​

well.​We​have​to​walk​as​in​the​past,

runa jinalla purinanchik tiyan, sut’inta​

as​one​single​man,​speaking​the​truth;

112 FernanDo​garcés​V.

parlana, nuqanchikqa uk chhika​

knowing​a​little​bit,​we​are​already

yachaytawankama ñapis politikuq

grabbing​the​tails​of​the​politicians,

chupanta jap’itawan purichkanchik,​

sticking​to​one​or​another;​in​that​way

ukman ukman k’askachkanchik,​

we​will​never​overcome​this​life​of

chaywanqa mana ni jayk’aq kay llakiy

misery.

kawsay sarusunchu​(56:6).

​ Modern​knowledge,​therefore,​is​unable​to​offer​organizational​strength,​ and​education​cannot​consist​only​in​knowing​how​to​read​and​write;​rather,​ it​must​involve​knowing​local​Andean​technology​and​communal​organizational​forms: Educacionqa mana ñawiriy-​

Education​is​not​only​reading​and

qillqariyllachu, kawsayniykumanta​

writing.​We​created​the​Communal

‘tecnología andina’ yachayta, sindi-​

Council​of​Education​because​we

calismota yachay wasiman churayta​

wanted​to​introduce​Andean​tech-

munaspa Consejo Comunal de Educa-​

nology​and​unionization​to​the

ciontaqa jatarichirqayku​(Florencio​

school.

Alarcón,​in​64:10).

Quechua​yachay​and​the​social​organization​that​sustains​it​are​intimately​connected:​if​unique​organizational​forms​are​lost,​social​knowledge​is​also​lost.​ Consequently,​it​does​not​make​sense​to​defend​peasant​knowledge​in​and​of​ itself,​but​in​close​connection​with​the​preservation​of​territorial​autonomy: Ñawpataqa yakuyuq jallp’akunapiqa​

Before,​there​was​water​for​irrigation

karqapuni qarpanapaqqa, comunidad​

and​the​community​with​the​union

sindicatowan khuska apaykachaq​

organized​turns​for​everyone.​They

kanku mit’asta, paykuna rak’iq kanku​

would​distribute​the​water.​In​recent

yakutaqa. Kay qhipamanri Instituciones​

times,​however,​development​agencies

de desarrollo q’alata tukuyniqman​

put​us​all​together​and​carried​out

junt’aykamuwanchik, paykunataq ​

public​works​in​the​communities:

comunidadespiqa ruwanku obrasta: ​

irrigation​canals​that​are​paved​and

canales de riego cementowan, jatuchik​

blocked​off.​With​public​works​like

quchas tukuy imata. Kay jina​

these,​the​knowledge​of​the​commu-

obraswanqa comunidadpaq yachay-

nity​disappears,​neither​is​this​in​the

ninqa chinkan, sindicatopis manaña​

hands​of​the​unions;​these​institutions

makinpichu jap’in, chay institucionesqa​

ordered​us​to​create​new​associations

kamachinku jatarinanta Asociaciones​

or​committees​for​irrigation.

manachay Comités de Riego”​(68:11). Quechua Knowledge and Writings 113

​ The​link​of​the​yachay​with​communal​organization​and​territorial​autonomy​is,​however,​located​in​a​broader​context​that​seeks​independence​ from​the​institutions​and​foreign​nations​attempting​to​change​peasant​life​ in​order​to​incorporate​it​into​capitalism: Campesino yachan, tukuy imamanta​

The​peasant​knows.​He​has​experience

experiencia tiyan: tiempota qhawan,​

with​everything:​he​watches​(predicts)

jallp’ata llank’ayta, mujuta churayta,​

the​weather,​works​the​soil,​sows​the

trojaspi mikhunapaq waqaychayta,​

seeds,​knows​what​to​store​for​eating

vendenanpaq ima. Tukuy kayta organi-​

and​what​to​sell.​All​of​this​is​done

zacionninwan mana dependespa ni​

independently,​with​the​organization,

pimanta. Wakin Institucionesqa mana​

without​depending​on​anyone.​Some

qhawankuchu, mana yuyankuchu.​

institutions​do​not​see,​do​not​think.

Mana kay culturasta respetaspalla,​

Without​respecting​the​culture​they

cambio socialta mask’anku nispa ninku. ​ strive​for​social​change.​They​want​us Jawa nacionesmanta dependenanta​

to​depend​on​other​countries,​to

munanku chaywan culturanchista

change​our​culture.

cambiananta (Dirigentes​de​Campero, in​37:11).

The​communal​organization​of​the​Quechua​peasantry,​then,​is​not​simply​ an​administrative​apparatus,​but​also​the​main​line​of​defense​and​control​ of​territory​in​order​to​preserve​political​autonomy​in​the​face​of​attempts​ at​destructuring​by​the​state​and​transnational​capital.​As​the​fundamental​ element​in​the​historical​continuity​of​Quechua​communities,​it​also​oversees​other​entities​present​in​the​community,​such​as​the​school,​and​controls​access​to​resources.​It​is​for​this​reason​that​the​resolutions​of​a​peasant​ congress​in​Campero​province​(PCÑ ​42:5)​prohibit​merchants​from​cutting​ trees​in​the​forest​and​selling​the​wood;​request​that​the​csutcb ​guard​the​ communities’​forests​by,​among​other​measures,​ensuring​that​the​lumber​ companies​do​not​profit​from​the​sale​of​communal​forests;​and​prohibit​ merchants​from​stealing​and​selling​trees​that​belong​to​the​communities.

Conclusions: Rethinking Power, Knowledge, and Linguistic Practice Historically,​ Quechua’s​ process​ of​ inscription​ and​ system​ of​ writing​ have​ been​unable​to​get​beyond​their​use​for​specific​ends,​such​as​religious​conversion​and​training,​education,​and​so​on.​In​general,​linguistic​policy​in​ relation​ to​ minority​ or​ oppressed​ languages​ basically​ exists​ solely​ to​ pro114 FernanDo​garcés​V.

mote​the​written​inscription​of​these​languages.​In​the​Bolivian​case,​over​ the​past​few​years​the​main​effort​has​been​to​develop​a​process​of​the​inscription​of​Quechua​through​two​fundamental​mechanisms:​the​standardization​of​Quechua​writing​through​a​unified​orthographic​normative,​the​ creation​of​neologisms​and​the​establishment​of​a​certain​morpho-​syntactic​ normative;​and​the​diffusion​of​this​generalized​system​through​the​Educational​Reform.25 ​ Bolivian​linguistic​policy​toward​Quechua,​even​if​supposedly​a​policy​ of​recovery,​is​being​formulated​on​the​basis​of​four​arguable​assumptions:​ (1)​that​the​maintenance​and​revitalization​of​Quechua​must​be​built​from​its​ inscription​in​writing​and​through​teaching​it​in​the​schools;​(2)​that​a​pan-​ Andean​unification​of​Quechua​will​promote​the​empowerment​and​the​destigmatization​ of​Quechua​ speakers;​ (3)​ that​ the​written​ form’s​ standardization​is​key​to​the​language’s​development​and​fortification;​and​(4)​that​ historical​criteria​are​the​best​guide​for​developing​a​standard​form​when​ faced​with​existing​dialectical​variation​(Luykx​2001).​As​Luykx​notes,​these​ assumptions​emphasize​a​linguistic​policy​that​(a)​directs​efforts​to​situations​ in​ which​ Quechua​ is​ at​ a​ disadvantage​ with​ Spanish;​ (b)​ prioritizes​ the​preoccupations​of​language​and​educational​planners​above​those​of​the​ Quechua-​speaking​majority;​and​(c)​links​dialectical​variation​to​the​prestige​and​hierarchy​of​one​class,​which​stigmatizes​nonstandardized​varieties. ​ This​policy​starts​from​a​set​of​criteria​developed​with​reference​to​Spanish​ and​ the​ interests​ of​ policymakers,​ including​ criteria​ of​ inscription​ in​ writing,​scholasticization,​pan-​Andean​standardization,​and​historicism.​In​ an​attempt​to​overcome​diglossia,​policymakers​are​elaborating​a​prestige-​ based,​ academicist​ model​ that​ prioritizes​ intellectualization​ and​ writing.​ They​do​not​begin​from​the​linguistic​reality​of​the​majority​of​speakers​or​ from​their​concrete​communicational​interests​and​necessities.​In​the​end,​ they​do​not​pay​attention​to​the​language’s​own​sociocommunicative​capital,​ but​instead​seek​to​impose​its​standardization​through​a​comparison​with​ the​practices​of​the​language​and​the​group​in​power. ​ What​ I​ have​ attempted​ to​ show​ here​ is​ that​ the​ Conosur Ñawpagman​ newspaper​offers​a​way​to​research​writing​as​it​emerges​from​concrete​linguistic​practices.​This​is​especially​interesting​because​it​deals​with​an​extra-​ scholastic​experience​that​seeks​to​inscribe​speakers’​oral​discourse.​I​think​ that​in​this​process​there​is​potential​for​developing​a​written​inscription​that​ has​not​received​much​attention​in​terms​of​linguistic​planning,​one​that​ seeks​to​overcome​normative​and​elitist​visions.​The​very​creation​of​neoloQuechua Knowledge and Writings 115

gisms​ would​ benefit​ from​ the​ incorporation​ of​ speakers’​ everyday​ metaphors,​rather​than​resorting​to​desktop​creations​or​to​the​resurrection​of​ obsolete​historical​forms​which,​even​if​passionately​sought​after​by​the​linguist,​sound​strange​to​contemporary​speakers. ​ As​for​the​topic​of​the​Quechua​yachay,​I​think​it​is​important​to​reflect— even​if​hypothetically—on​the​relations​between​knowledge​and​territoriality.​As​the​topic​of​local,​indigenous,​or​native​knowledge​has​become​central​to​the​academic​agenda​of​many​intellectuals,​whether​indigenous​or​ not,​we​risk​building​a​decontextualized,​abstract​discourse​about​indigenous​knowledge​that​can​be​managed​by​global​capitalism.​If​this​happens,​ indigenous​knowledges​would​be​disqualified​in​the​name​of​science​and​ progress​even​as​global​capitalism​sought,​through​legal​mechanisms,​to​appropriate​and​pillage​those​very​same​knowledges. ​ Within​the​current​system​of​globalization,​the​development​of​biotechnology​ and​ the​ appropriation​ of​ the​ collective​ knowledge​ of​ indigenous-​ peasant​ communities​ could​ constitute​ an​ important​ resource​ for​ capitalism​when​faced​with​crisis.​We​are​on​the​verge​of​a​qualitative​leap​in​how​ knowledge​can​be​linked​to​relations​of​neocolonial​domination​in​the​contemporary​world,​in​the​sense​that​it​can​“immediately​and​directly​create​ new​forms​of​subordination​and​new​relations​of​domination​and​exploitation”​(Lander​2002b,​73). ​ For​those​who​have​created​the​global​order,​Western​knowledge​is​objective​ and​ universal​ and​ therefore​ worthy​ of​ protection​ through​ private​ property​ rights.​ Other​ knowledges​ are​ nonknowledge​ and​ can​ therefore​ be​appropriated​through​pillage​and​piracy.​Scientific​and​entrepreneurial​ knowledge​is​the​knowledge,​meaning​it​has​to​be​protected​by​exacting​payment​for​its​use.​Here​we​have​“one​of​the​most​important​methods​for​the​ concentration​of​power​and​the​increase​in​the​inequalities​that​characterize​ the​current​globalization​process.​For​that​reason,​it​constitutes​one​of​the​ more​significant​dimensions​in​the​geopolitics​of​contemporary​capitalism”​ (Lander​2002b,​74). ​ The​development​of​biotechnology​has​recently​seen​impressive​advances​ with​experiments​in​cloning,​genetically​modified​crops,​and​the​decoding​ of​the​human​genome.​To​realize​such​development,​biotechnology​requires​ legal​ and​ commercial-​economic​ security​ mechanisms,​ designed​ over​ the​ course​of​several​years,​to​allow​it​unfettered​accumulation.​In​recent​international​agreements​and​treaties,​such​as​naFta ,​the​creation​in​1995​of​the​ World​Trade​Organization,​efforts​to​subscribe​to​the​Multilateral​Invest116 FernanDo​garcés​V.

ment​Agenda,​and​now​attempts​to​formalize​even​further​“free​trade”​negotiations​such​as​the​ Ftaa ​and​the​Andean​free​trade​agreement,​the​topics​ related​to​agriculture​and​intellectual​property​rights​receive​a​great​deal​of​ attention. ​ It​was​no​accident​that​in​these​agreements​and​treaties​the​concept​of​ intellectual​ property​ rights​ was​ expanded;​ it​ no​ longer​ is​ limited​ to​ that​ which​is​invented,​but​now​includes​that​which​is​discovered.​As​has​been​ true​for​over​five​hundred​years,​colonial​modernity​continues​discovering​ and​conquering.​Before,​colonial​modernity​discovered​America,​meaning​it​ became​aware​of​that​which​was​previously​unknown​to​it,​and​that​awareness​translated​into​conquest,​domination,​and​accumulation.​Today,​colonial​ modernity​ discovers​ genetic​ diversity​ and​ privatizes​ the​ rights​ to​ access​and​use​of​the​planet’s​genetic-​biological​wealth.​In​both​cases,​previous​ knowledge—collective,​orally​circulated,​and​indigenous—does​not​count​ or​even​exist.​Only​colonial–imperial​jurisprudence​has​the​power​to​create​ and​to​give​the​ability​to be​to​nature,​to​human​beings,​and​to​their​knowledge. ​ A​few​years​ago​during​the​triumphant​green​revolution,​which​promised​to​abolish​world​hunger,​the​knowledge​of​allegedly​ignorant​Indians​ and​peasants​was​denied​in​the​name​of​a​modern​scientific​perspective​that​ boasted​objectivity,​precision,​and​veracity.​Driven​by​this​denial,​missionaries​of​development​poured​into​peasant​and​indigenous​communities​to​ teach​Indians​how​to​sow,​what​seeds​to​use,​and​how​to​increase​production.​Today,​people​continue​to​deny​that​Indian​knowledge​is​knowledge​ (conocimiento)—at​most,​it​gets​to​be​wisdom​(saber)​or​ethnic​wisdom— but​community​knowledge​is​surreptitiously​usurped,​robbed,​plundered.​ The​knowledge​of​Indians​is​not​worthy​of​written​legal​protection,​but​it​is​ very​useful​to​unfettered​capitalist​accumulation. ​ In​ the​ PCÑ ,​ indigenous​ peasant​ knowledge​ and​ Quechua​ yachay​ are​ linked​to​the​political​and​territorial​autonomy​of​communities​and​their​ organizations.​Quechua​yachay​defends​the​indigenous​peasant​way​of​life​ and​is​a​weapon​to​combat​governmental​and​nongovernmental​development​policies.​In​this​sense,​yachayninchik​~​yachayniyku​(“Our​knowledge​ [inclusive]​~​knowledge​ [exclusive​ of​second​person]”)​is​related​to​kawsayninchik​~​kawsayniyku​(“Our​life​~​life”)​as​an​expression​of​a​territorial​presence.​In​the​voices​represented​by​the​newspaper,​almost​everything​ must​be​kawsayninchikman jina​(“According​to​our​life”):​the​organization,​ education,​environmental​management,​health,​and​so​forth. Quechua Knowledge and Writings 117

​ As​such,​it​does​not​make​much​sense​to​speak​of​local​or​indigenous​ knowledge​in​the​abstract.​Defending​it​makes​sense​only​in​the​context​of​ the​struggle​for​the​territorial​revindication​of​Bolivia’s​indigenous​peasant​ movement.​This​knowledge​is​linked​to​the​control​of​territory​understood​ as​ a​ defense​ of​ communal​ jurisdiction​ and​ peasant​ autonomy​ before​ the​ state​and​a​defense​from​the​attacks​of​global​capitalism. ​ This​ struggle​ against​ racism​ is​ expressed​ in​ multiple​ ways​ and​ has​ inspired​don​Roberto​Albarracín​to​say: Maypi yachayninchiq, rimayninchiq,​

Where​have​our​knowledge​and

wich’usqa kasanman karqa. Nuqanchiq​

our​words​been​wasted?​We​were

yachananchiq karqa. Nuqanchiq​

supposed​to​know.​We​are​Quechuas.

qhiswaruna kanchiq. Nuqa chayta​

I​ask​myself​that,​I​would​like​to

tapurikuni, yachayta munayman​

know.

(Roberto​Albarracín,​in​46:1).

The​ideas​presented​in​this​essay​run​parallel​to​the​question​don​Roberto​ asks​from​within​his​community.​Taking​as​a​pre-​text​the​voices​of​the​Conosur Ñawpagman​newspaper,​I​have​attempted​to​understand,​through​continual​discussion​with​community​members​and​leaders​in​Raqaypampa​and​ Ayopaya,​where​and​how​the​knowledge​and​words​that​are​uncomfortable​ for​global​capital​are​being​lost.​I​am​conscious​that,​as​a​q’ara,​and​since​I​ am​known​to​belong​to​this​space​of​academic​power,​I​can​be​a​discursive​ tool​and​act​as​a​jawamanta yachay​(“knowledge​from​abroad”),​enabling​ the​interstitial​resistance​of​Quechua’s​yachay.​In​this​way​I​seek​to​convey​ the​idea​that​don​Roberto’s​question​is​not​final,​that​such​knowledge​and​ such​words​have​not​been​entirely​lost.​They​are​worth​the​impertinence​of​ continuing​to​live,​the​impertinence​of​continuing​to​bloom,​as​Tata​Fermín​ knew​so​well: Kay pata chiri jallp’akuna pampas​

These​high​and​cold​lands​are​ours,

ñuqanchikpata, ñawpa tatakunanchik​

our​old​ancestors’​inheritance,​we​live

saqisqanku, kaypi tiyakunchik. Chay-​

here.​And​that​is​nondisappearing,

taqrimana chinkaq, mana tukukuq,​

never​ending,​we​continue​living​even

kunankamapis kawsachkallanchikpuni,​

to​this​day,​left​(to​live)​here,​to​die​in

kay kikinpi saqisqas, kikinpi wañuq,​

the​same​place,​to​live​in​the​same

kikinpi kawsaq. Mana waq llaqtaman-​

place.​We​have​not​appeared​in

tachu rikhurinchik, kay kikin llaqtayuq​

another​land,​we​belong​to​this​land,

118 FernanDo​garcés​V.

kanchik, qhurajina kanchik mujumanta​

we​are​as​weeds​that​return​from​the

watanpaq watanpaq kutirin mana​

seeds​year​after​year,​never​ending,​we

tukukuq, qhura jina mana tukukuq

are​as​weeds​that​die​out​not.

kanchik​(Fermín​Vallejos​1995:3–4).

Notes I​thank​Florencia​Mallon,​not​only​for​inviting​me​to​the​conference​that​provided​ the​framework​for​this​paper,​but​also​for​her​comments​on​my​work.​I​also​thank​ Pedro​Plaza,​who​helped​me​with​the​translation​of​Quechua​texts​into​Eng​lish,​and​ Soledad​Guzmán,​who​helped​me​shorten​the​presentation.​I​dedicate​this​article​to​ my​brother,​Armando​Muyulema,​who​knows​the​creative​and​transformative​power​ of​language,​both​in​its​oral​and​its​written​forms. ​ 1.​Throughout​this​essay​I​opt​for​using​the​phrase​inscription in writing​and​the​ word​writing​in​place​of​literacidad,​ever​more​common​in​the​existing​bibliography​ as​a​loanword​of​the​Eng​lish​literacy.​In​spite​of​Zavala’s​justification,​I​think​literacidad​evokes​in​Spanish​the​world​of​literature,​marked​by​its​elitist​and​academic​(ilustrado)​character.​I​agree​with​Zavala’s​definition​of​the​term:​“A​social​phenomenon​ that​is​not​restricted​to​technical​learning​in​the​educational​arena”​(Zavala​2002,​15).​ I​will​refer​to​this​publication​as​the​Conosur,​the​PCÑ ,​or​the newspaper​throughout​ the​text.​Ñawpagman​means​“go​forward.” ​ 2.​Yachay​can​be​translated​as​“knowledge.”​However,​it​is​the​basis​of​an​entire​ semantic​field​related​to​knowledge,​learning,​teaching,​and​even​to​a​way​of​life.​For​ an​ethnographic​study​on​this​concept,​see​García​(2005). ​ 3.​The​Cuna​peoples​use​the​term​Abya Yala,​meaning​“mature​and​fertile​earth,”​ to​name​America.​Many​countries’​indigenous​organizations​have​adopted​this​term​ to​refer​to​a​geographical​space.​If​to​name​is​to​struggle,​as​Muyulema​states​(2001,​ 328),​and​if​America​and​Latin​America​result​from​naming​policies​that​partially​ implanted​ the​ conquistadors​ in​ this​ communication,​ then​ I​ insert​ myself​ in​ that​ struggle.​I​thus​opt​to​use​Abya Yala​to​refer​to​what​has​usually​been​constructed​as​ America​or​Latin​America. ​ 4.​In​two​of​the​regions​that​witnessed​recovery​of​territory​in​Cochabamba​Department,​peasant​ organizations​ stated​ their​organizational​ position​in​their​legal​ documents​ as​ “Unified​ Regional​ Trade​ Union​ of​ Indigenous​ Peasants​ of​ Raqaypampa”​and​“Unified​Regional​Trade​Union​of​Indigenous​Peasant​Workers​of​Ayopaya.” ​ 5.​The​term​pacha​is​one​of​the​richest,​most​complex​terms​in​Quechua’s​semantic​universe.​It​refers​to​the​entire​and​very​ample​spectrum​of​space​and​time​in​ which​we​are​located. ​ 6.​This​section​is​a​synthesis​of​a​previous​discussion​(Garcés​2005b,​82–104). Quechua Knowledge and Writings 119

​ 7.​The​same​group​that​started​the​newspaper​had​created​cenDa ,​a​nongovernmental​organization,​the​previous​year.​At​first,​cenDa ​worked​on​the​issue​of​introduced​technologies​and​their​effects​on​peasant​communities,​primarily​the​community​of​Raqaypampa. ​ 8.​Evo​Morales,​leader​of​the​Peasant​Federations​from​Cochabamba’s​Tropical​ Region,​founded​the​Mas ​political​party.​In​June​2002​Mas ​participated​in​national​ elections​and​won​20​percent​of​the​votes​(1​percent​less​than​the​Movimiento​Nacionalista​Revolucionario,​Gonzalo​Sánchez​de​Lozada’s​party)​and​thirty-​five​parliamentary​seats​in​the​Congress​(Postero,​2005). ​ 9.​At​one​point​the​newspaper​carried​out​an​experiment​in​which​the​readers​ themselves​wrote​the​articles.​The​experiment​did​not​work​because,​among​other​ things,​leaders​critiqued​it​for​wanting​to​create​a​select​group​of​writers. ​ 10.​Diglottic​is​a​sociolinguistic​term​referring​to​the​conflictive​coexistence​within​ a​territory​of​two​or​more​languages​or​variants​of​a​language​in​asymmetric​conditions​of​use​and​value.​One​of​the​languages​appropriates​to​itself​all​the​uses​and​ functions,​while​the​rest​restrict​their​uses​and​functions​to​domestic​and​agricultural​arenas.​For​the​term’s​technical​specificities,​see​Albó​(1998),​Fishman​(1995),​ and​Luykx​(1998). ​ 11.​I​cite​texts​of​the​ PCÑ ​by​indicating​the​number​of​the​issue​followed​by​the​ page​numbers. ​ 12.​These​examples​are​merely​illustrative​and​intended​to​support​the​assertions​ I​make. ​ 13.​For​the​case​of​Aymara​in​radio,​see​Condori’s​work​(2003).​Currently,​Soledad​ Guzmán​is​investigating​the​broadcasting​of​Quechua​in​a​Cochabamba​urban​area​ as​part​of​her​master’s​thesis​at​the​proeib ​Andes​(Guzmán​2005). ​ 14.​ In​ addition,​ cenDa ​ publishes​ a​ Children’s​ Supplement​ in​ Quechua​ called​ the​Añaskitu.​It​is​a​monolingual​magazine​that​seeks​the​socialization​of​children’s​ Quechua​knowledge​through​interschool​correspondence​and​the​valuation​of​community​knowledge. ​ 15.​On​the​strong​presence​of​Spanish​in​Bolivian​Quechua​and​especially​Cochobambino,​see​Sichra​(2003,​105–16). ​ 16.​The​Quechua​alphabet​currently​used​in​Bolivia​is​based​on​the​Alfabeto Único para el Idioma Quechua​(Unified​Alphabet​for​the​Quechua​Language),​made​official​ and​published​in​the​Supreme​Decree​No.​20227​(Gaceta Oficial de Bolivia​25:382,​ 10​April​1984)​by​President​Siles​Suazo.​Bolivian​Quechua’s​normative​written​inscription​is​developed​on​the​basis​of​scholasticized​Pan-​Andean​standardization​and​ historicized​criteria​(Luykx,​2001).​This​development​seeks​to​recover​the​etymological​forms​of​Quechua’s​previous​states.​It​takes​into​account​regional​variation​as​a​ way​of​diagnosing​current​forms​of​usage,​but​these​usages​absolutely​do​not​impact​ the​norm’s​definition. ​ 17.​The​topic​of​writing​with​an​oral​base​is​not​an​entirely​novel​phenomenon.​ 120 FernanDo​garcés​V.

For​the​case​of​Spanish,​see​the​studies​of​Oesterreicher,​Bustos,​Cano,​Eberenz,​and​ Stoll​in​the​edition​of​Kotschi,​Oesterreicher,​and​Zimmermann​(1996). ​ 18.​This​last​one​is​a​practice​with​a​long​tradition​in​the​Andean​world​(Guamán​ Poma​1615;​Pachacuti​Yamqui​c.​1613;​Yupanqui​1570;​Lienhard​1990). ​ 19.​Virginia​Zavala​(2002,​62)​questions​whether​objectivity​is​in​fact​an​intrinsic​ characteristic​of​writing,​or​instead​a​part​of​the​imaginary​created​by​the​scholastization​associated​with​it. ​ 20.​Beneath​the​heading​on​the​cover​there​are​two​photos​of​the​indigenous​peasant​mobilizations​of​12​October​1992. ​ 21.​See​Pari​(2005,​77–79),​who​posits​that​nature​is​one​of​the​teachers​of​peasant​ knowledge. ​ 22.​See​ PCÑ ​51,​which​has​a​four-​page​(9–12)​critique​of​chemicals​in​relation​to​ “natural”​peasant​production. ​ 23.​What​I​am​interested​in​showing​with​these​data​is​that​the​ngo ​that​publishes​ the​newspaper​uses​the​same​tools​of​Western​technological​knowledge​to​delegitimize​it.​Moreover,​it​shows​the​singular​interaction​between​the​ngo ’s​political​positioning​and​peasant​knowledge​in​an​effort​to​validate​this​knowledge.​This​means​ that​for​the​Conosur​or​for​cenDa ,​knowledge​is​a​tool​used​to​struggle​against​development​and​prepackaged​technology​rather​than​an​end​in​itself. ​ 24.​A​connection​with​this​topic​can​be​found​in​the​research​of​Romero​(1994).​ He​shows​that​the​ch’iki​makes​reference,​in​the​community​of​Titicachi,​to​a​type​of​ social​intelligence​adults​value​positively.​The​ch’iki​is​the​intelligent​child​who​knows​ how​to​behave​socially​in​the​proper​context.​By​contrast,​saqra​refers​to​children​ who​dazzle​others​with​their​individual​cognitive​intelligence,​but​who​do​not​receive​ positive​reinforcement​from​the​community​because​their​individualized​behavior​ locates​them​just​outside​its​borders. ​ 25.​On​this​last​aspect,​see​Arnold​and​Yapita​(2000).​The​authors​propose​that​ writing​promoted​by​the​Bolivian​Education​Reform​fulfills​the​same​dominating​ role​as​that​implanted​by​the​colonial​evangelization​model.

Quechua Knowledge and Writings 121

Joanne raPPaPort anD abelarDo ramos PacHo

Collaboration​and​Historical​Writing Challenges for the Indigenous–Academic Dialogue

More​than​three​decades​ago,​Delmos​Jones​proposed​that​a​“native​anthropology”​would​become​viable​only​when​it​developed​“a​set​of​theories​based​ on​non-​Western​precepts​and​assumptions​in​the​same​sense​that​modern​ anthropology​ is​ based​ on​ and​ has​ supported​ Western​ beliefs​ and​ values”​ (1970,​251).​Jones​was​thinking​of​minority​scholars​in​the​United​States​who,​ armed​with​the​double​consciousness​afforded​by​their​position​straddling​ the​ boundary​ between​ the​ dominant​ society​ and​ their​ own​ subordinated​ groups,​could​potentially​develop​what​W.​E.​B.​Du​Bois​(1989​[1903],​2–3)​ called​ “second-​sight,”​ a​ privileged​ minority​ vantage​ point​ from​ which​ to​ analyze​social​life. ​ While​Duboisian​concepts​resonate​in​very​specific​ways​within​the​Afro– North​American​context,​the​notion​of​double​consciousness​provides​fertile​ ground​for​the​interpretation​of​the​role​of​intellectuals​within​Latin​American​ethnic​movements,​where​efforts​have​been​made​to​develop​what​might​ be​called​an​indigenous​second-​sight:​in​other​words,​the​discovery​from​ within​Native​cultures​of​those​conceptual​elements​that​may​enable​new​ interpretations​ of​ reality​ consonant​ with​ the​ epistemologies​ and​ political​ priorities​of​indigenous​organizations.1​Theorization—the​creation​of​such​ conceptual​tools—is​one​of​the​fundamental​objectives​of​intellectuals​affiliated​with​Latin​American​indigenous​organizations.2​This​process​ranges​ from​the​development​of​narrative​models​that​decenter​Western​notions​ of​historical​chronology​(Fernández​Osco​2000;​Vasco,​Dagua,​and​Aranda​ 1993)​to​the​use​of​concepts​in​Native​languages​as​frameworks​for​adapting​ Western​concepts​to​indigenous​ends.​But​such​conceptual​tools​not​only​ function​as​models​for​interpreting​experience;​they​also​assist​indigenous​

organizations​in​acting​politically​upon​the​social​realities​in​which​they​live.​ In​other​words,​the​“second-​sight”​stimulated​by​these​intellectual​practices​ is​aimed​at​transforming​reality,​not​only​analyzing​it. ​ In​this​essay​we​probe​the​nature​of​this​moment​of​indigenous​theorizing,​inquiring​into​the​intellectual​conditions​of​its​emergence​and​its​epistemological​character.​For​us,​this​process​is​more​than​the​simple​appropriation​of​primordial​values​in​a​modern​context.​Indigenous​theorizing​ emerges​within​a​multiethnic​social​sphere,​a​reality​that​impacts​both​its​ epistemological​nature​and​the​ways​in​which​it​is​put​into​political​practice.​ It​emerges​out​of​a​process​of​appropriation​of​knowledge​systems​framed​by​ indigenous​thought​and​sustained​by​a​critical​appreciation​of​other​cultures.​ Such​strategies​originate​in​the​political​context,​given​that​the​indigenous​ movement​seeks​to​build​what​could​be​called​a​radically​pluralist​democracy​(Laclau​and​Mouffe​1985),​a​national​imaginary​in​which​social​justice​ is​constructed​through​the​infusion​in​the​social​process​of​a​multiplicity​of​ ethnic​demands​and​political​practices. ​ What​this​means​is​that​it​is​not​always​easy​to​identify​the​indigenous​ in​Native​theorizing​by​distinguishing​its​components​as​belonging​to​one​ indigenous​culture​or​another.​Much​of​the​conceptual​matrix​employed​by​ indigenous​organizations​has​been​appropriated​from​progressive​academic​ scholarship​in​education,​anthropology,​history,​linguistics,​and​political​science​as​well​as​from​the​methods​and​concepts​developed​by​popular​movements​and​nongovernmental​organizations​(ngo s).​There​is​a​desire​to​create​conceptual​vehicles​that​do​not​privilege​a​specific​Native​culture​over​the​ others​that​comprise​indigenous​organizations,​which​are​frequently​multiethnic.​What​makes​this​theorizing​indigenous​is​the​space​in​which​it​is​ appropriated—the​indigenous​organization—and​the​fact​that​it​is​filtered​ through​indigenous​languages​and,​through​translation,​is​transformed.​It​is​ more​the​locus​of​theorizing​and​its​linguistic​practices​than​its​contents​per​ se​that​are​at​stake​here. ​ The​ process​ of​ creating​ conceptual​ vehicles​ is​ at​ once​ methodological​ (in​the​sense​of​providing​new​research​tools)​and​political​(because​these​ methodologies​make​possible​the​establishment​of​Native​autonomy​in​specific​areas).​In​this​sense,​indigenous​theorizing​is​somewhat​akin​to​feminist​ research,​which​is​simultaneously​academic​and​political.​But​what​is​different​about​the​indigenous​theorizing​we​describe​here​is​the​fact​that​it​takes​ place​at​a​great​distance​from​the​academy.​While​it​is​true​that​Latin​American​ academics​ and​ a​ small​ number​ of​ foreigners​ collaborate​ on​ an​ intelCollaboration and Historical Writing 123

lectual​level​with​indigenous​organizations,​their​numbers​are​far​smaller​ proportionally​ in​ comparison​ to​ the​ collaboration​ of​ academics​ with​ the​ feminist​movement​or,​in​the​United​States,​of​African​American​scholars​ with​black​organizations.​Perhaps​the​discrepancy​is​due​to​the​fact​that​the​ results​of​indigenous​research​rarely​appropriate​academic​formats​for​their​ dissemination,​being​instead​directly​absorbed​into​the​projects​of​Native​ organizations.​Moreover,​feminist​scholars,​particularly​female​academics,​ have​a​direct​stake​in​the​feminist​movement,​which​is​not​as​true​of​the​ mostly​non-​Native​academics​who​work​with​Latin​American​indigenous​ organizations;​the​nature​of​Latin​American​universities​has​largely​excluded​ the​ hiring​ of​ Native​ and​ African-​descended​ faculty,​ producing​ a​ marked​ ethnic​or​racial​difference​between​the​academy​and​grass-​roots​organizations.​In​some​ways,​then,​the​research​currently​under​way​in​Latin​American​indigenous​organizations​is​sui​generis. ​ We​examine​the​process​of​indigenous​theory​making​through​a​critical​ analysis​of​a​recent​research​experience​in​which​we​studied​the​history​of​ the​Bilingual​and​Intercultural​Education​Program​(pebi)​of​the​Regional​ Indigenous​ Council​ of​Cauca​ (cric),​a​Colombian​ indigenous​ organization​that​over​the​course​of​the​past​thirty-​one​years​has​come​to​occupy​an​ important​role​as​an​interlocutor​between​the​indigenous​population​and​ the​Colombian​public​at​large.​In​the​course​of​our​collaboration,​which​included​bilingual​teachers,​ cric ​activists,​and​three​researchers—one​from​ the​ Nasa​ ethnic​ group,​ a​ nonindigenous​ collaborator​ with​ cric ,​ and​ a​ North​American​anthropologist—we​came​to​realize​that​indigenous​theorizing​finds​significant​sources​in​the​culture​of​the​indigenous​organization,​which​in​itself​is​a​kind​of​intercultural​microcosm,​including​not​only​ different​Native​ethnic​groups,​but​non-​Native​collaborators​as​well.​Several​ methodologies​and​key​concepts​informed​our​research.

Translating Theory Indigenous​theorizing​in​Cauca​arose​out​of​the​intersection​of​various​circumstances.​ On​ the​ one​ hand,​ in​ the​ mid-​1980s​ a​ Master​ of​ Arts​ degree​ in​ethnolinguistics​was​offered​for​the​first​time​at​the​Universidad​de​los​ Andes​in​Bogotá​to​indigenous​students​sponsored​by​ethnic​organizations.​ This​development​afforded​activists​the​opportunity​to​discover​the​possibilities​that​language​holds​as​a​source​of​theoretical​frameworks.3​On​the​ other​ hand,​ the​ experience​ of​ translating​ the​ Colombian​ Constitution​ of​ 124 Joanne​rappaport​anD​abelarDo​raMos

1991,​which​includes​provisions​regarding​the​rights​of​Native​peoples​(Van​ Cott​2000),​into​Nasa​Yuwe,​the​language​of​the​Nasa​of​Cauca,​created​a​political​context​in​which​the​linguistic​methodologies​acquired​in​the​course​ of​graduate​study​could​be​appropriated​by​Native​leaders. ​ Translation​presents​an​innovative​strategy​through​which​Nasa​activists​ appropriate​concepts​originating​in​the​dominant​society​and​reconfigure​ them​in​an​indigenous​framework.​Nasa-​speakers​frequently​reflect​upon​ the​possible​array​of​meanings​of​a​term​in​their​own​language,​with​an​eye​ toward​adjusting​its​significance​to​bring​it​in​line​with​their​own​objectives.​ This​strategy​is​engaged​when​translators​encounter,​for​example,​terms​like​ development,​ interculturalism,​ and​ culture​ whose​ significance​ has​ limited​ resonance​within​the​Nasa​sphere,​but​whose​meaning​can​be​adapted​to​the​ politico-​cultural​project​of​the​movement.​Following​the​suggestions​of​the​ film​critic​Rey​Chow,​we​believe​that​the​translating​of​such​words​into​Nasa​ Yuwe​improves​the​original​Spanish​term,​injects​it​with​a​new​Nasa​significance​that​liberates​it​from​its​original​limitations​(1995,​186). ​ The​strategy​originated​when​ cric ​set​out​to​translate​the​Constitution​ of​1991​(Ramos​and​Cabildo​Indígena​de​Mosoco​1993;​cf.​Rojas​2000).​The​ intercultural​team​that​was​formed​to​undertake​the​task​was​composed​of​ the​traditional​authorities​of​the​indigenous​community​of​Mosoco,​bilingual​teachers,​indigenous​and​national​linguists,​and​a​range​of​professionals​ from​the​national​society,​among​them​lawyers,​sociologists,​psychologists,​ philosophers,​and​economists.​The​team​was​forced​to​confront​the​challenge​of​rendering​a​series​of​universal​political​concepts​in​Nasa​Yuwe.​The​ exercise​ transcended​ one​ of​ preparing​ a​ simple​ translation​ or​ of​ creating​ mere​neologisms.​The​team​sought​to​rethink​these​concepts​from​a​Nasa​ perspective,​and​the​result​was​something​that​went​far​beyond​a​glossary​of​ new​terms​in​Nasa​Yuwe:​the​exercise​in​translation​opened​up​the​possibility​ of​reconceptualizing​the​notions​of​justice​and​nation​from​the​vantage​point​ of​indigenous​cultures​and​organizational​needs.​That​is,​the​Constitution​ was​not​simply​translated;​instead,​its​fundamental​precepts​were​reimagined​ from​a​Nasa​subject​position,​offering​a​Nasa​critique​of​the​Colombian​state​ (Rappaport​2004).​In​this​sense,​translation​into​Nasa​Yuwe,​as​a​research— and​political—methodology,​provided​the​movement​with​the​philosophical​ foundations​of​its​pluralist​political​proposal. ​ At​the​same​time,​the​introduction​of​translation​as​a​methodology​fostered​new​approaches​to​the​indigenous​study​of​social​reality,​a​new​form​of​ Nasa​“autoethnography.”​Two​decades​ago​Talal​Asad​suggested​that​ethnogCollaboration and Historical Writing 125

raphy​is​a​kind​of​translation,​“addressed​to​a​very​specific​audience,​which​ is​waiting​to​read​about​another​mode​of​life​and​to​manipulate​the​text​it​ reads​according​to​established​rules,​not​to​learn​to​live​a​new​mode​of​life”​ (1986,​159).​Translation​is​equally​crucial​to​the​indigenous​project,​but​its​ function​is​the​inverse​of​what​Asad​proposed​for​ethnography.​When​Nasa​ activists​engage​in​cultural​translation​they​do​it​“to​learn​to​live​a​new​mode​ of​life”:​they​appropriate​external​concepts​within​an​indigenous​political​ matrix​with​the​aim​of​introducing​new​strategies​for​cultural​survival.​In​ other​words,​their​objective​is​to​take​hold​of​cultural​potentialities,​not​to​ textualize​cultural​differences.​This​autoethnographic​methodology​can​be​ better​comprehended​as​one​of​a​series​of​intercultural​approaches​that​the​ indigenous​movement​employs​to​negotiate​a​multiethnic​milieu.

Interculturalism The​translation​of​the​Constitution​sheds​light​on​a​fundamental​aspect​of​ indigenous​theorizing​ in​Colombia:​it​emerges​from​an​intercultural​ dialogue.​The​translation​process​was,​in​fact,​a​double​intercultural​dialogue:​ between​indigenous​activists​and​professionals​from​the​national​society​as​ well​as​between​Nasa​philosophies​and​Western​jurisprudence.​Indigenous​ organizations​ are​ themselves​ intercultural​ contexts​ in​ which​ indigenous​ militants​and​non-​Native​collaborators​interact​daily,​constantly​exchanging​ ideas​originating​as​much​in​national​and​international​spheres​of​theorizing​ as​in​Native​cultures.​Although​these​organizations​were​intercultural​from​ the​moment​of​their​inception—cric ,​for​example,​was​founded​by​Guambianos,​Nasas,​and​mestizo​activists—in​the​past​two​decades,​as​the​concept​ of​interculturalism​was​promoted​by​Latin​American​educators,​its​contents​ were​appropriated​within​indigenous​organizational​practice. ​ Interculturalism​ developed​ in​ Latin​ America​ alongside​ the​ popular​ struggles​of​the​1970s​and​1980s,​when​grass-​roots​organizations​posed​concrete​alternatives​to​traditional​notions​of​electoral​democracy​(López​1995).​ In​the​case​of​Colombia,​where​the​Constitution​of​1991​established​the​legal​ potential​ for​ the​ creation​ of​ a​ pluralist​ nation,​ interculturalism​ provides​ a​radical​alternative​to​the​concept​of​multiculturalism.​The​latter​poses​a​ threat​to​pluralism​insofar​as​it​promotes​a​simple​tolerance​for​ethnic​minorities,​fostering​their​participation​in​an​electoral​system​that​dilutes​their​ impact​upon​the​nation​(Hale​2002).​By​contrast,​interculturalism​(on​paper,​

126 Joanne​rappaport​anD​abelarDo​raMos

at​least)​seeks​new​forms​of​establishing​conditions​of​equality​and​consensus​by​enhancing​the​contents​of​minority​voices​(Heise,​Tubino,​and​Ardito​ 1994).​The​objectives​of​interculturalism​transcend​those​of​multiculturalism​ because​interculturalists​seek​more​than​a​cross-​cultural​encounter​framed​ by​hegemonic​relations.​Their​objective​is​to​create​new​horizontal​relationships​(Gottret​1999)​within​a​pluralist​state​(López​1999).​In​addition,​interculturalists​aim​at​injecting​cultural​difference​within​the​demands​of​the​ Left​for​a​radically​pluralist​democracy​(Laclau​and​Mouffe​1985). ​ Interculturalism​is​an​emergent​project,​not​an​existing​social​reality.​It​ originated​ in​ Latin​ America​ within​ indigenous​ education,​ where​ radical​ educators​built​local​bilingual​programs​based​upon​its​precepts.​Intercultural​education​makes​cultural​difference​explicit​through​its​aim​of​fostering​the​incorporation​of​new​ideas​within​emergent​Native​cultural​constellations​(Mengoa​1999).​We​emphasize​ the​emergent​ nature​of​indigenous​ cultural​projects​because​the​notion​of​cultural​revival​is​oriented​not​toward​ the​retrieval​of​customs​from​the​past​but​toward​the​future​(Heise,​Tubino​ and​Ardito,​1994).​Interculturalism​ transcends​the​task​of​schooling​children​in​a​culturally​sensitive​manner.​It​presupposes​a​link​between​education​and​social​change,​suggesting​that​the​school​is​a​critical​scenario​for​ the​construction​of​democracy.​The​promotion​of​self-​esteem​and​the​creation​of​nonhierarchical​interethnic​relations​can​provide​firm​foundations​ for​building​political​pluralism​beyond​the​schoolhouse​(Heise,​Tubino,​and​ Ardito​1994;​Gottret​1999;​López​1996,​1999). ​ Indigenous​ theorizing​ is​ an​ example​ of​ putting​ interculturalism​ into​ practice.​ Interculturalism​ provides​ the​ conceptual​ tools​ needed​ to​ create​ indigenous​theory,​but​it​does​more​than​that:​it​has​a​political​objective.​ Intercultural​dialogue​is​valued​by​indigenous​organizations​in​Colombia​ precisely​ because​ Native​ people​ are​ also​ Colombians;​ they​ recognize​ that​ their​participation​in​popular​struggle​must​transcend​purely​indigenous​demands.​But​while​ethnic​organizations​participate​actively​in​the​construction​of​a​new​nation—the​best​current​example​is​the​organization​by​the​ indigenous​movement​of​a​popular​referendum​on​Colombia’s​acceptance​ of​the​Free​Trade​Area​of​the​Americas​and​indigenous​rejections​of​neoliberal​policy—the​creation​of​new​conceptual​tools​also​impacts​upon​local​ efforts​at​cultural​revival,​nourishing​the​emergence​of​new​indigenous​cultural​forms.

