Manufacturing Otherness : Missions and Indigenous Cultures in Latin America [1 ed.] 9781443855907, 9781443851602

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Manufacturing Otherness

Manufacturing Otherness: Missions and Indigenous Cultures in Latin America

Edited by

Sergio Botta

Manufacturing Otherness: Missions and Indigenous Cultures in Latin America, Edited by Sergio Botta This book first published 2013 Cambridge Scholars Publishing 12 Back Chapman Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2XX, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2013 by Sergio Botta and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-5160-4, ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-5160-2

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Lists of Figures and Tables ....................................................................... vii Introduction ................................................................................................. 1 Manufacturing Otherness: Missions and Indigenous Cultures in Latin America Sergio Botta Chapter One ............................................................................................... 11 Towards a Missionary Theory of Polytheism: The Franciscans in the Face of the Indigenous Religions of New Spain Sergio Botta Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 37 The Doctrine of Juli: Foundation, Development and the New Identity in a Shared Space Virginia Battisti Delia Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 63 Jesuits and Indians in the Borderlands (Vice-Royalty of Peru, 16th-18th Centuries) Nikolai Rakutz Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 95 Making the Indigenous Speak: The Jesuit Missionary Diego de Rosales in Colonial Chile, 17th Century Rafael Gaune Chapter Five ............................................................................................ 121 Negation and Exaltation of the sertanistas of São Paulo in the Discourses of Pierre-François-Xavier de Charlevoix, D. José Vaissette and Gaspar da Madre de Deus (1756-1774) Michel Kobelinski

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Table of Contents

Chapter Six .............................................................................................. 147 Demonym Cartography: Native Peoples and Inquisition in Portuguese America (18th Century) Maria Leônia Chaves de Resende Chapter Seven.......................................................................................... 175 Christian Bodies, Other Bodies: Processes of Conversion and Transformation in Northeastern Amazonia Vanessa Elisa Grotti Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 189 Indian Missionary or Pastor? Reflections on a Religious Trajectory in the Amazon Paride Bollettin Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 209 The Indigenist Missionary Council: A Brazilian Experience between Culture and Faith Marcos Pereira Rufino Chapter Ten ............................................................................................. 229 Religious Conflicts, Missionary Action and Indigenous Activism in the Western Brazilian Amazon Sidnei Clemente Peres Chapter Eleven ........................................................................................ 251 Seeing is Believing? Vision and Indigenous Agency in the Anglican Evangelisation of the Paraguayan Chaco Alejandro Martínez Chapter Twelve ....................................................................................... 271 The Hidden Heritage Valéria Nely Cézar de Carvalho Contributors ............................................................................................. 281 Index ........................................................................................................ 285

LIST OF FIGURES AND TABLES

Figure 4.1: “Lautaro” in Diego de Ocaña, Relación del viaje a Chile ..... 102 Table 6.1: Region - 18th Century ............................................................. 154 Table 6.2: Denounces - Period - 18th Century ......................................... 155 Table 6.3: Reason of the Denouncement - 18th Century .......................... 156 Table 6.4: 18th Century ........................................................................... 157 Map 11.1: The main locations of Anglican stations and Indigenous settlements in Paraguayan .................................................................. 254 Figure 11.1: “Indians of Paraguay” ......................................................... 256 Figure 11.2: “Riacho Fernández, mission station in Gran Chaco” .......... 258 Figure 11.3: “Boy” .................................................................................. 261 Figure 11.4: “Sports at feast, Chaco” ...................................................... 262

INTRODUCTION MANUFACTURING OTHERNESS: MISSIONS AND INDIGENOUS CULTURES IN LATIN AMERICA SERGIO BOTTA

The discovery of the New World offered European civilisation,1 which was entering into the Early Modern Age, the chance to generate a process of circulation of its own cultural and religious values. This “spiritual conquest”2 has no comparable precedents as regards geographical coverage or historical consequences on the construction of future global geopolitical equilibriums.3 The missionary orders played an all-important role during this “Westernisation of the world,”4 not only as the key players in the spread