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Culture and Political Autonomy In​ this​ essay​ we​ problematize​ the​ nature​ of​ theorizing​ within​ the​ indigenous​movement,​analyzing​it​from​an​intercultural​perspective.​Frequently,​ as​ was​ the​ case​ in​ the​ translation​ of​ the​ Constitution,​ the​ theoretical​ vehicles​ are​ the​ product​ of​linguistic​ research,​ but​ cosmological​ knowledge​ is​also​an​important​source​of​theory.​One​of​the​models​most​frequently​ employed​by​indigenous​organizations​is​the​spiral​motif,​an​icon​that​appears​ on​ petroglyphs,​ is​ reproduced​ in​ the​ hand​ movements​ of​ shamans​ during​ritual​séances,​and​has​been​adduced​in​the​grammatical​structures​ of​various​Caucan​Native​languages​(Muelas​Hurtado​1995).​Adoption​of​a​ spiral​sense​of​time​allowed​the​Guambiano​History​Committee​to​generate​ an​alternative​to​linear​chronological​narration,​permitting​them​to​reorganize​historical​events​by​privileging​mythic​heroines​and​sacred​space​as​anchors​for​a​political​history​of​the​Guambianos​(Vasco,​Dagua,​and​Aranda​ 1993;​cf.​Rappaport​2005).4​But​it​is​also​possible​to​ground​theorization​in​ the​organizational​culture​of​the​indigenous​movement,​where​activists​have​ appropriated​universal​concepts​like​autonomy​and​territory​as​the​primary​ interpretive​ threads​ for​ historical​ and​ sociological​ research​ (Allen​ 2002;​ Field​1999),​transforming​their​contents​so​that​they​are​in​accord​with​the​ principles​and​demands​of​the​organization.5​The​discourse​of​political​autonomy​feeds​simultaneously​upon​the​work​of​cultural​activists​and​on​the​ demands​ of​ nonethnic​ social​ movements.​ The​ notion​ of​ territory,​ for​ instance,​which​has​come​to​replace​earlier​demands​for​land,​implies​a​degree​ of​sovereignty​over​a​population​and​its​landscape.​But​territory​also​emerges​ out​of​a​cosmological​relationship​with​that​landscape,​thus​merging​political​universals​with​specific​Native​notions​of​space. ​ In​reality,​discourses​of​cultural​difference​and​political​autonomy​operate​in​tandem​within​indigenous​ organizations.​ As​Bruce​Albert​explains​ so​convincingly​in​his​interpretation​of​the​discourse​of​the​Brazilian​Yanomami​leader​Davi​Kopenawa,​the​indigenous​movement​must​negotiate​an​ ethnically​heterogeneous​political​field.​Ethnic​organizations​survive​thanks​ to​their​simultaneous​appropriation​of​political​universals​and​cultural​specifics:​“If​the​indigenous​political​discourse​were​limited​to​the​mere​reproduction​of​white​categories,​it​would​be​reduced​to​empty​rhetoric;​if,​on​ the​other​hand,​it​remained​in​the​exclusive​sphere​of​cosmology,​it​would​ not​escape​from​cultural​solipsism.​In​any​case,​the​lack​of​articulation​between​these​two​registers​leads​to​political​failure”​(Albert​1995,​4).​The​na128 Joanne​rappaport​anD​abelarDo​raMos

ture​of​the​indigenous​project​spans​both​universal​political​discourses​and​ Native​cultural​specifics,​its​objectives​interweaving​various​constructions​ of​pluralism​that​originate​as​much​from​inside​as​from​outside​indigenous​ communities,​established​through​intercultural​dialogue​among​indigenous​ ethnic​groups​and​with​members​of​the​national​society.​In​short,​if​we​are​ to​understand​this​project,​we​need​to​take​a​dual​approach​that​can​infiltrate​ the​interstices​where​universal​and​specific​discourses​meet. ​ In​reality​both​poles​of​this​equation​are​heterogeneous.​After​more​than​ four​centuries​of​colonization​and​in​the​wake​of​decades​of​dialogue​between​indigenous​organizations​and​sympathetic​popular​movements,​one​ cannot​speak​of​two​totally​incommensurable​logics.​The​process​of​cultural​ resistance​has​forced​the​ethnic​movement​to​develop​contestatory​cultural​ forms​that​are​deeply​modern​and​are​in​dialogue​with​national​forms.​As​ Paul​Gilroy​indicates,​echoing​Du​Bois,​the​power​of​minority​cultural​forms​ “derives​from​a​doubleness,​their​unsteady​location​simultaneously​inside​ and​outside​the​conventions,​assumptions,​and​aesthetic​rules​which​distinguish​and​periodise​modernity”​(1993,​73).​In​the​process,​minority​forms​ are​reimagined,​mixed​with​appropriated​cultural​forms​from​the​majority​ society​in​a​dynamic​antiphony​(1993,​74).​What​Gilroy​suggests​is​essential.​ Minority​theorizing​appropriates​concepts​and​methodologies​from​dominant​paradigms​and​reconfigures​them​within​a​minority​conceptual​space,​ at​the​same​time​that​indigenous​cultural​forms​are​reimagined​within​the​ space​of​struggle.​In​this​sense,​there​is​a​certain​urgency​to​maintaining​the​ balance​between​culture​and​autonomy,​so​that​one​register​does​not​erase​ the​other. ​ In​recognition​of​this​challenge,​indigenous​theorizing​in​Cauca​centers​ on​ the​ relationship​ between​ an​ inside​ and​ an​ outside.​ Native​ researchers​ have​reflected​on​the​meaning​of​the​process​of​constructing​cultural​difference​within​the​social​system​that​surrounds​them.​They​seek​to​define,​ through​research​and​political​action,​ways​to​maintain​a​cultural​inside​different​ from​ the​ outside​ of​ the​ national​ society​ (Rappaport​ 2005,​ chap.​ 1;​ 2008).​The​inside​is​not​a​cultural​essence​as​traditional​anthropology​would​ have​it,​although​it​is​based​on​constellations​of​values​and​structures​of​behavior;​the​cultural​forms​of​the​inside​articulated​by​the​indigenous​movement​do​not​correspond​to​an​observable​cultural​reality.​After​four​hundred​ years​of​colonial​domination,​the​cultural​topography​of​Cauca​is​heterogeneous​and​syncretic,​something​activists​not​only​recognize​but​appropriate​into​their​field​of​action.​Yet​there​are​a​few​localities​that​demonstrate​ Collaboration and Historical Writing 129

the​constellation​of​values​that​the​movement​seeks​to​revitalize​and​project​ across​the​vast​expanse​of​indigenous​territory.​For​this​reason,​the​inside​ is​not​really​located​in​a​concrete​site,​but​in​the​utopias​that​the​movement​ hopes​to​build​on​the​basis​of​models​generated​by​their​researchers.6

Collaborative Theorizing In​what​follows​we​reflect​upon​the​complexities​of​indigenous​theorizing​on​ the​basis​of​our​collaborative​work​on​the​history​of​the​pebi ,​a​program​of​ the​cric .​Two​members​of​the​team,​Abelardo​Ramos,​a​Nasa​linguist​and​ pebi ​member,​and​Joanne​Rappaport,​a​North​American​anthropologist,​ are​the​authors​of​this​essay;​a​third​member​of​the​team,​Graciela​Bolaños,​ is​a​non-​Native​collaborator​with​ cric ​and​a​member​of​ pebi .7​Since​our​ work​assumed​the​form​of​an​interethnic​dialogue—what​in​the​movement​ is​called​a​diálogo de saberes,​an​exchange​of​epistemologies—the​remainder​of​this​article​is​written​as​a​script.​Our​two​voices​are​marked​by​different​fonts. Joanne: Indigenous theorizing is the product of the complex negotiation of the ethnic movement’s priorities and discourses aimed at bridging different epistemologies and methodologies so that they are not incommensurate. Thus, as we have argued, the task of the collaborative researcher presupposes a conversation between several subject positions, in particular, between representatives of national society and indigenous groups. But we haven’t yet touched upon the organization of the production of such knowledge, which is inseparable from its theoretical qualities. In distinction to academic practice, which in anthropology is generally a solitary endeavor or organized into a relatively homogeneous group of researchers, in the indigenous movement research is profoundly collective; this presupposes a distinct methodology. Given that indigenous organizations include a range of activists, not only Native people from various ethnic groups but also nonindigenous collaborators, the research groups that coalesce within these organizations are also culturally—and epistemologically—heterogeneous.8 When external researchers collaborate in such enterprises, their methods and theory are subordinated to those created by the group (Vasco 2002, 449). This implies an acceptance not only of the equality of the different forms of knowledge, but also of their partial commensurability. Above all, it means that indigenous priorities must provide the general framework for 130 Joanne​rappaport​anD​abelarDo​raMos

research, although external theory also enters into discussion. That is to say, the contributions of external researchers are appropriated and transformed just as the movement refashions external cultural and political elements in its everyday activities. It is imperative to understand that a collaborative dialogue is not between two monolithic poles—non-Native academics and indigenous researchers. Given that the research taking place in indigenous organizations emerges out of the joint work of indigenous actors and non-Native collaborators, who construct their research methodology as a team, it might be more fruitful to comprehend this process as a dialogue between activists (both indigenous and nonindigenous) and academics. I have discovered that the epistemological differences between my vision and that of my indigenous interlocutors is easily bridged, thanks to the anthropological training I received, which focused on Native epistemologies. However, I was not trained as an ethnographer to decipher the differences between activist and anthropological methodologies, where distinctions can be considerably more subtle. Research in an indigenous organization frequently takes place in workshops, whose collective methodology presupposes that the community itself, and not just the researchers, participate in framing the project and analyzing its results. In this sense, workshops are exegetical spaces where theory is produced, not simply occasions for collecting data (Vasco 2002). Under such conditions, theory emerges out of a process of “co-theorizing,” in which activists, the community, and external researchers all play a role. What makes this theorizing indigenous is its articulation with the priorities of the organization, which are developed collectively by traditional community authorities, the organizational leadership, shamans, bilingual teachers, nonNative collaborators, and others. In other words, what makes this knowledge indigenous is the particular way in which it is created and transmitted.9 Abelardo: The process of co-theorizing can be conceptualized in terms of local indigenous practice, through the application of the metaphor of the minga—collective work activities that benefit the community or a family— to the organization as a whole. It was in the experience of translating the Constitution of 1991 into Nasa Yuwe that we began to reconceptualize research as a minga in which various groups of people participated: the bilingual teachers of the community of Mosoco, cultural and political authorities recognized by the community (the cabildo, shamans, artisans, midwives), Collaboration and Historical Writing 131

students from the local high school, and specialists in linguistics and in law, the latter being non-Native. The work done by this collective had a concrete result, a book that could be read by both Native people and members of the national society (Ramos and Cabildo Indígena de Mosoco 1993). Our metaphor merged physical labor, which is what is generally done at a minga, with intellectual work. Frequently, local indigenous community members do not understand that intellectual labor is also a kind of work. Like work in the fields, intellectual work requires effort, produces fatigue, and creates results. But the comparison goes further than that. In Nasa Yuwe, both types of labor are referred to as majï, a term which is also used to describe the ritual activities of the shaman and the collective work of the cabildo in the building of territory (in particular, the walking of boundaries). Intellectual labor, when framed by the political priorities of the indigenous movement, fits neatly into this amplified notion of majï. The metaphor of the minga transcends the simple definition of collective labor, because it allows us to recognize that the notion of work is multifaceted. Majï is a concept that unites various interests and collectivities. Similarly, collaboration cannot be reduced to a simple dialogue between individuals belonging to different cultures. The institutional interests of the participants are always in the background—the interests of the university or of academic theory, the objectives of ngo s, the program of the indigenous movement. That is to say, collaboration and co-theorizing involve much more than interpersonal dialogue; they promote a conversation in which individuals articulate the collective interests of the groups they represent or of which they are members. This distinction is important because in some instances such interlocution can lead participants, especially academics, to transcend the interests of their institution and merge, perhaps temporarily, with an interethnic and nonacademic collectivity. When research funding has been acquired by the movement itself, the academic is at liberty to function independently of her or his institution in order to embrace indigenous priorities.10 The profile of the researcher is equally significant. He or she must recognize that research is not a neutral process, that one must choose dialogue. It is not just a question of respecting indigenous positions, but also of entering in active conversation with them. This is difficult for academics to accept since they are accustomed to treating indigenous ideas as ethnographic data, not as potential conceptual tools. 132 Joanne​rappaport​anD​abelarDo​raMos

Despite the generosity of the participants, such a dialogue cannot but produce tensions. These may be due to the prejudices each member brings to the table, to the underlying sense of competition, and to the epistemological differences between them, whether academic or organizational epistemologies or those of the Native culture. Such conflict requires that participants act responsibly. Tensions can easily turn into nonnegotiable conflicts, or they can be fruitful. It is the responsibility of the participants to aim toward negotiation, not toward rupture. The balancing of institutional and cultural interests involves a highly complex process. There are cultural differences even among the members of indigenous organizations, since they include representatives of different ethnic groups and non-Native collaborators. This is to emphasize that conflicts will arise not only among academics and activists, but also in the movement itself. Collaborative research, with all of its institutional conflicts and cultural differences, is like two roads that cross each other, even if ultimately they are headed in the same direction. That is to say, difference is not necessarily negative, nor is it something that must be transcended. Assumed with responsibility, difference can produce new approaches to social reality, if the participants commit to the objectives of the indigenous organization. In other words, an intercultural framework, not the academic appropriation or concealing of indigenous ideas, must guide the research. The academic, who has been trained through a model of individual intellectual production, must recognize two fundamental realities: that collaborative work cannot be individual and that indigenous elements cannot be subsumed under an academic model. The two paths must nourish one another, being always conscious of their difference but also aware of their common goals. In the course of the research process, individual participants will be enriched intellectually by learning from one another. In the end, collaboration makes a contribution not only to the collectivity, but also to each of the participants.

The History of PEBI : Collaborative Research at the Grass Roots In​the​case​of​the​history​of​ pebi ,​collaboration​was​not​grounded​exclusively​in​the​dynamics​of​our​three-​member​research​team,​but​also​required​ initiating​dialogue​with​the​broader​group​of​activists. ​ pebi ​ was​ founded​ at​ the​ end​ of​ the​ 1970s​ as​ an​ initiative​ of​ the​ Fifth​ Congress​of​ cric ​and,​particularly,​of​its​vice​president,​Benjamín​DindiCollaboration and Historical Writing 133

cué.​ pebi ​was​conceived​as​an​organizing​space​in​which​communities​in​ struggle​could​be​mobilized​around​regional​demands.11​Although​ pebi ​is​ an​ educational​ program—including​ curricular​ design,​ historical​ and​ linguistic​research,​the​generation​of​theory,​and​teacher​training—its​central​ objectives​focus​on​the​creation​of​schools​as​a​vanguard​for​the​organizing​of​political,​social,​and​cultural​activities​in​indigenous​communities​in​ conjunction​with​cabildos​and​other​traditional​authorities.​In​other​words,​ from​the​start​ pebi ’s​objectives​have​transcended​pedagogy,​and​its​members​characterize​their​project​as​contestatory,​nourished​by​a​critical​and​ politicized​appreciation​of​intercultural​pedagogical​methods.​In​contrast​to​ other​popular​education​projects​in​Latin​America,​pebi ​originated​not​from​ within​ an​ educational​ movement,​ but​ in​ a​political​ organization.​ Schools​ were​founded​in​those​communities​that​exhibited​intense​involvement​in​ political​organizing,​and​the​first​teachers​were​chosen​from​a​pool​of​the​ most​committed​activists,​irrespective​of​their​level​of​schooling.​Community​members​served​as​evaluators​and​advisors,​developing​their​ideas​in​ workshops​and​community​assemblies.​More​than​a​space​for​training​children,​the​school​was​conceived​as​the​pivot​of​the​entire​community. ​ In​its​more​than​three​decades​of​existence,​ pebi ​has​entered​into​dialogue​ with​ educators​ across​ Colombia​ and​ Latin​ America,​ contributing​ innovative​cultural​and​curricular​projects​that​have​served​as​models​for​ ethnoeducation​at​the​regional​and​national​levels.​It​has​trained​a​significant​ number​of​indigenous​teachers​and​political​leaders​in​Cauca.​Its​intercultural​and​culture-​specific​proposals​for​the​construction​of​ethnic​pluralism​ have​ permeated​ cric ​as​ a​ whole,​ and​ increasingly​ cric ’s​ leadership​ has​ drawn​upon​pebi ​members​to​fill​important​political​roles​in​the​organization. ​ Around​2000​pebi ​undertook​the​task​of​researching​and​writing​its​history.​The​project​was​conceived​as​a​learning​experience​and​a​space​for​collective​analysis,​requiring​the​broad​participation​of​program​members​in​ the​research.​To​this​end,​a​series​of​workshops​and​meetings​were​held​in​ 2000​and​2001,​gatherings​at​which​activists,​including​staff​members​in​the​ regional​program​as​well​as​local​bilingual​teachers​and​leaders,​compiled​a​ list​of​fifty-​one​questions​meant​to​orient​the​research​process​and​prepare​ grass-​roots​ activists​ for​ collecting​ relevant​ information​ in​ their​ localities.​ pebi ’s​program​is​crystallized​in​these​guiding​questions.​The​questions​exhort​researchers​to​illustrate​how​education​is​a​political​vehicle,​how​it​leads​

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communities​to​develop​a​cosmic​and​historical​relationship​with​their​territory,​how​this​project​lays​the​basis​for​forging​political​autonomy,​economic​ reconstruction,​and​community​development.​The​questions​emphasize​the​ centrality​of​intercultural​appropriation​of​ideas​within​a​project​that​is​not​ merely​educational,​but​political.​They​outline​how​ pebi ​objectives​are​directed​at​the​entire​organization​and​not​just​at​its​educational​sector.​They​ illustrate​how​the​program​acts​as​a​vanguard​promoting​indigenous​content​ in​the​organization​at​large. ​ However,​almost​all​of​the​questions​engage​pebi ’s​current​policies.​They​ are​not​at​all​retrospective,​in​part​because​so​many​of​the​workshop​participants​were​young,​most​with​a​scant​decade​of​experience​in​the​organization.​Their​presentist​cast​posed​a​challenge​for​the​research​team,​which​was​ charged​with​writing​a​history​of​the​program. Abelardo: For me, those fifty-one questions were challenging methodologically because I felt that they constrained the nature of the project, forcing us to focus on current organizing strategies instead of engaging in a politicalhistorical analysis. The latter was my primary political interest. For some of us who are Nasa-speakers, the idea of doing history was appealing because it would help us to trace the educational process retrospectively. We wanted to study the political nature of the process over time. In particular, we hoped to communicate to future generations the hopes of the elders who founded CriC and PeBi at the end of the seventies: how they fought to build a feeling of dignity as a people and how they gained their rights by building an educational system based upon our own culture. Doing history would permit us to engage in a dialogue with those first generations. In the final workshop we built a consensus in favor of the history project, with testimonies collected from the protagonists in the process.12 The truth is that the guiding questions were composed before we made the decision to write a history of PeBi . As a result, our team was forced to adapt them to the historical framework we had chosen. This meant we would have to engage in a negotiation, using the questions as conceptual guides for thinking retrospectively, and in the course of this reflection we would have to find a way to engage and foreground the voices of the narrators. I think that the questions helped me to see that a history of education was of necessity a political history. We would need to interpret the testimonies within this framework, bring together today’s political priorities with the memory of the past. Collaboration and Historical Writing 135

Joanne: The workshop participants did not seek answers to their questions in a historical narrative that highlighted the earlier experiences of PEBI but hoped to resolve them through reflection on their own experiences, which, on the whole, went back only a decade. In a sense, their questions contained the answers they sought, calling up accepted discourses instead of historical explanation. But although the questions expressed the concerns of the present, they would have to serve as a fulcrum around which we could organize our interpretation of the past. At the outset I resisted this arrangement because I did not fully comprehend it. The three-person research team began to debate the ways in which we hoped to frame this history. In numerous PEBI meetings, ranging from curricular planning and program evaluation to political meetings, I had observed that local teachers frequently made use of the spiral motif to organize their presentations. At one curricular meeting, the teachers from the experimental school in the community of Juan Tama presented their pedagogical projects—community history, organic agriculture, the school garden, Nasa literacy—in a chart organized into a spiral. PEBI ’s magazine, Çxayu’çe, published a board game to stimulate use of Nasa Yuwe among schoolchildren, also organized as a spiral (Anonymous 2000).13 I enthusiastically recommended that we consider the spiral as an organizing motif for our history project. The lukewarm response I received indicated that PEBI hoped to produce a document whose analytical character and sphere of circulation would be considerably wider than that which the culturally specific spiral motif could assume. There was a great desire to produce an intercultural history that incorporated the experiences of the various ethnic groups under the CRIC umbrella, despite the fact that the bulk of PEBI ’s work had been with Nasa speakers. Such a set of objectives obviated the possibility of employing the spiral as a conceptual model. I was confronted with the naiveté of my understanding of indigenous theorizing as something that could arise only out of Native cultural forms. The regional space of indigenous politics, where concepts originating in national and international debates could be appropriated, was a more apt space for theorizing the history of PEBI . Despite their presentist orientation, the fifty-one guiding questions provided us by the workshops supplied useful tools for conceptualizing movement history from the vantage point of a discourse of political autonomy, as opposed to one with a culturalist perspective.

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Community Control, Interculturalism, and Cosmovision Joanne: In my three decades of ethnographic research in Colombia I had never followed such a conceptual itinerary: a research agenda that was more political than academic, a research plan for historical study based on presentist referents, a project whose conceptual framework originated outside of the academic community and whose objectives were determined by a group of nonacademics who were not directly involved with the research team. I quickly learned that when a social movement conducts research, its methodology is vastly different from that employed by academics. However, the broad participation of PEBI members in the establishment of our conceptual framework does not mean that activist research lacks rigor. In the course of collecting oral narratives from early indigenous activists and collaborators, I discovered that activist researchers have access to a much more extensive range of information than academics, and they are constantly submitting these data to collective evaluation and analysis. Where they differ from us is in their objectives, which lead them to produce analyses based upon explicit political criteria, whereas the politics inherent in academic research is frequently made imperceptible by academic discourse. ​ The​book​that​resulted​from​our​research​(Bolaños,​Ramos,​Rappaport,​ and​Miñana​2004)​draws​its​three​conceptual​threads​from​the​political​program​of​ pebi :​community​control​(an​educational​program​that​stimulates​ community​organizing),​interculturalism​(the​construction​of​an​intercultural​dialogue​framed​by​indigenous​values),​and​cosmovision​(the​need​to​ maintain​harmony​in​the​universe).​All​three​guiding​ideas​have​been​embraced​throughout​the​continent​by​ethnic​organizations​and​ ngo s;​however,​ we​ instrumentalized​ them​ in​ our​ narration​ of​ pebi ​ history​ by​ emphasizing​the​specific​constellation​of​political​contexts​in​which​they​were​ articulated.​Community​control​provided​the​conceptual​framework​for​a​ chapter​dealing​with​how​and​why​education​is​politics​for​ cric .​The​concept​of​interculturalism​allowed​us​to​take​a​critical​look​at​relations​over​ time​between​nonindigenous​collaborators​and​Native​activists.​Cosmovision,​embodied​in​a​creation​story​generated​through​collective​research​by​ pebi ​with​almost​ two​hundred​shamans,​ provided​us​with​an​alternative​ historical​chronology​rooted​in​how​notions​of​culture​evolved​within​the​ organization.

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Joanne: The way I visualize the interaction of the three conceptual threads we selected is that community control provides the political foundations for the educational activities in which PEBI has always engaged. Interculturalism allows for an outward-looking orientation, permitting educational activists to never lose sight of the larger picture, the fact that education is part of a general political struggle for recognition as participants in the construction of the Colombian nation. Cosmovision provides the tools for an introspective orientation that values indigenous lifeways and ideologies, providing a specific cultural framework for interculturalism and, ultimately, for political action. Abelardo: Our organizing strategy has always consisted in strengthening an indigenous cultural identity that has been impacted by colonization. This objective cannot be undertaken without the participation of the community, yet it also permits us to relate to other peoples and resolve our problems in conjunction with them. Our concept of identity is intimately related to one of community power. This is a principal axis in our political work and must necessarily mediate our analysis of our historical experience. The notion of interculturalism is related to the conceptual thread of community control. Cauca is a multicultural province, one in which the future of the Nasa people can be strengthened only by forging links of cooperation with other indigenous groups as well as with the rest of the social fabric, including mestizo peasants, Afrodescendants, and popular urban sectors. This means that we must stake out a clear intercultural position founded in respect and the sharing of survival strategies. Interculturalism is profoundly political for us: it leads us to demand that we be recognized as culturally different peoples and as national actors. Cosmovision is the accumulation of ancestral knowledge that, from our point of view, affords us important tools for interacting with others. Cosmovision defines our cultural difference, marking our participation in a diverse nation. It is only through recourse to cosmovision that we can put interculturalism into practice because cosmovision provides us with the conceptual model that permits us to act as Natives.

Joanne: Each of us experienced conceptual conflicts in the course of the process. Once having constructed our conceptual framework, we began the task of historical interpretation. It was not an easy process. Having opted for a retrospective approach, as opposed to a systematic organizational analysis, we had to construct a narrative of the evolution of the three unifying concepts. That meant accepting that some of these concepts, particularly 138 Joanne​rappaport​anD​abelarDo​raMos

cosmovision and interculturalism, were only incipient during the first decade of the organization, not full-blown as we observe them today. Cosmovision was a particularly difficult concept to historicize. As it is articulated today, cosmovision is the product of an intensive research process that was undertaken in the 1990s, giving rise to an integrated cosmology and ritual complex that is being adopted by Nasa communities throughout Cauca. It is thus a recent arrival on the scene in the sense that although much of this knowledge existed among shamans, it was piecemeal and had never been verbalized in a coherent narrative. Cosmovision is an attempt to integrate cosmological knowledge and to give it a didactic form that can be internalized by the indigenous population. The challenge for us, as historians, was to explicate the origins and evolution of this concept without denying the millenarian existence of cosmological knowledge. But cosmovision was not the only sticking point we encountered. Abelardo: My personal preoccupation, as both an actor in and an interpreter of the process, was with transcending anecdotal narrative. This meant negotiating the constant tension I felt between these two roles, which implied a movement between orality and writing. The founding leaders of CriC eloquently expressed their political thought orally. With the exception of Manuel Quintín Lame, the elders had no experience in writing down their ideas.14 Therefore, in the development of a contestatory political process writing was not necessarily a task of the leadership, although they controlled the written production of other indigenous activists and of the nonindigenous collaborators. I was educated in such contexts, not as a leader, but as a cultural activist, a role that implied a command of written communication. Because Nasa Yuwe was my first language, my entry into the activity of written reflection has been an ongoing process, one in which my training as an activist unfolded parallel to the development of my literate sensibilities. I have written works in various genres, including educational documents, texts inspired by Nasa mythology, and linguistic analysis. But this was the first time in my experience that I was to participate in the production of a historical narrative, a story in which I was also an actor. For me, writing the history of PeBi has been a process of confronting the difficulties of thinking retrospectively in dialogue with other team members. I had to strive to transcend a recounting of everyday experience, which was what I, as an actor, could most easily narrate. Instead, I had to attempt to elaborate an interpretation that included, simultaneously, my own experiCollaboration and Historical Writing 139

ence, the objectives of the bilingual teachers and PeBi activists who formulated our guiding questions, and the evaluation of the actions of the elders.15 To weave all this into a written narrative that was pleasing to read and at once preserved the voices of the protagonists and situated them in their historical contexts: all of this forced me to be attentive to my responsibilities within the team. I could not adopt the role merely of an informant but had to exercise political and cultural responsibility, not only as a member of PeBi and of the indigenous movement, but also as a Nasa. I needed to transcend the biases that indigenous actors generally felt toward academics and collaborators, but in addition I had to ensure that what we wrote reflected an indigenous ideology. This was my role: to ensure that in the course of the project the intercultural team maintained the transcendence of the indigenous discourse.

Conclusion What​ did​ we​ learn​ in​ the​ process?​ That​ collaboration​ necessarily​ implies​ being​open​to​other​modes​of​thought,​to​different​ways​of​formulating​research​questions,​to​the​possibility​of​political​analysis.​But​these​differences​ do​not​always​arise​out​of​the​fault​lines​between​Western​academic​culture​ and​the​radical​cultural​alterity​of​an​indigenous​researcher;​they​more​frequently​result​from​the​disparities​between​academics​and​activists,​whose​ cultural​differences​are​more​subtle​and​not​as​easily​recognizable.​We​must​ also​ understand​ that​ the​ political​ aspirations​ of​ cultural​ activists​ are​ frequently​embedded​within​a​cultural​discourse​that​obscures​their​political​ nature—at​least,​for​the​external​observer,​but​not​for​the​internal​participant.​What​we​must​accomplish​is​to​build​methodological​and​conceptual​ bridges​across​divergent​but​not​always​completely​apparent​positions.​This​ can​be​achieved​only​by​adopting​a​framework​in​which​academic​analysis​ occupies​a​secondary​position​that​respects​and​does​not​violate​organizational​priorities;​even​if​academic​contributions​introduce​concepts​external​ to​the​indigenous​culture,​the​objective​is​to​internalize​them​by​resignifying​ them​through​translation.​If​an​academic​accepts​these​rules,​she​or​he​also​ accepts​the​intercultural​orientation​of​the​project. ​ Such​ are​ the​ priorities​ that​ determined​ the​ nature​ of​ our​ work.​When​ we​entered​into​conversation,​we​came​to​realize​that​the​guiding​concepts​ of​ pebi ​history​ would​ have​ to​assume​ a​discourse​ of​political​ autonomy,​

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not​one​of​indigenous​culture​and​much​less​one​of​an​academic​nature.​To​ theorize​from​an​indigenous​perspective​does​not​always​mean​that​cultural​ alterity​is​foregrounded,​but​it​does​mean​that​cultural​difference​must​be​ grounded​in​an​intercultural​perspective. ​ Rey​Chow​(1995,​180)​distinguishes​between​ethnography​and​autoethnography​ by​ suggesting​ that​ the​ autoethnographer​ is​ simultaneously​ the​ subject​and​object​of​her​research:​as​she​engages​in​study​she​is​cognizant​ of​the​fact​that​others​have​studied​her,​something​that​Chow​calls​a​state​of​ “being-​looked-​at-​ness.”​Autoethnography​is​thereby​more​contestatory​than​ conventional​ethnography.​In​a​way,​our​history​of​pebi ​arose​out​of​a​sense​ of​being-​looked-​at-​ness:​the​fact​of​being​an​object​of​conventional​education​influenced​cric ’s​desire​to​achieve​indigenous​protagonism,​to​become​ a​subject​in​education.​Equally,​the​three​members​of​our​history​research​ team​experienced​being-​looked-​at-​ness.​This​was​certainly​the​case​for​Abelardo,​who,​as​actor​and​analyst,​was​simultaneously​a​subject​and​object​of​ historical​research.​But​by​virtue​of​the​collaborative​nature​of​the​project,​ Joanne​and​Graciela​also​came​to​experience​this​effect,​as​each​of​us​was​ exposed​to​the​gaze​of​the​other​team​members​and​of​the​ pebi ​collective​ whose​questions​guided​our​work.​The​complex​dialogue​that​arose​out​of​ this​exercise​helped​us​understand​the​deep​and​multifaceted​meaning​of​ collaboration​and​interculturalism.

Notes Acknowledgments:​The​German​foundation​Terre​des​Hommes​funded​ cric ​in​its​ efforts​to​write​a​history​of​its​bilingual​education​program.​Joanne​Rappaport’s​research​was​funded​by​an​international​collaborative​grant​from​the​Wenner-​Gren​ Foundation​ for​ Anthropological​ Research​ during​ 1999–2002.​ We​ thank​ Florencia​ Mallon​and​the​University​of​Wisconsin​for​inviting​us​to​participate​in​the​“Narrating​ Native​ Histories”​ conference,​ where​ this​ book​ originated.​ Portions​ of​ this​ essay​were​published​in​chapter​5​of​Joanne​Rappaport’s​Intercultural Utopias: Public Intellectuals, Cultural Experimentation, and Ethnic Pluralism in Colombia​(Duke​ University​Press,​2005);​in​this​essay,​however,​the​republished​sections​appear​in​ dialogue​with​the​observations​of​Abelardo​Ramos,​thus​transforming​their​intent. ​ 1.​The​Duboisian​notion​of​double​consciousness​arose​at​a​particular​moment​ in​the​history​of​interracial​relations​in​the​United​States​and​out​of​the​very​specific​intellectual​trajectory​of​Du​Bois​himself.​But​notwithstanding​its​origins​in​the​ highly​polarized​racial​atmosphere​of​the​United​States​in​the​early​twentieth​century​

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and​its​insertion​into​a​discourse​of​racial​pride,​the​concept​of​double​consciousness​ presupposes​ a​ complex​ and​ heterogeneous​ experience,​ not​ a​ simple​ essence​ (Chandler​1996,​85).​In​this​sense,​it​is​a​metaphor​that​can​be​fruitfully​applied​across​ geographic​and​historical​contexts.​In​a​workshop​with​some​forty​bilingual​teachers​ affiliated​with​the​ cric ,​the​concept​was​reconfigured​according​to​indigenous​political​priorities​as​“a​revaluing​of​our​own​culture​as​difference.”​One​of​the​participants​offered​the​following​rereading​of​the​concept:​“The​pain​of​being​indigenous,​ with​all​of​the​implications​of​rejection​to​which​we​are​subjected​and,​at​the​same​ time,​pride​in​being​different,​with​a​clear​and​defined​identity”​(Chocué​Guasaquillo​ 2000,​14).​For​an​analysis​of​this​exercise,​see​Rappaport​(2005,​chap.​1). ​ 2.​Theory​is​a​major​challenge​today,​when​Native​groups​across​the​Americas​ have​proposed​the​creation​of​indigenous​universities​(Pancho​Aquite​et​al.,​2004). ​ 3.​Abelardo​Ramos​graduated​from​this​program. ​ 4.​There​is​not​sufficient​space​here​to​describe​other​attempts​at​indigenous​theorization​in​Bolivia​(Fernández​Osco​2000);​Guatemala​(Montejo​2002;​cf.​Warren​ 1998,​chaps.​5,​6);​and​New​Zealand​(Bishop​1994;​Smith​1999),​which​also​present​ rich​sources​for​the​creation​of​Native​conceptual​tools. ​ 5.​Both​Allen​and​Field​employ​the​term​sovereignty​in​their​analyses​because​it​is​ a​fundamental​demand​of​Native​Americans.​However,​in​a​country​like​Colombia,​ where​indigenous​communities​exist​on​the​basis​of​colonial​royal​titles​instead​of​ treaties,​the​notion​of​sovereignty​is​not​as​relevant​as​that​of​autonomy,​which​permits​them​to​think​of​themselves​simultaneously​as​Native​people​and​as​​Colombians. ​ 6.​Our​use​of​utopia​to​signify​a​dream​that​is​partially​attainable​comes​from​the​ usage​in​cric ​itself. ​ 7.​The​final​product​of​our​research​(Bolaños,​Ramos,​Rappaport,​and​Miñana​ 2004)​was​also​coauthored​by​Carlos​Miñana,​an​anthropologist​at​the​National​University​of​Colombia​in​Bogotá​who​has​worked​on​a​number​of​pebi ​projects;​Carlos​ assisted​in​the​writing​of​the​final​chapter​on​pebi ’s​pedagogical​activities. ​ 8.​ We​ refer​ specifically​ here​ to​ cric ,​ whose​ various​ programs​ in​ education,​ health,​agricultural​production,​and​gender​operate​with​interethnic​personnel.​In​ the​Indigenous​Authorities​of​Colombia​(aico),​a​parallel​indigenous​organization​ that​works​in​Cauca,​there​are​no​non-​Native​collaborators.​Instead,​nonindigenous​ supporters​formed​a​distinct​solidarity​movement​parallel​to​aico ;​however,​even​in​ this​case,​research​takes​on​the​character​of​an​interethnic​dialogue,​as​the​two​organizations​enter​into​collaboration​(Vasco​2002). ​ 9.​ The​ term​ traditional authority​ is​ used​ in​ Cauca​ to​ refer​ to​ annually​ elected​ reservation​councils​(cabildos).​The​executive​council​of​ cric ​was​recognized​recently​as​a​traditional​authority​after​a​protracted​struggle​with​the​national​government,​entitling​them​to​carry​staffs​of​office,​as​cabildo​members​do.​However,​in​ practice​there​is​an​implicit​distinction​made​between​community​authorities​and​ líderes​(leaders)​in​the​organization. 142 Joanne​rappaport​anD​abelarDo​raMos

10. Joanne: Colombian academics are frequently constrained by their institutions in ways that are unfamiliar to those of us who work in U.S. universities. For instance, their research must be approved by the university administration if they are to conduct it during the academic year—which extends for considerably more weeks than in the United States. The constraints that operate upon academics in the United States are more subtle, generated by the venues in which we publish our research. Nevertheless, Abelardo, who has an M.A. in linguistics from a major Colombian university and was trained by French academics, is acutely aware of the ways in which the international academy limits the activities of its members. ​ 11.​Until​2004,​ pebi ​was​called​ peb ,​the​Bilingual​Education​Program.​As​a​result​of​research​into​pebi ’s​history​it​was​decided​that​interculturalism​was​a​critical​ component​of​the​program,​and​so​its​name​was​changed​to​the​Bilingual​and​Intercultural​Education​Program. 12. Joanne: Until the last of the three workshops, the general membership of PEBI did not have an opportunity to discuss the nature of the project. Many of them assumed that it would take the form of a sistematización, a collective analysis of current goals and objectives, evaluating their progress in the different components of the education program. In fact, the guiding questions were prepared with a sistematización in mind. It was only at the third workshop that the idea of writing a history was broached and subsequently chosen as a viable option by the Nasa-speakers at the meeting, who were in the majority. For more on these negotiations and on the nature of the guiding questions, see Rappaport (2005, chap. 5). ​ 13.​A​universal​orthography​for​Nasa​Yuwe​was​adopted​in​2000.​In​an​earlier​ alphabet​used​by​ cric ,​Çxayu’çe​was​written​as​C’ayu’ce.​We​will​cite​articles​in​the​ magazine​that​were​published​before​the​adoption​of​the​new​orthography​in​the​ earlier​alphabet. ​ 14.​Manuel​Quintín​Lame​was​a​Nasa​leader​who,​in​the​first​half​of​the​twentieth​ century,​organized​indigenous​communities​in​the​provinces​of​Cauca​and​Tolima.​ His​demands​form​the​basis​of​cric ’s​political​program.​Lame​wrote​a​treatise,​Los pensamientos del indio que se educó dentro de las selvas colombianas​(Thoughts​of​an​ Indian​educated​in​the​Colombian​forests),​which​has​become​a​foundational​text​for​ the​Colombian​indigenous​movement​(Lame​2004​[1939]). ​ 15.​Graciela​Bolaños,​the​third​member​of​the​team,​also​had​to​confront​this​challenge,​given​that​she​was​a​founding​member​of​cric .

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Jan rus anD Diane l. rus

The​Taller​Tzotzil​of​Chiapas,​Mexico A Native Language Publishing Project, 1985–2002

Between​1976​and​2002​the​Taller​Tzotzil​(Spanish​for​“Tzotzil​Workshop”)​ published​more​than​thirty​booklets​by​indigenous​authors​in​Tzotzil-​Maya,​ a​ language​ spoken​ by​ some​ four​ hundred​ thousand​ people​ in​ Mexico’s​ southernmost​state​of​Chiapas.​The​Taller​followed​the​model​of​the​Brazilian​educator​Paulo​Freire​(for​example,​1969),​and​the​original​purpose​ of​the​publications​was​to​put​on​paper​the​reflections​of​Tzotzil-​speakers​ as​they​finished​literacy​courses​in​their​own​language​as​an​exercise​in​concientización​(consciousness-​raising​or​empowerment.)1​Typical​themes​were​ the​importance​of​communal​labor,​the​revitalization​of​local​fiestas,​and​the​ achievement​of​indigenous​control​over​schools​and​town​halls—topics​that​ essentially​focused​inside​of​indigenous​communities​and​reaffirmed​their​ solidarity​and​continuity.​Beginning​in​the​mid-​1980s,​however,​as​Mexico’s​ economic​crisis​made​life​within​traditional​communities​more​and​more​ precarious​and​drove​increasing​numbers​of​people​into​cities​and​distant​ labor​migrations,​the​Taller​began​providing​a​space​in​which​to​examine​ Tzotzil​people’s​place​in​the​larger​society​and​economy,​to​discuss​economic​ and​ organizational​ alternatives,​ to​ explore​ alternate​ indigenous-​centered​ histories,​and​then​to​share​those​discussions​with​other​Tzotzil-​speakers.​ Publications​ began​ focusing​ outward,​ taking​ on​ contract​ labor​ on​ coffee​ plantations,​the​struggle​for​land,​organization​of​artisan​and​agricultural​ cooperatives,​indigenous​rights​in​the​city,​undocumented​migration​to​the​ United​States,​and​reactions​to​the​Zapatista​Rebellion. ​ This​essay​is​a​reflection​on​the​course​of​the​Taller​in​this​second​period.​ Most​of​the​questions​addressed​could​be​asked​of​any​publishing​project:​ How​were​topics​chosen?​How​were​the​texts​composed​and​edited?​How​

were​the​publications​distributed?​Beyond​the​extraordinary​historical​circumstances​of​the​1980s​and​1990s,​however,​the​fact​that​the​Taller​was​in​ two​senses​an​intercultural​project​adds​additional​levels​of​complication​to​ these​questions. ​ On​the​first​level,​because​there​was​no​recent​precedent​for​written​as​ opposed​ to​ oral​ communication​ within​ the​ larger​ community​ of​ Tzotzil-​ speakers,​the​very​fact​of​publishing​raised​questions​about​new​versus​old​ culture​among​Tzotzils​themselves.2​Who,​for​example,​had​the​authority​to​ be​an​author?​Although​they​are​increasingly​a​thing​of​the​past,​in​the​1980s​ there​were​still​deeply​felt​disagreements​over​the​right​to​write—to​express​ a​public​opinion—of​the​young​as​opposed​to​the​old,​women​as​opposed​to​ men,​and​people​who​had​not​achieved​offices​within​their​communities​as​ opposed​to​people​with​socially​defined​status.​What​dialect​and​orthography​should​be​used?​What​formats,​themes,​and​audiences​were​appropriate?​ That​is,​was​it​better​to​publish​monolingually​for​an​indigenous​audience​or​ bilingually​so​nonindigenous​people​could​listen​in?​Were​there​themes​too​ sensitive​to​share​with​nonindigenous​people​or​with​indigenous​political​ rivals—or​to​write​about​at​all? ​ On​the​second​level,​questions​arose​from​the​fact​that​the​Taller’s​coordinators—that​is,​we,​the​authors​of​this​essay—were​nonindigenous​participants​in​what​otherwise​aspired​to​be​an​indigenous​project.​Just​whose​culture​and​politics​came​into​play​in​making​choices​about​form​and​content,​ even​when​these​were​made​collectively​with​indigenous​colleagues?​How​ much​did​our​presence​affect​the​way​in​which​people​participated​in​the​ Taller—their​comfort​with​themes,​linguistic​forms,​and​processes​of​production—or​even​their​willingness​to​participate?​How​much,​finally,​was​a​ publishing​project,​as​opposed,​for​instance,​to​a​project​of​community​discussions​without​a​written​record,​“our​thing,”​itself​a​cultural​artifact,​not​ to​say​an​imposition? ​ By​the​time​we​went​to​work​in​the​Taller​we​had​lived​for​extended​periods​ in​ indigenous​ communities​ in​ Puno,​ Peru,​ and​ in​ highland​ Chiapas​ and​were​not​naive​about​our​status​as​outsiders.​At​the​same​time,​Rigoberta​Menchú’s​I, Rigoberta​had​appeared​only​a​year​and​a​half​before​we​ began​ our​ project,​ and​ the​ arguments​ about​ testimonio,​ representation,​ and​whether​the​subaltern​could​ever​speak​in​a​supposedly​colonial​form​ such​as​writing,​with​all​the​exquisite​self-​consciousness​these​arguments​ would​eventually​evoke​within​the​academy,​had​barely​begun.3​During​the​ 1970s​we​had​done​extensive​oral​history​and​ethnohistory​interviewing​in​ The Taller Tzotzil of Chiapas 145

Tzotzil​and​had​also​established​many​personal​relationships​and​alliances​ with​members​of​Tzotzil​communities.​Thus​we​knew​that​among​Tzotzil-​ speakers​speaking​in​Tzotzil​there​was​an​internal,​indigenous​conversation​ about​history​and​politics​that​was​not​only​different​from,​but​also​opposed​ to​the​ways​those​same​themes​were​talked​about​in​Spanish,​even​by​the​ same​ people.​ Through​ stories​ and​ gossip,​ people​ discussed​ and​ analyzed​ exploitative​ labor​ conditions,​ repressive​ government,​ and​ discrimination​ against​Indians​as​well​as​ways​to​combat​these​ills.​These​conversations​had​ always​existed​and​had​just​as​certainly​almost​always​been​kept​within​the​ community​of​those​who​spoke​Tzotzil,​secret​from​ladinos​(non-​Indians).​ Our​proposal,​in​all​its​straightforward​simplicity,​was​to​help​disseminate​ some​of​this​internal,​face-​to-​face​analysis;​to​encourage​communities​to​talk​ with​each​other​in​their​own​language​across​the​region,​with​us​acting​temporarily​as​“midwives”​for​what​they​had​to​say. ​ If​our​goal​was​to​help​Tzotzil-​speakers​express​themselves​in​print,​however,​it​should​also​be​clear​that​we​had​interests​and​points​of​view​of​our​ own.​From​the​beginning​of​our​time​with​the​Taller,​we​continued​to​study​ and​write​about​the​deep​economic​and​political​changes​occurring​in​rural​ Chiapas.​We​were​critical​of​the​inwardly​focused​community​studies​characteristic​ of​ most​ Chiapas​ anthropology​ through​ the​ mid-​1980s,​ and​ although​we​appreciated​the​efforts​of​others​to​publish​in​native​languages,​we​ were​also​impatient​with​the​tendency​of​many​writing​and​literacy​projects​ to​stay​at​the​level​of​myths​and​animal​stories.​To​us​it​seemed​obvious​that​ Tzotzil-​speaking​people​were​struggling​with​the​same​worldwide​forces​that​ affected​us​as​well.​Virtually​all​of​the​books​published​by​the​Taller​from​ its​inception​had​been​preceded​by​extensive​conversations​and​seminars​ within​communities​about​their​own​history;​about​the​exploitation,​repression,​ and​ discrimination​ they​ had​ experienced;​ and​ about​ how​ they​ had​ dealt​with​them.​As​much​as​we​hoped​to​continue​these​local​discussions​ and​ to​ connect​ them​ to​ wider​ conversations​ involving​ others​ who​ might​ pick​up​and​read​a​book​in​Tzotzil,​we​also​looked​forward​to​participating​ in​them​ourselves,​to​being​part​of​what​Andrés​Aubry​(2005)​called​the​“co-​ production​of​knowledge.” ​ It​seems​to​us​that​the​most​natural​way​to​get​to​these​questions​is​to​take​ them​on​chronologically,​as​we​came​upon​them,​or​tripped​over​them,​in​ the​course​of​working​in​the​Taller.​The​following​essay​thus​takes​the​form​ of​a​sort​of​diary,​describing​in​order​the​projects​created​by​the​Taller​during​ the​years​of​our​participation​and​then​probing​the​evolution​of​our​practice​ 146 Jan​rus​anD​Diane​l.​rus

with​each​new​project—that​is,​the​puzzles​that​arose,​and,​as​best​we​can​ reconstruct​them,​the​discussions​and​thinking​behind​the​Taller’s​solutions.

Chiapas in the Mid-1980s: Beginning Considerations When​we​started​our​collaboration​with​the​Taller​in​late​1985,​it​had​been​ eight​years​since​we​had​finished​our​long​ethnographic​fieldwork​in​Chiapas​ in​the​mid-​1970s.​The​first​change​we​discovered,​although​it​took​us​a​few​ months​to​recognize​it,​was​that​which​we​had​formerly​thought​of​as​indigenous​ communities’​ dissenting,​ critical,​ often​ angry​ private​ conversations​ among​themselves​had​become​increasingly​public.​By​that​point,​Chiapas’s​ indigenous​ communities​ were​ deeply​ immersed​ in​ the​ economic​ depression,​la crisis,​which​officially​dates​from​the​Mexican​financial​collapse​of​ 1982​but​which​in​fact​had​begun​in​the​countryside​almost​a​decade​earlier.​ The​seasonal,​often​migrant,​agricultural​labor​on​which​indigenous​communities​depended​for​their​livelihoods​had​stagnated​in​the​mid-​1970s,​and​ by​the​mid-​1980s​the​demand​for​workers​was​actually​slightly​less​than​it​ had​been​in​1975.4​For​a​while​Mexico’s​borrowing​against​its​oil​reserves​ had​underwritten​construction​projects​that​took​up​some​of​the​employment​slack,​but​after​1982​that​work​also​disappeared.​Under​these​circumstances,​indigenous​people​made​radical​changes​in​their​lives​to​support​ themselves.​Tens​of​thousands​abandoned​their​ancestral​communities​in​ order​to​homestead​land​in​the​Lacandón​jungle.​Many​tens​of​thousands​ more​moved​into​shantytowns​around​Chiapas’s​cities,​cities​that​had​never​ before​had​sizable​indigenous​populations.​Economic​choices​also​changed​ life​within​families.​Men​began​migrating​greater​distances​to​find​work​and​ staying​away​for​longer​periods​once​they​had​found​it.​Given​men’s​absences​ and​their​families’​pressing​needs,​women,​in​turn,​began​looking​for​ways​ to​make​money​outside​of​their​homes.​For​the​first​time,​many​women​became​agricultural​wage​laborers​in​regions​near​their​homes.​Many​others​ turned​ their​ traditional​ weaving​ and​ embroidery​ into​ artisan​ goods​ they​ could​sell​to​tourists. ​ Most​of​all,​indigenous​people​throughout​the​state,​previously​renowned​ for​the​insularity​of​their​communal​social​and​cultural​lives,​increasingly​ joined​new​regionwide​associations,​some​of​them​independent​political​and​ economic​organizations,​others​religious​groups,​both​Catholic​and​Protestant​(Harvey​1998;​Rus,​Hernández​Castillo,​and​Mattiace​2003,​1–26;​Collier​1994).​Some​of​these​groups​helped​resettle​those​who​migrated,​others​ The Taller Tzotzil of Chiapas 147

helped​with​the​production​and​marketing​of​new​kinds​of​goods,​and​still​ others​organized​protests​about​injustices​and​in​some​regions​even​led​land​ invasions.​The​rising​reorganization​and​reorientation​of​the​state’s​indigenous​population​are​beyond​the​present​discussion,​except​to​the​extent​that​ they​are​a​theme​of​many​of​the​Taller’s​books.​What​most​interests​us​here​ is​that​by​the​mid-​1980s​people​all​over​the​state​had​begun​to​say​publicly​ things​that​in​the​past​they​had​said​only​among​themselves.​Without​quite​ understanding​the​extent​of​this​break​or​even,​at​the​beginning,​that​it​was​ a​break,​we​clearly​had​come​into​a​very​different​political​and​cultural​environment​from​the​one​in​which​we​had​lived​during​the​1970s. ​ For​its​part,​the​Taller​Tzotzil​had​already​begun​responding​to​the​change​ even​before​we​arrived.​The​first​history​of​the​Mexican​Revolution​in​the​ Tzotzil​highlands​produced​by​Tzotzil-​speakers​themselves,​with​acute,​biting​commentary​about​the​behavior​of​landowners​and​the​government​during​the​decades​after​the​Revolution​(K’alal ich’ay mosoal / Cuando dejamos de ser aplastados;​When​we​were​no​longer​crushed),​was​coordinated​by​ Andrés​Aubry,​the​Taller’s​founder,​and​published​in​Tzotzil​and​Spanish​in​ 1982.​This​was​followed​in​February​1985​by​a​deeply​felt​book​by​the​Taller’s​ principal​Tzotzil​editor​and​translator,​José​González​Hernández​of​Zinacantán,​and​his​great-​uncle​Antonio​López​Pérez,​Zinacantán’s​first​Native​ municipal​secretary.​The​book​(Ja’ k’u x’elan ta jpojbatik ta ilbajinel yu’un jkaxlanetik / Cómo escapamos del control de los ladinos;​How​we​escaped​the​ control​of​the​ladinos)​was​about​their​community’s​successful​fight​at​the​ end​of​the​1950s​to​overthrow​the​state​government’s​custom​of​imposing​ nonindigenous​ municipal​ secretaries​ to​ supervise​ the​ community’s​ local​ council.​Neither​of​these​stories,​about​the​Revolution​of​the​1910s​and​the​ fight​for​ local​ self-​government​ in​the​1950s,​ was​a​new​one,​ but​in​retelling​them,​publishing​them,​in​the​1980s​the​authors​of​the​two​books​were​ ​holding​them​up​for​reflection​during​a​new​period​of​doubt​and​vulnerability. ​ We​did​not​fully​realize​the​extent​of​the​changes​that​had​already​begun​ when​we​arrived​in​the​fall​of​1985,​nor​could​we​have​predicted​that​a​new​ historical​ period​ was​ beginning.​ In​ the​ new​ configuration,​ most​ Tzotzils​ would​no​longer​be​occupied​full-​time​in​agriculture,​and​cultural​and​political​leadership​would​increasingly​swing​from​local​communities​to​city​ and​even​regional​organizations.​After​a​couple​of​months​of​talking​with​ our​ Tzotzil​ friends,​ however,​ we​ did​ begin​ to​ understand​ the​ urgency​ of​ their​economic​worries.​In​the​1970s,​as​a​couple​with​a​small​child,​we​had​ 148 Jan​rus​anD​Diane​l.​rus

studied​migrant​labor,​accompanying​Tzotzil​workers​to​coffee​plantations,​ sugar-cane​fields,​and​corn​haciendas,​staying​and​working​alongside​them​ for​ brief​ periods.​ We​ knew​ that​ mention​ of​ such​ labor​ had​ been​ left​ out​ of​most​ethnographies​of​the​highland​Tzotzils.​It​occurred​away​from​the​ communities​that​were​the​sites​of​research,​and​in​any​case​was​not,​according​to​most​anthropologists,​an​item​of​Native​culture.5​We​also​knew,​ however,​that​among​Tzotzils​themselves​that​work​had​been​an​important​ topic​of​conversation​in​the​1970s,​when​it​was​a​mainstay​of​their​families’​ incomes.​If​anything,​it​was​an​even​more​important​topic​in​the​1980s,​when​ it​was​disappearing.​We​thus​decided​that​our​first​booklet​should​be​about​ seasonal​migrant​labor,​specifically,​coffee​labor,​and​the​ways​it​was​woven​ into​community​life.6​Everyone​had​a​story​about​working,​and​not​working,​ in​coffee.​As​a​theme​that​might​spark​discussions​of​work​and​economic​ change,​it​seemed​ideal.​And​so​in​early​1986​we​began​interviewing​for​Abtel ta Pinka​(“Labor​on​Coffee​Plantations”).

1985–1986: “Turning Talk into Paper” Abtel ta Pinka​was​published​in​a​monolingual​Tzotzil​edition​in​September​ 1986​and​republished​in​a​bilingual​Tzotzil–Spanish​version​in​1991.​It​consisted​of​selections​from​the​testimonies​of​coffee​workers​from​the​municipio​of​Chamula,​three​men​and​a​woman,​plus​the​wives​of​the​men,​who​ had​felt​the​effects​of​enganche,​contract​labor.​In​all,​the​texts​spanned​the​ period​from​the​late​1930s​to​the​early​1980s.​The​sections​were​organized​by​ theme:​the​planters,​labor​contracting,​the​coffee​workers’​union,​life​on​the​ plantation,​what​it​was​like​to​be​the​wife​of​a​worker​who​stayed​behind​in​ the​village,​what​it​was​like​to​be​a​woman​coffee​worker,​and​so​forth.​After​ recording​ and​ transcribing​ the​ open-​ended​ testimonies,​ several​ of​ which​ were​done​over​several​days,​the​members​of​the​Taller—the​two​of​us​and​ two​colleagues,​one​from​the​community​of​Zinacantán​and​the​other​from​ Chamula—edited​the​texts​and​then​submitted​them​to​the​authors​for​approval.​In​all​but​one​case,​this​meant​reading​the​entire​manuscript​aloud​ for​those​who​could​not​read,​checking​both​content​and​language.​Finally,​ we​added​photographs,​both​historical​and​recent,​and​provided​captions​ with​additional​information​about​the​plantations,​such​as​the​dates​they​ were​founded,​the​nationalities​of​the​owners,​the​value​of​Chiapas’s​coffee​ production​through​the​years,​and​so​on.​The​final​booklet​was​twenty-​eight​ pages​long. The Taller Tzotzil of Chiapas 149

​ Following​ the​ precedent​ of​ earlier​ Taller​ publications,​ we​ printed​ two​ hundred​ copies.​ Most​ were​ sold​ for​ thirty​ cents,​ far​ less​ than​ the​ cost​ of​ printing​ them,​ but​ we​ felt​ it​ was​ important​ that​ the​ books​ have​ a​ value.7​ Copies​were​given​to​the​authors​and​their​families,​and​many​more​(some​ forty)​were​distributed​to​Tzotzil​schoolteachers​and​catechists​for​sharing​ with​ their​ classes​ or​ community​ discussion​ groups​ ( grupos de reflexión).​ To​our​surprise,​the​largest​single​market,​however,​consisted​of​the​mostly​ Protestant​settlers​in​the​colonias​surrounding​San​Cristóbal,​who​bought​ seventy​to​eighty​copies​for​the​full​price.​Smaller​numbers,​perhaps​twenty-​ five,​were​purchased​by​residents​of​other​rural​Tzotzil-​speaking​communities. ​ The​second​edition,​published​in​1991,​was,​as​noted,​bilingual​and​consisted​of​four​hundred​copies.​Most​of​the​edition​was​sold​through​bookstores,​where​it​was​still​available​at​the​beginning​of​the​Zapatista​Rebellion​ in​1994.​Soon​thereafter,​as​one​of​the​few​publications​that​described​indigenous​people’s​lives​in​their​own​words,​it​sold​out.​Over​the​next​several​ years,​parts​of​the​text​were​published​multiple​times​in​Spanish​and​Eng​lish​ (for​example,​Paz​Paredes,​Cobo,​and​Bartra,​1996;​Womack​1999,​111–18;​see​ also​Collier​1991). Practice: Initial Decisions ​ Voices:​From​the​beginning​we​set​out​to​counter​the​homogenizing​tendency​ of​ typical​ ethnographies​ and​ histories,​ with​ their​ single​ narrative​ voice.​Beginning​with​this​test​publication,​all​but​two​of​the​Taller’s​publications​after​1986​had​a​variety​of​voices:​men​and​women,​old​and​young,​ and,​if​possible,​individuals​from​more​than​one​community.​In​the​specific​ case​of​Abtel,​we​hoped​to​convey​the​testimonies’​message​that​the​system​ of​migrant​labor​affected​not​just​the​migrants​but​their​entire​families,​and​ not​only​during​the​months​migrants​were​away​at​work​but​throughout​the​ year.​Life​in​coffee​workers’​communities,​hundreds​of​miles​from​the​plantations,​was​organized​around​the​calendar​of​coffee.​Scheduling​of​community​work​days,​planting,​fiestas,​marriages,​and​baptisms​had​to​take​into​ account​the​prolonged​seasonal​absences​of​adult​men.​Everyone’s​life​was​ affected,​even​those​who​never​left​their​home​municipios.​By​letting​a​variety​ of​people​speak,​Abtel​tried​to​demonstrate​the​variety​of​ways​in​which​this​ impact​was​experienced. ​ On women’s participation:​With​only​two​exceptions,​we​believe,​women’s​ voices​were​not​present​in​native​language​books​in​Chiapas​before​Abtel,​ 150 Jan​rus​anD​Diane​l.​rus

either​ in​ the​ state​ projects,​ or​ among​ Protestant​ and​ Catholic​ missionaries’​books,​or​even​in​the​early​Taller​Tzotzil​publications​(1975–85).8​Nor,​as​ far​as​we​know,​had​scholarly​writing​about​coffee​work​and​other​migrant​ labor​in​Chiapas​ever​mentioned​the​impact​of​such​work​on​the​women​and​ children​who​stayed​at​home.​As​it​happened,​however,​including​women​ seemed​as​natural​to​our​collaborators​as​it​did​to​us.​Men​and​women​both​ knew​that​labor​migrations​affected​the​entire​family,​and​both​understood​ and​accepted​that​the​point​was​to​explore​the​experiences​and​hardships​ of​men​and​women​alike.​Indeed,​one​of​the​former​coffee​workers​encouraged​his​wife​to​come​forward​with​the​painful​story​of​her​fights​with​her​ first​husband​every​time​he​had​to​depart​for​the​fincas.​Another​woman​ talked​about​the​economic​survival​strategies​she​learned​during​her​husband’s​long​absences.​Still​a​third​told​of​the​difficulties​of​being​a​single​ mother​and​one​of​the​very​few​women​who​hired​on​as​a​coffee​picker. ​ Monolingual vs. bilingual publication:​Because​we​started​with​the​idea​ that​these​were​to​be​indigenous​books,​we​worked​solely​in​Tzotzil​on​the​ first​ two​ projects​ only,​ Abtel​ and​ Lo’il yu’un Kuskat​ (see​ below).​ One​ unexpected​ effect​ of​ this​ choice​ was​ our​ almost​ immediate​ popularity​ with​ urban​Protestants.​Many​adult​converts​had​become​literate​in​order​to​read​ the​Bible​in​Tzotzil,​and​by​the​early​1980s​they​were​probably​the​largest​ single​category​of​Tzotzil​readers.​Having​learned​to​read,​they​were​continually​ searching​ for​ new​ material,​ and​ when​ it​ appeared,​ word​ spread​ quickly​through​their​congregations​and​colonias.​A​side​effect​of​this​popularity,​however—and​a​paradoxical​one,​given​that​we​had​decided​to​work​ in​Tzotzil​precisely​to​emphasize​traditional​language​and​culture—was​that​ many​traditionalists​became​quite​suspicious​of​us.​By​the​mid-​1980s​municipios​throughout​the​highlands​were​riven​by​bitter​and​bloody​conflicts​ between​traditionalists​and​Protestants.​Many​traditionalists,​seeing​Abtel​ (which​most​of​them​could​not​read),​concluded​that​we​must​be​Protestant​missionaries.​Were​we​not​gringos,​like​the​missionaries?​Were​gringo​ missionaries​not​the​main​producers​of​books​in​Tzotzil?​Were​our​books​ not​widely​read​in​the​Protestant​settlements?​Given​the​bitterness​of​the​ religious​struggle,​this​assumption​could​have​closed​some​communities​to​ us,​particularly​Chamula,​where​we​had​hoped​to​concentrate​our​efforts.​ Luckily,​two​of​the​families​that​had​contributed​to​Abtel​were​themselves​ leading​traditionalists.​Although​at​first​they​were​discreet​about​their​participation​in​the​book,​eventually​they​helped​dispel​suspicions​of​us.​For​our​ part,​we​attempted​to​counter​gossip​against​the​Taller​by​giving​Chamula’s​ The Taller Tzotzil of Chiapas 151

leaders​free​copies​of​Abtel​as​well​as​copies​of​some​of​the​book’s​historic​ photos.​More​than​that,​we​made​a​conscious​choice​that​the​Taller’s​second​ publication​would​be​an​account​of​a​Chamula​uprising​in​the​nineteenth​ century​by​one​of​the​community’s​most​traditional​religious​leaders. ​ Editor-written introductions vs. letting the books speak for themselves:​To​ avoid​intruding​into​the​content​of​the​books,​we​resolved​at​the​beginning​ to​try​to​keep​editorial​introductions​to​a​minimum.​We​limited​ourselves​to​ stating​the​time​period,​the​locations​in​which​the​books​were​set,​and​perhaps​brief​descriptions​of​the​authors.​The​only​exception​to​this​rule​in​all​ of​the​books​was​the​second​book,​Lo’il yu’un Kuskat. ​ Orthography:​ Spelling​ and​ alphabet​ in​ Chiapas’s​ indigenous​ languages​ are​still​not​settled.​Since​1988​government​and​secular​groups​have​been​ using​conventions​chosen​in​meetings​called​by​the​National​Institute​for​ Adult​Education​(Instituto​Nacional​de​Educación​Adulta,​inea ),​in​which​ we​ participated.​ Publishers​ of​ Protestant​ materials,​ on​ the​ other​ hand— successors​of​the​Wycliffe​Bible​Translators​and​Summer​Institute​of​Linguistics​ (Wbt/sil)—who​ have​the​ overwhelming​ majority​of​native​ language​readers,​use​an​orthography​developed​fifty​years​ago​in​consultation​ with​the​Instituto​Nacional​Indigenista​of​the​Ministry​of​Education.​The​ Wbt/sil ​orthography​is​more​similar​to​Spanish​and​was​thus​presumed​to​ be​more​appropriate​for​literacy​programs​seeking​to​use​Tzotzil​as​a​transition​to​Spanish​reading.​Against​our​largely​Protestant​market,​we​chose​ to​use​the​simplified​government​alphabet​rather​than​the​Protestant​one.​ Although​ the​ actual​ differences​ between​ the​ orthographies​ are​ slight,​ the​ symbolic​ importance​ of​ the​ choice​ was​ enormous.​ In​ practice,​ we​ found​ that​readers​who​were​comfortable​with​the​Wbt/sil ​orthography​had​little​ trouble​with​the​inea ​variety.​Nor​did​they​seem​to​care.​Choosing​the​sil ’s​ “missionary​writing,”​on​the​other​hand,​would​have​clinched​our​association​with​the​Protestants​and​made​it​almost​impossible​to​be​accepted​in​ other​communities.9​In​the​long​run,​the​acceptance​of​a​conventional​orthography​will​be​decided​by​writers​and​readers. ​ Dialect choice:​There​is​considerable​difference​among​Tzotzil’s​still​mutually​intelligible​dialects.​As​a​result,​a​major​concern​of​some​anthropologists​ and​education​specialists​when​we​were​beginning​to​work​in​the​Taller​was​ which​dialect​we​would​use​and​whether​that​would​privilege​some​people​ over​others.​Would​we​pick​a​central​dialect,​supposedly​accessible​to​more​ speakers​and​readers,​participate​in​the​development​of​a​standardized​one,​ or,​our​preference,​transcribe​dialects​as​people​spoke?​In​the​ inea ​meet152 Jan​rus​anD​Diane​l.​rus

ings​on​orthography​in​1988,​Jacinto​Arias​Sojom,​a​Tzotzil-​speaker​from​ Chenalhó​who​had​studied​anthropology​at​Princeton​and​is​still​the​most​ accomplished​Tzotzil​writer,​argued​that​this​would​be​worked​out​by​the​ writers​themselves​as​they​chose​a​language​in​which​to​write—just​as​had​ happened​long​ago​in​Spanish​and​other​European​languages.​In​practice,​ we​discovered​that​sophisticated​speakers​of​all​the​dialects​not​only​understood,​but​took​great​delight​in​mimicking​the​others,​in​the​process​playing​with​different​communities’​stereotypes.​Indeed,​far​from​pushing​for​ standardization​over​the​past​twenty​years,​writers​appear​to​have​found​the​ differences​among​dialects​to​be​a​real​resource:​after​reading​three​or​four​ words​most​readers​can​tell​where​the​writer​or​character​is​from,​and​often​ how​old​they​are,​whether​they​are​male​or​female,​and​even,​from​the​incidence​and​shaping​of​words​borrowed​from​Spanish,​where​they​stand​with​ respect​to​modernization​and​politics. ​ Photographs:​We​set​up​a​darkroom​and​were​able​to​take​new​photos​as​ well​as​copy​historical​photos​to​illustrate​the​Taller’s​books​and​to​present​as​ gifts​to​our​collaborators.​Almost​no​one​had​ever​seen​late​nineteenth-​and​ early​twentieth-​century​photographs​of​Chiapas,​many​of​famous​indigenous​leaders,​so​they​were​a​great​conversation​opener. ​ Authorship:​While​we​made​no​secret​of​who​participated​in​the​Taller,​ our​initial​decision​ was​not​to​attribute​ authorship​ to​particular​ passages​ or​their​translations.​Authors,​editors,​and​helpers​were​all​listed​alphabetically,​ by​ the​ Tzotzil​ versions​ of​ their​ names,​ at​ the​ back​ of​ the​ books.​ In​ retrospect,​we​probably​were​trying​to​downplay,​perhaps​even​disguise,​our​ roles:​we​were​identified​in​the​lists​of​names​as​Xalik​Kurus​and​Tina​Kurus,​ the​names​by​which​we​have​always​been​known​in​Chamula.10​In​addition​ to​the​two​of​us,​the​Taller​consisted​of​a​very​small​permanent​team​who​ moved​from​one​project​to​another.​Both​of​our​long-​term​collaborators,​ Chep​Ernantes​(José​Hernández)​of​Zinacantán​and​Xalik​Kusman​(Salvador​Guzmán)​of​Chamula,​had​worked​as​translators​and​field​assistants​for​ ethnographers​before​working​with​us.​As​for​pay,​the​Taller​offered​all​of​us​ slightly​more​per​day​than​rural​schoolteachers​made.

1987–1988: Publishing and Politics In​the​months​after​Abtel​appeared​two​reactions​were​common​among​those​ who​read​it​or​heard​it​read.​First,​many​exclaimed,​“Yes,​that’s​the​way​it​was!​ That’s​my​story​too!”​After​a​little​probing,​it​turned​out​that​they​had​seen​ The Taller Tzotzil of Chiapas 153

school​texts​and​other​books​about​“ladino​things”​and​may​also​have​seen​ religious​texts​in​Tzotzil.​But​few​seem​even​to​have​imagined​books​in​their​ own​language​about​their​own​lives.​Indeed,​many​proceeded​to​ask​why​ schoolbooks​never​told​history​from​their​perspective​and​expressed​pleasure​that​“their​own”​history​might​be​saved​for​their​descendants.​Second,​ and​often​almost​simultaneously,​many​went​on​to​say​that​it​was​a​shame​ that​ladinos​and​Indians​who​did​not​speak​Tzotzil​could​not​read​the​book​ and​learn​about​the​“Tzotzils’​truth.”​Perhaps,​some​suggested,​Abtel​could​ be​printed​again,​in​Spanish.​Even​better,​said​others,​would​be​a​bilingual​ edition​so​that​while​others​could​read​it,​it​would​still​be​clear​to​them​that​ it​was​the​Tzotzils’​history. ​ Our​next​project​began​in​early​1987​with​a​suggestion​from​colleagues​ in​our​umbrella​nongovernmental​organization​(ngo)​who​wondered​if​we​ would​be​willing​to​undertake​a​collaborative​history​with​the​members​of​ the​ejido​(landholding​collective)​of​Los​Chorros​in​the​municipio​of​Chenalhó,​north​of​San​Cristóbal,​as​a​way​to​help​heal​what​had​become​a​bitter​ factional​fight.​Perhaps​the​process​of​recalling​what​they​had​in​common​ might​draw​the​two​factions​back​together.​We​agreed​to​initiate​the​project,​ and​late​in​the​spring​of​1987​we​made​several​overnight​trips​to​the​community.​After​the​first​trip,​we​took​along​historical​documents,​agrarian​reform​ files,​and​maps​as​well​as​our​tape​recorder​and​began​talking​about​the​past​ with​small​groups​of​elders​on​both​sides​of​the​split.​But​the​factionalism​ was​brutal:​people​on​one​side​would​see​us​talking​with​members​of​the​ other​and​either​grill​us​about​what​they​had​said​or​angrily​refuse​to​speak​ to​us.​There​seemed​no​way​to​get​the​leaders​of​the​two​sides​together,​but​ because​they​were​leaders,​it​was​also​hard​to​work​very​long​with​anyone​ else​without​their​help.11​After​many​visits​and​some​initially​very​fruitful​recorded​conversations​over​the​course​of​four​months,​we​reluctantly​gave​up​ on​any​hope​of​finishing​a​history​as​a​community​project. ​ Earlier​in​the​1980s​one​of​the​factions,​looking​for​support​against​its​ rivals,​who​ruled​the​community​in​the​name​of​the​state​party,​the​Partido​ Revolucionario​Institucional​(pri),​had​affiliated​for​a​time​with​the​Partido​ Socialista​de​los​Trabajadores​(pst).​Following​the​Zapatista​Rebellion​in​ 1994,​young​men​from​the​dominant​faction​used​their​connections​to​the​ state​government​and​security​forces​to​expel​many​of​these​formerly​ pst ,​ now​presumably​pro-​Zapatista,​neighbors.​Trained​by​the​army​as​paramilitary​forces,​some​of​these​same​young​men​participated​in​the​massacre​in​

154 Jan​rus​anD​Diane​l.​rus

the​ neighboring​ community​ of​ Acteal​ in​ December​ 1997​ (see​ Arias​ 1984;​ Aubry​and​Inda,​1998,​2003). ​ The​first​group​of​urban​Tzotzil​to​approach​us​on​their​own,​in​the​summer​of​1987,​were​representatives​of​San​Cristóbal’s​mostly​Protestant​Tzotzil​colonias.​Expelled​from​their​native​communities​by​their​traditionalist​ neighbors​beginning​in​the​mid-​1970s,​often​following​beatings​and​destruction​of​their​property,​the​first​of​these​migrants​had​by​the​end​of​that​decade​begun​to​establish​themselves​on​rocky​hillsides​and​former​pastures​ on​San​Cristóbal’s​periphery​(see​J.​Rus​2005).​Following​Mexico’s​financial​ collapse​in​1982,​these​original​settlers​were​joined​by​surging​numbers​of​ other​indigenous​people​displaced​by​the​economic​crisis.​At​the​end​of​the​ 1970s,​there​were​perhaps​two​thousand​indigenous​“exiles”​in​San​Cristóbal,​ people​who​were​accepted​as​refugees​by​most​of​the​city’s​Spanish-​speaking​ residents.​By​the​second​half​of​the​1980s,​however,​there​were​as​many​as​ twenty​ thousand,​ and​ Cristobalenses​ had​ begun​ to​ react​ xenophobically​ to​the​so-​called​invasion.​In​newspapers,​through​political​campaigns,​and​ even​to​the​migrants’​faces,​ladinos​told​them​they​should​go​“home”​to​their​ own​municipios​and​leave​the​ladinos​with​“theirs.”​Invited​to​a​meeting​of​ urban​Tzotzil​activists,​Jan​took​along​copies​of​Abtel ta Pinka,​which​most​ had​already​seen,​as​well​as​historical​photographs​from​as​early​as​the​1880s​ of​indigenous​men​doing​the​construction​work​on​the​city’s​most​important​buildings.​In​response​to​questions,​he​mentioned​that​not​only​had​the​ valley​land​been​part​of​Mayan​states​when​the​Spaniards​arrived,​but​also​ that​in​the​colonial​period​indigenous​people​had​built​and​paid​for​the​city’s​ many​churches​as​well​as​providing​the​workers,​tribute,​and​food​that​made​ the​ city’s​ existence​ possible.​ Several​ of​ those​ in​ attendance​ became​ quite​ enthusiastic​about​the​pictures​and​asked​if​a​book​could​be​made​to​show​ this​history​and​justify​their​presence​in​the​city​today.​And​so​Buch’u Lasmeltzan Jobel? / ¿Quién Hizo San Cristóbal?​(Who​Made​San​Cristóbal?)​was​ born.​Unlike​any​of​the​Taller’s​other​productions,​this​one​was​composed​ by​the​members​of​the​Taller​in​consultation​with​the​council​of​urban​migrants.​Published​in​May​1988,​it​was​a​brief,​illustrated​account,​in​Tzotzil​and​Spanish,​of​indigenous​people’s​contributions​to​the​history​of​San​ Cristóbal.​Three​hundred​copies​were​printed,​and,​at​thirty​cents​each,​more​ than​one​hundred​were​quickly​sold​in​San​Cristóbal’s​colonias.​Most​of​the​ rest​went​to​the​city’s​two​bookstores​and​by​the​end​of​1988​were​sold​out.​ For​a​brief​period​there​was​intense​interest​in​the​city​about​who​had​been​

The Taller Tzotzil of Chiapas 155

responsible​for​tal provocación​(such​a​provocation.)​As​in​other​Taller​publications,​the​contributors’​names,​including​our​own,​were​listed​in​the​back​ in​Tzotzil. ​ During​ the​ preparation​ of​ Buch’u Lasmeltzan Jobel​ close​ questioning​ about​ the​ book​ and​ about​ the​ pattern​ of​ distribution​ of​ Abtel​ by​ friends​ in​Chamula​finally​led​us​to​realize​that​we​were​becoming​identified​with​ Protestant​activists​in​the​city​and​that​this​might​jeopardize​our​ability​to​ continue​working​in​the​more​traditionalist​countryside.​By​this​time​the​ expulsion​of​Protestant​converts​had​spread​from​Chamula​to​indigenous​ municipios​throughout​the​highlands,​and​as​the​Protestant​urban​colonies​ became​more​established​and​successful​and​their​attractiveness​to​unemployed​ rural​ families​ grew​ stronger,​ animosity​ deepened​ (Rus​ and​ Vigil,​ 2007;​Rus​and​Morquecho,​2008).​Since​one​of​our​goals​at​the​Taller​was​to​ encourage​reconciliation​within​communities​by​getting​them​to​think​about​ their​common​histories,​we​began​looking​for​a​way​to​keep​the​doors​open​ to​both​sides. ​ The​solution​we​hit​upon​was​another​book,​to​appear​at​the​same​time​ as​ Buch’u.​ Entitled​ Lo’il yu’un Kuskat: Sk’op mol Marian Koyaso Panchin​ (Kuskat’s​Story:​The​Words​of​Marian​Koyaso​Panchin;​in​Spanish,​Mariano​ Collazo​Panchín),​it​was​an​account​of​the​Chamulas’​brief,​rebellious​attempt​to​found​an​autonomous​market​and​political​center​in​the​late​1860s​ and​the​ensuing​massacre​of​its​participants​by​the​state​militia​(Bricker​1981,​ 260–72).​In​succeeding​years,​ladino​histories​and​folklore​had​turned​these​ events​on​their​head​and​sensationalized​them​as​an​indigenous​bloodletting,​with​fanatical,​crazed​Tzotzils​killing​innocent​ladinos.​By​publishing​ Koyaso​ Panchin’s​ very​ accurate​ oral​ history​ of​ these​ events,​ we​ hoped​ to​ counter​the​inflammatory​version​that​was​still​current​in​state​textbooks,​ serving​as​an​implied​warning​about​the​dangers​of​indigenous​government.​ At​the​same​time,​mol​Marian​(“elder​Marian”)​was​a​respected,​conciliatory​figure​among​Chamula’s​traditional​leaders.​By​doing​a​little​book​with​ him,​to​be​published​concurrently​with​Buch’u Lasmeltzan Jobel,​we​hoped​ to​establish​that​the​Taller​welcomed​traditionalists;​that​it​was​not​a​Protestant​activity​and​we​were​not​missionaries.​We​printed​one​hundred​copies,​ and​most​were​distributed​with​Koyaso​Panchin’s​help​in​the​head​town​of​ Chamula—often​ as​ part​ of​ a​ two-​book​ set​ with​ Buch’u.​ The​ Tzotzils​ who​ had​built​San​Cristóbal​over​the​course​of​several​centuries​and​who​had​ struggled​for​autonomy​in​the​1860s​were,​after​all,​the​ancestors​of​traditionalists​and​Protestants​alike. 156 Jan​rus​anD​Diane​l.​rus

Practice: Refinements ​ Bilingual Editions:​Both​of​the​communities​where​we​worked​through​ most​of​1987​specifically​requested​books​with​bilingual​or​Spanish​texts.​In​ the​case​of​the​urban​Protestants,​the​reason​for​this​was​precisely​that​they​ wanted​ ladinos​ to​ read​ their​ history​ and​ recognize​ their​ legitimate​ claim​ to​a​share​of​the​city.​In​making​Buch’u Lasmeltzan Jobel​our​first​bilingual​ publication,​we​determined​that​if​we​were​going​to​use​two​(or​more)​languages,​they​were​going​to​be​on​facing​pages​and​strictly​parallel,​sentence-​ by-​sentence,​paragraph-​by-​paragraph. ​ Meanwhile,​for​those​in​Los​Chorros​who​would​participate​in​our​conversations,​the​text​was​going​to​have​to​be​Spanish​alone​because​one​of​the​ rifts​in​the​ejido​(although​not​the​only​one)​was​between​Tzotzil-​speakers​ and​Tzeltal-​speakers​who​had​been​forced​to​live​together​decades​earlier.​ In​fact,​both​groups​understood​both​languages,​and​after​their​long​coexistence​had​even​intermarried.​But​if​we​could​not​publish​in​both​Tzotzil​and​ Tzeltal​as​well​as​Spanish,​they​preferred​that​neither​indigenous​language​be​ used. ​ Practices and politics:​If​Buch’u​was,​in​its​bilingualism,​more​like​later​ publications,​ the​ simultaneously​ published​ Lo’il yu’un Kuskat​ was​ in​ several​ways​an​anomaly.​Because​an​important​reason​for​publishing​it​was​ to​broach​the​idea​of​books​in​Tzotzil​to​the​Chamula​traditionalists,​it​was​ monolingual,​like​Abtel ta Pinka.​At​the​same​time,​unlike​Abtel​and​Buch’u​ but​like​the​later​books,​it​credited​mol​Marian​as​the​author​and​even​included​ a​ photo​ of​ him​ on​ the​ title​ page.​ In​ part,​ this​ was​ the​ result​ of​ a​ changing​view​of​authorship​within​the​Taller​(a​point​to​which​we​shall​return​below).​However,​it​was​also​a​political​decision,​to​make​as​public​as​ possible​that​we​and​mol​Marian​had​worked​together.​Finally,​unlike​the​ books​that​came​before​and​after,​we​composed​an​introduction​in​Tzotzil​to​ enumerate​the​ways​in​which​Koyaso​Panchin’s​oral​history​of​the​events​of​ the​late​1860s—like​those​of​other​Chamula​elders—differed​from​the​dominant,​ladino​version​and​was​more​true​to​the​latest​historical​reconstructions​(J.​Rus,​1983,​1989).

1988–1990: Community Collaborations By​the​spring​of​1988​we​had​begun​to​understand​more​fully​the​extent​of​ Tzotzil​communities’​adaptation​to​the​post-​1982​crisis.​Beyond​colonizing​ the​jungle​and​moving​into​cities,​beyond​developing​new​ways​of​making​a​ The Taller Tzotzil of Chiapas 157

living,​from​flower​growing​to​producing​textiles​for​tourists,​highland​Tzotzils​were​also​experimenting​with​new​forms​of​organization.​Most​visible​ were​the​independent​regional​organizations​and​urban​councils​mentioned​ earlier.​However,​even​within​apparently​settled​municipios​still​considered​ traditional,​ the​ structure​ and​ orientation​ of​ extended​ families​ and​ local​ hamlets​were​shifting,​challenging​age​and​gender​hierarchies,​and​eventually​entrenched​political​power. ​ Many​of​these​local​changes​were​not​apparent​from​outside.​By​the​time​ Buch’u​and​Kuskat​were​published​in​the​spring​of​1988,​however,​we​had​ been​drawn​into​a​series​of​new​projects​that​would​place​the​Taller​at​the​ center​of​the​conversations​about​these​changes.​Diane​had​begun​to​interview​women​in​Chamula​about​their​responses​to​the​economic​crisis,​eventually​completing​a​survey​of​household​economics​in​a​Chamula​hamlet​in​ collaboration​with​the​women​of​the​hamlet​(D.​Rus​1990).​At​the​same​time,​ she​undertook​in-​depth​conversations​with​the​women​about​how​their​lives​ and​families​had​been​changed​by​the​fact​that​their​husbands​and​fathers​ had​trouble​finding​work.​This​led​to​a​book​on​the​life​history​of​one​of​the​ women,​Maruch​Komes​(María​Gómez),​and​her​role​in​building​a​local,​independent​artisan​cooperative,​Ta jlok’ta chobtik ta ku’il / Bordando Milpas​ (“Embroidering​Cornfields,”​a​beautiful​wordplay​on​the​fact​that​since​she​ and​her​husband​had​stopped​planting​corn​she​had​begun​embroidering​ stylized​corn​plants​on​blouses​for​tourists). ​ As​Maruch’s​story​revealed,​the​cooperative​had​begun​in​the​mid-​1980s,​ as​women​began​gathering​to​watch​their​children​collectively​as​they​wove​ and​embroidered.​Within​a​few​months​they​were​purchasing​thread​together​ and​soon​thereafter​were​starting​to​take​turns​carrying​products​made​by​ the​group​to​the​city​to​sell.​By​the​time​they​came​to​the​attention​of​artisan​ organizations​run​by​state​and​national​governments​in​1988,​they​were​a​ functioning,​independent​cooperative​(for​comparison,​see​Nash​1993;​Eber​ and​Rosenbaum​1993;​Eber​and​Tansky​2001).​Unlike​other​texts​about​indigenous​women​artisans,​in​Bordando Milpas​Maruch​talked​not​only​about​ her​art​and​its​meaning,​but​also​about​the​difficulties​indigenous​women​ encountered​in​working​with​external​organizations​and​traveling​to​distant​ markets​without​knowing​Spanish​or​being​literate.​She​also​discussed​the​ profound​changes​in​household​dynamics​when​women​took​leading,​entrepreneurial​roles.​Finally,​she​described​the​dire​economic​circumstances​that​ forced​her​to​sell​her​goods​to​coyotes,​intermediaries,​fully​aware​that​by​ doing​so​she​was​underselling​her​own​products​in​the​cooperative​store. 158 Jan​rus​anD​Diane​l.​rus

​ This​was​the​history​captured​by​Ta jlok’ta chobtik ta ku’il,​which​was​published​in​1990​with​a​print​run​of​four​hundred​copies.​One​hundred​of​these​ were​distributed​immediately​to​other​artisans​through​Maruch​and​her​cooperative.​Almost​simultaneously​the​book​also​came​to​the​attention​of​the​ Fondo​Nacional​de​Artesanías​(Fonart),​the​federal​government’s​agency​ for​promoting​folk​art,​which​informed​us​that​Maruch’s​testimony​was​the​ first​they​had​seen​of​a​native​artisan​in​all​of​Mexico.​Somewhat​contrary​to​ our​intentions​for​the​book,​Fonart ​bought​fifty​copies​to​distribute​to​its​ employees​and​member​cooperatives​and​invited​Maruch,​Diane,​and​our​ Chamula​collaborator,​Xalik​Kusman,​to​Mexico​City​to​present​the​book​in​ the​national​artisan​store.​To​promote​indigenous​art​and​also​Fonart ,​they​ arranged​for​Maruch​to​be​interviewed​on​the​morning​culture​program​of​ the​national​network​Radio​Educación.​Within​a​short​time,​Ta jlok’ta chobtik ta ku’il​was​republished​in​Spain,​France,​and​Italy. ​ Jan,​meanwhile,​at​the​suggestion​of​the​agronomist​of​the​Instituto​de​ Asesoría​ Antropológica​ para​ la​ Región​ Maya,​ A.C.​ (inareMac),​ Alain​ Retière,​began​a​two-​year​collaboration​with​five​constituent​communities​ of​the​Unión​de​Uniones​(u du ),​an​independent​peasant​organization​concentrated​in​the​Lacandón​jungle​and​adjacent​lowlands.​The​u du ​had​a​history​of​aggressively​confronting​ladino​planters​for​control​of​the​land​and​ of​farming​and​marketing​collectively​on​the​lands​they​acquired​(Harvey​ 1998;​Legorreta​1998;​Leyva​2003).​Taking​advantage​of​a​government​loan-​ guarantee​program​that​enabled​peasants​to​buy​ladino​haciendas​(a​program​which,​not​incidentally,​bailed​out​wealthy​owners​whose​failing​farms​ no​one​else​would​buy),​the​five​communities​had​bought,​in​1986,​the​combined​ coffee​ and​ cattle​ plantation​ on​ which​ their​ families​ had​ served​ for​ generations​as​indebted​workers.​By​1988​they​wanted​to​produce​a​memoir​ of​their​passage​from​debt​servitude​to​co-​ownership​of​the​planation,​from​ suffering​forced​labor​to​dreams​of​starting​a​cheese​factory​and​founding​ a​peasant​university​(universidad campesina)​to​teach​agricultural​science​ and​humanities​to​the​next​generation​of​the​ u du .​At​the​same​time,​they​ also​wanted​a​step-​by-​step​account​of​the​process​of​labor​organization​and​ strategic​land​invasion​by​which​they​had​finally​convinced​the​owner​to​ sell.​They​felt​that​the​u du​could​use​it​to​proselytize​other​indigenous​rural​ laborers.​The​result​was​Kipaltik: K’u cha’al lajmankutik jpinkakutik / Cómo compramos nuestra finca​(“Kipaltik:​How​we​bought​our​plantation”),​published​in​1990.​An​eighty-​page​book​based​on​the​testimonies​of​men​and​ women​members​of​the​cooperative,​with​photographs​of​collective​labor​ The Taller Tzotzil of Chiapas 159

and​governance,​half​of​Kipaltik’s​four​hundred​copies​went​to​the​members​ of​the​collective​and​the​u du .​One​hundred​of​these​were​for​the​members​ themselves,​so​that​someday,​as​one​of​them​put​it,​“our​grandchildren’s​children​could​read​about​how​we​got​our​families​out​of​poverty.”​Several​dozen​ more​were​distributed​through​the​Taller​itself​and​San​Cristóbal​bookstores.​ The​rest​were​for​internal​promotion​in​other​u du ​communities​and​to​use​ in​organizing​campaigns,​often​clandestine,​on​other​plantations. Practice ​ Authorship:​After​1988​we​decided​to​attribute​authorship​and​editorship​ more​overtly,​namely,​on​title​pages.​The​problem​with​not​naming​those​responsible​for​texts​was​that,​in​the​absence​of​obvious​attribution,​journalists​had​several​times​commissioned​translations​of​passages​from​Abtel​and​ then​cited​them​without​mentioning​the​source.​Unfortunately,​even​when​ authors’​names​were​given,​as​in​Ta jlok’ta chobtik,​such​pirating​continued.​ In​the​most​egregious​case,​a​self-​described​proindigenous​solidarity​group​ in​Europe​republished​the​entire​text​and​included​the​photo​of​the​author,​ Maruch​Komes,​without​mentioning​either​her​name​or​where​the​text​had​ come​from.​It​seemed​to​us​that​indigenous​“artifacts,”​including​stories​and​ testimonies,​were​viewed​as​“naturally​occurring​objects”​that,​like​rocks​or​ flowers​ or​ birds,​ could​ belong​ to​ whoever​ “found”​ them.​ When​ we​ complained​about​the​failure​to​attribute​authorship,​we​and​the​author​received​ a​formal​apology.​But​we​also​heard​from​mutual​friends​that​the​reason​no​ credit​was​given​was​that​“indigenous​people​aren’t​contaminated​by​ideas​ of​individualism​and​property”​and​that​the​preoccupation​with​naming​authors​was​ours​alone. ​ More on translation:​Publishing​testimonio​bilingually​also​led​to​questions​about​what​level​and​tone​of​Spanish​should​be​used.​In​the​past,​representations​of​indigenous​speech​in​Chiapas,​whether​in​fiction​or​translations​of​testimonies,​had​often​used​a​rural,​backwoods​Spanish,​suggesting​ an​ equivalence​ between​ rural​ indigenous​ people​ and​ poor,​ rural​ ladinos.​ Some​texts​even​mimicked​ the​grammatical​ errors​Tzotzil-​speakers​commonly​commit​in​Spanish,​suggesting​a​sort​of​minstrel-​speak.​We​decided​ that​since​our​Tzotzil​texts​were​in​perfectly​proper​and​sometimes​elegant​ Tzotzil,​the​Spanish​translations​should​be​straightforward​and​correct. ​ Beyond​these​concerns,​each​of​the​two​new​projects,​Ta jlok’ta chobtik​ and​ Kipaltik,​ brought​ its​ own​ demands.​ From​ the​ beginning​ of​ our​ publishing​project​the​editing​we​did​was​aimed​primarily​at​cutting​repetition.​ 160 Jan​rus​anD​Diane​l.​rus

Tzotzil​language,​particularly​prayers​and​formal​or​ritual​speech,​frequently​ coupled​words​and​phrases,​and​occasionally​repeated​whole​passages​in​different​words.​To​make​the​texts​read​smoothly​and​to​achieve​economies​in​ the​printing​process​we​had​to​edit​out​such​duplication​before​the​translations​were​made.​We​always​read​the​edited​texts​with​the​authors,​many​of​ whom​were​unlettered,​and​never​considered​them​finished​until​they​had​ agreed​to​the​changes.​But​we​did​cut. ​ An​ amusing​ result​ of​ such​ editing​ was​ that​ during​ the​ national​ radio​ interview​about​Ta jlok’ta chobtik,​the​interviewer​asked​Maruch​Komes​to​ say​the​weaver’s​prayer​that​appeared​at​the​end​of​her​book​so​the​radio​ audience​could​hear​Tzotzil​being​spoken.​When​praying,​Maruch​always​ closes​her​eyes​and​chants,​composing​the​phrases​as​she​goes​along,​and​ they​often​last​fifteen​to​thirty​minutes.​The​prayer​in​the​book,​however,​ had​been​abbreviated​to​thirty-​six​short​lines.​When​Maruch’s​prayer​on​the​ radio​began​to​run​beyond​two​minutes,​then​three​heading​for​four​with​no​ sign​of​ending,​the​interviewer​began​to​panic.​How​to​make​it​stop?​Eventually,​Maruch​understood​why​the​interviewer​was​nervous​and​brought​ the​prayer​to​an​end.​With​the​help​of​Diane​and​Xalik​Kusman,​she​then​ explained​that​there​was​no​set​prayer,​that​what​she​did​was​enumerate​and​ repeat​in​different​ways​the​help​she​would​need​with​her​work​and​ask​for​ guidance​and​patience​from​God​and​the​saints.​Although​on​this​occasion​ everyone​finally​understood​what​had​happened,​in​some​sense​the​original​prayer​had​been​violated​by​being​shortened​for​publication,​truncating​ what​the​author​might​have​thought​the​most​important​part​of​her​book.​ Given​the​expense​of​making​books​and​the​need​to​be​concise,​we​were​ unable​to​find​an​alternative​that​would​meet​everyone’s​ideas​of​what​mattered. ​ Soon​after​work​began​on​Ta jlok’ta chobtik,​the​women’s​artisan​cooperative​described​in​the​book​began​to​receive​offers​of​loans​and​grants​from​ the​ government.​ Although​ they​ had​ not​ sought​ these​ funds,​ the​ women​ of​the​co-​op,​including​Maruch​Komes,​were​more​than​willing​to​accept​ them.​Traditionally,​such​government​resources​would​have​been​brokered​ through​the​regional​indigenous​caciques​(political​bosses)​in​the​head​town​ of​Chamula​rather​than​contracted​directly​by​community​members,​much​ less​women​community​members​(Rus​and​Collier​2003).​Although​the​production​of​a​book​was​an​entirely​separate​project​from​the​organization​of​ the​cooperative​that​was​attracting​government​funds​(in​fact,​when​we​were​ asked​our​opinion,​we​advised​caution​in​accepting​government​help),​by​the​ The Taller Tzotzil of Chiapas 161

time​the​caciques​became​aware​of​the​cooperative’s​funding​the​book​had​ appeared,​and​the​women​were​able​to​use​the​book​as​a​calling​card​to​maintain​their​independence​from​cacique​control. ​ After​1990​Maruch​and​her​group​also​used​the​book​as​an​entry​point​ to​make​contact​with​ngo s,​ever​hopeful​that​such​contacts​would​broaden​ their​support​and​perhaps​help​them​establish​their​own​store.​At​the​same​ time,​Maruch’s​published​and​therefore​public​explanation​of​why​her​group​ sold​items​outside​the​cooperative​stores,​in​the​process​driving​prices​downward,​could​have​endangered​her​ties​to​the​government​agencies​and​ngo s​ that​sponsored​those​stores.​As​it​turned​out,​however,​they​found​her​analysis​instructive. ​ Finally,​outside​of​their​immediate​families​women​had​rarely​expressed​ themselves​about​how​their​insertion​into​the​market​economy​had​affected​ their​relationships​with​their​husbands.​Maruch’s​admission​that​at​first​her​ husband​ and​ other​ women’s​ husbands​ had​ tried​ to​ destroy​ the​ women’s​ work​and​end​their​participation​in​organizations​that​brought​them​into​ relationships​with​mestizos​in​town​potentially​made​her​subject​to​marital​ problems.​What​actually​happened​was​that​the​appearance​of​the​book​and​ her​subsequent​invitation​to​visit​Mexico​City​helped​legitimate​her​and​the​ women’s​new​roles​in​their​husbands’​eyes. ​ Our​work​on​Kipaltik​brought​up​other​questions,​most​notably​in​regard​ to​editing.​Previously,​editing​had​been​done​for​reasons​of​style​and​economy​of​expression.​In​the​case​of​Kipaltik​we​were​faced​for​the​first​time​with​ the​problem​of​editing​as​censorship.​The​story​of​Kipaltik​is​one​not​only​of​ the​triumph​of​a​group​of​Tzotzils​in​buying​the​plantation​on​which​they​ had​been​virtual​slaves,​but​also​of​their​families’​century-​long​fight​to​recover​their​land,​expropriated​in​the​late​nineteenth​century.​After​the​Mexican​Revolution,​from​the​1920s​to​the​1970s​the​struggle​was​rarely​an​open​ one.​Debt-​laborers​sabotaged​production​and​resisted​work​when​they​could,​ but​the​landowner​had​overwhelming​force​on​his​side​and​with​impunity​ could​beat,​expel,​and​even​kill​those​who​defied​him.​The​balance​of​power​ between​the​two​sides​began​to​change​in​the​1970s,​when​declining​agricultural​prices​led​landowners​to​expel​resident​workers​and​turn​cropland​ into​pasturage​for​cattle.​Simultaneously—and​not​by​chance—independent​ peasant​and​indigenous​organizations​arose​and​became​increasingly​militant​ as​ they​ pushed​ back​ against​ the​ landowners’​ attempts​ to​ expel​ them​ from​ land​ that​ had​ belonged​ to​ their​ ancestors​ (see​ Harvey​ 1998;​ Toledo​ 2002;​Bobrow-​Strain​2007;​Garza​and​Toledo​2008).​Violence​between​the​ 162 Jan​rus​anD​Diane​l.​rus

two​sides​escalated​throughout​northern​Chiapas,​with​indigenous​workers​ cutting​fences,​killing​cattle,​and​invading​land,​while​owners​responded​by​ getting​the​state​police​and​army​to​repress​their​former​workers​and​hiring​ private​gunmen,​guardias blancas,​to​do​the​job​when​the​state​would​not.​ Some​of​the​passages​we​transcribed​in​preparing​Kipaltik​described​the​first​ real​attack​on​landowners​and​their​ladino​employees​in​this​isolated​region​ in​1974. ​ After​they​had​invaded​a​neighboring​finca,​men​from​the​communities​ that​ eventually​ bought​ Kipaltik​ beat​ the​ overseer,​ who​ had​ cheated​ them​ of​wages​and​treated​them​brutally​for​two​decades,​and​then​assaulted​his​ particularly​cruel,​arrogant​wife.​The​description​is​a​raw​one.​Those​of​us​in​ the​Taller​and​others​working​in​the​region​who​we​consulted​did​not​know​ what​to​do​with​it.​The​acts​it​described​were​ugly​and​certainly​illegal.​Yet​the​ men​who​had​participated​were​quite​open​about​their​deeds​as​justified​vengeance​for​decades​of​mistreatment.​It​was​an​example​of​the​kind​of​revolutionary​violence​described​by​Frantz​Fanon.​As​editors​and​sympathizers,​ we​were​especially​concerned​about​preserving​the​anonymity​of​those​involved—of​the​perpetrators​but​also​of​the​victim,​who​still​lived​in​a​small​ town​nearby.​During​a​long,​at​times​contentious​discussion,​Jan​finally​convinced​the​men​that​the​story​should​be​cut​on​the​grounds​that​it​described​ the​details​of​a​crime,​and​it​was​impossible​to​predict​what​would​happen​if​ we​committed​evidence​of​it​to​paper.​Caution​prevailed,​but​we​still​wonder​ whether​we​denatured​history​in​the​process.​Could,​or​should,​a​different​ decision​have​been​made? ​ Elsewhere​ in​ Kipaltik,​ as​ in​ the​ Taller’s​ other​ books,​ individuals​ and​ places​were​identified:​landowners,​politicians,​settlements,​and​plantations.​ The​risk,​faced​more​often​by​journalists​than​by​academic​writers,​was​not​ only​that​many​of​those​who​were​named​ or​were​identifiable​ from​their​ landholdings​were​still​alive​(certainly​their​families​were),​but​also​that​they​ were​ still​ likely​ to​ be​ in​ powerful​ positions​ in​ the​ region.​ Publishing​ accounts​of​their​deeds​might​have​had​negative​economic,​political,​or​personal​repercussions​for​the​actors​themselves,​for​community​members,​or​ for​the​Taller​should​they​take​offense.​Nevertheless,​the​Taller’s​purpose​was​ to​try​to​present​for​analysis​history​as​people​had​lived​and​remembered​it,​ and​if​such​details​had​been​omitted​discussion​would​have​been​impossible.​ Only​in​the​case​in​which​someone​could​be​hurt​gratuitously​was​a​name​ suppressed.12 ​ At​the​beginning​of​the​Kipaltik​collaboration,​the​community​made​it​ The Taller Tzotzil of Chiapas 163

clear​in​an​assembly​that​it​was​to​be​a​collective​product,​none​of​which​ could​be​published​until​it​had​been​read​and​approved​in​subsequent​assemblies.​Nor​were​we​to​interview​anyone​separately​and​represent​them​as​ spokespeople​for​the​group.​Accordingly,​all​the​interviews​were​conducted​ with​groups​of​at​least​four​or​five​and​on​occasion​as​many​as​fifteen​or​ twenty.​Jan​and​Xalik​Kusman​interviewed​the​men​over​the​course​of​half​a​ year,​often​during​rest​periods​on​communal​workdays.​Diane​interviewed​ the​women​in​the​schoolyard.​In​fact,​a​handful​of​senior​men​and​women​ did​most​of​the​talking​but​never​apart​from​the​group. ​ This​sharing,​or​diffusion,​of​authorship—and,​in​a​sense,​of​responsibility—seemed​to​us​another​expression​of​the​ u du ​customs​of​collective,​ consensual​decision​making​and​of​protecting​the​identities​of​leaders,​practices​that​have​become​well​known​through​the​Zapatistas.​During​demonstrations,​scores​and​even​hundreds​of​demonstrators​would​huddle​tightly​ when​they​had​to​make​a​decision​so​that​no​one​from​outside​could​see​ who​was​talking​or​identify​the​leaders.​Given​the​assassinations​of​some​ 195​indigenous​and​campesino​activists​in​rural​Chiapas​between​the​mid-​ 1970s​and​late​1980s,​this​precaution​was​well​warranted​(Burguete​and​Montero,​nd.).