1

John H. Elliott, The Old World and the New: 1492-1650 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970). 2 Robert Ricard, La «conquête spirituelle» du Mexique. Essai sur l’apostolat et les méthodes missionaires des ordres mendiants en Nouvelle-Espagne de 1523-24 à 1572 (Paris: Institut d’ethnologie, 1933). 3 Caroline Douki, Philippe Minard, “Histoire globale, histoires connectées: un changement d’échelle historiographique?,” Revue d’histoire moderne et contemporaine 54-4bis, no. 5 (2007): 7-21; Serge Gruzinski, “Les mondes mêlés de la Monarchie catholique et autres «connected histories»,” Annales. Histoire, Sciences Sociales 56, no. 1 (2001): 85-117; Les quatre parties du monde: histoire d’une mondialisation (Paris: La Martinière, 2004); L’Aigle et le Dragon: Démesure européenne et mondialisation au XVIe siècle (Paris: Fayard, 2012); Sanjay Subrahmanyam, “Connected Histories: Notes towards a Reconfiguration of Early Modern Eurasia,” Modern Asian Studies 31, no. 3 (1997): 735-762; Explorations in Connected History: From the Tagus to the Ganges (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). 4 Serge Latouche, L’occidentalisation du monde (Bagneux: Numilog, 2005).

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Introduction

of Christian values, but also as mediators between different worlds.5 Indeed, missionary strategies and practices made it possible to impose the dominating culture’s values and institutions on the vanquished peoples.6 At the same time, they also promoted the global circulation of new knowledge in the Modern Age7 and the creation of areas of negotiation between different cultures during this stage of “the global integration of space.”8 The book we are presenting looks at the vast field of study concerning the history of missions from a specific viewpoint. Firstly, while being aware of the global dimension of the missionary phenomena, the book focuses on “local” processes, singling out specific case studies to be utilised for a more general reflection. On the other hand, it is not to be believed that this perspective is aimed at asserting itself as a reaction to the historiographical trends open to examining the intercultural processes that develop on a global level. If anything, it sets itself a clearly opposite goal: to refocus attention on the Indigenous cultures that the missionaries helped–and still help–bring to light in the field of Western history. Firstly, it is a question of showing–through a series of different cases–how Indigenous cultures succeeded in actively entering the areas of negotiation created by missionaries, producing their own cultural subjectivity–which

5

On missionaries as mediators, see Louise M. Burkhart, The Slippery Earth. Nahua-Christian Moral Dialogue in Sixteenth-Century Mexico (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1989); and Nicola Gasbarro, ed., Le culture dei missionari (Roma: Bulzoni, 2009). 6 See, for example, Pierre Duviols, La lutte contre les religions autochtones dans le Pérou colonial; «l’extirpation de l’idolâtrie,» entre 1532 et 1660 (Lima: Institut français d’études andines, 1971); Juan Carlos Estenssoro Fuchs, Del paganismo a la santidad: la incorporación de los indios del Perú al catolicismo, 1532-1750 (Lima: IFEA, Instituto Francés de Estudios Andinos, Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, Instituto Riva-Agüero, 2003); Osvaldo F. Pardo, The Origins of Mexican Catholicism: Nahua Rituals and Christian Sacraments in SixteenthCentury Mexico (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2004); Nathan Wachtel, La vision des vaincus: les Indiens du Pérou devant la conquête espagnole, 1530-1570 (Paris: Gallimard, 1971). 7 Charlotte de Castelnau-L’Estoile, Marie-Lucie Copete, Aliocha Maldavsky, and Ines G. Županov, eds., Missions d’évangelisation et circulation des savoirs, XVIeXVIIIe siècle (Madrid: Casa de Velázquez, 2011); Peter van der Veer, ed., Conversion to Modernities: the Globalization of Christianity (New York: Routledge, 1996). 8 Charles H. Parker, Global Interactions in the Early Modern Age (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010).