1991–1994: Transitions As​publishing​ventures​and​even​as​political​projects​Ta jlok’ta chobtik​and​ Kipaltik​ were​ successes:​ widely​ read​ by​ the​ measure​ used​ in​ indigenous​ Chiapas,​where​print​runs​number​in​the​low​hundreds,​and​useful​as​representations​of​their​authors’​projects.​Even​as​they​were​being​printed,​however,​Mexico​and​rural​Chiapas​alike​were​entering​a​new​political​and​economic​environment,​one​that​would​eventually​undo​the​successes​of​both​ Maruch​Komes’s​cooperative​and​the​collective​farm​of​Kipaltik. ​ At​the​end​of​1988​Carlos​Salinas​de​Gortari​became​president​of​Mexico​ and​immediately​accelerated​the​pace​of​the​neoliberal​economic​reforms​ that​had​begun​in​the​early​1980s.​Over​the​next​six​years​he​would​privatize​ most​of​the​remaining​state​enterprises,​remove​controls​on​foreign​investment,​and​dismantle​the​laws​on​communal​landholding​that​had​been​one​ of​the​triumphs​of​the​Mexican​Revolution.​Almost​unremembered​among​ these​ sweeping​ reforms​ is​ that​ during​ the​ first​ weeks​ of​ his​ term​ Salinas​ undermined​the​International​Coffee​Agreement,​the​cartel​that​maintained​ the​stability​of​world​coffee​prices.​One​of​Salinas’s​overall​goals​was​to​help​ 164 Jan​rus​anD​Diane​l.​rus

the​administration​of​George​H.​W.​Bush​convince​the​U.S.​Congress​and​ public​opinion​in​the​United​States​of​Mexico’s​worthiness​as​a​partner​in​ the​North​American​Free​Trade​Agreement.​From​Salinas’s​perspective​his​ act​was​little​more​than​a​token​of​his​commitment​to​free​markets.​For​producers​around​the​world,​however,​including​those​in​Mexico,​it​was​a​disaster.​By​spring​1989​the​international​coffee​market​had​collapsed,​plunging​ millions​into​poverty.​Among​those​whose​plans​for​the​future​were​dashed​ were​the​members​of​the​Kipaltik​collective,​who​lost​the​coffee​income​they​ had​counted​on​to​make​their​mortgage​payments.​For​the​next​two​and​a​ half​years,​the​collective​managed​to​survive​by​obtaining​emergency​credit​ from​various​government​agencies.​The​condition​for​securing​the​last​of​ these​loans,​in​early​1992,​was​that​the​elderly​president​of​the​collective,​a​ former​debt-​laborer​who​had​fought​all​of​his​life​for​the​land,​had​to​stand​ behind​President​Salinas​with​two​other​historic​peasant​leaders,​in​native​ dress,​as​Salinas​signed​the​end​of​agrarian​reform.​When​the​news​photos​ of​the​event​appeared,​Kipaltik​fractured,​and​even​some​of​the​leader’s​sons​ refused​to​speak​to​him​or​face​him.​With​no​credit​forthcoming​for​the​fall​ harvest​of​1992,​Kipaltik’s​members​and​the​u du ’s​officers​divided​the​land​ among​themselves​before​the​bank​could​foreclose.​The​collective​was​dissolved. ​ Although​the​mechanism​was​different,​the​impact​of​Salinas’s​reforms​ on​the​artisan​cooperative​was​no​less​destructive.​Concerned​with​the​independence​and​the​increasingly​oppositional​stance​of​the​grass-​roots​organizations​that​had​taken​up​much​of​the​burden​of​sustaining​the​poor​during​ the​years​of​government​neglect​after​the​financial​crisis​of​1982,​the​Salinas​ government​came​into​office​with​a​plan​to​buy​back​their​loyalty:​the​Programa​Nacional​de​Solidaridad​(National​Solidarity​Program—pronasol )​ (Dresser​1991).​In​return​for​affiliating​with​government​organizations​and​ confederations​ of​ organizations,​ pronasol ​ funneled​ to​ so-​called​ popular​groups​a​share​of​the​profits​from​the​privatization​of​state-​owned​businesses.​In​the​case​of​Maruch​Komes’s​cooperative,​this​aid​came​in​the​form​ of​a​large​loan​composed​of​inferior​materials​and​a​complicated​scheme​ tying​repayment​to​government​participation​in​the​commercialization​of​ the​group’s​products.​To​cement​the​relationship,​women​in​the​cooperative​ were​also​compelled​to​participate​in​ pri ​electoral​campaigns​in​1988​and​ 1991,​for​which​purpose​they​were​bused​around​Chiapas​with​other​brightly​ costumed​indigenous​groups​so​that​they​could​take​a​prominent​place​in​the​ front​row​of​televised​events.​Unfortunately,​the​women’s​production​was​not​ The Taller Tzotzil of Chiapas 165

sufficient​to​pay​back​the​loans​that​had​been​foisted​on​them,​and​in​mid-​ 1992​the​state​held​back​both​the​pay​they​were​due​for​products​they​had​ turned​over​on​consignment​and​the​fees​they​had​paid​to​incorporate​as​an​ official​cooperative.​The​two​losses​added​up​to​far​more​than​they​had​ever​ received​in​loans.​Their​protection​as​members​of​a​favored​cooperative​now​ removed,​the​ pri ​bosses​of​their​municipio,​who​resented​them​for​having​ made​contracts​with​the​state​over​the​heads​of​the​municipio’s​supposedly​ legitimate​representatives,​prevented​them​from​sharing​in​any​of​the​local​ pronasol ​funds​to​which​they​were​entitled.​As​a​result​of​what​they​considered​a​swindle,​many​of​the​women​and​their​families​became​staunchly​ anti-​pri ​after​1992.​But​their​group,​which​had​come​together​out​of​common​need​and​grown​into​a​powerful​force​in​the​women’s​lives​through​the​ 1980s,​broke​into​factions​that​blamed​each​other​for​their​losses​(Rus​and​ Collier​2003). ​ If​the​Salinas​government’s​goal​had​been​to​rein​in​the​organizations​of​ the​poor,​by​the​end​of​1992​it​had​succeeded​in​the​cases​of​the​Kipaltik​collective​and​Maruch​Komes’s​cooperative:​both​had​ceased​to​exist.​Although​ every​case​is​different,​similar​fates​befell​independent​organizations​across​ Chiapas.​If​this​was​“success,”​however,​the​eventual​cost​to​the​government​ was​a​high​one.​Those​whose​painfully​organized​projects​failed​often​became​ bitter​ opponents​ of​ the​ government​ and​ the​ pri ,​ and​ those​ whose​ organizations​survived​were​usually​more​determined​than​ever​to​maintain​ their​independence. ​ At​the​beginning​of​this​period​of​renewed​government​intervention,​in​ the​fall​of​1988,​our​family​moved​back​to​California.​We​still​had​projects​ and​grants,​so​through​1992​Jan​spent​half​of​each​year​in​Chiapas​over​two​ or​three​visits,​and​Diane​two​and​a​half​months​during​the​summers.​Jlok’ta chobtik,​Kipaltik,​and​a​third​book,​Slo’il cha’vo’ kumpareil / Cuento de los dos compadres​ (Story​ of​ the​ two​ compadres),​ were​ finished​ under​ these​ conditions​ and​ published​ in​ 1990.13​ While​ we​ did​ begin​ two​ new​ publishing​ projects​between​1990​and​1993,​the​increasing​distress​of​the​communities​ and​organizations​ with​which​we​had​collaborated​ led​us​to​spend​much​ of​our​time​with​them,​talking​about​the​rapidly​changing​conditions​and​ discussing​alternatives.​Before​any​of​us​could​act​on​them,​however,​these​ conversations,​like​almost​everything​else​in​Chiapas,​were​overtaken​by​the​ Zapatistas’​invasion​of​San​Cristóbal​on​New​Year’s​Day,​1994.

166 Jan​rus​anD​Diane​l.​rus

Post-1994: Zapatismo After​the​economic​depression​and​official​neglect​of​the​1980s,​and​then​the​ assault​on​indigenous​organizations​of​the​early​1990s—not​to​mention​the​ centuries​of​exploitation​and​humiliation​that​had​gone​before—the​armed​ rebellion​of​1994​was​almost​overdetermined.​Following​an​initial​period​of​ confusion​on​the​part​of​those​who​were​not​Zapatistas,​within​a​few​weeks​ of​ January​ 1​ indigenous​ people​ throughout​ Chiapas,​ indeed,​ throughout​ Mexico,​remember​feeling​a​surge​of​pride​that​others​like​them​had​occupied​ a​ mestizo​ city​ and​ defeated​ the​ Mexican​ army​ in​ initial​ encounters.​ Friends​of​ours​say​that​for​months​afterward​upon​encountering​other​indigenous​people​on​the​sidewalk​they​smiled​knowingly​at​each​other,​proud​ of​their​identity. ​ Although​they​pale​next​to​the​other​effects​of​the​Zapatista​Rebellion,​the​ impacts​of​the​revolt​on​independent​projects​like​ours​were​also​profound.​ While​there​was​more​than​enough​to​learn,​talk,​and​write​about,​for​several​years​working​on​publishing​projects​within​communities​became​problematic.​By​the​summer​of​1994,​as​the​state’s​reaction​to​the​Zapatistas​became​organized,​there​began​to​be​paramilitary​patrols,​assassinations,​and​ random​shootings​throughout​rural​Chiapas.​As​a​result,​whereas​formerly​ it​had​been​our​practice​to​stay​overnight​in​people’s​houses​and​participate​ in​local​discussions,​now​we​worried​about​bringing​unwanted​attention​to​ those​with​whom​we​collaborated.​ Aside​from​any​danger​ to​ourselves— which​ we​ actually​ judged​ to​ be​ slight14—we​ worried​ about​ how​ this​ surveillance​and​violence​and​the​reaction​to​them​might​affect​our​friends​and​ hosts.​Would​someone​mistake​us​for​government​representatives​or​subversivos​and​take​it​out​on​our​collaborators?15​As​for​native​language​publishing​itself,​in​the​highly​polarized​atmosphere​of​the​second​half​of​the​1990s​ everyone​was​forced​to​choose​sides.​In​the​summer​of​1994​the​government​ held​meetings​of​native​language​writers​and​publishers​and​soon​after​began​ subsidizing​many​as​a​way​of​promoting​the​idea​that​the​state​was​“with”​indigenous​people.​The​Ejército​Zapatista​de​Liberación​Nacional​(eZln)​and​ the​generally​pro-​Zapatista​independent​political​organizations,​meanwhile,​ also​published​manifestos​and​newsletters​in​indigenous​languages—both​ sides​demonstrating,​parenthetically,​that​in​just​a​few​years​writing​in​native​ language​ had​ become​ a​ well-​established​ means​ of​ communicating​ across​ entire​regions.16​There​was​no​question​of​which​side​our​ngo ,​inareMac ,​ was​on​in​this​division.​At​great​personal​risk,​those​members​of​inareMac​ The Taller Tzotzil of Chiapas 167

who​were​resident​in​Chiapas​traveled​to​the​most​conflictive​parts​of​the​ state​and​documented​human​rights​abuses.17​As​summer​visitors,​however,​ the​two​of​us​were​not​in​a​position​either​to​sustain​a​contestatory​publishing​project​or​to​encourage​indigenous​communities​whose​dangers​we​did​ not​share​to​do​so.​Instead,​over​the​first​several​years​after​1994​we​continued​to​make​open,​public​visits​to​places​where​we​were​known,​concentrating​less​on​publishing​than​on​documenting​economic​deterioration​and​ political​change​(see​Rus​and​Rus​2004).18 ​ Nevertheless,​ two​ Taller​ Tzotzil​ productions​ did​ appear​ during​ this​ period.​The​first​was​a​pair​of​translations​for​nonindigenous​audiences​of​ Tzotzil-​language​accounts​of​the​rebellion​of​1994​and​its​aftermath:​“Los​primeros​meses​de​los​zapatistas”​(“The​first​months​of​the​Zapatistas”)​(1995)​ and​“Conversaciones​interrumpidas”​(“Interrupted​conversations,”​2000),​by​ Mariano​Peres​Tsu​(the​pseudonym​our​partner​Xalik​Kusman​had​chosen​ for​ himself).​ The​ two​ translations​ present​ vignettes​ of​ indigenous​ life​ in​ Chiapas​ after​ 1994.​ The​ first​ told​ of​ the​ emotions​ and​ reactions​ of​ different​groups​immediately​following​the​rebellion,​and​the​second​of​events​ in​ an​ urban​ colony​ in​ the​ late​ 1990s​ as​ the​ state​ tried​ to​ reassert​ control​ and​the​inhabitants​tried​to​evade​it.​Both​chronicles​have​been​published​ several​times​in​four​countries​and​in​2002​were​published​together​as​“A​ Tzotzil​Chronicle​of​the​Zapatista​Uprising”​in​Gilbert​Joseph’s​and​Timothy​ Henderson’s​Mexico Reader​(Duke,​2002.)​Unlike​earlier​publications​of​the​ Taller,​most​of​which​were​transcribed​oral​histories,​these​essays​were​written​in​Tzotzil​by​a​native​writer;​we​provided​only​the​translation​and​editing. ​ The​ second​ publication,​ Jchi’iltak ta Slumal Kalifornya​ (“Chamulas​ in​ California”),​ which​ appeared​ in​ 1996,​ originated​ from​ one​ of​ the​ two​ projects​we​had​begun​between​1990​and​1993​and​grew​out​of​our​contact​ with​some​of​the​first​undocumented​Tzotzil​workers​to​arrive​in​California.​ Four​hundred​copies​of​the​testimonies​of​the​brothers​Manuel,​Salvador,​ and​ Pedro​ Pérez​ were​ printed,​ and​ they​ were​ distributed​ largely​ through​ ngo s​and​churches​working​in​the​Tzotzil​region.​“Going​north”​was​still​ almost​unheard​of​in​rural​Chiapas​in​the​1990s,​and​in​addition​to​telling​a​ story​the​book​attempted​to​offer​counsel​to​those​planning​to​make​the​trip.​ In​addition​to​the​brothers’​adventures​getting​to​and​crossing​the​border​ and​learning​to​survive​in​the​United​States,​woven​into​the​story​was​advice​ about​obtaining​and​safely​using​false​identification,​avoiding​being​cheated​ by​employers​or​caught​by​the​migra​(border​patrol),​and​getting​help​after​

168 Jan​rus​anD​Diane​l.​rus

being​detained​and​dumped​back​on​the​Mexican​side​of​the​border​without​money​or​documents.​In​appendices​which​were​later​copied​separately​ as​flyers,​Jchi’iltak​also​provided​information​in​Tzotzil​and​Spanish​about​ groups​along​both​sides​of​the​border​that​offered​aid​to​migrants​and​about​ the​rights​of​undocumented​workers. ​ The​biggest​difference​between​the​projects​undertaken​after​1994​and​ those​before​is​that​in​the​later​projects​authors’​identities​were​sometimes​ hidden.​In​the​case​of​Jchi’iltak​we​had​conducted​the​interviews​in​California,​ and​ neither​ we​nor​the​interviewees​ were​ sure​what​ pressures​ the​ brothers’​families​might​experience​in​Chiapas​if​their​absence​and​dollar​ income​were​publicized.​To​be​safe,​we​all​agreed​to​mask​their​identities.​ When​the​brothers​returned​to​Chiapas​after​the​book’s​appearance,​however,​and​realized​that​it​was​circulating​in​the​shantytowns​and​that​Xalik​ Kusman​of​the​Taller​had​been​interviewed​about​it​on​a​Tzotzil-​language​ radio​program,​they​were​proud​to​claim​authorship.​One​brother​later​used​ it​in​his​campaign​to​be​the​first​indigenous​member​of​San​Cristóbal’s​city​ council,​and​in​radio​interviews​elaborated​on​the​book’s​account​of​his​experiences.​In​the​case​of​Xalik​Kusman’s​own​vignettes​of​the​Zapatista​Rebellion,​on​the​other​hand,​the​disguise​has​been​maintained​for​years​because​of​Xalik’s​well-​founded​fear​of​reprisals​from​the​ladino​authorities​he​ so​humorously​portrayed.19 ​ In​general,​our​practice​had​been​to​keep​from​intruding​in​the​texts​with​ introductions​and​explanatory​footnotes.​In​the​case​of​Jchi’iltak,​however,​ where​the​purpose​was​in​part​to​warn​readers​about​the​hardships​of​undocumented​migration,​we​felt​it​was​necessary​to​say​something​about​why​ people​migrated​and​to​elaborate​on​the​conditions​migrants​faced.​We​also​ wanted​to​explain​that​most​U.S.​citizens​were​the​descendants​of​migrants.​ A​brief​socio-​politico-​historical​section​was​added.​In​the​case​of​the​translated​chronicles,​introductions​were​provided​to​explain​the​unusual​origin​ of​the​documents. ​ This​brings​the​story​of​the​Taller​up​to​the​present.​Although​the​Taller​ never​formally​closed,​its​activity​waned​after​the​1990s.​One​project​is​still​in​ progress:​a​Tzotzil-​language​history​of​San​Cristóbal’s​shantytowns.​Undertaken​in​collaboration​with​the​Tzotzil​writer​Xalik​Kusman​in​1990,​it​had,​ by​the​summer​of​2009,​generated​more​than​thirty-​eight​hundred​handwritten​pages​of​testimony​and​stories.​All​that​remains​to​be​done​is​editing​ and​organization.20

The Taller Tzotzil of Chiapas 169

Final Reflections As​economic​and​then​social​and​political​conditions​deteriorated​during​ the​1970s​and​1980s,​the​tradition​of​critical​historical​narrative​and​analysis​that​had​always​existed​within​Tzotzil​and​other​indigenous​communities​increasingly​transcended​social​and​cultural​borders​and​spread​across​ Chiapas.​What​native​speakers​talking​to​each​other​in​their​own​languages​ had​formerly​said​only​among​themselves​was​now​increasingly​expressed​to​ indigenous​people​beyond​their​local​groups​as​well​as​to​Spanish-​speakers.​ Information​ traveled​ the​ other​ way​ as​ well,​ deepening​ Tzotzil-​speakers’​ knowledge​of​the​changes​affecting​all​Mexicans,​not​just​themselves.​By​the​ second​half​of​the​1980s​all​of​indigenous​Chiapas​was​engaged​in​an​earnest​intellectual​and​political​debate,​as​within​every​family​different​members​ tried​new​ways​of​making​a​living,​organizing​themselves,​and​even​thinking​ about​life.​What​was​the​news​from​those​who​had​moved​to​the​city;​had​they​ found​work​and​places​to​live?​What​of​homesteading​in​the​jungle,​did​clearing​land​and​planting​coffee​seem​to​offer​a​safe​future?​What​about​the​many​ independent​organizations​and​cooperatives,​what​did​they​offer?​Were​Protestantism,​in​its​many​varieties,​or​liberation​Catholicism​better​ways​of​organizing​and​thinking​about​life​than​traditional​communities​and​religion? ​ Native​language​writing​and​the​birth​of​media​controlled​by​indigenous​ people​ were​ among​ the​ by-​products​ of​ this​ effervescence.​ The​ plantation​ economy​ and​ the​ community​ structures​ bound​ to​ it​ were​ swept​ away​ so​ quickly​that​people​who​spoke​Tzotzil​and​Chiapas’s​other​native​languages​ had​little​choice​but​to​talk​about​the​change​and​discuss​alternatives​in​their​ own​ tongues.​ In​ the​ process,​ they​ made​ Tzotzil—including​ written​ Tzotzil—not​only​a​means​of​communication,​but​also​a​basis​of​solidarity​in​the​ new​urban​and​national​environments​they​were​entering.​If​we​and​others​ helping​with​communications​projects​found​receptive​audiences,​in​turn,​ the​reason​was​not​so​much​our​own​persuasiveness​as​this​changed​context.​ By​the​early​2000s,​in​a​region​where​only​thirty​years​earlier​native​language​speakers​were​only​beginning​to​write,​university​theses​are​now​being​ completed​in​indigenous​languages;​the​international​and​national​news​are​ translated​daily​into​Tzotzil​and​circulated​in​xeroxed​“newspapers”​in​the​ market;​unregulated,​low-​power​FM ​radio​stations​broadcast​in​Tzotzil​from​ San​ Cristóbal’s​ shantytowns;​ and​ the​ number​of​government​ institutions,​ churches,​ngo s,​independent​organizations,​and​private​presses​that​publish​ in​Tzotzil​and​other​indigenous​languages​continues​to​multiply. 170 Jan​rus​anD​Diane​l.​rus

​ Thinking​about​indigenous​people​in​developing​societies​from​the​comfortable,​urbanized​North,​it​is​possible​to​despair.​“Our”​world​is​systematically​squeezing​theirs​out​of​its​environmental​and​economic​niches,​in​ the​process​unraveling​their​societies​and​ways​of​life.​Seeing​how​one-​sided​ this​change​is​and​always​has​been,​one​might​well​believe​that​the​people​of​ small​cultures​and​languages​do​not​see​what​is​happening​to​them,​and​that​ even​if​they​do,​whether​through​our​fault​or​theirs,​they​cannot​make​themselves​heard.​Those​of​us​who​have​had​the​opportunity​to​be​in​direct​contact​with​people​in​places​like​Chiapas,​however—to​have​experienced​both​ their​eagerness​to​communicate​and​the​power​of​their​ideas—are​probably​ more​hopeful.​Writing​and​publishing​in​native​languages​cannot​roll​back​ the​current​global​order.​But​by​giving​as​many​people​as​possible​the​means​ and​the​confidence​to​express​their​views,​they​do​make​it​possible​for​ever​ more​voices​to​join​our​common​conversation,​for​the​subaltern​to​speak.

Notes Acknowledgments:​ We​ would​ like​ to​ thank​ John​ Burstein,​ George​ Collier,​ María​ Elena​Fernández​Galán,​Edward​Fischer,​Christine​Kovic,​Ámbar​Past,​Pedro​Pitarch,​ Stephen​Lewis,​and​Juan​Pedro​Viqueira​for​their​comments​and​suggestions.​Particular​thanks​to​Florencia​Mallon​for​her​careful​readings​and​editing.​The​essay​ is​dedicated​to​the​memory​of​Andrés​Aubry​and​Angélica​Inda,​who​founded​the​ Taller​Tzotzil​in​1974​and​entrusted​it​to​us​in​1985.​From​then​until​the​ends​of​their​ lives​they​shared​friendship​and​counsel​and​always​their​fullest​support.​We​never​ stop​missing​them. ​ 1.​The​Instituto​de​Asesoría​Antropológica​para​la​Región​Maya,​A.C.​(inareMac )​ was​founded​by​Andrés​Aubry​in​1973​with​the​sponsorship​of​Bishop​Samuel​Ruiz,​ who​felt​Chiapas’s​liberationist​Catholic​Church​needed​independent​anthropological​advice.​Following​the​Congreso​Indígena​of​1974​(Morales​1992),​in​which​it​played​ a​role,​ inareMac ​acted​as​host​for​experimental,​community-​directed​projects​in​ organic​agriculture,​health​education,​a​furniture​cooperative,​and​the​Taller​Tzotzil.​ In​its​first​years​the​Taller​organized​language​classes​for​clergy​and​social​workers.​ Under​the​direction​of​the​anthropologist​John​Burstein,​however,​it​soon​turned​to​ providing​literacy​courses​in​Tzotzil​communities.​The​first​booklet​to​follow​these​ courses​was​published​in​the​fall​of​1976​(Aubry​1988).​During​our​own​time​in​the​ Taller,​funds​have​been​provided​by​the​French​Comité​Catholique​Contre​la​Faim​ et​Pour​le​Dévellopement,​the​European​Community,​inareMac ’s​French​support​ group,​ inareMac ’s​Chiapas​board​of​directors,​headed​by​Amado​Avendaño​and​ Carlos​Rodríguez,​and​the​Jacobs​Research​Fund​of​Bellingham,​​Washington. The Taller Tzotzil of Chiapas 171

​ 2.​There​are​no​known​documents​written​in​Tzotzil​by​native​speakers​to​be​read​ by​ other​ native​ speakers​ from​ the​ arrival​ of​ Europeans​ (1524)​ through​ the​ 1940s.​ During​the​1940s​writing​was​reintroduced​in​Tzotzil,​as​in​Chiapas’s​other​Maya​languages,​by​the​missionary​linguists​of​the​Summer​Institute​of​Linguistics/Wycliffe​ Bible​Translators​(sil/Wbt).​After​1951​ sil/Wbt ​linguists​produced​the​materials​ for​ the​ bilingual​ education​ programs​ of​ the​ Instituto​ Nacional​ Indigenista​ (ini),​ which​became​the​source​of​Chiapas’s​new​indigenous​literacy.​The​first​publishing​ by​native​writers​appeared​after​the​mid-​1970s.​Among​those​who​produced​this​material​in​addition​to​the​Taller​Tzotzil​were​Taller​Leñateros​(1979–)​(see​note​8);​Sna​ Jtz’ibajom​(1982–),​founded​by​former​language​assistants​to​anthropologists​with​ help​from​Robert​M.​Laughlin;​the​writers’​project​of​the​state​government​(1982–88),​ led​by​Dr.​Jacinto​Arias​Sojom;​La​Castalia,​advised​by​Gudrun​and​Carlos​Lenkersdorf,​which​published​in​Tojolabal​from​the​mid-​1970s​through​the​1980s;​the​Instituto​ de​ Estudios​ Indígenas​ of​ the​ Universidad​ Autónoma​ de​ Chiapas,​ which​ has​ published​occasionally​in​native​languages​since​1985;​and​various​irregular​projects​ of​independent​organizations,​churches,​and​Mexican​universities​with​programs​in​ Chiapas.​Since​the​mid-​1990s,​the​native​writers’​own​organization,​celali ,​has​also​ published​native​language​texts​or​placed​them​with​other​publishers.​(For​more,​see​ Laughlin​1993;​Benjamin​2000;​and​Past​2005.) ​ 3.​Menchú​(1984​[1983]),​in​reaction,​see​Stoll​(1999),​J.​Rus,​ed.​(1999);​Chakravorty-​ Spivak​(1988),​Gugelberger​(1996). ​ 4.​Chiapas’s​commercial​agriculture​required​some​125,000​seasonal​workers​in​ the​ early​ 1970s,​ and​ only​ a​ few​ thousand​ more​ in​ the​ mid-​1980s.​ Meanwhile,​ the​ number​of​indigenous​men​looking​for​such​work​almost​doubled​between​1970​and​ 1990,​from​150,000​to​more​than​300,000​(see​Collier​1994;​J.​Rus​1995). ​ 5.​This​was​true​of​virtually​all​studies​published​before​the​1980s.​The​exception​ was​Ricardo​Pozas​(1952;​1962),​whose​Juan, the Chamula,​although​classified​as​a​ novel​when​it​first​appeared​in​1948,​was​arguably​the​Maya​region’s​first​testimonio.​ See​J.​Rus​(2004). ​ 6.​Originally​we​intended​to​produce​both​booklets​and​tape​cassettes​of​sound​ documentaries​ blending​ the​ interviews​ with​ music.​ Thinking​ about​ all​ the​ time​ people​spent​in​minibuses​and​colectivos,​with​their​omnipresent​tapes​of​ranchero​ music,​we​thought​tapes​would​broaden​our​audience.​After​a​first​experiment,​however,​we​realized​that​recording,​mixing,​producing,​and​distributing​tapes​was​beyond​our​capacity. ​ 7.​At​a​panel​entitled​the​“Current​State​and​Future​Prospects​of​Maya​Language​ Literature”​at​the​Congreso​Internacional​de​Mayistas​in​1989,​there​was​an​energetic​ discussion​about​the​distribution​and​sale​of​native​language​materials.​Minimum​ wage​in​Chiapas​is​regularly​adjusted​to​remain​at​approximately​three​dollars​per​ day,​with​agricultural​workers​typically​making​half​to​two-​thirds​of​that​wage,​often​ paid​in​kind.​Potential​readers’​ability​to​pay​is​severely​limited.​ini ​has​historically​ 172 Jan​rus​anD​Diane​l.​rus

given​away​its​materials,​while​the​sil/Wbt ​and​most​of​the​writing​projects​charged​ low,​highly​subsidized​prices.​For​example,​both​editions​of​Abtel​sold​for​the​equivalent​of​twenty​cents​in​indigenous​communities,​and​the​second​edition​for​five​dollars​in​bookstores. ​ 8.​The​exceptions​both​involved​Ámbar​Past​(1989;​1980),​and​in​Burstein,​Past,​ and​Wassestrom​(1979).​Past​began​collecting​women’s​stories​and​lore​in​1975​and​ has​helped​indigenous​women​publish​continuously​since​1979​through​Taller​Leñateros.​Since​the​late​1980s​there​have​been​a​number​of​other​writing,​theater,​and​ media​projects​managed​by​women​and​dedicated​to​women’s​themes,​among​them​ Fortaleza​ de​ la​ Mujer​ Maya​ (FoMMa)​ (1992–),​ inspired​ and​ advised​ by​ Miriam​ Laughlin;​and​the​Proyecto​Fotográfico​Maya,​founded​by​Carlota​Duarte. ​ 9.​The​principal​differences​between​the​orthographies​is​inea ’s​use​of​“k”​versus​ sil/Wbt ’s​use​of​“c”​and​“qu”​for​the​same​sound,​and​slight​differences​in​conventions​about​glottal​stops.​Ironically,​in​discussions​with​Maya​writers​from​Guatemala​ at​the​Congreso​Mayista​of​1989,​it​turned​out​that​the​Academia​de​Lenguas​Mayas​ de​Guatemala​chose​to​use​“c/qu”​over​“k”​because​in​Guatemala​the​latter​was​associated​with​the​despised​national​government.​In​Chiapas,​the​sil/Wbt ​orthography​ received​a​boost​as​a​universal​convention​at​the​end​of​the​1990s​when​Bible​translations​in​Tzotzil​and​Tzeltal,​originally​undertaken​by​the​Protestants,​were​approved​ by​the​progressive​Catholic​diocese​of​San​Cristóbal​(e.g.,​Sociedad​Bíblica​1997). ​ 10.​Our​Tzotzil​names​since​our​first​summer​in​Chiapas​were​Xalik​for​Jan,​and​ Tina​for​Diane.​When​we​added​“Rus,”​Jan’s​name​sounded​to​Tzotzil-​speakers​like​ “Xalik​Kurus,”​Tzotzil​for​“Salvador​Cruz.”​Kurus​thus​became​our​last​name. ​ 11.​Most​of​those​on​one​side​were​descendants​of​the​ejido’s​original​ Tzotzil-​ speaking​community,​dispossessed​by​a​ladino​planter​in​the​mid-​nineteenth​century.​Most​of​the​members​of​the​other​were​Tzeltal​speakers​whose​ancestors​had​ been​brought​to​Los​Chorros​as​debt​laborers​after​the​1890s.​In​all​the​years​of​inhabiting​the​same​space,​many​on​each​side​spoke​the​other​side’s​language,​and​there​ were​even​intermarriages.​But​since​the​1970s​they​had​joined​rival​political​parties​ and​by​the​mid-​1980s​were​locked​in​conflict​(see​Arias​1984;​Aubry​and​Inda​1998;​ Hernández​Castillo​2001). ​ 12.​In​the​United​States,​whether​to​use​names​or​not​is​still​debated​among​oral​ historians​and​the​university​and​government​officials​charged​with​protection​of​ research​subjects.​See​the​website​of​Perspectives​of​the​American​Historical​Association​for​the​range​of​views:​www.historians.org/Perspectives​(accessed​30​January​2006). ​ 13.​Slo’il cha’vo’ kumpareil / Cuento de los dos compadres​was​a​Zinacanteco​folktale​transcribed​by​our​colleague​Chep​Ernantes.​Edited​as​a​bilingual​children’s​story​ by​Chep​and​Diane,​with​illustrations​by​Elizabeth​Ross,​it​was​later​translated​into​ French​by​Isabelle​Duquesne​of​ inareMac ​for​distribution​to​Taller​supporters​in​ France.​A​fourth​book​from​this​period​was​Historia de un pueblo evangelista: Triunfo The Taller Tzotzil of Chiapas 173

Agrarista​(1993),​by​Ricardo​Pérez.​A​ladino​campesino​from​Chiapas’s​Central​Valley,​Pérez​read​the​Taller’s​books​and​then​wrote​his​own​history​of​his​Protestant​ refugee​colony,​illustrated​it​with​his​own​snapshots,​and​presented​it​to​the​Taller​for​ publication. ​ 14.​Aside​from​expulsion​for​interfering​in​Mexican​politics,​occasional​heavy-​ handed​surveillance​and​interrogation,​and​a​handful​of​cases​of​official​assault,​foreigners​were​largely​immune​to​the​repression​after​1994.​The​hope​that​this​would​ be​so​was​the​basis​for​stationing​foreign​citizens​in​Peace​Camps​in​the​midst​of​ threatened​communities.​That​none​have​been​killed​does​not​in​any​way​diminish​ the​courage​of​peace​campers,​who​still,​as​this​is​written​in​2006,​face​the​prospect​ of​violence. ​ 15.​This​did​not​apply​to​our​“home”​hamlet​in​Chamula,​where​our​sons’​godparents​resided​and​everyone​knew​us.​Even​there,​however,​although​it​had​nothing​to​do​with​us,​a​paramilitary​patrol​surrounded​and​menaced​a​primary​school​ graduation​we​attended​in​1997​until​local​men​calmed​them​down. ​ 16.​For​the​larger​context​of​this​shift,​see​Benjamin​(2000). ​ 17.​Angélica​Inda,​one​of​inareMac ’s​six​members,​was​the​eZln ’s​secretary​at​ the​San​Andrés​Peace​Talks.​Andrés​Aubry​worked​full-​time​writing​and​editing​the​ summaries​and​communiqués​of​Bishop​Samuel​Ruiz​and​the​mediators​at​the​talks.​ At​great​personal​risk​and​eventually​cost​to​their​health,​they​also​documented​and​ spoke​out​about​human​rights​abuses​throughout​the​period​after​1994​(see​Aubry​ and​Inda,​2003).​Still​a​third​associate,​Michel​Chanteaux,​a​resident​of​Chiapas​for​ more​than​thirty-​five​years,​was​expelled​from​Mexico​two​days​after​the​Acteal​massacre​in​December​1997​for​having​been​the​source​of​the​first​news​reports​that​the​ army​was​nearby​and​did​not​intervene​(Chanteaux​1999). ​ 18.​Outside​of​Mexico​we​felt​freer​and​lectured​and​were​interviewed​frequently.​ We​also​helped​organize​an​international​campaign​in​1998​to​keep​Chiapas​open​to​ scholars​and​human​rights​observers​and​to​free​a​Mexican​scholar​who​had​been​ swept​up​in​a​military​raid. ​ 19.​In​confimation​of​the​continuing​power​of​Xalik’s​words,​in​Subcomandante​ Marcos’s​speech​celebrating​the​fifteenth​anniversary​of​the​Zapatistas’​rebellion​of​ 1994,​he​quoted​directly​and​at​length​from​“Los​primeros​meses​de​los​zapatistas”​ (Subcomandante​Marcos,​“Siete​vientos​en​los​calendarios​y​geografías​de​abajo,”​reprinted​in​La Jornada,​Mexico​City,​4​January​2009). ​ 20.​ Meanwhile,​ beginning​ soon​ after​ the​ San​ Andrés​ Peace​ Accords​ of​ 1996,​ Andrés​Aubry​supervised​the​translation​of​the​accords​and​related​documents,​more​ than​one​hundred​pages,​into​ten​indigenous​languages​spoken​in​Chiapas,​including​ Tzotzil​(Los Acuerdos de San Andrés​2003).

174 Jan​rus​anD​Diane​l.​rus

decade​ of​ the​ twenty-​first​ century,​ as​ globalized​ indigenous​ movements​completed​their​fourth​decade​of​struggle,​a​new​generation​of​ Native​intellectuals​took​shape​and​found​its​own​voice.​As​the​two​essays​ in​part​3​make​clear,​these​younger​Native​intellectuals​are​well​versed​in​ postcolonial​theory​as​well​as​indigenous​methodologies.​They​straddle​the​ line​between​activism​and​academic​work,​committed​and​aspiring​to​both.​ Brian​Klopotek​and​Edgar​Esquit​are​both​committed​to​building​what​is,​ in​essence,​an​“insider’s​critique”​of​the​accomplishments​and​limitations​of​ Native​political​and​intellectual​production.​But​neither​wishes​this​critique​ to​stay​only​inside​Native​circles.​In​a​sense,​they​demonstrate​that​in​the​new​ generation​it​is​important​to​eschew​false​unities​in​order​more​fully​to​build​ true​and​enduring​ones. ​ In​ addition​ to​ these​ generational​ similarities,​ however,​ Klopotek​ and​ Esquit​ exhibit​ the​ differences​ generated​ by​ their​ distinct​ locations​ in​ the​ American​hemisphere.​While​both​aspire​to​a​place​in​the​academy,​Klopotek​is​more​firmly​placed​within​it​given​the​comparatively​greater​presence​ that​Native​intellectuals​have​carved​out​in​academe​in​the​United​States.​The​ political​and​historical​context​in​which​each​has​lived​is​also​quite​distinct.​ Klopotek​has​come​of​age​in​a​time​of​antiracist​activism​that​is​attempting​ to​build​coalitions​across​the​distinct​experiences​of​various​ethnic​and​racial​ minorities​within​the​United​States.​Esquit,​on​the​other​hand,​is​part​of​the​ first​generation​of​Maya​intellectuals​to​come​of​age​after​the​Guatemalan​ civil​war​of​1962–96,​when​more​than​83​percent​of​the​approximately​two​ hundred​thousand​victims​of​violence​were​Maya.1​He​is​attempting​to​place​ the​Maya​struggle​for​self-​determination​that​emerged​most​strongly​as​a​ reaction​to​this​civil​war​into​historical​context.​For​each,​then,​the​meaning​ of​multiculturalism​is​different,​and,​as​we​shall​see,​for​Esquit​it​cannot​be​ separated​from​questions​of​neoliberalism. ​ Basing​his​work​on​that​of​the​Maori​scholar​Linda​Tuhiwai​Smith,​Klopotek​ reflects​ deeply​ on​ the​ double​ meaning​ of​ the​ phrase​ “decolonizing​ methodologies.”​Not​only​do​some​methodologies​decolonize​research​and​ knowledge,​he​argues,​but​we​must​also​learn​to​decolonize​the​methodologies​we​use.​In​addressing​the​very​sensitive​issue​of​racism​against​blacks​ among​ southern​ Natives​ in​ the​ United​ States,​ Klopotek​ sees​ opportunity​ within​the​danger​of​“speaking​secrets.”​While​recognizing​that​for​many​ in tHe First

years​subaltern​people​have​reacted​to​academic​researchers​by​closing​ranks​ and​not​being​open​about​internal​issues,​Klopotek​also​considers​the​possibility​that​speaking​the​truth​about​internal​divisions​may​be​a​form​of​activist​healing. ​ For​his​part,​Esquit​is​interested​in​who​speaks​for​whom​in​the​Maya​ movement.​He​explores​the​historical​dynamics​and​origins​of​the​pan-​Maya​ movement​across​the​twentieth​century,​focusing​on​prosperous,​educated​ Maya​ elites​ in​ certain​ urban​ regions​ and​ among​ certain​ Maya​ linguistic​ groups,​most​notably​the​K’ich’e​and​Kaqchikel.​Esquit​demonstrates​that​ the​use​of​Mayanist​discourse​to​claim​space​in​particular​worlds,​such​as​national​politics,​that​were​previously​closed​to​the​Maya​has​a​tradition​going​ back​to​the​end​of​the​nineteenth​century.​He​shows​that​this​form​of​Maya​ empowerment​has​been​used​by​Maya​elites​in​relation​to​both​ladinos​and​ to​poor​and​uneducated​Maya.​What​is​different​in​the​post–civil​war​period,​ he​suggests,​is​a​discourse​of​peoplehood​which,​one​might​presume,​has​ a​new​ethnic​inclusiveness​to​it.​Taking​this​inclusiveness​seriously,​Esquit​ concludes,​means​being​attentive​to​all​sectors​of​the​Maya​people​and​finding​ways​to​get​beyond​internal​class,​gender,​and​ethnic​differences.​And​ it​is​in​this​sense​that​the​economic​problems​exacerbated​by​globalization​ must​take​center​stage.​Unless​the​Maya​movement​takes​account​of​the​ways​ in​which​globalization​hurts​all​the​poor,​Maya​and​ladino​alike,​then​educated​Maya​who​participate​in​the​government​will​ultimately​become​complicit​in​the​deployment​of​multiculturalism​as​a​tool​of​state​control​and​in​ the​continued​oppression​and​exclusion​of​the​poor​more​generally. ​ Taken​together,​then,​these​two​essays​suggest​that​a​more​open​and​self-​ critical​ perspective​ on​ indigenous​ cultural​ and​ political​ issues,​ when​ formulated​from​within​indigenous​intellectual​circles​themselves,​can​provide​ new​insights​about​the​past​and​new​clues​for​the​future​of​indigenous​activism.​This​combination​of​unity​and​loyalty​to​one’s​group,​yet​a​willingness​ to​criticize​from​within​and​to​do​so​openly,​with​eyes​on​the​future,​is​an​ important​mark​of​the​new​generation​of​indigenous​activist-​intellectuals​ taking​shape​across​the​Americas.

Note ​ 1.​Guatemala: Memory of Silence,​Report​of​the​Commission​for​Historical​Clarification,​http://shr.aaas.org/guatemala.