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makes each of the contexts where mediations were produced worthy of interest. In this perspective, we believe that focus on the “local” dimension of missionary activities still boasts scientific productiveness and, for this reason, must recapture the attention of the social sciences with the aim of completing the process of “provincializing Europe”9 that would allow for full understanding of the historical and anthropological processes of globalisation.10 Therefore, it will be necessary to observe missionary activities not only as a stimulus for producing knowledge–in a perspective that once again risks seeing modernity exclusively from a European perspective–but also as an active agent in the historical and anthropological processes that led to the manufacture of an otherness. This process could be observed from two different points of view. On the one hand, Western civilisation was able to compare itself to the multiple “other” peoples it had to establish relations with. On the other hand, it could be observed from the point of view of Indigenous cultures which, in these areas of negotiation, found a possible expression for their own agency in the production and reproduction of their own identities.11 As regards missionary strategies and practices, it will be clear how the relations with Indigenous peoples generated a radical reflection on the very notion of evangelisation that will often be examined in this book. This type of self-reflection, which began subsequent to contact with a humanity that seemed to have been excluded from the Christian message of salvation, forces scholars to take into account the feedback of the colonial processes which caused transformations for the missionaries themselves. Therefore, the history of Christian missions cannot but represent an all-important field of study for Americanistic scholars, since the missionaries’ forms of self-reflection encouraged experimentation in new forms of relations between cultures. Missionary work in Latin America helped construct new theoretical and practical models for an understanding of otherness, both at an intellectual level and at a political level. In this perspective, the book confides in cooperation among various disciplines–anthropology, history, sociology, etc.–in the hope that they can 9

Dipesh Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2000). 10 Stephen Greenblatt, ed., Cultural Mobility: A Manifesto (Cambridge, UK; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010); 11 Fenella Cannell, ed., The Anthropology of Christianity (Durham: Duke University Press, 2006); and Aparecida Vilaça and Robin Wright, eds., Native Christians. Modes and Effects of Christianity among Indigenous Peoples of the Americas (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2009).

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Introduction

be involved in the description of ways in which, when faced with the Indigenous diversity, the missions reformulated a Western image of the world and encouraged transformation of the grilles conceptuelles12 used by European culture to examine ethnic, social, cultural and religious differences.13 As already pointed out, specific focus was placed on the relations established between missionary groups and the Indigenous groups examined. This focus made it possible to concentrate on the orthopraxical dimension of the “spiritual conquest”: given that missionary action was often focused on practical aspects–usually related to control of Indigenous behaviour–the book ended up, almost naturally, taking its distance from the dogmatic and theological dimension of missionary activities, which also represents a fertile area of investigation. As a result, one of the privileged places of focus in the various essays corresponds to the message and the forms of communication of Christianity which led missionaries to perceive the strategies of penetration and consolidation as processes of “adaptation” or “inculturation,” as places where missions produced a reflexion concerning the relations between dogmatic universalism and cultural relativism. This is why it was decided to also include essays dedicated to describing the response of Indigenous cultures to evangelisation processes. Indeed, paradoxically, the practical dimension of the missions offered resources for an Indigenous resistance to those devices that aimed to generate a “colonisation de l’imaginaire.”14 Despite the impossibility of describing the missionary phenomena in the Americas in full, the twelve articles comprising this book form an interesting corpus of documentary material and promote reflections originating from different theoretic and methodological backgrounds. Given the diversity of the situations examined, it was preferable to organise the essays in accordance with a chronological criterion, since classification by geographical and cultural areas would undoubtedly have proved unsatisfactory. Furthermore, the book’s aim was not to build an inter-American comparison between forms of Indigenous response to missionary strategies–which still remains to be built. The aim was simply 12

Carmen Bernand and Serge Gruzinski, De l’idolâtrie: une archéologie des sciences religieuses (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1988). 13 Serge Gruzinski and Nathan Wachtel, eds., Le Nouveau Monde Mondes Nouveaux. L’expérience américaine (Paris: Editions Recherches sur les Civilisations, Editions de l’Ecole des hautes études en sciences sociales, 1996). 14 Serge Gruzinski, La colonisation de l’imaginaire: sociétés indigènes et occidentalisation dans le Mexique espagnol, XVIe-XVIIIe siècle (Paris: Gallimard, 1988).