Indigenous Activism and Debates 177

brian kloPotek

Dangerous​Decolonizing Indians and Blacks and the Legacy of Jim Crow

For​the​past​ten​years​I​have​been​doing​ethnological​and​historical​research​ in​the​southeastern​United​States​that​revolves​around​federal​recognition​of​ Indian​tribes.​One​of​the​thorniest​issues​to​negotiate​with​people​I​interview​ has​been​the​place​of​blackness​in​southern​Indian​communities.​The​subject​ quickly​raises​hackles​because​of​the​ways​in​which​the​presence​of​blackness​undermines​claims​to​a​distinct​Indian​identity;​as​a​result​of​this​and​ other​factors,​antiblack​racism​remains​an​unresolved​internal​and​external​ conflict​in​the​South.​As​a​Choctaw​with​roots​in​Louisiana​and​an​activist​for​racial​equality,​I​feel​obliged​to​discuss​the​matter​publicly​to​counter​ antiblack​racism​and​free​indigenous​communities​from​what​is​ultimately​a​ self-​defeating​support​of​white​supremacy.​By​doing​so,​however,​I​am​forcing​other​southern​Indians​to​talk​about​the​matter​against​their​will​and​ discussing​a​history​that​sometimes​reflects​poorly​on​us.​On​the​basis​of​the​ conflicts​and​methodological​problems​I​have​encountered​in​this​process,​I​ suggest​some​revisions​to​indigenous​methodologies​and​discuss​the​implications​of​this​knowledge​for​indigenous​studies​as​a​field. ​ This​ essay​ addresses​ the​ stories​ we​ are​ not​ supposed​ to​ talk​ about,​ a​ thought​that​gives​me​pause.​Decades​of​subaltern​groups​talking​back​to​ academics​have​made​it​clear​that​colonial​gazing,​airing​dirty​laundry,​and​ treating​indigenous​people​as​laboratory​animals​undermine​the​safety​and​ integrity​of​the​communities​being​studied.​In​light​of​these​critiques,​indigenous​peoples​and​scholars​have​developed​a​new​model​based​in​collaboration​with​and​respect​for​indigenous​sovereignty,​and​scholars​try​to​ be​self-​critical​and​self-​aware,​ensuring​that​scholarly​work​benefits​the​community​in​some​direct​way.​Collaboration,​mutual​benefit,​and​scholarly​sup-

port​of​tribal​endeavors​are​central​both​to​indigenous​methodologies​and​to​ my​ethical​concerns​as​an​indigenous​researcher.1 ​ But​the​problem​of​antiblack​racism​in​Indian​communities​presents​a​ theoretical​oversight​in​indigenous​methodologies​in​a​couple​of​ways.​First,​ indigenous​methodologies​need​to​be​able​to​account​for​indigenous​peoples​ as​entities​with​blurred​boundaries​and​internal​heterogeneity​rather​than​as​ discretely​bounded,​homogeneous​communities.​While​scholars​have​often​ acknowledged​the​blurred​boundaries​between​indigenous​and​colonizing​ populations​that​result​in​mestizaje,​middle​grounds,​and​colonial​domination​in​American​Indian​studies,​we​have​only​recently​become​more​careful​ about​accounting​for​the​ways​in​which​Indian​communities​have​come​into​ contact​with​other​marginalized​groups​and​at​times​reproduced​systems​of​ oppression​from​the​colonizers​within​our​own​communities.​Moreover,​we​ too​rarely​account​for​the​multiplicity​of​social​and​political​positions​within​ a​community,​preferring​the​simplicity​of​well-​intentioned​declarative​statements​about​supporting​tribal​sovereignty​that​carry​a​secret,​homogenizing,​ nationalist​ “conceptual​ prison”​ for​ Indians​ within​ them.2​ Indigenous​ methodologies​in​some​ways​depend​on​a​presupposition​of​a​tidy​power​ relationship​between​a​tightly​bound,​oppressed​subject​group​and​a​separate,​oppressive​external​world,​and​a​presupposition​that​all​of​the​values​ of​the​indigenous​community​are​worthy​of​upholding​and​in​line​with​the​ values​of​the​researcher.​So​what​should​we​do​when​that​is​not​true?​Or,​ more​accurately,​what​do​we​do​once​we​understand​that​it​is,​in​fact,​an​impossibility?​Can​we​classify​as​collaborative​work​that​which​seeks​to​change​ the​values​of​a​community?​In​this​case,​I​view​it​as​part​of​a​painful​process​ of​decolonization​and​a​conversation​long​overdue​in​Indian​country,​but​it​ raises​the​question​of​how​to​make​these​ethical​considerations​fit​into​a​collaborative​model. ​ That​leads​to​the​second​area​of​concern,​which​is​that​in​the​context​of​ U.S.​indigenous​studies,​we​need​to​have​a​better​infusion​of​the​study​of​ race​more​broadly​than​simply​in​the​Indian–white​context.​In​many​ways,​ the​native–white​relationship​is​unique.​We​need​to​keep​this​in​mind​because​as​a​field​U.S.​ethnic​studies​does​not​have​a​solid​understanding​of​ the​distinction​between​indigenous​groups​and​racial​minorities​and​typically​fails​to​see​the​ways​ in​which​the​colonizer–indigenous​ relationship​ is​central​to​understanding​other​racial​projects.​At​the​same​time,​Indian​ studies​as​a​field​has​focused​so​intently​on​what​sets​indigenous​nations​ apart​from​racial​minorities​that​we​have​failed​to​fully​account​for​our​com180 brian​KlopoteK

mon​experiences​as​racial​minorities.​Indians​are​part​of​a​racial​system​that​ goes​beyond​the​binary​racial​relationship​with​whites​and​beyond​the​colonial​relationship;​we​are​part​of​a​dynamic​constellation,​an​entire​system​of​ race,​and​every​node​in​that​system​affects​Native​people​to​some​degree.​ We​understand,​for​example,​that​white​racializations​of​Indian​people​affect​everything​from​the​government-​to-​government​relationship​to​the​way​ Indian​kids​are​socialized​in​educational​systems.​But​Indians​are​part​of​and​ participate​in​a​national​conversation​about​race,​and​we​need​to​understand​ more​fully​how​racial​formations​and​indigeneity​are​tied​together,​too.​How​ do​ ideas​ about​ whiteness,​ Indianness,​ and​ blackness,​ for​ example,​ shape​ tribal​ identities?​ How​ were​ shifting​ attitudes​ toward​ Indians​ in​ the​ 1920s​ tied​to​the​classification​of​Chicanos​as​white​in​the​census​of​1930​(Foley​ 2002)?​How​have​Japanese-​and​Anglo-​American​myths​of​racial​equality​in​ Hawai‘i​undermined​indigenous​Hawaiian​sovereignty​efforts​(Trask​2000)? ​ Stories​ from​ my​ experiences​ in​ Indian​ communities​ in​ Louisiana​ exemplify​the​complex​historical​relations​between​black,​white,​and​Indian​ peoples,​but​this​pattern​of​antiblack​racism​is​evident​in​many​Indian​communities​ in​ the​ southeastern​ United​ States,​ as​ other​ scholars​ have​ documented​extensively.​James​Merrell,​for​example,​makes​the​starkly​illustrative​statement​in​an​article​from​1984​that​“as​recently​as​1981,​informants​ on​the​reservation​called​avoidance​of​and​contempt​for​blacks​‘a​Catawba​ tradition’”​(1984,​374).​Similarly,​Arica​Coleman​discusses​the​Rappahannock​identity​of​Mildred​Loving,​one​of​the​plaintiffs​in​Loving v. Virginia,​ the​famous​court​case​that​struck​down​Virginia’s​antimiscegenation​laws.​ While​widely​perceived​as​an​African​American​woman,​in​an​interview​in​ 2004​Loving​denied​having​any​African​ancestry,​arguing​that​“the​Rappahannocks​never​had​anything​to​do​with​blacks”​(Coleman​2006,​75).​Helen​ Rountree​discusses​the​ways​in​which​Virginia’s​racial​purity​laws,​beginning​ immediately​after​the​Civil​War,​became​“a​veritable​cornerstone”​of​Indian​ self-​identity​in​Virginia​because​of​the​ways​it​distinguished​the​legal​rights​ of​Indians​with​no​African​ancestry​from​those​with​African​ancestry.3​The​ Mississippi​Choctaws,​a​tribe​notable​for​its​high​degree​of​language​and​cultural​conservatism,​historically​refused​to​associate​with​blacks​(Thompson​ and​Peterson​1975,​180).​The​Lumbees,​a​tribe​whose​status​as​such​is​called​ into​question​by​some​who​think​they​are​mulattoes​masquerading​as​Indians,​have​historically​exhibited​some​of​the​same​behavior,​refusing​to​send​ their​children​to​black​schools​when​they​were​not​allowed​to​enroll​in​white​ schools​under​Jim​Crow​(Blu​2001,​62–65).​Each​of​the​so-​called​Five​CiviIndians and Blacks 181

lized​Tribes​of​Oklahoma​has​in​varying​degrees​excluded​people​from​tribal​ enrollment​because​of​their​African​ancestry,​leading​some​of​the​remaining​ tribal​members​with​African​ancestry​to​hide​their​heritage​behind​particularly​loud​antiblack​rhetoric.4​The​list​goes​on,​but​these​examples​should​ suffice​to​establish​the​broad,​deeply​set​pattern​of​antiblack​racism​among​ southern​Indians​that​reaches​beyond​the​borders​of​any​individual​tribe​or​ state.​In​fact,​the​pattern​reaches​beyond​the​southeastern​United​States​and​ beyond​indigenous​communities,​to​be​sure,​but​I​will​limit​the​conversation​ here​to​my​area​of​expertise​to​make​the​arguments​most​effectively.​I​state​ this​at​the​outset​to​help​frame​the​discussion​that​follows​and​to​shield​tribes​ I​am​discussing​specifically​from​being​singled​out​for​any​special​contempt​ they​have​not​earned.​I​hope​the​fact​that​we​are​all​in​this​narrative​together​ provides​some​consolation​to​the​fact​that​I​am​discussing​here​matters​that​ many​would​rather​bury.​This​is​our​common​heritage​as​colonized​subjects​ of​a​racist​nation,​and​this​is​my​attempt​to​contribute​to​our​decolonization.

Research in Louisiana Indian Communities I​am​a​Native​American​studies​scholar​rather​than​an​anthropologist​or​a​ historian,​and​the​research​for​this​project​grew​out​of​my​interdisciplinary​ dissertation​in​American​studies.​While​certainly​informed​by​anthropological​methods,​theories,​and​methodologies,​my​research​was​never​a​strictly​ anthropological​endeavor.​My​primary​sources​were​oral​history​interviews​ and​archival​research​focusing​on​the​federal​recognition​process,​though​ more​traditional​fieldwork​during​ten​months​in​Louisiana​also​provided​ valuable​context​and​points​of​discussion​that​would​not​have​been​available​ to​me​through​formal​interviews​or​archival​research​alone. ​ Rather​than​immersing​myself​in​one​tribal​community,​I​worked​with​ three​ tribal​ communities​ within​ an​ hour’s​ drive​ of​ each​ other​ because​ I​ wanted​ to​ be​ able​ to​ examine​ their​ experiences​ with​ the​ federal​ recognition​process​from​a​comparative​perspective.​The​dissertation​focuses​on​the​ Tunica-​Biloxi​Tribe,​federally​recognized​in​1981,​the​Jena​Band​of​Choctaw​ Indians,​federally​recognized​in​1995,​and​the​Clifton-​Choctaws,​currently​ petitioning​for​federal​recognition.​Within​these​tribes​and​several​others​in​ the​region,​I​interviewed​tribal​leaders​almost​exclusively—more​than​thirty​ people​ who​ had​ been​ involved​ in​ the​ tribal​ governments​ or​ tribal​ enterprises​in​some​central​way​over​the​previous​decades—people​who​I​thought​ would​be​able​to​give​me​the​most​information​about​the​federal​recogni182 brian​KlopoteK

tion​process.​The​resulting​product​might​be​called​an​intellectual​history​of​ recognition​activism​in​Louisiana.​This​particular​design​has​its​limitations,​ but​it​provided​insights​into​patterns​of​racial​thinking​that​would​not​likely​ have​been​as​visible​with​another​research​plan. ​ While​the​stories​of​every​tribal​community​in​Louisiana​could​supply​ ample​ material​ for​ discussion​ on​ this​ topic,​ I​ will​ focus​ on​ the​ Clifton-​ Choctaws​presently​because​they​epitomize​the​dilemma​under​study.​The​ Clifton-​Choctaws​are​a​state-​recognized​tribe​in​the​process​of​petitioning​ for​federal​recognition.​Some​local​tribes​and​tribal​members​support​the​ Clifton-​Choctaws’​bid​for​recognition​while​others​oppose​it.​A​substantial​ part​of​the​opposition​to​recognition​stems​from​the​fact​that​some​of​the​ members​of​the​community​have​African​ancestry,​which​makes​them​automatically​black,​regardless​of​any​other​ancestry​under​legal​and​popular​U.S.​ racial​codes.​As​a​result,​the​issue​becomes​central​to​Clifton-​Choctaw​identity​construction. ​ When​I​visited​the​community​between​1998​and​2000,​the​tribal​member​serving​as​the​federal​recognition​liaison​and​unofficial​office​manager​ looked​to​be​of​Native,​African,​and​European​descent,​as​did​her​son​and​ several​other​family​members.​Her​name​was​Maria​Dixon,​and​she​occupied​a​position​of​visibility​and​power,​a​diplomatic​position​that​in​many​ ways​made​her​the​face​of​the​tribe.5​I​assumed​her​presence​in​that​position​ meant​the​Clifton-​Choctaws​were​uninterested​in​downplaying​their​African​ ancestry,​despite​reports​to​the​contrary​from​outsiders. ​ During​ my​ first​ interview​ with​ her​ I​ asked​ Dixon​ about​ the​ Clifton-​ Choctaws’​ relations​ with​ surrounding​ black​ and​ white​ communities.​ She​ said​ the​ Clifton-​Choctaws​ have​ good​ relations​ with​ some​ blacks,​ such​ as​ the​ state​ representative​ from​ Alexandria,​ but​ that​ typically​ distrust​ flavors​the​relationship.​She​quickly​added​that​distrust​also​typifies​Clifton-​ Choctaw​attitudes​toward​whites.​They​have​good​relations​with​some,​bad​ with​others,​she​said,​citing​conflicts​with​the​sheriff ’s​office​and​the​school​ board​as​examples​of​the​latter.​She​asserted​that​perceptions​depended​on​ the​individuals​involved​in​the​relationship,​given​that​many​Clifton​people​ distrust​outsiders​in​general,​regardless​of​their​race.​There​is​an​element​of​ truth​in​her​statement​about​distrust​of​all​outsiders,​but​after​about​ten​seconds​of​silence,​another​truth​burst​out​from​its​place​just​beneath​the​surface.​“But​on​the​whole,”​Dixon​told​me,​“they​trust​whites​more​than​they​ trust​blacks.”6 ​ Setting​aside​for​the​moment​her​use​of​the​word​they​rather​than​we,​ Indians and Blacks 183

it​is​clear​that​Dixon​was​abundantly​aware​of​the​antiblack​racism​among​ her​fellow​community​members​but​was​trying,​no​doubt​for​a​number​of​ reasons​both​personal​and​political,​to​convey​that​reality​in​an​understated​ way.​Other​leaders​tiptoed​around​the​subject​of​antiblack​racism,​too,​distancing​themselves​from​it,​feeling​me​out,​without​necessarily​performing​ an​overt​display​of​contempt​for​blacks.​Consider,​for​example,​the​words​of​a​ Clifton​man​in​his​seventies,​a​man​who​might​pass​for​white​in​many​places.​ In​his​youth,​he​recalled,​“they’d​call​you​Redbone,​they’d​call​you​mulatto,​ they’d​call​you​everything​but​probably​what​you​are.​So,​we​always,​it​was​a​ fight​with​us​when​they’d​call​us​all​these​other​names,​’cause​we​always​had​ been​taught​that​we​was​from​Indian​people.”​The​narrative​implies​that​the​ inaccuracy​of​the​labels​mulatto​and​Redbone​was​at​issue;​antipathy​hides​ in​the​subtext,​where​it​is​obvious​that​the​blackness​of​the​labels​caused​the​ offense.​The​element​of​Indian​identity​that​depended​on​not​only​a​lack​of​ black​ancestry​but​also​antipathy​toward​blacks,​it​seemed​to​me,​was​a​holdover​from​the​older​generations,​a​fading​tradition,​verging​on​becoming​ covert​even​in​this​older​man’s​statement​about​his​childhood.​I​recognized​ that​it​was​a​part​of​community​history,​but​I​categorically​separated​it​from​ the​modern​community.​I​later​realized​it​was​a​mistake​to​tie​these​attitudes​ to​specific​generations​and​assume​declining​acceptance​of​these​traditions​ merely​because​of​Dixon’s​central,​visible​position​in​the​community. ​ After​I​had​been​away​from​the​community​for​three​years,​a​series​of​ incidents​made​me​realize​I​had​been​underestimating​the​importance​of​ antiblack​racism​and​the​extent​of​community​denials​of​black​ancestry.​In​ December​2003,​as​part​of​the​collaborative​process​mandated​by​indigenous​ methodologies,​I​resent​a​draft​of​the​Clifton-​Choctaw​chapter​from​my​dissertation​to​Dixon​so​tribal​members​could​read​and​comment​on​it​before​ it​was​finalized.​Dixon​had​left​her​position​shortly​after​I​sent​the​original​ draft,​and​apparently​no​one​had​seen​it​the​first​time​around.​The​new​recognition​coordinator​was​a​white​woman,​the​wife​of​a​tribal​member​who​was​ eager​to​read​the​chapter.​I​sent​off​two​copies​and​waited​for​the​marked-​up​ copy​to​be​returned​to​me.​I​waited​and​waited,​but​nothing​came.​I​called​a​ couple​of​times​in​the​intervening​two​months​and​left​messages​but​never​ heard​ back.​ Finally,​ one​ day​ I​ reached​ her​ by​ phone​ and​ asked​ her​ what​ she​and​others​thought​of​the​draft.​I​was​anxious​because​community​approval​represents​a​hurdle​at​least​as​significant​as​academic​approval​and​ infinitely​more​challenging​and​fraught​with​danger.​More​than​mere​courtesy,​collaboration​makes​for​more​rigorous​academic​work​because​it​makes​ 184 brian​KlopoteK

scholars​accountable​to​the​expertise​and​authority​of​community​members​ as​lifelong​participant-​observers.​The​new​coordinator​was​hesitant,​and​I​ could​sense​that​a​significant​critique​was​about​to​emerge.​She​told​me​that​ “all​this​information”​was​new​to​her​and​that​she​was​shocked​by​it.​I​asked​ her​what​information​specifically​was​so​shocking.​She​started​talking​in​a​ tone​that​let​me​know​she​was​choosing​her​words​carefully.​“You​know,​the​ stuff​about​the​[pause]​.​.​.​muhlahtas.” ​ She​was​referring​to​my​discussions​of​blackness​in​the​community’s​ancestry,​to​the​fact​that​many​of​the​ancestors​of​community​members​were​ identified​as​mulattoes​in​the​census​of​1910,​to​the​history​of​intermarriage​ with​the​nearby​Cane​River​Creoles​of​Color,​to​the​fact​that​I​had​described​ the​community​as​mixed​Indian,​black,​and​white.​She​said​her​husband​was​ angry​about​this​characterization,​but​that​he​acknowledged​that​the​perception​of​his​people​as​mulattoes​had​been​present​for​a​number​of​years.​She​ guessed​that​many​other​community​members​would​be​similarly​angry,​but​ only​about​the​issue​of​mixing​with​blacks—mixing​with​whites​was​completely​acceptable. ​ As​it​turns​out,​she​was​right.​When​I​next​visited​the​Clifton-​Choctaw​ community,​she​was​no​longer​working​for​the​tribe,​so​I​talked​with​the​ new​tribal​recognition​coordinator.​I​brought​two​copies​of​my​completed​ dissertation​on​this​trip:​one​to​give​to​the​tribal​chair​and​one​to​the​tribal​ council.​While​I​had​made​some​minor​adjustments​in​phrasing​to​indicate​ that​some​of​the​community​had​African​ancestry​and​some​potentially​did​ not,​I​did​not​remove​discussions​of​blackness​altogether.​I​talked​with​the​ new​coordinator,​who​was​a​tribal​member,​and​told​her​about​the​concerns​ of​her​predecessor.​She​concurred​that​it​certainly​would​go​over​poorly​with​ many​tribal​members,​and​it​did​not​sit​well​with​her,​either.​She​said​that​ blacks​had​always​been​excluded​from​the​community​and​that​if​she​had​ any​say​in​the​matter​the​tribe​would​uphold​that​tradition.​She​told​me​that​ Dixon​had​always,​in​fact,​been​marginal​to​the​community​because​of​her​ blackness,​a​troubling​statement​that​opened​a​window​onto​Dixon’s​experiences​of​belonging​in​her​community. ​ I​had​a​conversation​with​the​tribal​chair​about​the​issue​later​that​week,​ and​she​spoke​in​the​more​diplomatic​tones​I​had​heard​from​other​officials,​ though​she,​like​others,​expressed​concern​that​I​had​suggested​that​the​community​had​black​ancestry​and​black​cultural​influences.​Perplexed,​I​told​ her​I​thought​it​was​commonly​acknowledged​that​some​members​of​the​ Clifton-​Choctaw​community​had​black​ancestry,​in​particular​through​its​ Indians and Blacks 185

ties​to​the​Cane​River​Creoles​of​Color.​Her​eyes​brightened​in​recognition​ and​what​appeared​to​be​relief,​and​she​said,​“Oh,​well,​yes,​the​Cane​River​ Creoles,​we​do​share​ancestry​with​them.”​In​local​terms,​the​Cane​River​ Creoles,​who​have​African,​French,​and​Native​ancestry,​were​distinguished​ from​blacks​by​their​large​percentage​of​European​ancestry,​their​history​as​ free​people​of​color​and​slaveholders​themselves​(which​carries​connotations​ about​both​race​and​class),​their​francophone​traditions,​and​their​celebrity​ as​bearers​of​a​unique​tradition​that​sets​Louisiana​apart​from​the​rest​of​the​ United​States.​In​central​Louisiana,​they​were​“a​race​apart​from​blacks,”​certainly​in​their​own​minds​and​to​a​significant​degree​in​local​custom​as​well.7​ These​were​not​the​blacks​that​many​Clifton-​Choctaws​were​loath​to​be​affiliated​with.​French​and​Latin​American​style​racial​gradations,​which​are​ multifaceted​rather​than​binary,​are​still​in​operation​in​the​area​to​the​extent​ that​the​terms​black​and​Creole of Color​connote​different​sets​of​people​and​ different​levels​of​prejudice.​This​clarifies​to​some​extent​the​protestations​by​ Clifton-​Choctaws​against​the​suggestion​that​they​had​black​ancestry. ​ Though​the​tribal​chair​acknowledged​her​community’s​connections​with​ the​ Cane​ River​ Creoles​ of​ Color,​ she​ insisted​ that​ whatever​ racial​ ancestry​ the​ community​ had,​ they​ had​ been​ largely​ isolated​ from​ mainstream​ black​and​white​influences​and​intermarriage​for​many​years.​That​is,​while​ there​was​intermarriage​with​Creoles​of​Color​and​white​outsiders​at​various​ points,​the​community​had​been​largely​insular,​marrying​among​themselves​ for​the​better​part​of​150​years.​Certainly​there​was​white​influence​and​(less​ so,​she​points​out)​black​influence​in​the​community,​but​on​some​level​she​ believes​a​discussion​of​black​influences​in​particular​diminishes​the​community’s​distinctive​Indian​identity.​In​terms​of​the​perceptions​of​the​community​and​of​the​federal​recognition​process,​which​is​at​its​heart​about​ perceptions,​she​may​be​right.

Regulating Racial Categories The​ origin​ of​ antiblack​ racism​ among​ southern​ Indians​ rests​ in​ Anglo-​ American​racism​and​colonialism,​two​phenomena​that​are​so​closely​related​ that​they​might​be​better​accounted​for​if​we​understand​them​as​behavior​ resulting​ from​an​ideology​centered​ in​white​ supremacy—an​ ideology​ in​ which​white​people​and​their​ancestors​are​understood​to​be​morally,​intellectually,​politically,​and​spiritually​superior​to​nonwhites​and​therefore​entitled​to​various​forms​of​privilege,​power,​and​property.8​This​ideology​was​ 186 brian​KlopoteK

forced​on​southern​Indian​communities​gradually​but​surely​through​the​ twin​hammers​of​military​conquest​and​assimilationism.​A​number​of​scholars​have​documented​southern​Indians’​adoption​of​Anglo​systems​of​racial​ thinking​as​one​component​of​a​multifaceted​response​to​U.S.​aggression;​in​ mirroring​the​peculiar​notions​of​civility​held​by​southern​Anglos​around​ race​and​gender,​tribes​hoped​to​protect​themselves​against​conquest​based​ on​constructions​of​Indian​savagery​(Saunt​2005,​1999;​Miles​2004;​Perdue,​ 1979,​1999;​Littlefield,​1977).​Claudio​Saunt​suggests​that​as​a​result,​race​became​“a​central​element​in​the​lives​of​southeastern​Indians,​not​just​as​a​ marker​of​difference​between​natives​and​white​newcomers​but​as​a​divisive​and​destructive​force​within​Indian​communities​themselves”​(2005,​4).​ Though​there​was​conflict​within​the​tribes​over​the​issues​of​slavery​and​ blackness,​southeastern​tribes​increasingly​adopted​Anglo-​American​racializations​of​African-​descended​people​over​the​course​of​the​nineteenth​century. ​ For​much​of​the​twentieth​century,​segregation​policies​were​the​arena​in​ which​the​boundaries​of​race​and​privilege​were​officially​policed,​and​because​of​this​history​in​educational​policy​specifically​Indians​in​the​South​ learned​ to​ define​ themselves​ in​ ways​ that​ distanced​ them​ from​ blacks​ as​ much​ as​ possible.​ While​ there​ were​ simultaneous​ impulses​ toward​ isolationism​ from​ whites,​ when​ southern​ Indians,​ of​ African​ ancestry​ or​ not,​ wanted​access​to​education​they​fought​to​have​their​children​enrolled​in​ white​schools​and​refused​to​send​them​to​black​schools.​Rather​than​challenging​the​existence​of​the​color​line,​most​tried​to​position​themselves​on​ the​right​side​of​it.​By​saying​they​would​not​go​to​school​with​blacks,​an​act​ of​self-​defense​taken​with​the​intention​of​ameliorating​racial​discrimination​ against​ Indian​ people​ and​ maintaining​ a​ distinct​ Indian​ identity,​ Indians​ were​complicit​in​the​segregation​and​oppression​of​blacks.9​Consequently,​ antiblack​racism​seeped​deeper​still​into​the​construction​of​Indian​identity.​ The​Clifton-​Choctaws,​like​other​southern​Indians,​continue​to​grapple​with​ this​legacy​today. ​ More​recently,​federal​Indian​policy​that​determines​whether​previously​ nonfederal​ tribes​ should​ qualify​ for​ federal​ recognition​ has​ been​ a​much​ clearer​venue​for​the​regulation​of​the​boundaries​of​Indian​identity,​and​ by​extension​in​this​case​of​black,​white,​and​Creole​of​Color​identities​as​ well.​Blackness​and​its​absence​come​into​the​federal​recognition​discussion​ in​ several​ ways.​ The​ first​ is​ the​ significance​ of​ previous​ recognition​ from​ governments,​surrounding​communities,​and​social​scientists.10​Because​of​ Indians and Blacks 187

Anglo-​American​conceptions​of​race​and​the​one-​drop​rule,​anyone​with​ visible​or​known​African​ancestry​(“one​drop”​of​African​“blood”)​was​considered​black​or​colored​for​most​purposes.​An​Indian​community​with​even​ a​small​degree​of​black​ancestry​is​much​less​likely​historically​to​have​been​ acknowledged​as​an​Indian​community​by​governments,​social​scientists,​ and​ surrounding​ populations​ than​ a​ community​ with​ greater​ degrees​ of​ white​ancestry.11 ​ The​census​is​a​good​example​of​this​bias​in​historical​records.​The​census​of​1910​for​Rapides​Parish,​for​example,​lists​many​of​the​families​in​the​ Clifton​community​as​mulattoes.12​The​special​Indian​Schedule​for​Rapides​ Parish​in​1910​lists​none​of​the​seven​family​surnames​represented​in​the​ Clifton​ community​ in​ recent​ years.​ The​ census​ enumerators​ in​ 1910​ were​ instructed​to​use​the​Indian​Schedules​“principally​for​the​enumeration​of​ Indians​ living​ on​ reservations​ or​ in​ tribal​ relations,​ and​ also​ by​ the​ enumerators​in​certain​counties​containing​a​considerable​number​of​Indians”​ (United​States​Census​Bureau​2002,​55).​They​were​given​further​instructions​ on​ deciding​ how​ to​ group​ mixed​ communities:​ “Detached​ Indians​ living​ either​ in​ white​ or​ negro​ families​ outside​ of​ reservations​ should​ be​ enumerated​on​the​general​population​schedule​as​members​of​the​families​in​ which​they​are​found;​but​detached​whites​or​negroes​living​in​Indian​families​should​be​enumerated​on​this​special​Indian​schedule​as​members​of​the​ Indian​families​in​which​they​are​found.​In​other​words,​every​family​composed​mainly​of​Indians​should​be​reported​entirely​on​this​special​schedule,​and​every​family​composed​mainly​of​persons​not​Indians​should​be​ reported​entirely​on​the​general​population​schedule”​(United​States​Census​ Bureau​2002,​56). ​ This​ presents​ a​ problem​ for​ the​ Clifton​ community.​ People​ of​ mixed​ black,​white,​and​Indian​ancestry​were​classified​as​mulattoes​by​the​census,​ undifferentiated​ from​ people​ of​ solely​ white​ and​ black​ ancestry.​ The​ surrounding​population​did​acknowledge​Indian​ancestry​in​the​Clifton​community​when​they​called​them​Redbones,​a​derogatory​term​that​connotes​ Indian,​black,​and​white​ancestry,​but​the​official​census​record​did​not​have​ a​category​to​reflect​that​distinction,​which​would​allow​people​to​conclude​ that​the​record​stated​they​were​solely​black​and​white​instead​of​Indian.13 ​ The​ census​ enumerator’s​ decision​ also​ reflected​ the​ broader​ American​understanding​that​the​presence​or​absence​of​Indian​ancestry​did​not​ usually​alter​a​designation​as​mulatto,​a​term​that​could​mean​any​mix​of​ black​and​nonblack​ancestry​in​the​United​States.​The​presence​of​African​ 188 brian​KlopoteK

ancestry​among​any​of​the​Clifton​families​may​very​well​have​closed​the​ enumerator’s​eyes​to​the​possibility​that​this​might​be​an​Indian​community​ as​much​as​anything​else,​particularly​if​any​links​to​the​Cane​River​Creoles​ were​known​to​the​enumerator.14​Moreover,​Jack​Forbes’s​research​on​Virginia​census​records​at​the​very​least​suggests​that​one​needs​to​be​cautious​ in​assigning​African​ancestry​to​people​listed​in​historical​records​as​mulatto.​Certainly​people​of​visible​African​ancestry​were​classified​as​such,​but​ so​were​people​of​undetermined​racial​ancestry.​A​designation​as​mulatto​is​ not​in​itself​confirmation​of​African​ancestry​and​certainly​is​not​confirmation​of​a​lack​of​Indian​ancestry​(Forbes​1993).​The​only​firm​conclusion​one​ can​draw​is​that​the​enumerators​believed​the​people​they​listed​as​mulatto​ should​not​be​considered​white. ​ Similarly,​in​terms​of​previous​federal​acknowledgment​of​Indian​communities,​the​Bureau​of​Indian​Affairs​of​the​1930s​was​extremely​disinclined​ to​serve​communities​with​black​ancestry​because​of​the​one-​drop​rule.​Bureau​officials​expressed​concern​that​they​might​be​called​on​to​serve​Louisiana​Indians​who​were​“mixed​with​negroes”​like​other​“so-​called​Indians​ in​Louisiana​particularly​in​Terrebonne​Parish​[in​reference​to​the​Houma​ tribe],​such​people​being​of​various​racial​mixtures.”15​Bureau​records​indicate​that​black​ancestry​among​some​Louisiana​Indian​groups​made​officials​ less​inclined​to​serve​any​of​the​Louisiana​tribes,​but​they​did​briefly​serve​ those​who​could​demonstrate​that​they​had​not​mixed​with​blacks,​such​as​ the​Jena​Choctaws​and​the​Coushattas.​Thus,​tribes​with​black​ancestry​petitioning​for​federal​recognition​are​at​a​disadvantage​in​this​aspect​as​well. ​ Perhaps​the​most​difficult​rejection​to​deal​with​is​that​which​comes​from​ other​Indians.​While​several​Tunica-​Biloxi​tribal​leaders​have​expressed​support​for​Clifton-​Choctaw​tribal​status,​some​of​the​neighboring​and​now​ federally​recognized​Jena​Choctaws​have​been​fairly​critical​of​the​Clifton-​ Choctaws’​claims​to​tribal​status.​Individuals​within​the​Jena​Band​respond​ to​the​Clifton-​Choctaws​in​different​ways,​though,​so​any​impression​that​ they​uniformly​reject​Clifton-​Choctaws​because​of​African​ancestry​in​the​ community​would​flatten​and​compress​the​range​of​opinions​other​Indian​ people​have​about​Clifton. ​ One​Jena​Choctaw​leader​argues​that​there​certainly​are​Indian​individuals​in​the​Clifton-​Choctaw​community,​but​that​the​presence​of​Indian​ancestry​in​some​of​the​members​does​not​make​them​a​tribe.​After​attending​a​ festival​sponsored​by​the​Louisiana​Inter-​Tribal​Council​in​Clifton​in​the​late​ 1990s,​she​noted​that​“one​of​the​new​leaders​or​council​members​or​someIndians and Blacks 189

thing,​he​looked​just​like​a​perfect​old​Choctaw​Indian​man​would​look​like,​ you​know,​just​Indian.​I​mean,​he’s​Indian.”​She​feels​the​same​way​about​ other​ state-​recognized​ tribes,​ acknowledging​ that​ some​ members​ clearly​ have​Indian​ancestry​but​withholding​support​for​their​federal​recognition.​ If​the​community​as​a​whole​could​demonstrate​more​social,​cultural,​and,​ frankly,​racial​markers​of​Indian​identity,​they​would​seem​more​like​a​cohesive​Indian​community​to​her,​one​that​could​be​classified​as​a​tribe. ​ A​Jena​Choctaw​elder​adds​that​it​is​unfair​to​withhold​recognition​from​ the​“real”​Indians​at​places​like​Clifton​and​Houma,​but​by​the​same​token​ it​would​be​unfair​to​recognize​non-​Indians​with​them.​Her​definition​of​ what​constitutes​a​real​Indian​is​not​terribly​complex—she​believes​anyone​ who​can​trace​their​genealogy​back​to​any​documented​Indian​can​be​a​real​ Indian.​Any​relation​is​real,​she​says,​and​that​ancestry​cannot​be​cut​off​or​ erased.​ While​ she​ was​ a​ full​ blood,​ her​ tribe’s​ minimum​ blood​ quantum​ is​one-​eighth,​and​she​believed​that​would​change​soon​since​most​of​the​ young​people​were​marrying​whites​at​the​time.​The​Clifton-​Choctaws​may​ meet​her​standards​for​tribal​recognition​if​they​can​document​that​they​all​ have​at​least​one​Indian​ancestor. ​ Another​ Jena​ Choctaw​ leader​ believes​ the​ Clifton-​Choctaws​ have​ no​ Indian​ ancestry​ at​ all​ and​ should​ have​ their​ state​ recognition​ revoked.​ His​opinion​relies​on—and​contributed​to—a​genealogical​argument​that​ erupted​in​1988​between​the​Clifton-​Choctaws​and​Mary​Carter,​a​specialist​ in​Indian​genealogy​who​worked​for​both​Jena​and​Clifton.16​Carter​concluded,​after​researching​Clifton​genealogy​for​six​months,​that​the​Clifton-​ Choctaws​were​not​Indians​but​“really”​blacks​with​some​Indian​ancestry.​ Apparently​after​arguing​with​the​spouse​of​the​Clifton​tribal​chair​in​1988,​ Carter​went​to​the​newspapers​with​her​“revelation,”​leading​to​articles​that​ publicly​declared​them​non-​Indian​poseurs.​One​Jena​Choctaw​leader​described​the​articles​as​being​horrible.​The​articles​were​supposed​to​say​that​ the​Clifton-​Choctaws​were​primarily​mixed​black​and​white​with​only​a​little​ Indian​ancestry,​but​that​finding,​the​Jena​Choctaw​leader​contends,​ended​ up​being​distorted​to​say​that​they​were​not​Indian​at​all.17 ​ During​another​formal​interview​with​Maria​Dixon,​I​asked​her​about​ accusations​made​in​those​articles​that​the​Cliftons​were​really​black​and​not​ Indian​at​all.​She​bristled:​“Mary​Carter​came​up​with​that,​who​also​worked​ for​the​tribe.​As​a​matter​of​fact,​she’s​the​one​that​started​training​me​to​do​ genealogy.​And​she​and​[a​former​recognition​coordinator]​got​in​it​about​ something,​I​don’t​really​know.​And​next​thing​we​knew,​she​did​have​two​ 190 brian​KlopoteK

articles​ in​the​paper​about​ it.​.​.​.​I​would​ put​ it​this​ way.​We​have​ documented​our​Indian​ancestry.​Now,​whether—and​I’m​not​going​to​say​there’s​ no​black​blood​in​the​tribe,​because​quite​a​few​people​in​the​community​are​ triracial.​But​the​majority​are—I​mean,​it​all​goes​back​to​Native​Americans.​ We​have​been​able​to​document​that.​And​I​really​don’t​think​there’s​a​tribe​ in​Louisiana​that​can​say​that​they​did​not​have​maybe​a​drop​of​black​blood​ or​Caucasian​or​anything​else​within​them.” ​ Members​of​the​Clifton-​Choctaw​community​who​appear​to​have​black​ ancestry,​people​such​as​Dixon,​bear​a​unique​burden​in​being​discriminated​ against​within​the​tribe,​within​their​families.​Doubts​about​tribal​authenticity​that​are​linked​to​accusations​of​blackness​are​placed​on​their​shoulders​ or,​ more​ accurately,​ on​ their​ faces.​ This​ situation​ presents​ an​ ethical​ and​scholarly​dilemma:​how​do​I​encourage​Clifton-​Choctaws​to​embrace​ or​at​least​acknowledge​black​ancestry​in​their​community​when​there​is​a​ strong​sentiment​in​the​community​to​deny​it​altogether?​I​contend​that​it​ would​help​their​recognition​case​if​they​dealt​with​their​black​ancestry​directly;​ skirting​ around​ it​ gives​ the​ impression​ they​ are​ trying​ to​ hide​ the​ truth,​never​a​productive​stance​in​the​acknowledgment​process.​It​would​ also​help​ease​their​sense​of​shame​over​the​issue​and​take​some​of​the​burden​off​phenotypically​black​tribal​members.​What​is​my​responsibility​as​a​ Louisiana​Choctaw​researcher​to​this​other​Louisiana​Choctaw​community,​ of​which​I​am​not​a​member​but​with​whom​I​share​Choctaw​heritage?​How​ do​I​implement​the​supportive,​collaborative​model​of​indigenous​methodologies​without​undermining​my​personal​responsibilities​as​a​racial​activist?​If​the​Clifton-​Choctaws​know​that​talking​about​African​ancestry​in​the​ community​has​caused​them​problems​in​the​past,​I​am​putting​myself​in​a​ position​of​betraying​their​trust​and​saying​that​I​know​better​than​they​do​ about​how​and​when​to​talk​about​these​things. ​ Cornel​Pewewardy,​in​grappling​with​his​own​role​as​an​indigenous​person​within​the​academy,​similarly​concludes​that​“sometimes​we​(as​Indigenous​scholars)​have​to​redefine​our​roles​as​scholars​in​academe​to​become​ involved​as​facilitators​and​informants​in​the​process​of​tribal​community​ empowerment.​To​take​on​the​role​of​facilitator​is​to​deny​my​own​activism.​ I​must​recognize​that​my​own​liberation​and​emancipation​in​relationship​ with​my​tribal​community​are​at​stake,​and​that​continued​marginalization​ and​subjugation​are​the​perils”​(Pewewardy​2004,​14).​It​is​in​that​spirit​of​ activism​for​the​liberation​of​my​people,​of​Indian​people,​from​white​supremacy​that​I​move​forward​with​this​discussion. Indians and Blacks 191

​ In​Ties that Bind: The Story of an Afro-Cherokee Family in Slavery and Freedom,​Tiya​Miles​notes​that​various​individuals,​black​and​Indian,​discouraged​her​from​discussing​the​history​of​Cherokee​slaveholding​and​of​ Cherokees​as​colonized​and​colonizing​subjects.​The​desire​to​“disremember”​these​painful​shared​histories​among​communities​of​color​is​entangled​ with​contemporary​desires​and​anxieties​about​imagined​histories​of​“natural​affinity”​or​“natural​animosity”​among​communities​of​color,​the​ways​ we​construct​race​and​righteousness,​the​ways​we​draw​connections​or​construct​boundaries.​But​there​is​a​story​to​tell,​even​if​it​is​“not​a​story​to​pass​ on,”​not​a​story​anyone​wants​to​remember​or​address​publicly.18​However,​ as​Miles​wrote,​drawing​on​the​theoretical​underpinnings​of​Toni​Morrison’s​Beloved,​“The​void​that​remains​when​we​refuse​to​speak​of​the​past​is​ in​fact​a​presence,​a​presence​both​haunting​and​destructive.”19​When​we​examine​these​histories,​we​gain​knowledge​that​opens​ways​to​work​through​ the​theoretical​and​emotional​conflicts​inherent​in​the​subject.​If​I​thought​ this​conversation​had​no​implications​across​Indian​Country,​I​would​not​ address​it​in​this​public​forum,​but​we​need​healing​and​redemption​around​ this​issue.​And​we​need​decolonization. ​ We​are​dynamic​people,​and​we​have​the​power​to​change​and​adapt​our​ strategies​as​new​information​comes​to​light.​When​we​understand​that​the​ ideology​of​white​supremacy​performs​multiple​tasks,​diverting​multiple​resources​away​from​oppressed​groups​and​toward​whites​through​multiple​ kinds​of​behavior,​we​can​see​more​clearly​that​antiblack​racism,​when​performed​by​Indians,​confirms​a​racial​formation​that​places​whites​at​the​top​ of​a​racial​hierarchy.20​Such​an​ideology​hardly​seems​to​be​in​the​best​interests​ of​ Indians,​ especially​ when​ we​ connect​ it​ to​ the​ “cultural​ bomb”​ described​by​Ngugi​wa​Thiong’o​as​the​most​devastating​weapon​of​the​colonial​project.​Its​effect,​he​writes,​“is​to​annihilate​a​people’s​belief​in​their​ names,​in​their​languages,​in​their​environment,​in​their​heritage​of​struggle,​ in​their​unity,​in​their​capacities​and​ultimately​in​themselves.”21​Rather​than​ pathologizing​Indians,​we​need​to​recognize​the​source​of​Indian​antiblack​ racism​within​a​broader​colonial​project​and​acknowledge​its​hidden​impact​ not​only​on​Indian​resources,​but​also​on​Indian​senses​of​self. ​ In​ terms​ of​ the​ scholarly​ dilemma,​ the​ double​ meaning​ in​ the​ title​ of​ Linda​Tuhiwai​Smith’s​foundational​book,​Decolonizing Methodologies,​clarifies​and​justifies​the​role​of​scholarly​activism​in​a​case​such​as​this​(1999).​ First,​it​speaks​of​creating​methodologies​that​do​not​perpetuate​colonial​ practices​of​exploitation​and​assimilation,​that​is,​methodologies​that​have​ 192 brian​KlopoteK

been​decolonized.​Second,​it​is​about​pursuing​decolonization​as​a​goal​that​ can​be​achieved​through​methodologies​designed​for​the​task,​that​is,​it​is​ about​decolonizing​indigenous​peoples​through​specific​methodologies.​The​ second​definition​motivates​my​decision​to​have​this​conversation​in​this​ essay:​a​desire​to​decolonize​minds​and​illustrate​the​ways​in​which​antiblack​ racism​supports​a​white​supremacist​racial​formation.22​White​supremacy​ clearly​ does​ not​ support​ indigenous​ people.​ Its​ pathology​ is​ well​ known,​ but,​in​the​absence​of​a​more​inclusive​understanding​of​how​race​works,​ we​do​not​always​see​whom​it​infects​and​how.​Racial​theory​and​racial​histories​help​us​rethink​indigenous​studies,​indigenous​methodologies,​and​ the​collaborative​process​to​better​serve​indigenous​communities.​Decolonizing​can​be​dangerous,​but​that​moment​of​danger​is​also​a​moment​of​ ​opportunity.

Notes ​ 1.​Linda​Tuhiwai​Smith​is​often​credited​with​developing​this​field​as​an​area​of​focused​study​through​her​book​Decolonizing Methodologies: Research and Indigenous Peoples​(1999).​Her​work​draws​on​and​builds​upon​many​traditional​critiques​of​the​ relationship​of​the​academy​to​subaltern​groups,​including​the​work​of​scholars​in​ postcolonial​studies​and​Native​American​studies​as​well​as​the​writings​of​feminist​ women​of​color,​feminist​anthropologists,​and​postmodernists.​Generally,​see​Vine​ Deloria,​Jr.,​Custer Died for Your Sins: An Indian Manifesto,​(1988,​78–100);​Lila​Abu-​ Lughod,​“Writing​Against​Culture”​(1991,​137–62);​Edward​Said,​Orientalism​(1978);​ Ngugi​wa​Thiong’o,​Decolonising the Mind​(1986);​Frantz​Fanon,​The Wretched of the Earth​(2004);​Nannerl​O.​Keohane,​Michelle​Z.​Rosaldo,​and​Barbara​C.​Gelpi,​eds.,​ Feminist Theory​(1982). ​ 2.​Deloria​critiques​the​“conceptual​prison”​created​for​Indians​by​anthropologists​ through​notions​of​authenticity​in​his​foundational​work​of​1969​(1988).​Paige​Raibmon​offers​a​useful​history​of​the​development​of​the​concept​of​authenticity​and​its​ impact​on​indigenous​peoples​in​Authentic Indians: Episodes of Encounter from the Late-Nineteenth-Century Northwest Coast​(2005).​Abu-​Lughod​argues​the​merits​of​ “ethnography​of​the​particular”​as​a​way​of​avoiding​the​flattening​tendency​of​cultural​theory​(1991). ​ 3.​Any​Indian​person​in​Virginia​who​had​more​than​one-​quarter​African​blood​ (later​one-​sixteenth)​would​be​classified​as​colored​and​have​access​to​fewer​rights​ and​ resources​ than​ those​ classified​ as​ Indians,​ people​ who​ had​ more​ than​ one-​ quarter​Indian​blood​(later​one-​sixteenth)​(Rountree​1990,​200,​211). ​ 4.​On​Cherokees,​see​Sturm​(1998)​and​Miles​(2004).​On​Creeks,​see​Saunt​(2005).​ Generally,​see​Miles​and​Holland​(2006);​Brooks​(2002). Indians and Blacks 193

​ 5.​“Maria​Dixon”​is​a​pseudonym. ​ 6.​A​close​reading​of​this​statement​would​note​her​use​of​the​word​they​to​refer​to​ the​Clifton​community,​when​it​would​seem​more​appropriate​for​her​to​use​we.​This​ seems​like​evidence​of​discomfort​in​including​herself​in​that​opinion​by​saying​“we​ trust​whites​more​than​we​trust​blacks.”​But​it​also​seems​to​be​a​long-​standing​reflex​ to​distance​the​community​“on​the​whole”​from​blacks​and​blackness​even​though​ she​is​unwilling​to​ally​herself​with​such​thinking. ​ 7.​(Mills​1977,​xiv).​Lalita​Tademy,​a​Cane​River​Creole​herself,​wrote​a​bestselling​ novel​and​Oprah’s​Book​Club​selection​about​her​people,​giving​perhaps​the​most​ visible​moment​in​recent​Cane​River​history​(Tademy​2002). ​ 8.​While​typically​the​term​white supremacy​conjures​images​of​Klan​robes​and​ neo-​Nazi​skinheads,​the​term​as​it​is​used​in​contemporary​ethnic​studies​also​refers​ to​the​everyday​ideology​of​white​racial​superiority​and​domination​carried​even​by​ people​who​do​not​consider​themselves​racist​and​even​by​people​of​color.​For​a​general​discussion​of​white​racial​ideology​and​material​advantages​in​the​United​States,​ see​Rothenberg​(2002)​and​Lipsitz​(1998). ​ 9.​Neil​Foley​draws​heavily​on​Toni​Morrison’s​ideas​about​southern​European​ immigrants​becoming​white​in​the​United​States​by​demonstrating​their​hatred​of​ blacks​as​he​grapples​with​similar​racial​formation​issues​in​Mexican-​American​integration​activism​in​Texas​in​the​1930s​(2002,​49–59). ​ 10.​Susan​Greenbaum​adeptly​and​precisely​addresses​this​matter,​though​others​ have​addressed​it​elsewhere​(Greenbaum​1991;​Paschal​1991;​Starna​1996;​Campisi​ 1991;​Clifford​1988).​A​number​of​significant​contributions​can​be​found​in​Miles​and​ Holland​(2006)​and​in​Brooks​(2002). ​ 11.​Circe​Sturm​discusses​this​issue​(Sturm​1998). ​ 12.​The​Census​of​1910,​Rapides​Parish,​Louisiana,​lists​many​Clifton,​Tyler,​and​ Smith​families​as​mulatto.​This​is​not​a​complete,​diagnostic​genealogical​connection,​ but​obviously​these​are​the​ancestors​of​at​least​some​of​the​modern​Clifton​families. ​ 13.​See​also​Williams​(1979). ​ 14.​ United​ States​ Census​ Bureau​ 2002,​ 56:​ “Proportions​ of​ Indian​ and​ other​ blood.—If​the​Indian​is​a​full-​blood,​write​‘full’​in​column​36,​and​leave​columns​37​ and​38​blank.​If​the​Indian​is​of​mixed​blood,​write​in​column​36,​37,​and​38​the​fractions​which​show​the​proportions​of​Indian​and​other​blood,​as​(column​36,​Indian)​ 3/4,​(column​37,​white)​1/4,​and​(column​38,​negro)​0.​For​Indians​of​mixed​blood​all​ three​columns​should​be​filled,​and​the​sum,​in​each​case,​should​equal​1,​as​1/2,​0,​1/2;​ 3/4,​1/4,​0;​3/4,​1/8,​1/8;​etc.​Wherever​possible,​the​statement​that​an​Indian​is​of​full​blood​ should​be​verified​by​inquiry​of​the​older​men​of​the​tribe,​as​an​Indian​is​sometimes​ of​mixed​blood​without​knowing​it.” ​ 15.​A.​C.​Hector​to​W.​Carson​Ryan,​Jr.,​12​September​1934,​file​68776-​1931-​800,​ part​I,​National​Archives​Record​Group​75. ​ 16.​“Mary​Carter”​is​a​pseudonym. 194 brian​KlopoteK

​ 17.​“La.​Tribe​Fights​to​Prove​Its​Heritage,”​Times-Picayune,​14​August​1988,​C8. ​ 18.​Miles​(2004,​xv),​citing​Morrison​(1987,​274–75). ​ 19.​ Miles​ (2004,​ xvi).​ Miles​ and​ many​ others​ witnessed​ the​ calamity​ and​ pain​ of​this​ghostly​presence​at​a​conference​on​black–Indian​relations​she​organized​at​ Dartmouth​in​1998​called​“‘Eating​Out​of​the​Same​Pot’:​Relating​Black​and​Native​ (Hi)stories.”​Several​pieces​have​been​written​about​the​dramatic​conflicts​that​surfaced​throughout:​Phillips​(2002);​Saunt​(2005,​6–9);​Tiya​Miles,​“Preface:​Eating​ Out​of​the​Same​Pot?,”​in​Miles​and​Holland​(2006);​Warrior,​“Afterword,”​in​Miles​ and​Holland​(2006). ​ 20.​George​Lipsitz​suggests​the​value​of​this​formulation​in​his​work​(1998). ​ 21.​Thiong’o​(1986,​3),​cited​in​Silva​(2004,​2). ​ 22.​Following​Omi​and​Winant’s​definition​of​racial​formation​as​“the​sociohistorical​process​by​which​racial​categories​are​created,​inhabited,​transformed,​and​destroyed,”​and​a​racial​project​as​“simultaneously​an​interpretation,​representation,​or​ explanation​of​racial​dynamics,​and​an​effort​to​reorganize​and​redistribute​resources​ along​particular​racial​lines”​(1994,​55–56).

Indians and Blacks 195

eDgar esquit

Nationalist​Contradictions Pan-Mayanism, Representations of the Past, and the Reproduction of Inequalities in Guatemala

For​ over​ three​ decades​ the​ Maya​ peoples​ of​ Guatemala​ have​ been​ transforming​the​ways​in​which​they​struggle​against​continuing​colonial​power​ relations​in​the​country.​Local​processes​of​protest​are​now​accompanied​by​ protests​with​a​national​character​that​challenge​not​only​the​state,​but​also​ other​dominant​ideologies,​like​patriarchy,​Protestant​and​Catholic​visions,​ and​certain​popular​constructions​of​history​and​identity.​Now,​new​discussions​about​the​Maya’s​national​position​occur​between​different​actors​and​ across​opposing​spaces.​According​to​these​analysts’​different​conceptions,​ the​so-​called​pan-​Mayanist​or​Mayan​movement​is​engaged​in​a​complex​ process​of​defining​demands,​discourses,​ideological​constructions,​diverse​ forms​of​political​struggle,​new​relationships​of​power,​and​the​construction​ of​other​identities​(Warren​1998;​Fischer​2001;​Cojtí​Cuxil​1991;​Bastos​and​ Camus​2003).​As​this​movement​progresses,​contradictions​have​emerged​ in​relation​to​demands,​representativeness,​the​conformation​of​intellectual​ elites,​and​ways​of​imagining​the​past. ​ In​this​essay​I​delineate​relevant​aspects​of​the​Maya​political​movement,​ principally​the​reconstruction​of​history​and​its​link​to​the​present.​The​Maya​ political​ movement​ is​ primarily​ guided​ by​ an​ intelligentsia​ that​ produces​ and​adopts​a​series​of​organizing​and​discursive​ideological​definitions​and​ strategies​about​the​struggle​in​which​it​is​engaged.​These​leaders,​linked​to​ debates​on​human​rights,​religion,​education,​languages,​Maya​rights,​and​ racism,​belong​to​different​organizations​that​get​reorganized​during​each​ crisis​the​movement​suffers.​They​generate​a​series​of​ideas​and​images​about​ the​Maya​past​with​the​double​aim​of​pinning​down​the​idea​of​the​Maya​

people​(Maya​unity)​and​challenging​the​exclusionary​makeup​of​the​Guatemalan​nation-​state. ​ The​general​questions​guiding​the​essay​can​be​stated​as​follows:​In​what​ way​ does​ this​ emerging​ sector​ of​ educated​ Maya​ delimit​ a​ new​ narrative​ about​the​past?​How​is​this​narrative​linked​to​the​definition​of​new​identities​and​the​formation​of​unexpected​power​relations?​Being​a​Maya​and​a​ researcher,​I​am​personally​involved​in​this​process​of​constructing​imaginaries​(imaginarios)​about​the​past. ​ We​understand​the​notion​of​Maya​as​both​a​construct​that​evolved​as​ the​Maya​movement​developed​and​as​a​tool​for​defining​the​ethnic​identity​ of​those​who​up​to​now​have​been​called​indigenous,​Indians,​or​aboriginals​ (naturales).​ This​ definition​ acknowledges​ the​ contradictions​ and​ political​ differences​that​Maya​individuals​encounter​as​they​appropriate​other​identities.​The​Mayanists,​as​they​are​defined​in​this​essay,​are​the​people​and​ institutions​that​openly​promote​Maya​political​rights​and​recover​a​culturalist​definition​of​their​own​past.​They​do​so​with​the​purpose​of​assigning​ meaning​and​giving​historical​support​to​the​notion​of​Maya​peoples​and​ multiculturalism. ​ Finally,​since​I​will​be​speaking​about​the​colonial​forms​of​power​relations​in​Guatemala,​I​consider​how​some​of​the​Maya​movement’s​intellectuals​have​characterized​the​concept​of​colonialism.​Some​of​them​define​ colonialism​in​relation​to​the​Guatemalan​state​and​ladinos,​affirming​that​ only​one​community,​the​ladino,​currently​controls​the​state.1​They​assert​ that​ladinos​instrumentalize​the​state​to​control​and​limit​the​development​ of​subordinate​indigenous​nations.​According​to​these​intellectuals,​Guatemala​is​a​colonial​state​that​manifests​an​internal​colonialism​in​which​one​ national​group​oppresses​others​within​the​same​environment​(Cojtí​Cuxil​ 1989,​140–41). ​ Demetrio​ Rodríguez​ posits​ that​ colonialism,​ by​definition,​ starts​ from​ the​political​domination,​economic​exploitation,​and​cultural​and​linguistic​ assimilation​of​one​people​over​another​and​involves​diverse​historical​conditions​ like​ invasion,​ conquest,​ or​ annexation​ (Rodríguez​ 2004,​ 46).​ Following​the​same​line​of​thought,​Demetrio​Cojtí​proposes​that​colonialism​ is​a​doctrine​that​legitimizes​one​people’s​domination​over​another​and​employs​ various​ arguments​ to​ justify​ Maya​ subordination​ (Cojtí​ Cuxil​ 1995,​ 148).​These​notions​attempt​to​explain​the​political​relations​between​indigenous​peoples​and​ladinos​in​Guatemala,​understanding​the​latter​as​almost​ homogeneous​entities. Nationalist Contradictions 197

​ Colonial​relations,​however,​are​highly​complex​and​must​be​observed​ at​different​moments​and​in​specific​spaces.​Colonialism​traverses​relations​ between​social​sectors,​genders,​classes,​regions​and​localities,​institutions,​ and​diverse​organizations.​In​this​case,​one​can​talk​about​the​colonial​shape​ of​power​relations​in​Guatemala,​where​class​relations​are​strongly​tied​to​ society’s​ethnic​makeup,​establishing​a​racial​hierarchy​that​acts​as​the​basis​ for​exchange​among​social​groups.2

Imagining New Histories In​their​article​“The​Maya​Workshop​of​Hieroglyphic​Writing”​Linda​Schele​ and​ Nikolai​ Grube​ describe​ a​ series​ of​ activities​ related​ to​ teaching​ and​ learning​the​Mayas’​ancient​writing​that​they​and​other​epigraphists​developed​together​with​a​group​of​Maya​activists​and​intellectuals​(1999).​The​ authors​note​that​some​Maya​intellectuals​requested​that​they​carry​out​different​workshops​from​1987​to​1995.​The​workshops​took​place​in​the​city​of​ Antigua​and​in​archeological​sites​like​Tikal,​Copán,​and​Iximché​as​well​as​ in​certain​municipalities​and​smaller​localities​like​San​Andrés​Semetabaj​ in​the​department​of​Sololá.​Attendees​at​these​activities​included​Mayas​ linked​with​organizations​dedicated​to​strengthening​and​studying​indigenous​languages,​professionals​in​linguistic​fields,​and​people​with​less​formal​ academic​and​professional​training​in​these​fields. ​ According​ to​ the​ authors,​ the​ Mayas​ who​ participated​ in​ these​ events​ showed​a​great​deal​of​interest​in​the​writings’​meanings​and​were​very​creative​when​comparing​the​interpretations​the​specialists​proposed​with​those​ that​were​recognized​in​their​mother​tongues.​The​participants​were​keenly​ interested​in​studying​the​glyphs​in​order​to​understand​ancient​Maya​history​and​particularly​Maya​cultural​development.​Schele​and​Grube​propose​ that​the​workshop​on​the​classical​period’s​story​of​creation​was​one​of​the​ most​meaningful​because​it​related​directly​to​religious,​social,​ritual,​and​ agricultural​practices​of​the​modern​Maya.​According​to​the​authors,​the​ participants’​reactions​and​conversations​over​the​following​year​suggest​that​ the​information​extracted​from​the​epigraphic​texts​created​strong​ties​between​contemporary​experience​and​the​ancient​pre-​Colombian​past​(Schele​ and​Grube​1999). ​ In​addition​to​the​workshops​in​Guatemala,​Schele​and​Grube​developed​ a​workshop​in​Mérida,​Mexico,​attended​by​a​sizable​number​of​Yukateco​

198 eDgar​esquit

speakers.​During​the​final​event,​held​at​the​ruins​of​Chichén-​Itzá,​a​participant​named​Kokom​affirmed​that​on​his​previous​visits​to​the​ruins​he​ had​not​taken​the​glyphs​and​their​meanings​into​account.​Yet​on​this​occasion​he​had​noticed​that​his​last​name​was​written​in​the​glyphs.​The​authors​ think​it​is​important​that​the​Yucatekan​and​Guatemalan​Maya​meet​in​the​ future​ to​ share​ their​ knowledge.​ This​ and​ other​ experiences​ led​ different​ Guatemalan​organizations​to​use​the​glyphs​in​new​ways​to​support​sharing​ their​newfound​knowledge​and​newly​recognized​history.​By​participating​ in​similar​workshops,​other​Maya​took​this​newfound​knowledge​to​their​ communities​of​origin,​such​as​Chimaltenango,​Cobán,​Palín,​and​Tecpán,​ and​shared​it​with​community​members.​The​authors​propose​that​this​represented​the​transfer​and​dissemination​of​a​system​of​teaching​and​writing​ into​Maya​hands. ​ Kay​Warren​wrote​an​article​about​a​weeklong​workshop​developed​in​ 1992​by​a​group​of​Kaqchikel​linguists.​The​participants​studied​the​book​ Annals of the Kaqchikels,​a​work​written​by​Kaqchikel​authorities​(principales)​during​the​colonial​era​(Warren​1999).​Warren​explains​that​the​participating​linguists​had​taken​part​in​other​community​education​projects​ and​had​developed​a​series​of​activities​and,​later,​published​extracts​of​the​ book,​which​were​used​as​material​in​informal​educational​programs.​Warren​ argues​ that​ Maya​ culturalists​ see​ these​ ancient​ texts​ as​ both​ vital​ resources​for​learning​about​the​past​and​fundamental​guides​for​contemporary​projects. ​ According​to​Warren,​the​participants​believed​the​study​of​the​ancient​ texts​ could​ reveal​ that​ Kaqchikels​ have​ a​ unique​ origin.​ However,​ some​ of​the​participants​thought​this​revision​was​not​necessarily​an​argument​ against​official​history,​but​a​search​for​the​truths​that​have​not​been​completely​ understood.​ Citing​ another​ participant​ in​ the​ workshop,​ Warren​ highlights​new​perspectives​on​the​ancient​texts.​Some​Maya​activists,​she​ says,​think​this​book​describes​official​Maya​history.​In​other​words,​they​see​ the​book​as​a​retelling​of​Maya​origins,​cosmology​(cosmogonía),​and​experiences​with​the​European​invasion​as​well​as​of​the​genealogical​continuity​of​ one​of​Guatemala’s​most​important​peoples. ​ Warren’s​text​proposes​that​the​culturalists​argue​heatedly​among​themselves​as​they​try​to​strip​Maya​cosmovision​of​its​contact​with​European​ religions,​other​ideologies,​and​intentional​manipulations.​The​new​readings​ of​certain​parts​of​the​text​are​counterposed​to​traditional​ones​made​by​na-

Nationalist Contradictions 199

tional​and​foreign​scholars​in​relation​to,​for​example,​the​arrival​of​the​Spanish​and​the​ensuing​armed​struggle.​In​their​eagerness​to​imagine​continuity​ in​Maya​descent,​culture,​and​languages,​Maya​activists​face​the​challenge​of​ confronting​official​histories​that​talk​about​conquest​and​assimilation​(Warren​1999). ​ The​texts​I​have​cited​show​some​of​the​activities​Mayanists​are​engaging​in​to​recover​and​define​another​representation​of​their​past.​This​interest,​however,​is​not​recent.​The​effort​to​develop​a​new​perspective​on​the​ Maya​past​and​present​likely​has​its​origins​in​these​individuals’​first​attempts​ to​study​their​mother​tongues.​In​the​mid-​twentieth​century​Adrián​Inés​ Chávez,​an​eminent​K’iche​intellectual,​organized​congresses​of​Maya​educators​to​discuss​topics​related​to​languages.​Since​then,​Chávez​has​posited​ the​need​to​establish​truly​indigenous​symbols​to​write​K’iche,​while​emphasizing​linguistic​and​cultural​unity​(Fischer​1990,​90).​In​1979,​he​translated​ and​published​the​Pop​Wuj​(Popol​Vuh)​into​graphics​that​laid​out​a​new​ alphabet​exclusively​for​this​language​(Chávez​2001). ​ In​the​1980s​and​1990s​Maya​intellectuals​began​shaping​a​new​content​ and​ meaning​ of​ Maya​ history​ by​ organizing​ activities​ such​ as​ meetings,​ workshops,​ and​seminars​as​well​as​by​editing​bibliographic​ and​didactic​ material.​They​produced​a​number​of​important​texts​on​this​issue,​for​example,​those​by​Víctor​Racancoj​(1994),​Raxche’​Demetrio​Rodríguez​(1995),​ Demetrio​ Cojtí​ Cuxil​ (1991,​ 1995),​ and​ Víctor​ Montejo​ (1997).​ Important​ Maya​leaders​and​investors​founded​a​press​that​reprinted​books​by​national​ and​foreign​authors,​among​them​Robert​Carmack,​Carlos​Guzmán​Böckler​and​Jean-​Loup​Herbert,​and​Robert​M.​Hill,​that​analyze​the​history​of​ the​Maya.3​Currently,​various​institutions​are​also​editing​popular​texts,​including​children’s​stories​that​evoke​the​Maya​past.​Many​people​are​putting​ a​great​deal​of​effort​into​building​new​ways​of​representing​and​analyzing​ Maya​history. ​ These​representations​can​be​synthesized​as​the​construction​of​a​historical​base,​which​recognizes​the​principles​that​unite​the​actions​and​knowledge​of​the​ancient​Maya​with​those​that​nourish​the​contemporary​Maya.​ By​examining​these​sorts​of​ancient​texts​as​well​as​works​by​archeologists,​ anthropologists,​linguists,​and​historians,​Mayanists​try​to​rebuild​a​version​ of​their​past​that​specifies​the​particularity​or​essentiality​of​Maya​culture.​ They​also​attempt​to​reconstruct​the​history​of​resistance​and​leadership​that​ they​believe​can​have​an​important​role​in​thinking​about​and​imagining​resistance​today. 200 eDgar​esquit

​ Mayanists​look​to​contribute​to​a​definition​of​Maya​unity​with​this​new​ historical​narrative.​Through​these​efforts​they​affirm​that​we​Maya​share​ common​ancestors​who​bequeathed​us​a​common​culture​and​languages​of​ origin​that​we​need​to​protect.​We​Maya​participate​in​a​specific​way​of​looking​at​the​world​and​at​ourselves,​recognizing​that​all​Maya​intellectuals​have​ shared​a​similar​adversity​since​1524—an​adversity​Maya​intellectuals​have​ defined​as​internal​colonialism.4 ​ The​new​historical​narrative​feeding​the​pan-​Mayanist​movement’s​political​struggle​has​defined​dates​and​periods​of​historic​succession,​tracing​the​ greatness​and​catastrophes​lived​and​suffered​by​the​Maya​people.​Now,​we​ could​say​that​as​a​people​we​probably​have​a​date​of​birth​(some​five​thousand​years​ago)​and​of​growth,​something​that​until​just​a​few​decades​ago​ was​not​defined​in​the​historical​narratives​that​our​parents,​grandparents,​ elders​in​general,​and​the​leaders​and​community​guides​presented​to​us.​In​ different​ways​this​new​historic​Mayanist​imaginary​is​expressed​as​the​real​ Maya​history​that​reveals​a​past​hidden​or​distorted​by​official​history.​These​ discourses​form​the​notion​of​the​Maya​people​and​are​tied​to​the​speeches​ about​multiculturalism​that​are​generated​by​Mayanist​intellectuals​and​their​ organizations​as​well​as​by​the​state. ​ This​way​of​evoking​the​past​represents​an​important​break​in​the​Maya​ imaginary​and​in​the​ways​they​are​recreating​themselves​to​build​and​confront​their​own​present​and​that​of​Guatemala.​This​narrative​generates​pride​ among​those​familiar​with​it,​primarily​Mayanists.​Maya​individuals,​for​example,​can​make​reference​to​their​millenarian​past​when​they​present​their​ demands​to​the​government,​just​as​they​can​cite​their​history​of​greatness​ when​they​appear​in​public,​attend​universities,​or​talk​on​national​and​international​stages. ​ Maya​educators​who​are​directing​schools​known​as​Maya​schools​are​ teaching​children​this​new​way​of​understanding​the​past.​Here,​the​ancient​ Maya​are​not​seen​as​a​civilization​of​great​inventors​who​disappeared​before​the​arrival​of​the​Spanish,​as​the​state​schools​taught​and​continue​to​ teach.​Instead,​teachers​instruct​students​that​they​are​the​grandchildren​of​ Maya​ancestors​who​created​a​great​civilization,​as​evidenced​in​architecture,​ mathematical​advances,​and​hieroglyphic​writing,​in​the​artistic​creations​ found​in​our​sacred​centers​and​in​our​ancient​books,​as​well​as​in​our​restored​political​and​religious​ceremonies.​In​addition,​some​community​histories​and​histories​of​municipalities​with​a​Maya​majority​incorporate​this​ way​of​viewing​the​past. Nationalist Contradictions 201

Educated Maya and Narratives about the Past It​is​primarily​one​sector​of​educated​Maya​who​construct​and​evoke​this​ new​narrative.​From​Chávez​in​the​middle​of​the​twentieth​century​to​Montejo​at​the​start​of​the​twenty-​first​century,​what​characterizes​these​historical​ narrators​is​their​professional​formation.5​In​this​case,​the​new​imaginary​or​ historical​representation​is​generated​not​only​from​communities’​oral​tradition,​but​also​(and​more​extensively)​from​other​knowledges​acquired​as​ a​result​of​close​contact​with​schools,​organizations,​and​other​worlds,​from​ Western​or​ladino​to​North​American. ​ Since​the​1960s,​a​sector​of​the​Maya​from​different​communities​entered​ secondary​schools​and​university​(Bastos​and​Camus​2003).​In​subsequent​ decades,​in​spite​of​the​repression​this​population​suffered​in​the​1970s​and​ 1980s,​some​continued​this​trajectory,​adding​to​the​number​of​Maya​who​ have​graduated​from​secondary​school​and​university.​These​well-​educated​ Maya​assumed​other​identities​that​partly​contrasted​with​those​of​uneducated​(iletrados)​Maya,​men​and​women​who​cultivate​the​earth​and​maintain​a​subsistence​economy.6​Those​identities​also​contrast​with​those​of​the​ ladinos​with​whom​they​had​lived​in​their​communities​as​well​as​with​those​ of​colleagues​in​schools​and​workplaces​(Sincal​Coyote​2004). ​ This​tradition​of​education​since​the​1960s​was​most​evident​among​the​ Kaqchikels​and​K’iche,​but​similar​processes​can​be​observed​in​other​ethnic​ groups.​ An​ exemplary​ case​ is​ that​ of​ the​ Comalapa​ municipality,​ located​ in​the​central​department​of​Chimaltenango,​where​the​majority​of​the​inhabitants​ are​ Kaqchikels.​ From​ the​ beginning​ of​ the​ twentieth​ century​ a​ small​group​of​distinguished​families​characterized​by​their​status​as​intermediaries,​their​economic​resources,​and​their​capacity​for​political​negotiation,​began​to​implement​a​series​of​transformations​ at​the​productive​ level,​in​political​participation,​and​in​the​educational​formation​of​some​of​ their​young​members.​In​the​1920s​a​small​group​of​Maya​teachers​from​this​ community​graduated​from​the​country’s​normal​schools.​They​returned​to​ their​community,​where​they​served​as​primary​school​teachers​in​a​school​ founded​by​prominent​families​specifically​for​indigenous​people.​From​the​ 1970s​until​the​present,​the​number​of​professionals​emerging​from​this​municipality​has​increased​significantly.​They​distinguished​themselves​in​several​important​professions.​Many​graduated​as​primary​school​teachers​and​ others​as​accountants,​engineers,​doctors,​lawyers,​linguists,​soldiers,​priests,​ and​administrators.​Many​lived​through​processes​of​cultural​change​and​ 202 eDgar​esquit

economic​ascent​that​transformed​their​ways​of​relating​to​one​another​and​ to​the​people​in​their​communities​who​are​involved​in​agricultural,​artisanal,​and​commercial​activities.​Most​of​these​professionals​continue​differentiating​themselves​from​ladinos,​but​at​the​same​time​they​value​highly​ their​professional​identities​and​their​ties​with​urban​centers​like​the​department​capital,​Chimaltenango,​or​the​country’s​capital,​Guatemala​City.​They​ also​recognize​the​importance​of​their​linguistic,​ideological,​and​nationalist​ connections. ​ These​well-​educated​Maya​now​define​themselves​as​Kaqchikels,​Mayas,​ Chimaltecos,​inhabitants​of​the​capital,​and​as​Guatemalan.​Their​identification​with​liberal​state​ideology​is​prominent​when​they​speak​about​citizenship,​democracy,​the​legal​system,​their​political​participation,​and​human​ rights.​They​have​so​capitalized​on​their​time​and​knowledge​that​they​can​ now​ reject​ so-​called​ traditional​ forms​ of​ cooperation​ and​ ties​ with​ other​ groups​and​peoples​in​Comalapa.​The​remaining​Comalapans,​agriculturalists​and​merchants,​can​simultaneously​reject​or​legitimize​these​new​professional​identities,​thoughts,​and​practices​according​to​the​specific​circumstances. ​ Starting​in​the​1970s​people​from​this​community​with​a​lower​level​of​ education​ began​ participating​ in​ different​ organizational​ bodies,​ such​ as​ Protestant​and​Catholic​churches,​political​parties,​and​guerrilla​groups— although​certainly​some​professionals​did​likewise.​Through​this​participation,​these​less-​educated​Maya​discovered​other​ways​of​living​and​understanding​ their​ communities’​ social​ reality​ and​ thereby​ devised​ their​ own​ ways​of​transforming​the​lives​of​Comalapans​and​of​the​Maya​in​general.​ Other​Comalapans​have​recently​occupied​important​posts​in​the​government,​including​the​National​Congress​and​some​ministries. ​ Some​national​leaders​who​support​Mayanism​are​from​Comalapa​and​ are​members​of​this​professional​sector.7​Together​with​activists​and​intellectuals​from​other​Guatemalan​communities,​principally​Kaqchikels​and​ K’iche,​these​leaders​foster​the​novel​discourse​about​the​Maya​past.​Nevertheless,​at​present​most​of​these​Comalapans​can​simultaneously​resort​to​ discourses​and​political​practices​inherently​tied​to​the​liberal​state’s​ideology.​ On​ the​ basis​ of​ these​ facts​ (paraphrasing​ Dipesh​ Chakrabarty),​ I​ must​still​insist​on​asking,​Who​speaks​in​the​name​of​our​Maya​ancestors​ (Chakrabarty​1999)?​The​answer​is​obviously​not​simple​because​it​requires​ understanding​other​important​facts. ​ Heretofore​the​analysis​of​Guatemala’s​pre-​Hispanic​and​colonial​history​ Nationalist Contradictions 203

has​ been​ in​ the​ hands​ of​ Creoles,​ ladinos,​ and​ foreigners,​ commentators​ who​have​constructed​different​images​about​the​Maya​and​their​past.8​At​ other​moments,​the​state​has​used​this​historiography​and​archeology​to​delineate​a​national​history​that​is​taught​in​schools​and​transmitted​through​ official​ discourses.​ That​ history​ has​ been​ expressed​ in​ racist​ and​ colonial​ terms.​It​fosters​a​vision​of​the​Maya​and​of​indigenous​people​in​general​as​ backward,​childlike​(mozos),​uncivilized​peasants​subject​to​integration​and​ incapable​of​realizing,​to​use​a​contemporary​concept,​development​without​ outside​intervention.9 ​ Despite​ these​ tendencies,​ people​ in​ the​ communities​ continue​ to​ narrate​their​own​histories,​which​are​also​categorized​disdainfully​by​liberal​ and​racist​Guatemalan​ideology.​In​any​case,​Maya​narratives​delineate​and​ construct​images​about​recent​and​remote​ancestors.​In​diverse​ways​these​ histories​ have​ given​ life​ to​ past​ indigenous​ communities,​ to​ their​ identities​and​ways​of​organizing​as​well​as​to​the​conditions​of​resistance​produced​at​different​moments​and​in​distinct​eras​(Florescano​2001).​In​many​ of​ these​ stories​ the​ ancestors​ remembered​ are​ nameless​ and​ the​ dates​ of​ events​are​not​precisely​defined​because​the​stories​simultaneously​relate​to​ the​daily​life​of​listeners​and​narrators.10​Many​Maya​people​in​communities​and​villages​have​never​stopped​sharing​and​listening​to​these​remembrances.​Nevertheless,​these​narratives​do​not​comprise​the​dominant​history.​Even​though​they​form​part​of​the​social​and​ideological​reproduction​ of​the​Maya,​they​do​not​resonate​nationally.​Instead,​other​voices​are​taken​ to​be​the​true​ones,​primarily​Creole​and​ladino​narratives​that​up​to​now​ have​told​us​how​our​past​truly​happened. ​ For​the​past​two​decades​well-​educated​Maya​have​been​telling​their​own​ stories,​talking​about​the​Maya​past​through​the​use​of​westernized​images​ and​narrative​styles.​As​a​rule,​these​new​stories​questioned​the​literary​constructions​of​national​and​foreign​academics​and​of​official​discourses.​For​ some​people,​such​self-​expression​means​that​the​Maya​are​starting​to​take​ their​turn​at​speaking​about​their​past,​and​consequently​the​history​they​ are​telling​now​represents​the​truth​for​them.​Now,​well-​educated​Maya​are​ the​narrators​and​are​often​legitimated​as​such​and​welcomed​by​different​ sectors.​Carmack,​for​example,​affirms​that​great​civilizations​like​the​K’iche​ are​destined​to​influence​the​modern​world​and​that​this​great​culture’s​time​ has​come​inside​Guatemala​and​must​be​welcomed​(Carmack​2001;​see​also​ Warren​1998;​Fischer​2001;​Cojtí​Cuxil​1991;​Bastos​and​Camus​2003;​Fischer​ and​Brown​1999).​These​assertions​raise​many​questions:​Who​receives​us?​ 204 eDgar​esquit

In​what​space​are​we​welcome,​and​why​are​we​appreciated​now​(or​not​until​ now)?​Finally,​if​this​is​the​Maya’s​time,​what​importance​can​a​critique​have​ for​imagining​new​ways​to​giving​meaning​to​the​past?

Elites, Narratives about the Past, and Fragility Even​though​it​has​been​said​that​Mayanists’​new​versions​of​the​past​challenge​official​history,​the​reality​is​not​that​simple.​The​contemporary​Guatemalan​ state​ also​ speaks​ about​ Guatemala’s​ history,​ about​ the​ history​ of​ the​Maya​as​a​people,​and​about​interculturalism.​This​represents​an​apparent​acceptance​of​Mayanist​discourse​and​demands​from​the​four​peoples​ (Maya,​Garífuna,​Xinka,​and​ladino),​their​multiculturalism​and​diversity.11​ The​state​has​thereby​supposedly​accepted​educated​Mayas’​version​of​history​and​rights.

Mayanists and the State Construction of Multiculturalism In​the​past​two​decades​Maya​leaders​have​created​a​series​of​organizations​ like​the​Consejo​de​Organizaciones​Mayas​en​Guatemala​and​the​Coordinación​de​Organizaciones​del​Pueblo​Maya​de​Guatemala.​Using​these​associations​as​platforms,​the​Maya​leaders​wrote​documents​and​negotiated,​protested,​and​elaborated​discourses​about​history,​cultural​diversity,​rights,​and​ identity.​Through​this​process,​they​created​ties​with​the​government​and​the​ state,​setting​the​terms​of​their​relationships. ​ The​discussion​and​signing​in​1995​of​the​Identity​and​Rights​of​the​Indigenous​Peoples​Accord​between​the​Unión​Revolucionaria​Nacional​Guatemalteca​ (urng)​and​the​government​ is​considered​ one​of​the​key​moments​in​the​consolidation​of​these​relations.​Mayanists​took​part​in​this​ process,​and​their​proposals​were​incorporated​into​the​document’s​formal​ definitions.​In​this​way,​the​Guatemalan​nation’s​multiethnic,​pluricultural,​ and​multilingual​character​was​formally​recognized.​This​accord​embraced​ Mayanists’​concept​of​a​people,​a​concept​that​alludes​to​and​is​based​upon​ their​new​notions​of​history.12 ​ Currently,​the​government​has​promulgated​some​secondary​laws​that​ give​ legal​ support​ to​ Maya​ rights,​ spirituality,​ languages,​ and​ education.​ There​are​government​entities​designed​to​support​the​Maya​peoples’​effort,​ such​as​the​Fondo​Indígena​(Indigenous​Fund),​the​Academia​de​las​Lenguas​Mayas​de​Guatemala​(Academy​of​Maya​Languages​of​Guatemala),​and​ Nationalist Contradictions 205

the​Defensoría​de​la​Mujer​Indígena​(Indigenous​Women’s​Defense​Office).​ School​texts​sponsored​by​the​Ministry​of​Education​include​new​lessons​ about​the​Maya’s​millenarian​history,​and​children​in​public​schools​even​ learn​ Maya​ numeration.​ From​ the​ moment​ the​ multicultural​ discourse​ gained​legitimacy,​the​state​began​defining​ethnic​difference​in​Guatemala​ and​recognized​Maya​organizations​and​their​leaders​as​interlocutors​and​ representatives​of​the​Guatemalan​Maya. ​ Many​would​interpret​this​new​situation​to​mean​that​the​state’s​recognition​of​Guatemala’s​cultural​diversity​implies​that​the​nation​is​now​a​democratic,​plural​body.13​Alternatively,​one​might​see​the​state’s​recognition​as​a​ Mayanist​victory​in​the​Maya’s​ideological​and​political​struggle​to​influence​ dominant​history​and​thought.​This​victory,​however,​was​not​so​straightforward​because​it​also​represented​the​state’s​influence​in​the​political​definition​of​multiculturalism,​identity,​and​rights.​Even​though​the​state​purports​to​support​Mayanist​claims,​this​recognition​also​restricts​Mayanists’​ capacity​to​establish​their​own​parameters​and​discourses​of​the​past​and​ of​their​identity,​their​rights,​and​the​elaboration​of​proposals​(Bastos​and​ Hernández​2005).​This​suggests​that​the​Guatemalan​state​and​governing​ elites​are​able​to​nourish​themselves​with​Mayanist​ideology​and​discourse​ to​again​impose​and​redefine​their​own​legitimacy​at​the​local​as​much​as​ the​international​level.​Brackette​Williams​has​defined​this​process​as​transformist​hegemony;​in​other​words,​a​process​through​which​the​state​appropriates​certain​resources​defined​by​subaltern​groups,​leaving​these​peoples​ once​again​at​the​margins​of​the​national​process​(1989). ​ An​interesting​ example​ in​ this​ regard​ is​ that​ of​ a​ group​ of​ Kaqchikels​ from​the​western​department​of​Sololá​who,​in​early​2005,​protested​against​ the​establishment​of​a​mining​company​in​the​Guatemalan​highlands.​They​ claimed​ that​ nature​ (“Mother​ Earth,”​ they​ said)​ was​ being​ damaged​ and​ that​the​government​had​not​consulted​indigenous​peoples​or​communities​ regarding​the​company’s​new​installations;​some​groups​invoked​Convention​169​of​the​International​Labor​Organization​on​the​rights​of​indigenous​ peoples​within​existing​states.​The​protests​were​violent,​and​the​government​ used​the​police​and​the​army​to​repress​the​population​opposed​to​the​mine’s​ operations.​The​Mayas​in​the​region​succeeded​in​achieving​strong​political​cohesion​around​the​so-​called​indigenous​municipality​and​managed​to​ sustain​an​important​discourse​and​practice​regarding​the​“traditional”​conservation​of​their​natural​resources.​Because​of​their​protests,​they​were​repressed.14 206 eDgar​esquit

​ We​can​see​here,​as​Rachel​Sieder​posits,​that​the​recomposition​of​the​ state​and​of​Latin​American​multiculturalism​tie​into​other​processes,​such​ as​neoliberalism​and​subsequent​subaltern​challenges​to​these​policies.​Tensions​emerge​between​the​state​and​Maya​groups​when​state​actors​seek​to​ exploit​natural​resources​located​in​territories​historically​occupied​by​the​ Maya,​territories​they​wish​to​continue​using​according​to​their​local​interests.​Sieder​proposes​that​the​public​policies​implemented​by​Latin​American​governments​contributed​to​the​reorganization​of​the​state​but​did​not​ necessarily​reduce​existing​inequalities.​This​establishes​that​a​model​of​a​ multicultural​society​must​not​only​address​the​rights​of​ethnic​groups​but​ also​confront​patterns​of​development​established​by​neoliberalism​or​capitalism​(Sieder​2004). ​ The​intervention​of​Maya​peoples​is​central​in​defining​a​new​model​of​ the​nation.​Their​ideological​constructions​of​the​past​overlap​with​current​ notions​and​images​of​a​multicultural​Guatemala.​Here​one​has​to​analyze​ how​the​state​legitimizes​itself​through​Mayanist​discourses​of​the​past​and​ of​Maya​culture​but​at​the​same​time​uses​force​and​violence,​also​legitimized,​against​those​supposedly​represented​in​the​plural​nation​to​impose​ the​realities​and​new​logics​of​the​global​economy. ​ The​newly​deployed​historical​discourse​about​Mayanness​and​multiculturalism​influences​official​acts,​including​the​teaching​of​national​history​ and​the​discursive​definition​of​the​rights​of​the​peoples​who​live​together​ in​ Guatemala.​ Nevertheless,​ images​ of​ our​ past​ greatness​ and​ discourses​ about​a​multicultural​country​have​little​impact​on​other​processes,​including​the​definition​of​coexistence,​development,​the​establishment​of​rights​ and​obligations,​and​citizenship.​The​question​therefore​is,​What​is​the​place​ of​a​people,​of​their​culture​and​their​rights,​in​the​definition​and​negotiation​ of​the​country’s​democracy​and​economy?​Within​liberal,​capitalist​logic,​the​ question​is​of​little​importance​and​might​even​be​understood​as​imprudent.​ Yet​it​is​highly​relevant​if​one​thinks​of​the​colonial​manner​in​which​power,​ democratization,​and​cultural​and​social​diversity​are​exercised​in​​Guatemala. ​ How​ are​ the​ discourses​ about​ the​ Maya​ past​ and​ about​ multiculturalism​that​are​formulated​by​Mayanist​intellectuals​used?​And​what​status​are​ they​granted?​Rather​than​constituting​a​simple​opposition​to​official​history,​ Mayanist​history​can​itself​constitute​the​basis​for​developing​new​discursive​ perspectives​that​the​state​then​replicates.​Mayanists​can​believe​they​have​ achieved​ their​ objectives​ when​ the​ government​ begins​ to​ print​ books​ reproducing​their​new​history​and​recreated​symbols.​The​ministers​and​vice​ Nationalist Contradictions 207

ministers​of​education​who​encourage​the​publication​and​use​of​these​new​ texts​may​even​be​Mayas​themselves,​yet​the​majority​of​the​Maya​continue​ to​be​seen​as​backward​and​ignorant​when​the​state​supposedly​brings​them​ progress​and​development​that​they​oppose. ​ Unfortunately​for​the​Mayanists,​they​still​do​not​have​enough​power​to​ control​ the​ reconstructions​ and​ ideologies​ that​ their​ movement​ has​ generated​and​that​are​now​reshaping​the​state​and​government.​Their​incipient​participation​as​government​functionaries​still​does​not​represent​a​significant​force,​yet​their​ideological​creations​about​the​past​and​the​present​ are​molding​the​narratives​that​strengthen​new​images​of​the​multicultural​ nation.​These​narratives​also​construct​other​forms​of​legitimacy​and​state​ power​that​do​little​to​eliminate​privileges​or​equalize​the​concentration​of​ resources​and​power. ​ In​light​of​the​preceding​discussion,​we​are​now​in​a​better​position​to​ determine​who​speaks​in​the​name​of​the​Maya​past.​Now​that​they​are​well​ educated​and​have​the​power​to​do​so,​Maya​elites​effectively​discuss​their​ past.​Nevertheless,​the​power​achieved​by​some​Mayanist​leaders​coexists​ with​ other​ conditions​ and​ contexts​ that​ may​ generate​ contradictions.​ On​ the​one​hand,​Mayanists​do​not​have​the​capacity​to​control​how​others​use​ their​discourses​and​images.​On​the​other​hand,​some​Mayanists​are​satisfied​ when​ they​ hear​ government​ functionaries​ talking​ about​ Guatemala’s​ cultural​wealth.​Many​Mayanists​speak​in​the​name​of​all​Maya​and​their​ past,​but​their​new​discourses​of​the​glorious​Maya​past​run​counter​to​the​ reality​that​many​Maya​individuals​and​communities​still​face​a​power​that​ responds​ to​ their​ concerns​ with​ violence​ and​ continues​ to​ exclude​ them​ from​the​nation.

Mayanist Elites: Redefining Identities and Power Relations One​can​ask​how​Mayanists,​or​at​least​some​Mayanists,​live​these​new​histories.​In​other​words,​how​are​they​using​these​new​discourses​to​nurture​ their​social​life,​their​identity,​and​their​political​activity?​The​intellectuals​of​ the​Maya​movement​are​primarily​educated​men​and​women​who​are​highly​ visible​at​the​local​and​national​levels.​In​some​central​highland​communities,​principally​in​the​department​of​Chimaltenango,​they​are​present​in​sizable​numbers.​Even​though​many​do​not​live​in​their​communities​of​origin,​ but​in​cities​like​Chimaltenango​or​the​capital,​at​certain​moments​they​run​ into​and​greet​each​other​in​their​local​communities.​Likewise,​when​they​ 208 eDgar​esquit

converge​on​places​like​Guatemala​City,​they​also​distinguish​their​fellow​ Maya​who​come​from​specific​towns,​regions,​and​linguistic​groups.​They​ also​cross​paths​with​Maya​who​profess​Mayanist​ideology​only​moderately​ or​not​at​all​but​who​are​also​educated​or​hold​positions​in​the​professions​ and​who​are​familiar​with​ladino​and​Western​spaces​and​perspectives.15 ​ The​story​of​a​Maya​political​leader​from​the​department​of​Chimaltenango,​a​man​who​was​prominent​at​the​local​and​national​levels,​is​instructive​in​this​context.​In​the​mid-​twentieth​century​the​man​was​an​important​ promoter​of​Acción​Católica​in​his​municipality​and​one​of​the​most​widely​ known​catechists.​His​allegiance​to​this​organization​led​him​to​participate​ in​the​local​branch​of​a​major​national​political​party,​as​a​result​of​which​he​ rose​to​the​post​of​mayor​in​his​home​municipality​during​the​second​half​ of​the​twentieth​century.​In​the​1970s​his​party​nominated​him​to​fill​a​seat​ in​the​federal​parliament,​making​him​one​of​the​first​Maya​deputies​to​sit​ in​Guatemala’s​Congress.16​Although​little​was​heard​about​his​political​activities​at​the​national​level​during​the​1980s,​his​name​was​associated​with​ Mayanist​organizations​in​the​1990s​and​up​to​the​present.​At​one​point,​he​ was​a​member​of​the​Consejo​de​Ancianos​del​Fondo​de​Desarrollo​Indígena​de​Guatemala​(Council​of​Elders​of​the​Indigenous​Development​Fund​ of​Guatemala),​a​government​entity​founded​at​the​demand​of​and​led​by​ Mayanists.​He​was​also​an​active​member​of​organizations​that​encourage​ Maya​spirituality. ​ Though​the​man​lived​his​last​years​outside​of​his​municipality,​his​remains​ were​ transferred​ there​ after​ his​ death.​ The​ day​ of​ his​ funeral,​ his​ friends​ and​ relatives,​ myself​ included,​ attended​ a​ Mass​ celebrated​ in​ the​ community​church;​several​of​these​people​held​important​positions​in​the​ national​ political​arena,​either​at​the​governmental​ level​or​in​popular​or​ Mayanist​organizations.​During​the​Eucharist​ceremony​the​priest​spoke​of​ how​this​was​an​uncommon​and​even​special​ceremony​given​the​dignity​ and​trajectory​of​the​deceased.​Once​the​religious​service​ended,​we​left​for​ the​cemetery,​where​a​customary​prayer​was​said.​Afterward,​a​close​K’iche​ relative​ of​ the​ deceased​ climbed​ onto​ a​ podium​ and​ spoke​ in​ his​ native​ tongue​about​how​the​deceased​was​now​reunited​with​Maya​elders​(abuelos).​The​speech​was​translated​into​Spanish.​Some​said​that​the​deceased​had​ probably​heard​these​same​words​about​respect​for​the​ancestors​spoken​to​ him​by​his​mother​in​K’iche​when​he​was​a​child.​The​same​relative​read​a​ text​about​the​deceased’s​life,​highlighting​his​participation​in​the​Congress​ and​in​organizations​that​fought​for​and​defended​Maya​rights.​Most​of​those​ Nationalist Contradictions 209

attending​the​wake​returned​to​the​house,​where​a​vigil​was​held​and​coffee​ and​bread​were​served.​At​the​vigil​someone​circulated​a​photograph​of​the​ deceased,​explaining​that​it​had​been​taken​in​the​Congress​during​his​tenure​ in​that​legislative​body. ​ Several​ conclusions​ can​ be​ arrived​ at​ from​ this​ anecdote.​ On​ the​ one​ hand,​even​though​the​dead​man’s​ancestors​were​not​explicitly​labeled​as​ Maya,​such​labeling​was​implicit​in​the​discourse.​When​Maya​peasants​remember​their​dead,​they​generally​affirm​that​the​deceased’s​soul​now​rests​ in​peace​to​be​resuscitated​by​God​when​the​world​ends.​The​speeches​at​the​ wake​likewise​made​references​to​the​ancestors​using​allusions​to​Mayanist​ discourses​about​elders.​On​the​other​hand,​many​people​who​attended​the​ wake​were​promoters​of​Mayanism,​and​by​translating​the​K’iche​speeches​ into​Spanish​they​were​positioning​Mayanist​values​and​symbols​at​center​ stage​and​thereby​using​Spanish​in​an​instrumental​way. ​ What​I​want​to​highlight​here​is​the​relationship​between​Maya​historical​ discourse,​the​new​identities​of​the​professionals​and​leaders​who​promote​ this​discourse,​and​their​linkage​with​the​state​through​policies​regarding​ Maya​rights​and​multiculturalism.​What​is​happening​among​these​elites?​ The​description​of​the​funeral​highlights​how​Maya​professionals​can​link​ different​events​or​facts​by​articulating​them​with​their​new​historical​discourse​and​with​their​connections​to​state​policy​on​rights​and​culture.​We​ can​see​that​in​this​case​Mayanists​are​not​deploying​a​discourse​about​history​and​culture​in​an​isolated​way,​so​as​to​define​their​nationalism,​difference,​and​pride​only​in​relation​to​their​glorious​past,​as​they​might​do​in​ other​speeches​and​texts.​In​cases​like​this,​for​Maya​historical​discourses​to​ succeed​they​must​interconnect​with​other​narratives​about​contemporary​ Mayas’​ability​to​enter​the​state​apparatus,​become​professional,​and​engage​ other​worlds​assumed​to​be​closed​to​most​Maya.​They​must​also​connect​ with​ arguments​ and​ proclamations​ about​ their​own​ capacity​ to​represent​ and​defend​the​rights​of​the​rest​of​the​Maya​people.​Evidently​in​operation​ here​is​a​complex​process​of​attempted​legitimation​in​which​new​power​relations​are​being​constructed. ​ To​understand​all​of​this,​I​want​to​continue​exploring​the​historical​effects​ of​Western​modernity,​liberal​ideology,​capitalism,​government​policies​regarding​education​and​integration,​and​racism​in​the​lives​of​Mayanists​and​ the​rest​of​the​Maya​people.​It​is​important​to​analyze​both​the​particular​ ways​in​which​political​and​economic​elites​are​constituted​historically​and​ the​links​they​establish​with​systems​of​inequality. 210 eDgar​esquit

​ Greg​Grandin​and​Irma​Alicia​Nimatuj​entered​into​this​discussion​with​ their​ analyses​ of​ historical​ processes​ lived​ by​ the​ Quetzaltec​ elites​ in​ the​ nineteenth​century​and​the​twentieth.​Grandin​proposes​that​K’iche​leaders​ of​this​area​reconfigured​their​communal​relations​and​maintained​their​social​ and​ cultural​ authority​ by​ forming​ alliances​ with​ the​ colonial​ and​ republican​states.​Amidst​the​political​and​economic​changes​of​the​eighteenth​ century​and​the​nineteenth,​K’iche​elites​transformed​Quetzaltenango​into​a​ commercial,​multiethnic​city.​Ethnic​leaders​(principales)​used​Creole​elites​ to​ sustain​ their​ domination​ over​ K’iche​ cultural​ processes,​ strengthening​ their​political​power​and​access​to​capital.​With​the​support​of​indigenous​ principales,​Creoles​maintained​the​city’s​caste​divisions​and​thereby​controlled​ the​ population​ and​ the​ possibility​ of​ multiethnic​ alliances.​ These​ nineteenth-​century​ elites​ pursued​ similar​ alliances​ with​ the​ Guatemalan​ president​Rafael​Carrera​to​protect​their​privileges. ​ These​alliances,​in​combination​with​late​nineteenth-​century​liberal​ideology​and​capitalist​economy,​led​K’iche​elites​to​develop​alternative​understandings​of​ethnicity​and​nationalism.​The​elites​built​a​conception​of​ethnicity​ that​ was​ intimately​ tied​ to​ ideas​ of​ progress​ encouraged​ by​ liberal​ intellectuals.​They​thought​that​indigenous​people’s​regeneration​would​necessarily​lead​to​civil​and​political​equality.​These​ideological​constructions​ ultimately​justified​K’iche​elites’​positions​of​authority​as​well​as​those​of​ ladinos​at​the​local​and​national​level.​Privileged​K’iche​looked​to​reproduce​ an​ethnic​identity​based​on​their​common​origin​and​on​the​maintenance​of​ cultural​markers​primarily​grounded​in​women’s​roles​(Grandin​2000). ​ Nimatuj,​ in​turn,​ observes​ that​ these​ elites​ were​ not​ homogenous​ and​ responded​in​different​ways​to​historical​processes​and​concrete​social​contexts.​Similarly,​she​shows​that​this​Quetzaltec​sector,​characterized​by​their​ commercial​economic​power,​shared​and​continue​to​share​diverse​contexts​ with​the​rest​of​the​Guatemalan​Maya.​They​thereby​reproduce​a​patriarchal​ system​that​subordinates​Maya​women.​Like​the​rest​of​the​country’s​Maya,​ they​ confront​ the​ racism​ dividing​ Guatemalan​ society​ and​ share​ general​ Maya​cultural​patterns​like​dress,​collective​memory,​languages,​and​diverse​ wisdoms​(Velásquez​Nimatuj​2002). ​ At​ the​ beginning​ of​ the​ twentieth​ century​ and​ in​ a​ way​ similar​ to​ the​ K’iche​elites​in​Quetzaltenango,​indigenous​elites​from​different​Chimaltenango​municipalities​simultaneously​acted​as​intermediaries,​speaking​on​ behalf​of​Chimaltenango’s​indigenous​peoples​and​their​rights,​while​also​ competing​with​local​ladino​elites​even​as​they​shared​some​privileges​with​ Nationalist Contradictions 211

those​elites,​such​as​the​right​to​vote​and​exemptions​from​forced​labor​and​ taxes.​Indigenous​elites’​competition​with​ladinos​led​them​to​not​only​discuss​and​demand​citizenship​rights,​but​also​to​take​action.​They​founded​ schools​for​indigenous​people​and​educated​a​small​group​of​youth​who​in​ certain​ways​and​at​certain​moments​could​compete​with​ladinos. ​ At​the​present​time​ladinos​in​many​of​this​department’s​communities​ no​longer​have​decisive​political​power,​and​it​is​Maya​who​lead​local​politics.​But​as​we​have​seen,​the​Maya​are​also​gaining​prominence​within​the​ governmental​apparatus​at​the​national​level.​In​diverse​ways​they​often​act​ as​intermediaries​speaking​in​the​name​of​all​Maya,​doing​so​by​building​a​ linear​discourse​about​the​past,​demanding​rights,​and​establishing​development​programs​for​the​Maya. ​ Many​of​these​indigenous​elites​have​been​successful​because​they​understood​and​entered​the​world​of​national​politics​and​familiarized​themselves​ with​the​practices​and​customs​of​ladino​elites.​Much​of​this​awareness​was​ the​result​of​education​and​adaptation.​Even​though​the​indigenous​elites​ still​endure​what​they​view​as​virulent​racism,​they​do​not​experience​it​in​ the​same​way​or​under​the​same​conditions​as​other​Maya.​Education​has​ been​central​to​the​elites​in​achieving​recognition​and​relative​acceptance​in​ some​nonindigenous​circles;​once​educated,​they​are​still​indigenous,​but​ “civilized.”​Likewise,​the​Mayanist​version​of​their​past​has​acquired​moderate​acceptance​by​certain​intellectuals,​politicians,​and​businessmen​because​ it​entails​a​rational,​as​opposed​to​a​mythical,​way​of​comprehending​the​ past,​while​at​the​same​time​serving​to​minimize​the​violence​used​against​ Maya​protests.17 ​ These​processes​empower​Mayanists​(and​also​other​professional​Maya​ who​do​not​follow​this​ideology)​in​the​eyes​of​some​ladino​and​Creole​sectors​and​also​of​community​and​village-​based​Maya.​Maya​students​and​professionals​enjoy​greater​prestige​where​they​live​or​originate​from,​not​only​ because​of​their​knowledge,​but​also​because​of​the​ties​and​networks​they​ presumably​have​developed​with​ladinos,​organizations,​and​institutions​at​ the​national​level.​An​important​differentiation​thus​arises​between​sectors​ of​the​Maya,​one​that​cannot​be​analyzed​simply​in​terms​of​a​description​ of​social​stratification​within​localities​or​municipalities,​but​must​consider​ processes​like​power​relations,​the​development​of​ideologies,​and​the​historical​constitution​and​reproduction​of​elites. ​ During​the​nineteenth​century​and​the​twentieth,​some​ladinos​and​Creoles​reproduced​their​power,​prestige,​and​legitimacy​by​claiming​to​be​civi212 eDgar​esquit

lized​and​modern.​Similarly,​in​the​twenty-​first​century​Mayanists​and​some​ non-​Mayanists​are​constructing​their​prestige​and​legitimacy​on​the​basis​ of​education,​professionalization,​ and​links​to​the​government​apparatus.​ New​to​this​contemporary​construction,​however,​is​the​identification​with​ a​People​that​has​a​glorious​and​millenarian​history,​one​that​is​imagined​by​ these​selfsame​actors.18 ​ Apparently,​ Mayanists’​ discursive​ control​ over​ the​ past​ and​ their​ demands​ regarding​ rights​ ultimately​ have​ produced​ results​ for​ these​ individuals.​Nevertheless,​this​discursive​control​is​diluted​by​the​control​and​ power​relations​established​by​Guatemala’s​oligarchy​and​political​class.​As​ Claudio​Lomnitz-​Adler​proposed​in​1995​in​the​Mexican​case,​intellectuals’​ discourses​often​serve​to​generate​closer​relationships​between​the​intellectuals​and​dominant​groups​and​in​this​way​continue​to​perpetuate​state​ideologies​(Lomnitz-​Adler​1995).​Much​the​same​can​be​said​about​contemporary​Mayanists’​historical​narratives.

Alternative Histories and the Present How​can​we​Maya​benefit​from​this​power​to​locate​not​only​our​past​but​ also​our​present?​In​what​way​does​the​Maya​people’s​alternative​history,​ as​developed​by​Mayanists,​generate​the​possibility​of​imagining​a​different​ nation​and​nationalism?​There​are​many​answers​to​these​questions​because​ these​new​historical​narratives​also​question​the​forms​of​exclusion​historically​reproduced​by​the​state​and​the​dominant​sectors.​We​can​see​nevertheless​that​Mayanist​history​partly​constructs​itself​by​taking​official​history​as​ a​model​when​it​establishes​or​seeks​to​represent​the​unity​of​the​four​peoples​ living​in​this​territory. ​ When​ Mayanists​ elaborate​ a​ historical​ narrative​ delineating​ the​ Maya​ people’s​cultural​inheritance​and​their​existential​basis,​while​at​the​same​ time​constructing​an​imaginary​about​the​four​peoples​of​Guatemala,​they​ are​helping​to​build​the​myth​of​the​multicultural​nation.​This​myth,​as​we​ have​seen,​is​easily​appropriated,​manipulated,​and​redefined,​both​in​the​ discourses​of​governing​elites​and​in​the​auxiliary​laws​they​have​proposed​ and​approved.​From​this​historical​definition​of​the​four​peoples,​it​is​possible​to​build​linear​and​diaphanous​narratives​about​identity,​equality,​and​ cultural​ inheritance—that​ is​ to​ say,​ about​ Guatemalan​ multiculturalism.​ These​narratives​underestimate​the​differences,​contradictions,​power​relations,​and​economic​inequality​prevalent​in​the​country. Nationalist Contradictions 213

​ Some​ Maya,​ for​ example,​ can​ now​ speak​ about​ multiculturalism​ and​ globalization​ processes​ like​ free​ trade​ treaties​ as​ inescapable​ realities​ in​ which​we​must​necessarily​involve​ourselves.​These​Maya​hold​that​multiculturalism​offers​a​formula​for​confronting​globalization,​implying​that​so​ long​as​we​maintain​our​identity​as​a​people​and​remain​creative,​we​will​be​ able​to​navigate​free​trade​successfully​and​offer​the​world​important​goods​ and​products.19​This​Mayanist​reasoning​is​centered​in​market​logics​and​ leaves​history​and​the​present​agenda​of​the​oligarchy​almost​unquestioned.​ In​this​case,​the​Maya,​too,​can​participate​in​the​colonial​form​taken​by​Guatemalan​and​global​power​relations. ​ Under​such​conditions​it​is​crucial​to​bring​different​Maya​historical​experiences​into​the​discussion,​for​they​are​central​to​the​definition​of​multiculturalism’s​ideological​and​material​foundations.​Different​sectors​of​the​ Maya​(and​Guatemalan)​people​have​long​developed,​according​to​their​own​ life​situations,​a​variety​of​relations​with​their​social​and​natural​surroundings.​Just​like​well-​educated​Maya,​peasants,​women,​merchants,​and​others​ have​had​contact​with​the​national​society,​the​global​economy​and​politics,​ the​ culture​ and​ knowledge​ preserved​ by​ other​ societies,​ and​ diverse​ religious​ forms.​ The​ Maya​ have​ not​ been​ isolated​ from​ Guatemala’s​ politics,​economy,​and​liberal​and​nationalist​ideologies,​or​from​the​ladino​and​ Western​worlds.​It​is​unlikely​they​have​lived​in​a​homogeneous​way.​Their​ diverse​historical​circumstances​have​given​rise​to​diverse​viewpoints,​interests,​and​identities.​Among​the​Maya,​one​can​therefore​discern​many​forms​ of​memory​and​thought.​In​short,​we​Maya​must​pay​close​attention​to​the​ relationship​between​memory​and​identity​in​order​to​recognize​that​our​ own​images​about​history​are​not​uniform​and​instead​reflect​the​complexity​ of​our​lives​and​relations​(Norval​2001). ​ We​must​therefore​focus​our​reflections​on​how​these​memories​can​support​the​construction​of​the​present​and​control​of​the​future.​It​is​important​ to​posit,​as​Partha​Chatterjee​says,​that​the​form​of​remembering​the​past​ and​ the​ power​ to​ represent​ oneself​ is​ nothing​ other​ than​ political​ power​ (Chatterjee​1995).​We​Maya​can​imagine​a​multicultural​society​by​taking​ into​account​these​multiple​historical​conditions.​Also​central​to​constructing​a​multicultural​society​is​an​understanding​of​the​ways​in​which​Guatemalans​have​historically​linked​themselves​and​been​linked​to​their​environment,​keeping​in​mind​their​experiences,​positions,​and​relations​of​power. ​ All​of​this​can​help​us​reflect​more​deeply​about​the​many​ways​in​which​ we​ can​ construct​ our​ alternative​ histories,​ perhaps​ seek​ out​ a​ variety​ of​ 214 eDgar​esquit

styles​of​development​and​understand​and​construct​a​multicultural​nation.​ Santiago​Bastos​and​Domingo​Hernández,​for​example,​highlight​an​interesting​case​detailing​the​process​of​state​control​and​the​Maya​struggle​for​ autonomy​(Bastos​and​Hernández​Ixcoy​2005).​They​analyze​some​of​the​ attempts​to​advance​the​recognition​and​indemnification​of​the​victims​of​ armed​conflict.​They​argue​that​the​social​and​political​experiences​of​people​ involved​in​the​process​have​prompted​them​to​rethink​how​they​imagined​ and​spoke​about​the​past​and​about​Maya​needs​and​rights. ​ According​to​Bastos​and​Hernández,​the​people​and​organizations​involved​in​this​task​have​assumed​the​category​of​Maya​as​part​of​an​ideological​construction​tied​to​the​indemnification,​using​it​as​an​ethnic​category​ that​also​helps​explain​the​past​and​the​violence​suffered.​In​this​case,​the​ process​of​recovering​the​Maya’s​long-​term​history​is​also​linked​with​more​ recent​memories​of​political​violence​endured​by​Maya​peasants,​women,​ and​students.​In​this​way,​peoples’​own​actions,​that​is,​their​struggles​and​ the​paths​they​chose​to​take,​mark​them​not​as​victims​but​as​individuals​ and​as​Maya​who​have​struggled​in​the​face​of​repression​and​exclusion.​All​ these​factors​form​part​of​the​Maya​experience​and​the​memory​they​are​ constructing. ​ These​ efforts​ are​ fundamental,​ and​ their​ recognition​ through​ ethnographic​description​is​central​to​the​discovery​of​other​explanations​related​ to​the​interactions​of​different​political​actors​(Hale​2002).​These​academic​ analyses​are​important​contributions​as​long​as​they​do​not​fall​into​a​simple​ celebration​of​Maya​resistance.​By​taking​a​more​critical​perspective​we​can​ see​the​contradictions​generated​in​the​different​arenas​where​Maya​launch​ their​struggles​and​the​ensuing​consequences.​By​focusing​on​these​multiple​ arenas,​we​can​understand​how​political​resistance​and​memory​often​challenge​the​control​and​power​of​dominant​groups​and​of​their​common​sense,​ even​as​they​can​sometimes​reinforce​the​established​order​and​neutralize​ the​strength​of​Maya​organizations​and​communities​(Hale​2002).

Epilogue Nobody​could​argue​that​the​Guatemalan​Maya​movement​has​not​been​an​ important​force​in​the​transformation​of​Guatemalan​society.​Over​the​past​ two​decades​a​national​discussion​of​indigenous​peoples’​cultural​and​political​rights​has​opened​multiple​opportunities​for​struggle​for​people​in​different​regions​and​localities.​Many​Maya​women,​for​example,​now​make​their​ Nationalist Contradictions 215

voices​heard​in​diverse​contexts,​emphasizing​their​suffering,​desires,​and​ struggles​and​challenging​patriarchal​domination​in​their​homes,​localities,​ and​country​(Chirix​2003).​Similarly,​Maya​spirituality​represents​an​important​challenge​to​the​Protestant​and​Catholic​churches​as​well​as​to​society​in​ general​through​the​public​presentation​of​religious​rituals​prohibited​until​ the​1990s.​Mayanists​have​brought​to​light​many​issues​and​problems,​including​racism,​an​outdated​educational​system​from​the​elementary​to​the​ postsecondary​level,​political​and​social​exclusion,​and​unequal​landholding​patterns. ​ My​essay​does​not​talk​in​terms​of​betrayal.​Rather,​it​has​dealt​with​social​ processes​that​deserve​recognition​and​careful​analysis​so​as​to​further​clarify​the​relation​between​hegemonic​processes​and​indigenous​resistance​in​ Guatemala​(Scott​2002).​I​have​attempted​to​represent​and​analyze​the​relationship​between​the​narratives​about​the​past​constructed​by​Mayanist​ intellectuals​ and​ the​ vested​ interests​ present​ in​ the​ state​ that​ are​ also​ involved​in​defining​Guatemalan​multiculturalism.​We​have​been​able​to​observe​that​the​ties​established,​the​discourses​and​ideologies​promoted​and​ implemented,​are​often​contradictory​because​they​both​represent​and​unfold​within​Guatemala’s​complex​social​reality.​Elite​and​nonelite​Maya​have​ also​been​fundamental​participants​in​the​construction​of​the​Guatemala​of​ the​past​two​decades.​They​participate​not​only​because​they​have​been​and​ continue​to​be​the​most​important​labor​force​in​the​country’s​economy,​but​ also​because​they​model​the​Guatemalan​state​with​their​ideological​constructions​and​political​interests.​They​remain​linked​to​nationalist​ideologies—ideologies​whose​form​dominant​groups​adopted​and​used​to​build​ their​hegemony—but​they​also​constitute​an​important​social​force​in​the​ transformation​of​our​society. ​ This​work​is​a​critical​approximation​by​the​Maya​themselves​to​the​social​ processes​we​live.​Our​experiences​in​these​diverse​environments​provide​ evidence​both​of​what​our​struggles​have​achieved​and​of​the​mistakes​we​ have​made.​We​Maya​will​not​give​too​much​away​if​we​see​our​intellectual​ activity​and​creations​in​a​more​problematic​way​and​not​as​diaphanous,​as​ we​would​like​our​reality​or​our​past​to​be.20​This​may​be​too​much​to​ask,​ given​how​we​Mayanists​make​strategic​use​of​essentialist​notions​about​the​ continuity​of​our​past​and​present.21​Yet​we​must​also​listen​to​our​many​ voices,​which,​though​contradictory,​influence​the​processes​we​live. ​ Maya​peasants,​businessmen,​women,​Catholics,​and​youth​have​many​ historical​experiences​and​talk​in​many​ways,​and​their​discourses​and​prac216 eDgar​esquit

tices​tie​into​the​ideologies​they​employ.​With​their​multiple​identities,​interests,​and​dreams,​they​inevitably,​together​with​elites,​take​part​in​the​contradictions​our​current​nationalisms​generate.

Notes ​ 1.​In​the​Guatemalan​context,​ladino​refers​to​most​non-​Indians,​including​Guatemalans​of​European​or​mixed​descent​(translator’s​note). ​ 2.​In​citing​Quijano,​Walter​Mignolo​(2004)​explains​how​one​should​understand​ the​concept​of​the​coloniality​of​power​and​talks​about​the​historical​establishment​ of​a​racial​division​of​labor​in​America.​A​racial​hierarchy​that​overdetermined​social​ relations​and​ideologies​and​influenced​ideas​of​equality​and​liberty​was​put​in​place.​ At​the​beginning​of​the​nineteenth​century​and​with​the​onset​of​independence,​he​ argues,​ instead​of​being​ overcome,​ colonialism​ was​rearticulated.​ Following​ Greg​ Grandin’s​(2000)​ideas,​we​can​also​say​that​even​though​all​the​Maya​of​Guatemala​ are​not​oppressed​for​being​Maya,​they​suffer​domination​as​Maya. ​ 3.​Carmack​(2001),​Gúzman​Böckler​and​Herbert​(1998),​and​Hill​(2001).​The​first​ two​books​were​first​edited​in​the​1960s​and​the​last​in​1992. ​ 4.​See​Edgar​Esquit​(2004)​for​a​more​in-​depth​critical​study​of​this​topic​in​relation​to​recent​narratives​about​the​past​by​Maya​activists. ​ 5.​Montejo​(2004)​is​a​recent​text​about​Maya​history. ​ 6.​In​some​municipalities​these​identities​also​contrasted​with​Maya​merchants,​ most​of​whom​have​a​low​level​of​educational​training. ​ 7.​Many​other​professionals​from​Comalapa​or​the​region​have​few​or​no​ties​with​ the​Maya​movement​and​its​discourse. ​ 8.​Creoles​(criollos)​refers​to​elite​Guatemalans​of​European​descent​(translator’s​ note).​For​example,​see​Batres​Jáuregui​(1989),​Martínez​Peláez​(1973),​and​Carmack​ (2001). ​ 9.​But​the​political,​cultural,​and​economic​exclusion​of​the​Maya​within​the​nation​does​not​occur​only​at​the​discursive​level.​There​are​concrete,​material​practices​ that​establish​exclusion,​implying​that​the​state’s​historic​narrative​contributes​to​the​ construction​of​colonial​forms​within​Guatemala’s​power​relations. ​ 10.​In​the​K’iche​language,​for​example,​najtir,​meaning​“ancient,”​is​used​only​to​ talk​about​an​ancestor’s​past​and​culture.​In​the​Mam​language,​ojtxe​refers​to​the​remote​past.​García​Ruiz​(1992). ​ 11.​Mayanists​have​created​the​image​of​Guatemala​as​made​up​of​four​peoples— the​Maya,​Garífuna,​Xinca,​and​ladino—each​with​its​respective​history. ​ 12.​Minugua ​(2001). ​ 13.​See​Donna​Lee​Van​Cott’s​(2000)​discussion​about​constitutional​multiculturalism.​Santiago​Bastos​deals​critically​with​this​issue​in​the​notion​of​cosmetic​ multiculturalism,​which​refers​to​the​creation​of​new​state​policies​that​adopt​laws​ Nationalist Contradictions 217

and​discourses​attempting​to​always​include​indigenous​people​(Conference​at​the​ Colegio​de​Michoacán,​2003). ​ 14.​Some​people​have​suggested​that​political​members​of​the​leftist​party​Unión​ Revolucionaria​ Nacional​ Guatemalteca​ (urng)​ manipulated​ the​ Maya​ in​ these​ events.​Though​it​is​clear​that​the​ urng ​has​influence​in​the​Indigenous​Municipality​of​Sololá​and​other​departmental​organizations,​we​cannot​disregard​the​interests​and​agency​of​the​region’s​Kaqchikels. ​ 15.​Uneducated​Maya​are​also​not​isolated​from​liberal​Guatemalan​politics,​economics,​ and​ ideology​or​from​ the​ladino​ and​ Western​ world.​The​ problem​ is​ not​ whether​the​Maya​are​tied​to​national​and​global​processes​or​not;​rather,​it​is​important​to​understand​the​forms​and​conditions​in​which​such​connections​happen​and,​ extrapolating​from​there,​peoples’​experiences,​positions,​and​relations​of​power. ​ 16.​Two​former​Maya​congresspeople​were​the​K’iche​Augusto​Sac​Racancoj,​a​ lawyer,​and​Pablo​Pastor,​a​professor.​They​obtained​their​posts​in​the​1940s​only​because​of​the​space​the​Revolution​of​1944​opened.​Velásquez​Nimatuj​(2002). ​ 17.​ Nevertheless,​ there​ are​ ladinos​ who​ question​ the​ way​ in​ which​ Mayanism​ recovers​the​past​through​essentialist​and​fundamentalist​arguments.​See​Morales​ (1998).​Some​provincial​ladinos​also​question​Mayanism,​but​their​main​arguments​ originate​within​official​history.​They​affirm​that​indigenous​peoples​no​longer​have​ the​ right​ to​ call​ themselves​ Maya​ because​ the​ Maya​ empire​ disappeared​ with​ the​ Spanish​ conquest​ and​ subsequent​ communities​ were​ no​ longer​ pure​ but​ mixed.​ Moreover,​these​provincial​ladinos​believe​the​adhesion​of​indigenous​peoples​to​the​ ancient​Maya​is​a​strategy​of​some​opportunistic​individuals.​Hale​(2002). ​ 18.​This​comparison​is​not​overly​ahistorical​because​the​nation​is​still​constructed​ on​exclusion,​even​though​the​national​and​global​social,​political,​and​economic​ contexts​have​varied. ​ 19.​For​Walter​Mignolo​(2004)​globalization​is​a​rearticulation​of​the​coloniality​ of​power,​similar​to​what​happened​in​the​nineteenth​century​with​the​foundation​of​ nations​in​America.​Many​Mayanists​who​have​adopted​a​perspective​that​includes​ the​concept​of​internal​colonialism​hardly​question​globalization​processes​and​the​ contexts​in​which​they​are​produced. ​ 20.​I​use​the​term​problematic​to​denote​the​complexity​of​our​social​life​and​to​ argue​about​the​many​paths​our​struggles​can​take​if​we​pay​attention​to​our​many​ realities. ​ 21.​In​discussing​cultural​continuity,​Fischer​and​Watanabe​(2004)​affirm​that​we​ frequently​do​not​realize​the​different​ways​it​can​happen,​such​as​through​the​recreation​of​the​present​or​through​profiling​the​legacy​of​our​ancestors​as​unchanging.​ According​to​the​authors,​Mayanists​would​have​opted​for​the​first​way.​The​authors’​ conclusion​ may​ be​ quite​ correct;​ nevertheless,​ we​ also​ have​ to​ point​ out​ that​ the​ recreation​of​the​present​is​mediated​by​power​relations,​social​contexts,​and​new​ identities. 218 eDgar​esquit

Florencia e. mallon

Conclusion

When​Noenoe​Silva​and​Stéfano​Varese​attempted,​at​the​close​of​our​conference​in​Madison,​to​summarize​our​discussions​as​a​frame​for​our​last​ plenary​session,​they​highlighted​both​the​promises​and​the​difficulties​in​ taking​the​kind​of​international​ and​comparative​perspective​we​have​attempted​in​this​book.​In​this​brief​conclusion​I​revisit​some​of​the​general​ themes​and​challenges​associated​with​such​a​perspective.​I​cannot​presume​ to​represent​here​the​richness​of​the​perceptions​and​conclusions​contained​ in​each​essay.​Instead,​I​highlight​three​general​points​that​emerge​from​the​ overall​conversation,​reiterating​the​desire—present​in​the​work​of​all​the​ contributors​to​this​book​as​well​as​of​all​those​present​at​the​conference— that​we​can​contribute​in​some​way​to​a​deeper​and​more​productive​dialogue​among​Native​peoples​and​between​Native​and​other​forms​of​knowledge. ​ At​the​core​of​the​project​envisioned​by​the​authors​represented​in​this​ book​is​the​understanding​of​Native​histories​and​narratives​in​international​ and​comparative​context.​As​the​recent​history​of​indigenous​movements​ has​demonstrated,​international​collaboration​has​fostered​new​possibilities​ for​indigenous​mobilization​and​empowerment.​At​the​same​time,​the​process​of​examining​Native​histories​and​narratives​in​comparative​and​international​perspective​extends​and​deepens​our​understanding​of​each​one.​ Both​the​similarities​and​the​differences​we​find​among​them​sharpen​our​ appreciation​of​how,​and​for​what​purpose,​these​narratives​are​elaborated​ and​constructed.​Finally,​our​comparisons​of​North​and​South​America​as​ well​as​of​the​continental​Americas​with​the​Pacific​world​help​remind​us​ how​deeply​geography​itself,​and​through​it​the​relationships​among​distinct​ indigenous​peoples​and​traditions,​has​been​affected​by​colonialism. ​ A​second​theme​that​arises​from​the​essays​collected​here​is​that​decolo-

nization​begins​at​home.​Taken​together,​the​authors​demonstrate​the​multiple​ways​in​which​Native​narrative​and​history​can​be​rendered,​from​local​ community​ history​ or​ personal​ story​ to​ discussions​ of​ indigenous​ rights​ on​an​international​level.​That​each​provides​a​different​but​necessary​perspective​on​Native​histories​is​an​important​lesson​that​we​all​relearn,​again​ and​ again,​ as​ we​ labor​ to​ decolonize​ indigenous​ narratives​ with​ the​ very​ same​tools​we​have​inherited​from​colonialism.​And​as​we​continue​to​strive​ toward​this​goal,​we​see​the​importance,​also​represented​in​this​book,​of​the​ work​that​has​been​done​by​generations​of​activist-​intellectuals,​both​Native​ and​non-​Native.​In​the​context​of​collaboration​and​solidarity,​the​authors​ suggest,​it​is​also​possible​to​speak​about​and​analyze​internal​divisions​and​ differences​in​productive​and​inclusive​ways. ​ A​third​and​final​salient​theme​here​is​that​indigenous​theorizing​and​ translation—understood​ as​ the​ interpretation,​ reinterpretation,​ and​ improvement​of​ideas​and​concepts​in​their​transition​from​one​language​or​ epistemology​ to​ another—transform​ our​ understanding​ of​ national​ and​ global​processes​and​histories.​Indigenous​histories​themselves​have​never​ really​been​local,​except​in​the​eyes​of​the​colonizers.​Rather,​they​have​from​ the​very​beginning​participated​and​been​embedded​in,​transformed​by,​and​ resistant​to​globalization.​At​the​same​time,​with​the​powerful​revitalization​ worldwide​of​indigenous​identity-​based​politics​and​in​the​new​globalized​ context​that​has​emerged​after​the​fall​of​the​Berlin​Wall,​the​long​and​critical​ engagement​of​Native​peoples​with​world​histories​and​processes​can​more​ easily​and​clearly​come​into​view.​Our​goal​is​that​the​multiple​experiences​ and​perspectives​offered​here​can​contribute​to​a​deeper,​more​grounded​debate​over​our​common,​global,​and​hopefully​ever​more​decolonized​future.​ As​ became​ clear​ from​ the​ plenary​ session​ at​ our​ conference,​ the​ work​ of​ decolonization​will​not​be​done​until​Native​narratives​and​epistemologies​ not​only​occupy​a​prominent​position​within​the​circle​where​knowledge​is​ produced,​but​also​constitute​a​central​part​of​the​knowledge​that​everyone​ seeks​out.

220 Florencia​e.​Mallon

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reFerences 241

contributors

riet Delsing ​is​an​independent​researcher.​She​received​her​Ph.D.​in​anthropology​ from​the​University​of​California​at​Santa​Cruz​in​2009.​She​conducts​research​in​the​ history​and​place​of​Rapa​Nui​in​the​narratives​of​the​Chilean​nation-​state. eDgar arturo esquit cHoy ​is​a​Kaqchikel​Maya​historian​and​researcher​at​the​Instituto​de​Estudios​Interétnicos​in​Guatemala.​He​is​the​author​of​Otros Poderes, Nuevos Desafíos: Relaciones Interétnicas en Tecpan y Su Entorno Departamental, 1871–1935​ (2002)​and​the​coauthor,​with​Víctor​Gálvez​Borrell,​of​The Mayan Movement Today: Issues of Indigenous Culture and Development in Guatemala​(1997). FernanDo garcés v. ​ received​ his​ M.A.​ in​ social​ sciences​ from​ Flacso -​Quito​ (Ecuador)​and​is​currently​a​Ph.D.​candidate​in​Latin​American​cultural​studies​at​ the​Universidad​Andina​Simón​Bolívar​(Quito).​In​addition​to​working​in​bilingual​ and​intercultural​education​in​both​Ecuador​and​Bolivia,​he​coordinates​the​educational​program​at​the​Centro​de​Comunicación​y​Desarrollo​Andino​in​Cochabamba,​Bolivia,​where​he​has​also​worked​with​the​bilingual​newspaper​Conosur Ñawpagman.​He​has​published​several​articles​on​Quichua​and​Quechua​linguistics​ and​ sociolinguistics​ and​ on​ the​ relationship​ between​ writing​ and​ orality​ in​ Quechua. J. keHaulani kauanui ​ is​ an​ associate​ professor​ of​ anthropology​ and​ American​ studies​at​Wesleyan​University.​Her​first​book,​Hawaiian Blood: Colonialism and the Politics of Sovereignty and Indigeneity,​was​published​in​the​Narrating​Native​Histories​series​by​Duke​University​Press​in​2008.​In​2008​she​helped​found​the​Native​ American​and​Indigenous​Studies​Association​and​was​elected​to​its​council​the​same​ year.​In​addition​to​coediting​three​special​issues​of​journals​and​publishing​widely​ in​professional​journals,​she​is​working​on​two​new​book​projects,​one​on​gender,​ sexual​politics,​and​indigeneity​in​Hawaiian​identities​and​the​other​on​Hawaii​and​ New​Eng​land​colonialism. brian kloPotek ​is​an​associate​professor​of​ethnic​studies​at​the​University​of​Oregon.​He​is​the​author​of​Recognition Odysseys: Indigeneity, Race, and Federal Tribal Recognition Policy in Three Louisiana Indian Communities,​in​the​Narrating​Native​ Histories​(Duke​University​Press,​2011).​He​has​also​published​an​article​on​Indian​

masculinity​and​is​working,​with​Brenda​Child,​on​a​forthcoming​edited​book​on​ Indian​education. Florencia e. mallon ​is​the​Julieta​Kirkwood​Professor​and​chair​of​the​History​Department​at​the​University​of​Wisconsin,​Madison.​She​is​the​author​of​The Defense of Community in Peru’s Central Highlands: Peasant Struggle and Capitalist Transition, 1860–1940​(Princeton,​1983);​Peasant and Nation: The Making of Postcolonial Mexico and Peru​(Berkeley,​1995),​for​which​she​received​the​Bryce​Wood​Award​for​the​Best​ Book​in​Latin​American​Studies​from​the​Latin​American​Studies​Association;​and​ Courage Tastes of Blood: The Mapuche Indigenous Community of Nicolás Ailío and the Chilean State, 1906–2000​(Duke​University​Press,​2005),​which​was​awarded​the​ Bolton-​Johnson​Prize​for​the​Best​Book​in​Latin​American​History​by​the​Conference​on​Latin​American​History.​She​is​also​the​editor​and​translator​of​Rosa​Isolde​ Reuque​Paillalef,​When a Flower Is Reborn: The Life and Times of a Mapuche Feminist​ (Duke​University​Press,​2002).​She​is​one​of​the​founding​editors​of​the​series​Narrating​Native​Histories. abelarDo ramos PacHo ​is​a​Nasa​linguist​and​activist​with​the​Consejo​Regional​ Indígena​del​Cauca​in​Colombia.​He​received​his​M.A.​in​ethnolinguistics​from​the​ Universidad​de​los​Andes​in​Bogotá​in​1987.​He​works​in​the​Intercultural​Bilingual​ Program​of​the​Consejo​Regional​Indígena​del​Cauca.​He​is​the​coauthor,​with​Graciela​Bolaños,​Joanne​Rappaport,​and​Carlos​Miñana,​of​¿Qué pasará si la escuela . . . ? Treinta años de construcción educativa​(2004),​and​the​author​of​numerous​articles​on​ translation,​ethnolinguistics,​and​the​Nasa​Yuwe​language. Joanne raPPaPort ​is​a​professor​of​anthropology​and​Spanish​and​Portuguese​at​ Georgetown​University.​She​has​published​three​books​in​Eng​lish:​Cumbe Reborn: An Andean Ethnography of History​ (University​ of​ Chicago​ Press,​ 1994);​ Intercultural Utopias: Public Intellectuals, Cultural Experimentation, and Ethnic Pluralism in Colombia​(Duke​University​Press,​2005);​and​The Politics of Memory: Native Historical Interpretation in the Colombian Andes​(Cambridge​University​Press,​1990;​Duke​ University​Press,​1998).​Intercultural Utopias,​the​product​of​collaborative​research​ with​indigenous​activists​from​the​Consejo​Regional​Indígena​del​Cauca,​is​a​study​ of​indigenous​intellectuals​and​cultural​planners​in​Colombia. Jan rus ​and​Diane l. rus ​have​worked​in​the​Tzotzil-​Maya​speaking​region​of​highland​Chiapas​since​the​early​1970s.​In​1985​they​became​coordinators​of​the​Taller​ Tzotzil​and​helped​local​communities​organize​discussion​groups​and​publish​native​ language​ books​ on​ such​ themes​ as​ the​ historical​ struggle​ for​ the​ land,​ labor​ contracting​and​coffee​plantations,​women’s​artisan​cooperatives,​the​rise​of​urban​ indigenous​colonias,​and​the​beginning​of​undocumented​migration​to​the​United​ States.​Diane​is​the​coauthor​and​editor​of​Bordando Milpas​(1990),​the​life​history​ of​a​Chamula​weaver,​and​Jan​is​coeditor​of​Mayan Lives, Mayan Utopias: The In244 contributors

digenous People of Chiapas and the Zapatista Rebellion​(2003),​and​the​author​of​the​ forthcoming​“Still​We​Are​Here:​Historical​Ethnography​of​the​Mayas​of​Highland​ Chiapas,​1867–1994.”​Together,​they​are​the​coauthors​of​a​number​of​articles​on​migration​and​economic​change​and​the​editors​of​a​forthcoming​bilingual​compilation​ of​Tzotzil​Maya​oral​histories.

contributors 245

inDex

Abercrombie,​Neil,​42,​53n15 Abu-​Lughod,​Lila,​193n2 Abya​Yala​(mature​and​fertile​earth),​85,​ 119n3 Academia​de​las​Lenguas​Mayas​de​ Guatemala​(Academy​of​Maya​Languages​of​Guatemala),​205–6 Academia​de​Lenguas​Mayas​de​Guatemala,​173n9 academic/activist​collaboration,​5,​9.​ See also​collaboration​and​historical​ writing Acción​Católica​(Guatemala),​209 Acteal​massacre​(Chiapas,​Mexico,​1997),​ 154–55,​174n17 activism,​activists:​academics​and,​5,​9,​ 124,​131,​137,​140;​antiracist,​176;​assassinated​in​Chiapas,​164,​167;​Mapuche​ intellectuals​as,​9–10 “Agreement​of​Wills”​(“Cession”​and​ “Proclamation”;​Rapa​Nui,​1888),​ 56–57,​68,​73,​75n2,​76n11 agriculture,​80,​111–12,​164–65 aico ​(Indigenous​Authorities​of​ Colombia),​142n8 Akaka,​Daniel​Kahikina,​27–28 Akaka​bill,​27–29,​35–43,​48–50,​52n10,​ 52–53n14 Albarracín,​Roberto,​118 Albert,​Bruce,​128 Albó,​X.,​93 Alfabeto Único para el Idioma Quechua​ (Unified​Alphabet​for​the​Quechua​ Language),​120n16

Alfred,​Taiaiake,​15 Allen,​C.,​142n5 American​Indian​Law​Alliance,​44,​​ 53n19 American​Indian​Religious​Freedom​Act​ (U.S.,​1996),​50n1 Americas,​the,​and​the​Pacific,​6–7,​24,​ 219 Añaskitu,​120n14 Anaya,​A.,​93 Andean​Communication​and​Development​Center,​89,​110–12,​120n7,​ 120n14,​121n23 Annals of the Kaqchikels,​199–200 anthropology,​2,​122,​129.​See also​collaboration​and​historical​writing;​ ethnography antimiscegenation​laws,​181,​193n3 Anzaldúa,​Gloria,​17 Apology​Resolution​(U.S.,​1993),​36,​ 52n13 Archipelago​of​Juan​Fernández,​70,​ 72–73 ariki​(chief​or​king),​56–57,​75n3 Arnold,​D.,​121n25 Asad,​Talal,​125–26 Atacama​desert​(Bolivia​and​Peru),​56 Atamu​Tekena,​king​of​Rapa​Nui,​56–57,​ 60 Aubry,​Andrés,​146,​148,​171n1,​174n17,​ 174n20 Australia,​on​indigenous​rights,​45 authenticity,​193n2 authority,​intellectual​/cultural,​4

autonomy:​in​Colombia,​142n5;​culture​ and,​128–30,​140–41;​via​decolonization,​7;​via​deoccupation,​7;​internationalization​effects​on,​22;​in​Rapa​ Nui,​71–72,​74,​78n22;​sovereignty​and,​ 142n5 Avendaño,​Amado,​171n1 Aylwin,​Patricio,​63–64,​70 Aymara​language,​93,​95 Aymara​people​(Bolivia,​Peru,​and​ Chile),​55–56,​86 Ayni​School​(Rumi​Muqu,​Bolivia),​ 106–7 Bachelet,​Michelle,​71 Balmaceda,​José​Manuel,​56,​75n5 Basham,​Leilani,​17 Bastos,​Santiago,​215 Bayonet​Constitution​(Hawaiʻi,​1887),​31 Beloved​(Morrison),​192 Bible​translations,​9.​See also​sil /Wbt bilingual​education,​106–8,​172n2,​173– 74n13.​See also​pebi biotechnology,​116 blue​water​doctrine,​33–35 Bolaños,​Graciela,​130,​141,​143n15 Bolivia:​agrarian​reform​in,​80;​indigenous​peasant​movement​in,​83–84;​ indigenous​vein​in,​86;​War​of​the​ Pacific​and,​55–56 Bolivian​Revolution​(1952),​81 Bordando Milpas​(Ta jlok’ta chobtik;​ D.​L.​Rus),​12,​158–61,​164 Bureau​of​Indian​Affairs,​189 Burstein,​John,​171n1 Bush,​George​H.​W.,​164–65 Bush,​George​W.,​37 Canada,​on​indigenous​rights,​45 Cane​River​Creoles​of​Color​(Louisiana),​ 185–87,​189,​194n7 Caniuqueo,​Sergio,​19n12 248 inDex

capitalism:​communal​organization​and,​ 114;​indigenous​knowledge​and,​116– 18;​on​private​property,​57;​transnational​markets​needed​for​global,​102 Carmack,​Robert,​200,​204 Carmen,​Andrea,​53n19 Carrasco​(Cochabamba,​Bolivia),​88–89 Carrasco,​Patricio,​76n7 Carrera,​Rafael,​211 Catholic​Church​(Chiapas,​Mexico),​ 171n1,​173n9 Catholic​Church​(Rapa​Nui),​59 Catholic​Church​(Tahiti),​56 Cauca,​Colombia,​24;​community​councils​(cabildos)​in,​132,​142n9;​cric ​in,​ 10,​81–82,​124–26,​130,​133–34,​137,​ 142n1,​142n8,​142n9,​143n14,​143n15;​ cultural​heterogeneity​or​syncretism​ in,​129,​138.​See also​pebi celali ,​172n2 cenDa ​(Andean​Communication​and​ Development​Center;​Bolivia),​89,​ 110–12,​120n7,​120n14,​121n23 census,​U.S.​(1910),​185,​188–89,​194n12 cession​of​sovereignty,​77n11 Chakrabarty,​Dipesh,​2,​14,​203 Chamula​(Chiapas,​Mexico),​8,​10,​151– 53,​156,​158,​161,​174n15.​See also​Taller​ Tzotzil Chanteaux,​Michel,​174n17 Chapare​(Bolivia),​90 Chatterjee,​Partha,​214 Chávez,​Adrián​Inés,​200,​202 Cherokees,​192 Chiapas,​Mexico,​24;​activists​assassinated​in,​164,​167;​Catholic​Church​in,​ 171n1,​173n9;​critical​historical​narrative​in,​170;​economic​crisis​in,​10,​ 147,​155,​157–58,​171n4;​human​rights​ abuses​in,​167–68,​174nn17–18;​landowners​vs.​debt-​laborers​in,​162–63;​ minimum​wage​in,​172n7;​political​

and​cultural​changes​in,​147–49,​164,​ 170;​political​and​economic​reform​in,​ 80–81.​See also​Taller​Tzotzil Chicanos’​classification​as​white,​181 Chichén-​Itzá,​(Yucatán,​Mexico),​199 ch’iki​(socially​intelligent​child),​121n24 Chile:​constitution​of,​72–73,​75;​democracy​in,​63–64,​68;​imperialism​of,​ 55–56;​independence​of,​from​Spain,​ 55;​trading​by,​56;​victory​of,​in​War​of​ the​Pacific,​6–7.​See also​Rapa​Nui Chilean​civil​war​(1891),​58,​75n5 Chilean​National​Television​(tVn ),​54 Chimaltenango,​Guatemala,​24,​202–3,​ 208,​211–12 Choctaws​(Mississippi),​11,​181.​See also​ Clifton-​Choctaws Chow,​Rey,​125,​141 Civil​Code​(Chile),​60–61 Cleveland,​Grover,​31–32 Clifton-​Choctaws​(Louisiana),​182–91,​ 194n6,​194n12 Clinton,​William​J.,​36 Cobo,​José​Martinez,​43 coca,​90,​92,​96–97 Cochabamba,​Bolivia,​24;​drought​in,​88;​ ngo s​and​development​projects​in,​ 88;​peasant​organizations​in,​10,​119n4,​ 120n8;​political​militancy​in,​81–82 coDeipa ​(Development​Commission;​ Rapa​Nui),​64–66,​68 coffee​market,​164–65 coffee​workers,​149–51,​165 Cojtí​Cuxil,​Demetrio,​197,​200 Coleman,​Arica,​181 collaboration:​via​diálogo de saberes​(exchange​of​epistemologies),​8,​130;​engagé,​9;​minga​(project​of​collective​ work​for​collective​benefit),​8,​82–83,​ 131–32;​overview​of,​80–84;​respect​for​ difference​and​the​integrity​of​cultures​ as​underlying,​17;​tension/negotiation​

in,​10,​17,​133;​truth​telling​and,​in​research​methodologies,​4 collaboration​and​historical​writing,​ 219;​of​academics​and​activists,​5,​9,​ 124,​131,​137,​140;​collaborative​theorizing​and,​130–33,​142nn7–8,​143n10;​ community​control,​interculturalism,​cosmovision,​and,​137–40;​co-​ theorizing,​131–32;​culture​and​political​autonomy​and,​128–30,​140–41;​ indigenous​theory,​and​definition/ overview​of,​122–24,​127,​131,​142n2;​ interculturalism​and,​126–27,​137–39,​ 141,​143n11;​minority​theorizing,​129;​ pebi ’s​history,​124,​133–37,​141,​143n11,​ 143n15;​theorizing​and​definition​of,​ 220;​translating​theory,​124–26 Colla​people​(Argentina,​Bolivia,​and​ Chile),​55–56 Colombia:​academics​in,​143n10;​constitution​of​1991​of,​83,​124–26,​128,​131– 32;​Free​Trade​Area​of​the​Americas​ accepted​by,​127;​national​integration​ in,​81;​Native​autonomy​in,​142n5 colonialism:​as​central​to​indigenous​ peoples’​history,​7;​colonies​defined​ under​international​law,​43;​colonization​vs.​occupation​and,​34;​definition​of,​197;​internal​colonialism,​12,​ 16,​18n4,​33,​43,​49,​197,​201,​218n19;​ language,​law,​and​archives​as​instruments​of,​3;​racial​hierarchy​established​via,​198,​217n2.​See also​decolonization Comalapa​(Chimaltenango,​Guatemala),​ 202–3,​217n7 Comité​Catholique​Contre​la​Faim​et​ Pour​le​Dévellopement​(France),​171n1 Commerce​Clause​(U.S.​Constitution),​39 Commission​on​Historic​Truth​and​New​ Relationship​with​Indigenous​Peoples​ (Rapa​Nui),​68–69

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communal​organization,​111–14,​117–18 community​control,​137–38 conaDi ​(National​Corporation​for​Indigenous​Development;​Chile),​63,​66,​ 70,​73,​77n16 conceptual​prison,​180,​193n2 concientización​(consciousness​raising​or​ empowerment),​144 Congreso​Internacional​de​Mayistas​ (1989),​172n7,​172n9 Conosur Ñawpagman.​See​PCÑ conquest,​sovereignty​via,​77n11 Consejo​de​Ancianos​del​Fondo​de​Desarrollo​Indígena​de​Guatemala​(Council​ of​Elders​of​the​Indigenous​Development​Fund​of​Guatemala),​209 Consejo​de​Organizaciones​Mayas​en​ Guatemala,​205 Consejo​Regional​Indígena​del​Cauca.​ See​cric Coordinación​de​Organizaciones​del​ Pueblo​Maya​de​Guatemala,​205 cosmovision,​137–39,​199 Coushattas​(Louisiana),​189 Creoles​(criollos;​Guatemala),​203–4,​ 211–13,​217n8 cric ​(Consejo​Regional​Indígena​del​ Cauca),​10,​81–82,​124–26,​130,​133– 34,​137,​142n1,​142n8,​142n9,​143n14,​ 143n15.​See also​pebi Cruikshank,​Julie,​14 csutcb ​(United​Confederation​of​Bolivian​Workers​and​Peasants),​89,​114 culture:​colonizer​vs.​colonized,​1–2;​ continuity​of,​218n21;​minority​forms​ of,​129;​political​autonomy​and,​128– 30,​140–41;​revival​of,​127 Çxayu’çe,​136,​143n13 debt-​laborers,​162–63 Decades​of​Indigenous​Peoples​(un ;​ 1990–2000,​2000–2010),​22 250 inDex

Declaration​on​the​Granting​of​Independence​to​Colonial​Countries​and​ Peoples—Resolution​1514​(un ,​1960),​ 33–34,​43–44,​51n5 Declaration​on​the​Rights​of​Indigenous​ Peoples​(un ;​2007),​22,​28,​43–48,​ 53n19 Declaration​regarding​Non-​Self-​ Governing​Peoples​(un ,​1945),​43 decolonization,​25;​to​combat​racism,​ 192–93;​definition​and​scope​of,​28;​ deoccupation​vs.,​23,​28–29;​racial​and​ evolutionary​bases​of​colonial​power​ and,​2;​violence​engendered​by,​17 decolonizing​methodologies,​6,​176,​ 219–20 Decolonizing Methodologies​(Smith),​ 192–93,​193n1 Defensoría​de​la​Mujer​Indígena​(Indigenous​Women’s​Defense​Office;​Guatemala),​205–6 Deloria,​Vine,​Jr.,​193n2 Delsing,​Riet,​7,​23 democracy,​123,​126–27 Denetdale,​Jennifer,​17 deoccupation:​arguments​for,​35,​46;​decolonization​vs.,​23,​28–29;​definition​ and​scope​of,​28;​internal​colonialism​ denied​by,​49;​international​laws​of​ occupation​and,​34 Departmental​Peasant​Federation​ (Cochabamba,​Bolivia),​89 Department​of​Hawaiian​Home​Lands,​ 36–37 Development​Commission​(coDeipa ;​ Rapa​Nui),​64–66,​68 diálogo de saberes​(exchange​of​epistemologies),​8,​130 Dindicué,​Benjamín,​133–34 Dole,​Sanford​Ballard,​32 double​consciousness​(second-​sight),​ 122–23,​141–42n1

Duarte,​Carlota,​173n8 Du​Bois,​W.​E.​B.,​122,​129,​141n1 Duquesne,​Isabelle,​173–74n13 Easter​Island.​See​Rapa​Nui East​Timor,​34 Edmunds,​Petero,​72 education:​bilingual,​106–8,​127,​172n2;​ intercultural,​127;​for​Maya,​201–2,​ 206,​212,​216;​social​change​and,​127.​ See also​pebi Education​Reform​(Bolivia),​115,​121n25 eib ​(Educación​Intercultural​Bilingüe​ project;​Intercultural​Bilingual​Education;​Bolivia),​107–8 Ejército​Zapatista​de​Liberación​ Nacional​(eZln ;​Chiapas),​84,​167,​ 174n17 El Mizqueño,​88,​93 El Totoreño,​88,​93 enganche​(contract​labor),​149 Ernantes,​Chep​(José​González​Hernández),​148,​153,​173–74n13 Esquit,​Edgar,​11–12,​176–77 ethnicity​and​progress,​211 ethnic​movements,​122,​129–30 ethnic​organizations,​124,​127–28,​137 ethnic​studies,​U.S.,​180 ethnography:​autoethnography​vs.,​141;​ of​particular,​193n2;​perspective​and​ methodology​in,​24–25,​125–26;​as​ translation,​125–26.​See also​anthropology Eurocentrism,​102 European​Community,​171n1 exclusion,​forms​of,​85 Explora​hotels,​65 eZln ​(Ejército​Zapatista​de​Liberación​ Nacional;​Chiapas),​84,​167,​174n17 Fanon,​Frantz,​163 feminist​movement/research,​123–24

Fermín,​Tata,​118–19 Field,​L.,​142n5 Fischer,​E.,​218n21 Five​Civilized​Tribes​(Oklahoma),​181–82 Foley,​Neil,​194n9 FoMMa ​(Fortaleza​de​la​Mujer​Maya),​ 173n8 Fondo​Indígena​(Indigenous​Fund;​ Guatemala),​205–6 Fondo​Nacional​de​Artesanías​ (Fonart ;​Mexico),​159 Forbes,​Jack,​189 forests,​communal​ownership​of,​114 Fortaleza​de​la​Mujer​Maya​(FoMMa ),​ 173n8 free​trade.​See​trade​agreements Free​Trade​Area​of​the​Americas,​127 Freire,​Paulo,​144 Frichner,​Tonya​Gonnella,​53n19 Friends​of​Easter​Island​(Chile),​78n19 frontier​as​painful​or​uncomfortable,​17 Garcés​V.,​Fernando,​10–11,​81–83 gender​and​power​relations,​12,​19n7.​See also​women,​indigenous Gilroy,​Paul,​129 globalization,​82–83,​116,​176–77,​214,​ 218n19,​220 Gómez​Vargas,​J.​H.,​78n22 Grandin,​Greg,​211,​217n2 Great​Depression,​80 green​revolution,​112,​117 Grube,​Nikolai,​198–99 Guambiano​History​Committee​ (Colombia),​128 Guambiano​peoples​(Colombia),​81 Guatemala:​colonialism​in,​and​Maya​ movement,​197–98;​four​peoples​of​ (Maya,​Garífuna,​Xinka,​and​ladino),​ 205,​213,​218n11;​ladino​control​of,​197;​ mining​in,​206;​power​relations​of,​ 217n9.​See also​Maya

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Guatemalan​civil​war​(1962–96),​176 Guzmán,​Salvador,​153,​159,​164,​168–69 Guzmán,​Soledad,​120n13 Guzmán​Böckler,​Carlos,​200 Hague​Convention​IV​(1907),​34 Hale,​Charles​R.,​16–17 Hanga​Roa​(Rapa​Nui),​59–60,​62,​67–68 Harrison,​Benjamin,​31 Hawaiʻi,​24,​43–45,​47–50;​autonomy​ movement​in,​7;​capitalism​and​Christianity’s​effects​on,​31;​independence​ movement​in,​27–28,​34–38;​kingdom​ restoration​movement​in,​34–35,​51n7;​ land​claims​in,​32–33,​37–38,​41–42,​ 46,​53n14;​Mahele​land​division​(1848),​ 30–31,​46;​occupied​state​of,​34–35;​ recognition​of,​as​independent​kingdom,​7,​23,​28–30,​39,​51n2;​Republic​ of,​32,​52n13;​secession​vs.​independence​of,​46;​self-​government​and​ self-​determination​by,​27,​33–37,​40,​ 46,​51n3;​sovereignty​claim​of,​under​ international​law,​28–29,​34,​38–39;​ statehood​of,​29,​33–36,​51n3,​52n13;​ territorial​integrity​of,​46;​U.S.​colonization​and​annexation​of,​6,​23,​28–35,​ 46,​52n13;​use-​rights​concessions​by,​6;​ U.S.​militarism​in,​40–41;​U.S.​treaties​ with,​29–30;​white​foreign​population​in,​30–31.​See also​Kanaka​Maoli;​ Native​Hawaiian​Government​Reorganization​Act;​State of Hawaii v. Office of Hawaiian Affairs Hawaiian​Independence​Action​Alliance,​28 Hawaiʻi​Institute​for​Human​Rights,​28 Henderson,​Timothy,​Mexico Reader,​168 Herbert,​Jean-​Loup,​200 Hernández,​Domingo,​215 Hernández,​José​González​(Chep​ Ernantes),​148,​153,​173–74n13 252 inDex

Hill,​Robert​M.,​200 Hill,​Roberta,​6 Historia de un pueblo evangelista​ (R.​Pérez),​174n13 historical​writing.​See​collaboration​and​ historical​writing honi ​(Hui​o​Na​Ike),​28 Honolulu​Rifles,​31 Hotel​Hanga​Roa​(Rapa​Nui),​72 Hotus,​Alberto,​77n14,​78n24 Hotus,​Carolina,​71 Hui​Aloha​ʻAina​and​Hui​Kalai​ʻAina​ nationalist​groups,​32 Hui​Pu​(Hawaiʻi),​28 I, Rigoberta​(Menchú),​145 Ibañez,​Pedro,​65 Identity​and​Rights​of​the​Indigenous​ Peoples​Accord​(Guatemala,​1995),​205 ilo ​Convention​169​(International​ Labor​Organization;​1989),​22,​206 inareMac ​(Instituto​de​Asesoría​ Antropológica​para​la​Región​Maya,​ A.C.),​159,​167–68,​171n1,​173–74n13,​ 174n17 Indian​Gaming​Regulatory​Act​(U.S.,​ 1988),​53n14 Indian​Reorganization​Act​(U.S.,​1934),​ 52n10 Indians’​antiblack​racism​(southern​ United​States),​188;​Anglo-​American​ racist​and​colonialist​origins​of,​186– 87;​decolonization​to​combat,​192–93;​ Indian​identity/denials​of​black​ancestry​and,​183–87,​189–91,​194n12;​ overview​and​background​of,​179–82;​ racial​formation​and,​181,​192–93,​ 194n9,​195n22;​regulating​racial​categories​and,​186–93;​research​in​Louisiana​Indian​communities,​182–86,​ 194n6;​research​methodologies​for​ studying,​179–80,​184–85,​191–93,​

193n1,​193n2;​tradition​of,​181–82,​184;​ Virginia​antimiscegenation​laws​and,​ 181,​193n3;​white​supremacy​and,​179,​ 186–87,​191–93,​194n8 Indian​Schedules​(population),​188 Indian​studies,​180 Indian​Trade​and​Intercourse​Act​(U.S.),​ 53n14 Indigenous​Authorities​of​Colombia​ (aico ),​142n8 Indigenous​Caucus​(un ​and​oas ),​47 indigenous​identity:​definitions​of,​12;​ double​consciousness​about,​142n1;​ Indian,​and​denials​of​black​ancestry,​ 183–87,​189–91,​194n12;​Rapanui,​23,​ 54–55,​67–68,​74–75 indigenous​organizations,​83,​90,​119n3,​ 122–24,​127–31,​133,​162,​177.​See also under names of individual organizations “Indigenous​Politics:​From​Native​New​ England​and​Beyond,”​53n19 indigenous​rights:​Convention​169​ (International​Labor​Organization)​ on,​206;​Declaration​on​the​Rights​ of​Indigenous​Peoples,​22,​28,​43–48;​ under​international​law,​vs.​states’​ rights,​29;​Native​American​rights​and​ privileges​extended​to​Kanaka​Maoli,​ 27,​50–51n1;​of​peoples​vs.​people,​44,​ 48;​preexisting​human​rights,​43;​self-​ determination,​33–34,​43–48,​51n5;​ sovereignty​and,​46–47;​territorial​ ​integrity​and,​46–47 indigenous​sovereignty,​4 indigenous​universities,​124,​142n2 indio permitido​(permissible​Indian),​ 16–17 inea ​(Instituto​Nacional​de​Educación​ Adulta),​152–53,​173n9 ini ​(Instituto​Nacional​Indigenista;​ Mexico),​152,​172n2,​172–73n7

inscription,​4 inside​vs.​outside,​4,​129–30 Instituto​de​Asesoría​Antropológica​para​ la​Región​Maya,​A.C.​See​inareMac Instituto​de​Estudios​Indígenas​of​the​ Universidad​Autónoma​de​Chiapas,​ 172n2 Instituto​Nacional​Indigenista​(ini ;​ Mexico),​152,​172n2,​172–73n7 integrationism,​2,​61–66 intellectual​property​rights,​116–17 interculturalism,​126–27,​137–39,​141,​ 143n11,​205 International​Coffee​Agreement,​164–65 International​Forum​of​Indigenous​ Peoples​(Fipau ),​69 International​Indian​Treaty​Council,​ 53n19 intertextuality,​10–11,​83,​91–92 Jacobs​Research​Fund​(Bellingham,​ Wash.),​171n1 Jaima,​93 Jena​Choctaws​(Louisiana),​182,​189–90 Johnson,​M.,​98 Jones,​Delmos,​122 Joseph,​Gilbert,​Mexico Reader,​168 Juan, the Chamula​(Pozas),​172n5 kainga​(ancestral​lands),​58,​60,​65,​73,​ 75n4 Kalakaua,​king​of​Hawaiʻi,​31 Ka​Lei​Maile​Aliʻi​Hawaiian​Civic​Club,​ 28 Kamehameha​III,​king​of​Hawaiʻi,​30 Kanaka​Maoli​(indigenous​​Hawaiians):​ Akaka​bill’s​impact​on,​42–43;​assimilationist​policies​imposed​on,​​ 35;​decolonization​eligibility​of,​34,​ 42–43;​federal​recognition​for,​7,​28,​​ 48;​Hawaiians​defined,​51n1;​historical​struggle​of,​22–23;​Hui​Aloha​

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Kanaka​Maoli​(continued) ʻAina​and​Hui​Kalai​ʻAina​nationalist​ groups​among,​32;​international​law​ strategies​of,​28;​kupuna​(elders)​and​ kumu​(educators),​49;​as​a​minority​in​ Hawaiʻi,​49;​Native​American​rights​ and​privileges​extended​to,​27,​50– 51n1;​Native​Hawaiian​Government​ Reorganization​Act,​27–29,​35–43,​48,​ 52–53n14;​oppression​and​subordination​of,​by​white​supremacists,​35,​49;​ “Urgent​Open​Letter​to​U.S.​President​ Barack​Obama,”​49–50;​U.S.​apology​ to,​36,​51–52n8,​52n13;​voting​by,​31,​33,​ 36,​51n3.​See also​Hawaiʻi Ka​Pakaukau,​28,​34 Kaqchikels,​177,​199–200,​202–3,​206,​ 218n14 Katarismo,​86 Kauanui,​J.​Kehaulani,​5,​7,​22–23,​80 K’iche​language​and​people,​177,​200,​ 202–4,​209–12,​217n10,​218n16 Kimsa Pacha Ara Mboapi,​93 Kipaltik​collective​(Chiapas,​Mexico),​ 159–66 Klopotek,​Brian,​5–6,​11–12,​176–77 knowledge:​coproduction​of,​146;​geopolitics​of,​102–3,​108;​indigenous,​and​ capitalism,​116–18;​jawamanta yachay​ (knowledge​from​abroad),​118;​local​ vs.​universal,​102–3;​modern,​as​essentialist/binary,​102;​neocolonial​domination​and,​116;​peasant,​technology’s​ appropriation​of,​112,​116–17;​Quechua​ peasant​vs.​Western​urban,​103–5;​ racial/evolutionary​bases​of​colonial​ power​as​underlying​construction​of,​ 2;​scientific,​primacy​of,​116–17.​See also​peasant​knowledge Koani​Foundation,​28 Komes,​Maruch​(María​Gómez),​12,​ 158–62,​164–66 254 inDex

Komike​Tribunal,​28,​34 Kopenawa,​Davi,​128 Ko Tu’u Aro Kote Mata Nui​(Rapa​Nui),​ 58 Ko Tu’u Hotu Iti Mata Iti​(Rapa​Nui),​58 Koyaso​Panchin,​Marian,​156–57 Kurus,​Xalid.​See​Rus,​Jan Kurus,​Tina.​See​Rus,​Diane​L. Kusman,​Xalik​(Salvador​Guzmán;​ Mariano​Peres​Tsu),​153,​159,​164,​ 168–69 labor,​intellectual,​132 La​Castalia,​172n2 ladinos​(Hispanicized​people;​non-​ Indians),​12,​19n5,​197,​202–4,​211–13,​ 217n1 Lagos,​Ricardo,​68 Lakoff,​G.,​98 Lâm,​Maivân​Clech,​46 Lame,​Manuel​Quintín,​139;​Los pensamientos del indio que se educó dentro de las selvas colombianas,​143n14 language:​diglottic,​91,​115,​120n10;​neologisms​in,​92,​115–16,​125;​power​and​ empowerment​and,​3,​11,​13;​subalternized​indigenous,​86–87,​108.​See also​Quechua​language​and​knowledge;​Taller​Tzotzil La Prensa,​93 Latin​America:​class-​based​social​and​ political​movements​in,​16,​80;​indigenous​intellectuals​in,​15,​19n12;​indigenous​movements​in,​15–16;​indigenous​peoples​of,​vs.​United​States,​80;​ national-​popular​states’​emergence​in,​ 80–81.​See also under names of specific indigenous movements Laughlin,​Miriam,​173n8 Laughlin,​Robert​M.,​172n2 Lenkersdorf,​Carlos,​172n2 Lenkersdorf,​Gudrun,​172n2

Levil,​Rodrigo,​19n12 Ley​Indígena​(Indigenous​Law;​Chile,​ 1990),​63–66,​68,​74 Ley​Pascua​(Easter​Law;​Chile,​1966),​ 61–63,​67–68,​74 Ley​Pinochet​(Pinochet​Law;​Chile,​ 1979),​62–64,​74 Libro de registros de propiedades llevado por la Armada de Chile, Isla de Pascua​ (Chilean​navy),​59–60 Lili’uokalani,​queen​of​Hawaiʻi,​31–32,​ 52n13 literacidad,​119n1 Living​Nation,​28 llawar​(blood),​98,​101 Lomnitz-​Adler,​Claudio,​213 López​Pérez,​Antonio,​148 Los Acuerdos de San Andrés,​174n20 Los​Chorros​(Chenalhó,​Chiapas,​ Mexico),​154,​157,​173n11 Los pensamientos del indio que se educó dentro de las selvas colombianas​ (Lame),​143n14 Louisiana,​24.​See also​Indians’​antiblack​ racism Louisiana​Inter-​Tribal​Council​(Clifton),​ 189–90 Loving v. Virginia,​181 Lumbees​(North​Carolina),​181 Luykx,​A.,​115 majï​(labor),​132 maki​(hand),​98,​100 Mam​language,​217n10 Mana ​(Movement​for​Aloha​No​Ka​ ʻAina),​28 Mapuche​(Chile),​9–10,​55 Marimán,​Pablo,​19n12 Maya:​ancestors​remembered​by,​204,​ 209–10;​domination​of,​217n2;​education​for,​201–2,​206,​212,​216;​exclusion​of,​208,​217n9;​government​sup-

port​of,​205–6;​in​Guatemalan​civil​ war,​176;​historiography​and​archeology​of,​203–4,​217n9;​ladinos​and,​ 12,​202,​204,​211–13;​as​merchants,​ 217n6;​perceived​as​backward,​204,​ 208;​political​transitions​challenged​ by,​84;​repression​of,​202;​struggle​for​ self-​determination​by,​176,​215;​subsistence​economy​of,​202;​unified​vs.​self-​ created​official​history​of,​11;​women,​ 211;​women’s​weaving​and​embroidering​cooperative,​12;​Yucatekan​and​ Guatemalan,​198–99 Maya​movement,​196–217;​alternative​ histories​and​present,​213–17,​218n20;​ colonialism​in​Guatemala​and,​197– 98;​definition​of​Maya​and​Mayanists,​ 197;​educated/professional​vs.​uneducated​Maya,​202–3,​217n6;​elite-​and​ state-​constructed​multiculturalism​ and,​201,​205–8,​210,​213–16;​elites’​ identification​with​liberal​state​ideology,​203;​elites’​redefining​of​identities​ and​power​relations,​196–97,​208–13,​ 218n21;​elites’​version​of​history,​ 202–5;​guerrilla​groups,​203;​imagining​new​histories,​198–201;​Maya​continuity​vs.​conquest​and​assimilation,​ 199–200;​Maya​demand​for​rights,​ 211–13;​Maya​protests​and​repression​ and,​206,​212,​215,​218n14;​Maya​spirituality,​205,​209,​216;​memories’​role​ in,​214;​overview​and​background​ of,​177,​196–98;​patriarchy​and,​196,​ 211,​215–16;​political​parties​and,​203;​ professionals’​role​in,​203,​210,​217n7;​ Protestant​and​Catholic​visions​and,​ 196,​203,​216;​workshops​on​ancient​ writing​and,​198–99 McKinley,​William,​32 Memorias, Balances, Inventarios y Registro de Propiedades​(Chilean​navy),​59

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Menchú,​Rigoberta:​I, Rigoberta,​145 Merrell,​James,​181 mestizos​(Hispanicized​people),​19n5,​ 126,​162,​167 Mexican​Revolution​(1910),​80–81,​148,​ 162,​164 Mexico:​agrarian​reform​in,​80,​164–65;​ economic​crisis​in,​10,​144,​147,​155,​ 157–58,​171n4;​Salinas’s​reforms​in,​ 164–65 Mexico Reader​(Joseph​and​Henderson),​168 Mignolo,​Walter,​102,​217n2,​218n19 Mihesuah,​Devon,​2,​15 Miles,​Tiya,​195n19;​Ties that Bind: The Story of an Afro-Cherokee Family in Slavery and Freedom,​192 Millalén,​José,​19n12 Millamán,​Rosamel,​16–17 Miñana,​Carlos,​142n7 minga​(project​of​collective​work​for​collective​benefit),​8,​82–83,​131–32 Ministry​of​Education​(Guatemala),​206 Mizque​(Cochabamba,​Bolivia),​88–89,​ 106 Mizque​Provincial​Trade​Union​(Cochabamba,​Bolivia),​89 Mobile​Unit​for​Rural​Patrolling​ (Bolivia),​92 Montejo,​Víctor,​2,​19n6,​200,​202 Morales,​Evo,​81–84,​120n8 Morrison,​Toni,​194n9;​Beloved,​192 Mosoco,​Colombia,​125,​131–32 Movement​toward​Socialism​(Mas ;​ Bolivia),​89,​120n8 Movimiento​Al​Socialismo,​81–83 Moyapampa​Union​(Cochabamba,​ Bolivia),​89 Moyopampa​Agricultural​Union​(Totora,​ Carrasco,​Bolivia),​88 mulattoes,​181,​184–85,​188–89,​194n12 multiculturalism:​in​Guatemala,​201,​ 256 inDex

205–8,​210,​213–16;​interculturalism​ vs.,​126–27;​neoliberalism​and,​176,​ 207 Muyolema​(also​Muyulema),​Armando,​ 15,​119n3

naFta ​(North​American​Free​Trade​ Agreement),​116–17,​164–65 najtir​(ancient),​217n10 Nā​Pua​No’eau​(Center​for​Gifted​and​ Talented​Native​Hawaiian​Children),​ 37 Narrating​Native​Histories​conference​ (University​of​Wisconsin,​Madison,​ 2005),​1–5,​219 Narrating​Native​Histories​series,​2–4 Nasa​peoples​(Colombia),​8,​81,​126 Nasa​Yuwe​language:​alphabet​and​ orthography​for,​143n13;​board​game​ and,​136;​translating​the​Colombian​ Constitution​into,​125–26,​128,​131–32 National​Corporation​for​Indigenous​ Development,​63,​66,​70,​73,​77n16 National​Historic​Preservation​Act​(U.S.,​ 1966),​50n1 National​Institute​for​Adult​Education​ (Instituto​Nacional​de​Educación​ Adulta;​inea ),​152,​173n9 National​Museum​of​the​American​ Indian​Act​(U.S.,​1989,​amended​ 1996),​50n1 Native​American​Graves​Protection​and​ Repatriation​Act​(U.S.,​1990),​50n1 Native​American​Languages​Act​(U.S.,​ 1990),​50n1 Native​American​Programs​Act​(U.S.,​ 1974),​50–51n1 Native​Americans:​Akaka​bill’s​impact​ on,​52–53n14;​antiblack​sensibilities​ among,​11–12;​federal​classification​ and​recognition​of,​187–91,​194n12,​ 194n14;​land​held​in​trust​for,​53n14;​

tribal​identities​of,​181;​whites​and,​ 180–81.​See also​Choctaws;​Indians’​ antiblack​racism Native​and​indigenous​movements,​2,​4,​ 123,​128 Native​Hawaiian​Bar​Association​ (nhba ),​42,​53n15 Native​Hawaiian​Education​Act​(U.S.,​ 2004),​51n1 Native​Hawaiian​Government​Reorganization​Act​(Akaka​bill;​U.S.,​2009),​ 27–29,​35–43,​48–50,​52n10,​52–53n14 Native​Hawaiian​Health​Care​Act​(U.S.,​ 1988),​51n1 Native​Hawaiian​Interagency​(U.S.),​42 Native​intellectuals​in​the​academy,​6,​ 13,​15 Native​peoples’​intellectual​agency,​2–3 nature,​101,​121n21 Navajo​Nation,​45 neoliberalism,​176,​207 Newlands​Resolution​(U.S.,​1898),​32,​ 52n13 New​Zealand,​on​indigenous​rights,​45 nFip —Hawaiʻi,​28 nhba ​(Native​Hawaiian​Bar​Association),​42,​53n15 Nimatuj,​Irma​Alicia,​211 North​American​Free​Trade​Agreement​ (naFta ),​116–17,​164–65 North​and​South,​219;​differences​in​indigenous​intellectuals’​place,​4,​15,​17,​ 19n12;​historical​differences​between,​ 4,​15;​North-​centrism,​102 “not-​yet”​principle​of​historical​evolution,​2 Obama,​Barack,​37,​49 objectivity​in​writing,​95,​121n19 occupation,​34,​76n11 Office​of​Hawaiian​Affairs,​36–37,​ 51–52n8,​52n13

ʻOhana​Koa,​28 ojtxe​(remote​past),​217n10 Omi,​M.,​195n22 one-​drop​rule,​11–12,​189 oral​history/tradition,​13–14.​See also​ Quechua​yachay orality​vs.​textuality,​3,​10,​94–95,​139 Organic​Act​(U.S.,​1900),​32–33 Organization​of​American​States​(oas ),​ 47 pacha​(space​and​time​in​which​we​are​ located),​87,​119n5 Panama​Canal,​56 pan-​Mayanist​movement.​See​Maya​ movement Papa​Ola​Lokahi​(Native​Hawaiian​ Healthcare),​37 Pari,​A.,​121n21 Partido​Revolucionario​Institucional​ (pri ;​Mexico),​154,​165–66 Partido​Socialista​de​los​Trabajadores​ (pst ;​Mexico),​154–55 Past,​Ámbar,​173n8 Pate,​Timoteo,​76n6 patriarchy,​196,​211,​215–16 Paz,​Sarela,​86 PCÑ ​(Conosur Ñawpagman):​articles​ for,​120n9;​background​on,​88–90,​ 120nn7–9;​bimonthly​publication​ of,​90;​on​communal​organization,​ 112–13,​117;​distribution​and​sale​​ of,​10,​89–90;​on​education,​106–8;​ Garcés’s​collaboration​with,​81,​118;​​ meaning​of​Ñawpagman,​119n1;​metaphors​and​similes​in,​99–102;​oral​ presence​in,​94–97;​on​patents​and​​ technology​that​appropriate​peasant​ knowledge,​112;​on​peasant​mobilizations​(1992),​121n20;​on​plagues,​111;​ politics​of​written​orality​and,​90–93,​​ 95;​Quechua​in,​10–11,​85,​91–94;​on​

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PCÑ ​(continued) Quechua​peasant​vs.​Western​urban​ knowledge,​103–5;​quotations​in,​ 96–97;​researching​writing​via,​115–16;​ Spanish​in,​91–94;​stories​in,​concluding,​94,​97;​subjects​addressed​in,​90,​ 103;​on​weather​prediction,​110–12.​See also​Quechua​yachay Peace​Camps​(Mexico),​174n14 peasant,​meanings​of,​85–86 peasant​knowledge:​anthropomorphization​of,​101–2;​modern​technology​vs.,​ 88,​110–12,​117,​121n23;​nature​as​teaching,​121n21 peasant​organizations​in​Cochabamba,​ 10,​119n4,​120n8 pebi ​(Bilingual​and​Intercultural​Education​Program;​Colombia):​history​of,​ 124,​133–37,​141,​143n11,​143n15;​influence​and​success​of,​134;​objectives​of,​ 134;​overview​of,​82;​political​program​ of,​134–35,​137 Peres​Tsu,​Mariano,​153,​159,​164,​168–69 Pérez,​Manuel,​Salvador,​and​Pedro,​168 Pérez,​Ricardo,​Historia de un pueblo evangelista,​174n13 Peru​in​War​of​the​Pacific,​55–56 petroglyphs,​128 Pewewardy,​Cornel,​191 Pinochet,​Augusto,​62 place,​defense​of,​102 plagues,​111 pluralism,​126–27,​134 política de estado,​70,​78n20 popular​movements,​129 Pop​Wuj​(Popol​Vuh),​200 Portales​Center​(Simón​Patiño​Foundation;​Bolivia),​88 Portelli,​Alessandro,​14 Pozas,​Ricardo,​Juan, the Chamula,​172n5 prescription,​sovereignty​via,​76–77n11 Presencia,​93 258 inDex

pri ​(Partido​Revolucionario​Institucional;​Mexico),​154,​165–66 Programa​Nacional​de​​Solidaridad​ (National​Solidarity​Program;​ ​pronasol ;​Mexico),​165–66 progress,​1–2,​211 Pro-​Kanaka​Maoli​Independence​Working​Group,​28,​34 pronasol ​(Programa​Nacional​de​Solidaridad;​Mexico),​165–66 Protestants​vs.​traditionalists,​151–52,​ 155–57 Proyecto​Fotográfico​Maya,​173n8 pst ​(Partido​Socialista​de​los​Trabajadores;​Mexico),​154–55 Quechua​language​and​knowledge,​85,​ 87–90,​95–100,​118–19,​120n13;​alphabet,​120n16;​Bolivian​linguistic​policy​ toward,​115;​colonial​subalternization​ of,​86;​discrimination​against,​108–9;​ liberation​via,​109;​in​Movimiento​Al​ Socialismo,​82–83;​neologisms​in,​115– 16;​in​newspapers,​93,​120n14;​normalization​of,​94,​114–15,​120n16;​orality​ as​basis​of,​120n17;​pan-​Andean​unification​of,​115;​on​radio,​93;​revitalization​of,​11,​115;​Spanish​and,​10–11,​ 91–93,​109,​115;​written,​promotion​of,​ 114–15,​121n25;​yachayniyku​(politics​of​ Quechua​knowledge),​101–14,​117.​See​ also​PCÑ ;​Quechua​yachay Quechua​people​(Peru,​Ecuador,​Bolivia,​ Chile,​and​Argentina),​55–56,​81,​86 Quechua​yachay:​community​and​cultural​roots​of,​103,​110–14,​117–18,​ 121n24;​on​development/modernization,​111–12;​forms​of​local​knowledge​ in,​vs.​Western​categories,​83;​knowledge​and​territoriality​and,​116–18;​ language​and,​103,​108–10;​orality​ and​meanings​of,​86–87;​in​school​

and​community,​103,​105–8;​subjects​ ​related​with,​103;​value​of,​103–5 Quetzaltenango​(Guatemala),​211 Racancoj,​Víctor,​200 racial​formation,​181,​192–93,​194n9,​ 195n22 racism:​antimiscegenation​laws,​181,​ 193n3;​decolonization​to​combat,​ 192–93;​one-​drop​rule,​11–12,​189;​segregation​and​oppression​of​blacks,​ 187;​“speaking​secrets”​about,​176–77;​ struggle​against,​118;​U.S.​racial​atmosphere​and,​141–42n1;​white​privilege​ and,​2,​11–12;​white​supremacy​and,​35,​ 49,​179,​186–87,​191–93,​194n8.​See also​ Indians’​antiblack​racism Radio​Educación​(Mexico),​159 Raibmon,​Paige,​193n2 Ramos​Pacho,​Abelardo,​8,​10–11,​17,​ 82–83,​130,​141,​142n3,​143n10.​See also​ collaboration​and​historical​writing Rapa​Nui​(Easter​Island),​24;​“Agreement​ of​Wills,”​56–57,​68,​73,​75n2,​76n11;​ airport​in,​67;​autonomy​of,​prospects​ for,​71–72,​74,​78n22;​casino​debate​in,​ 65–66;​Chilean​annexation​of,​6,​54,​ 56–57,​60,​66;​Chilean​consolidation​ of​hold​on,​59–60;​Chilean​evolution/ imperialism​and,​23;​Chilean​inscription​of​(1933),​60–61,​76–77nn10–12;​ Chilean​naval​presence​in,​58–60,​ 66–67,​76n7,​76n9;​clan​system​and​ leaders​of,​56–59,​70–71,​74,​75n3,​ 76n9;​collective​landownership​proposal​in,​72,​78n23;​colonialism​to​ self-​determination​for,​path​of,​66–73;​ Commission​on​Historic​Truth​and​ New​Relationship​with​Indigenous​ Peoples​in,​68–69;​Compañía​in,​ 58–61,​67;​Council​of​Elders​in,​62,​64,​ 66,​69,​72,​77n14,​77n16,​78n24;​Devel-

opment​Commission​(coDeipa )​for,​ 64–66,​68;​diseases​introduced​onto,​ 58–59;​early​Chilean​colonization,​ 57–61,​66;​foreign​investments​in,​65;​ history​of,​55–57;​identity/memory​ in,​revitalization​and​recovery​of,​23;​ immigration​to,​78n23;​independence​ for,​7–8;​integrationism​in,​57,​62–64,​ 73–74;​kinship​in,​7;​land​vs.​territory​ in,​56–57,​59;​Ley​Indígena​(1990)​in,​ 63–66,​68,​74;​Ley​Pascua​(1966)​in,​ 61–63,​67–68,​74;​Ley​Pinochet​(1979)​ in,​62–64,​74;​millennium​celebration​ on,​54;​nonislanders,​influx​of,​67;​partitioning​of,​58;​private​property/land​ titles​vs.​communal/ancestral​lands​in,​ 57–65,​67–71,​73–74,​75n4,​75–76n6,​ 76n8,​77n14;​Rapanui​cultural​identity,​54–55,​67–68,​74–75;​Rapanui​ leaders​and​Chilean​party​politics,​64,​ 77nn16–17;​Rapanui​Parliament,​69,​ 73;​Rapanui​resistance​to​Chilean​rule,​ 54–55,​69,​74,​76n8;​Rapanui’s​Chilean​ citizenship,​61,​67;​real​estate​market​in,​65;​sheep​farming​on,​58,​60,​ 66,​76n9;​slave​raids​on,​58–59;​Special​Territory​status​of,​70–73,​78n24;​ stone​statues​(moai)​on,​54;​use-​rights​ concessions​by,​6 Rapanui​National​Park,​77n12 Rapanui​University,​66 Rappaport,​Joanne,​8–11,​82–83,​130,​141.​ See also​collaboration​and​historical​ writing Rapu,​Mike,​65 Rapu​Haoa,​Alfonso,​78n19 Raqaypampa​(Cochabamba,​Bolivia),​88,​ 106,​110,​112,​118,​120n7 Reciprocity​Treaty​(1875),​30 research​subjects,​identification​of,​163,​ 173n12 Retière,​Alain,​159

inDex 259

Reuque,​Isolde,​12,​19n7 revolutionary​violence,​163 Rice v. Cayetano​(U.S.​Supreme​Court),​ 36 rights-​based​discourse,​16–17 Riroroko,​Simeon,​76n6 Rivera​Cusicanqui,​Silvia,​16–17 Rodríguez,​Carlos,​171n1 Rodríguez,​Demetrio,​197,​200 Romero,​R.,​121n24 Ross,​Elizabeth,​173–74n13 Rountree,​Helen,​181 Ruiz,​Samuel,​171n1,​174n17 Rus,​Diane​L.:​legitimacy​in​the​Tzotzil​ community,​8–9;​Taller​Tzotzil,​overview​of,​8–10,​82–83;​Tzotzil​names​of,​ 8–9,​153,​173n10;​work​of,​on​Ta jlok’ta chobtik​(Bordando Milpas),​12,​158–61,​ 164.​See also​Taller​Tzotzil Rus,​Jan:​legitimacy​in​the​Tzotzil​community,​8–9;​Taller​Tzotzil,​overview​ of,​8–10,​82–83;​Tzotzil​names​of,​8–9,​ 153,​173n10.​See also​Taller​Tzotzil Salinas​de​Gortari,​Carlos,​164–66 Salomon,​Frank,​9 San​Andrés​Peace​Accords​(1996),​ 174n17,​174n20 San​Cristóbal​de​las​Casas​(Chiapas,​ Mexico),​10,​155–56 San​José​de​Mizque​Cooperative​(Cochabamba,​Bolivia),​88 saqra​(cognitively​intelligent​children),​ 121n24 Saunt,​Claudio,​187 Schele,​Linda,​198–99 seeds,​95,​111–12 Settlers​for​Hawaiian​Independence,​28 shamans,​128,​132;​cosmovision​and,​ 137–39,​199 Sieder,​Rachel,​207 Silva,​Noenoe,​12–13,​15,​32,​219 260 inDex

sil /Wbt ​(Summer​Institute​of​Linguistics/Wycliffe​Bible​Translators),​152,​ 172n2,​172–73n7,​173n9 Simón​Patiño​Foundation​(Bolivia),​88 sistematización,​143n15 Smith,​Linda​Tuhiwai,​2,​14–15,​18n2,​176;​ Decolonizing Methodologies,​192–93,​ 193n1 Sna​Jtz’ibajom,​172n2 Sojom,​Jacinto​Arias,​152–53,​172n2 solidarity,​170 sovereignty:​autonomy​and,​142n5;​ Hawaiian,​28–29,​34,​38–39;​indigenous​rights​and,​46–47;​over​territories,​76–77n11;​territory​and,​128 Spanish:​in​PCÑ ,​91–94;​Quechua​and,​ 10–11,​91–93,​109,​115 Spanish-​American​War​(1898),​6–7 Special​Committee​of​24​on​Decolonization​(un ),​51n5 spiral​motif,​128,​136 Spiritual​Nation​of​Kā—Hui​Ea​Council​ of​Sovereigns,​28 State of Hawaii v. Office of Hawaiian Affairs​(U.S.​Supreme​Court),​38,​ 51–52n8,​52n13 Stevens,​John​L.,​31–32 storytelling​traditions’​importance,​4 Street,​B.,​95 struggle,​13,​22–23,​119n3 Suazo,​Siles,​120n16 Subercaseaux,​Bernardo,​75n5 Summer​Institute​of​Linguistics/Wycliffe​ Bible​Translators.​See​sil /Wbt sunqu​(heart),​98–100 Tademy,​Lalita,​194n7 Tahiti,​56 Ta jlok’ta chobtik​(Bordando Milpas;​ D.​L.​Rus),​158–61,​164 Taller​Leñateros,​172n2,​173n8 Taller​Tzotzil​(Chiapas,​Mexico):​author-

ship​of,​145,​153,​156–57,​160,​163–64,​ 169;​bilingual​editions​of,​151–52,​154,​ 157,​160;​Chiapas​in​mid-​1980s,​147– 49;​community​collaborations,​157–64;​ dialect​choice​for,​152–53;​distribution​ and​sale​of​publications,​150,​155–56,​ 159–60,​172–73n7;​documenting​narratives,​149–53;​economic​crisis​and,​10,​ 144,​147,​155,​157–58;​editing​of,​161–63;​ editors’​introductions,​152;​funding​ for,​171n1;​goals​of,​10;​monolingual​vs.​ bilingual​publication,​151–52;​orthography​of,​152,​173n9;​overview​and​ background​of,​8–10,​82–83,​144–47,​ 171–72nn1–2;​photographs​in,​153,​155;​ political​and​cultural​factions​and,​ 153–57,​173n11;​reflections​on,​170–71;​ tape​cassettes​considered​for,​172n6;​ transitions​and,​164–66;​translation​of,​ 160–61;​voices,​150;​women’s​participation​in,​150–51;​Zapatista​uprising’s​ effects​on,​10,​83,​167–69 Taller​Tzotzil,​publications​of:​Abtel ta Pinka,​149–57,​160,​173n7;​Buch’u Lasmeltzan Jobel?​155–58;​“Conversaciones​ininterrumpidas,”​168;​Historia de un pueblo evangelista,​174n13;​ Ja’ k’u x’elan ta jpojbatik ta ilbajinel yu’un jkaxlanetik,​148;​Jchi’iltak ta Slumal Kalifornya,​168–69;​K’alal ich’ay mosoal,​148;​Kipaltik: K’u cha’al lajmankutik jpinkakutik,​159–64;​Lo’il yu’un Kuskat,​151–52,​156;​“Los​primeros​meses​de​los​zapatistas,”​168– 69,​174n19;​San​Cristóbal​shantytowns’​ history​(in​progress),​169;​Slo’il ch’vo’ kumpareil,​166,​173–74n13;​Ta jlok’ta chobtik ta ku’il​(Bordando Milpas),​12,​ 158–62,​164,​166;​“A​Tzotzil​Chronicle​ of​the​Zapatista​Uprising,”​168 Task​Force​on​Native​Hawaiian​Issues,​36 Teave,​Daniel​María,​75–76n6

technology,​modern:​biotechnology,​116;​ from​green​revolution,​112;​peasant​ knowledge​vs.,​88,​110–12,​117,​121n23 Tepano,​Juan,​76n9 territory:​integrity​of,​and​indigenous​ rights,​46–47;​land​vs.,​56–57,​59,​128;​ sovereignty​and,​128;​space​and,​128 testimonio,​160,​172n5.​See also​Taller​ Tzotzil theorization.​See under​collaboration​and​ historical​writing Thiong’o,​Ngugi​wa,​192 Tiawuanaku​manifesto​(Bolivia,​1973),​86 Ties that Bind: The Story of an AfroCherokee Family in Slavery and Freedom​(Miles),​192 Titicachi​(Peru),​121n24 Toro,​Pedro​Pablo,​57–58,​73 Toro​Hurtado,​Policarpo,​56–57 Totora​(Cochabamba,​Bolivia),​88–89 trade​agreements,​116–17,​127,​164–65,​​ 214 traditional​authority,​142n9 transformist​hegemony,​206 translation,​4 translation​vs.​writing/inscription,​8–9.​ See also​Taller​Tzotzil trees,​communal​ownership​of,​114 Tribal​Nations​policy​(U.S.),​27 tribal​vs.​foreign​nations,​39–40 truth,​rules​of​evidence​for,​14 Tuki,​Rafael​(“Rinko”),​73 Tunica-​Biloxi​Tribe​(Mississippi​and​ Louisiana),​182,​189 Tyler,​John,​30 Tzotzil​Maya​people​(Chiapas,​Mexico):​ coffee​work​by,​149–51,​165;​critical​ historical​narrative​among,​170;​migration​of,​10;​Protestant,​151,​155;​as​ undocumented​workers​in​California,​ 168–69;​writing​by,​145,​170,​172n2.​See also​Taller​Tzotzil

inDex 261

udu​(Unión​de​Uniones;​Mexico),​159– 60,​164–65 uma​(head),​98–99 undocumented​migration,​168–69,​174n19 Unión​de​Uniones​(u du ;​Mexico),​159– 60,​164–65 Unión​Revolucionaria​Nacional​Guatemalteca​(urng ),​205,​218n14 United​Confederation​of​Bolivian​ Workers​and​Peasants​(csutcb ),​89,​ 114 United​Nations:​Charter​(1945),​29,​34,​ 43;​Commission​on​Human​Rights,​ 44–45,​47–48;​Economic​and​Social​ Council,​44;​Hawaiʻi’s​inclusion​on​ list​of​non-​self-​governing​territories,​ 33–34,​51n3;​Human​Rights​Council,​ 45,​53n19,​69;​on​indigenous​rights,​ 2,​22–23.​See also​Declaration​on​the​ Rights​of​Indigenous​Peoples United​States:​Constitution​of,​32,​39;​ Hawaiʻi​on​indigenous​rights,​45;​ polarized​racial​atmosphere​of,​141– 42n1;​victory​in​Spanish-​American​ War,​6–7.​See also​Hawaiʻi United​States​Department​of​Defense,​ 40,​42 United​States​Department​of​Justice,​42 United​States​Department​of​State,​40 United​States​Department​of​the​Interior,​39–40 United​States​National​Security​Council,​47–48 United​States​Office​of​Native​Hawaiian​ Relations,​39–40,​42 United​States​Senate​Committee​on​ Indian​Affairs,​42 Universidad​de​los​Andes​(Bogotá,​ Colombia),​124 urng ​(Unión​Revolucionaria​Nacional​ Guatemalteca),​205,​218n14 use​rights​vs.​property​rights,​6 262 inDex

Valparaíso,​Chile,​56–58,​66–67,​70 Varese,​Stéfano,​12–13,​15,​17,​219 Virginia​antimiscegenation​laws,​181,​ 193n3 Waitangi,​Treaty​of,​75n2 War​of​the​Pacific​(1879–84),​6–7,​55–56 Warren,​Kay,​198–99 Watanabe,​J.,​218n21 weather​prediction,​110–12 white​privilege,​2,​11–12 white​supremacy,​35,​49,​179,​186–87,​ 191–93,​194n8 Williams,​Brackette,​206 Williamson​Balfour​and​Company​ (Compañía;​Scotland),​58–61,​67 Wilson,​Angela​Cavender,​2,​15,​17 Winant,​H.,​195n22 women,​indigenous:​Komes’s​weaving​and​ embroidering​cooperative,​12,​158,​161– 62,​165–66;​marginalization​of,​19n7;​ Maya,​211;​writing​by,​150–51,​173n8 Women’s​Organization​of​Kuyupaya,​95 Working​Group​on​Indigenous​Populations​(Wgip ;​un ),​44–46 Workshop​for​the​Handling​of​Potato​ and​Corn​Varieties,​95–96 writing​vs.​orality,​95 yachayniyku​(politics​of​Quechua​knowledge),​101–14,​117 Yapita,​Juan​de​Dios,​121n25 Zapatistas​(Mexico):​eZln ,​84,​167,​ 174n17;​government​repression​of,​167,​ 174nn14–15;​“Los​primeros​meses​de​ los​zapatistas,”​168–69,​174n19;​protecting​leaders’​identities,​164;​rebellion​by​(1994),​10,​83,​144,​150,​154,​ 166–69,​174n19;​Taller​Tzotzil​and,​10,​ 83,​167–69.​See also​eZln Zavala,​Virginia,​119n1,​121n19

Florencia e. mallon ​is​the​Julieta​Kirkwood​Professor​of​History​and​Latin​American​ Studies​ and​ chair​ of​ the​ History​ Department​ at​ the​ University​ of​ Wisconsin.​ She​is​the​author​of​Courage Tastes of Blood: The Mapuche Indigenous Community of Nicolás Ailío and the Chilean State, 1906–2000​(Duke,​2005);​Peasant and Nation: The Making of Postcolonial Mexico and Peru​(1995);​and​The Defense of Community in Peru’s Central Highlands: Peasant Struggle and Capitalist Transition, 1860–1940​(1983)​ and​the​editor​and​translator​of​Rosa​Isolde​Reuque​Paillalef,​When a Flower Is Reborn: The Life and Times of a Mapuche Feminist​(Duke,​2002).

Library​of​Congress​Cataloging-in-Publication​Data Decolonizing​native​histories​:​collaboration,​knowledge,​and​language​in​the​Americas​/​ edited​by​Florencia​E.​Mallon​;​selected​essays​translated​by​Gladys​McCormick. p.​cm.​—​(Narrating​native​histories) Includes​bibliographical​references​and​index.

isbn ​978-0-8223-5137-5​(cloth​:​alk.​paper)​—​isbn ​978-0-8223-5152-8​(pbk.​:​alk.​paper) 1.​Language​and​languages—Political​aspects. 2.​Language​and​culture—America. ​ 3.​Indigenous​peoples​and​mass​media—America. I.​Mallon,​Florencia​E.,​1951– ​ II.​Series:​Narrating​native​histories.

p119.3.D43​2012 306.44′6097—dc23  2011027459