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to outline, in a preliminary manner, a scientific question still to be answered, in the hope of promoting new areas of debate. On the other hand, we hope that chronological organisation of material–albeit with large time intervals–can at least highlight the long-term quality of the phenomena looked at, and consequently the extraordinary and macroscopic importance of this field of academic study. In conclusion, without stopping to consider the alternative between an apologetic and anti-apologetic interpretation when studying missionary activities–a feature of historiography that seems to have exhausted its own driving force–many of the articles have not renounced the possibility of “taking the part” of Indigenous peoples, hence asserting the key role of the moral location of academic studies.15 The book opens, for solely chronological reasons, with my essay entitled “Towards a Missionary Theory of Polytheism: The Franciscans in the face of the Indigenous Religions of New Spain,” which strives to identify–during the early years of colonial history in New Spain–debate and discussion aimed at creating a “theory of polytheism.” Said theory, in addition to rewriting the lexicon of interreligious meetings during the Early Modern Age, also ended up performing a socio-cultural function, as a place of production and re-production of the colonial religious field–site of the struggle with idolatry and the creation of a shared religiosity that generated the expressive forms of popular Catholicism in Latin America. In the book’s second essay (“The Doctrine of Juli. Foundation, Development and the New Identity in a Shared Space”), Virginia Battisti Delia shifts the historical focus onto the Andes to consider the case of the Juli mission: a laboratory of missionary practices and strategies that was to have rebounding effects throughout the religious history of the whole continent. By analysing artistic production created with the aim of evangelising the Indigenous populations, the author focuses on the consequences of using images when making known the Christian message. Indeed, a new order emerges in Juli that seems to draw upon both cultures, where art loses its exclusively aesthetic function in order to become an area for manufacture of an otherness, of a new artistic style that presents itself as a shared code of communication: “Churches became a shared space to give life and shape to the new religion, which the Jesuits themselves seemed to promote: a Catholic religion, nevertheless charged at the same time with Native meanings.” (p. 29) 15 Ivan Strenski, Religion in Relation: Method, Application, and Moral Location (Columbia, S.C.: University of South Carolina Press, 1993).

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Introduction

In the book’s third essay (“Jesuits and Indians in the Borderlands. Vice-Royalty of Peru, 16th-18th Centuries”), Nikolai Rakutz uses the Juli experience as a basis to develop an investigation of the progress of missionary strategies in the Andes and, more generally, in South America. By showing how the process of consolidating the system of reductions was slow, conflicting and contradictory, the author succeeds in detailing the complexities of the mechanisms used to adapt forms of evangelisation to the changes in specific historical circumstances. What comes to light is how the episodic nature of the application of missionary strategies also results in the fact that “Christianisation did not lead to the total destruction of the traditional way of life” (p. 76). The book’s fourth essay also looks at the Jesuit approach to missionary activities (“Making the Indigenous Speak. The Jesuit Missionary Diego de Rosales in Colonial Chile, 17th Century”) where Rafael Gaune, from an apparently less optimistic position, observes “ventriloqual powers” (p. 85) through which the Indigenous populations were used by colonial forces to create their own discourse: “the Indigenous voice was used to tell what the authors themselves were not able to say, or to say what they actually wanted to say” (p. 86). An analysis of the missionary work of Diego de Rosales in colonial Chile during the seventeenth century makes it possible to observe the rhetorical instruments–dialogues and monologues–that the Jesuits used “to enter into other cultures and then describe and reshape them” (p. 105). At the same time, when observing processes through which it is possible to “make the Indigenous speak,” the contradictions and ambiguities of the missionary manufacture of otherness can be noted. Therefore, if missionary debate seemed to be a device for the production of an image of the Indigenous cultures, at the same time it also contributed to creating national identities, as can be seen in the essay by Michel Kobelinski: “Negation and Exaltation of the sertanistas of São Paulo in the Discourses of Pierre-François-Xavier de Charlevoix, D. José Vaissette and Gaspar da Madre de Deus (1756-1774).” Here, the actions of three missionary figures of the seventeenth century serve to investigate a fundamental part of Brazilian identity–“the cloak of superiority (excessive patriotism) that actually hides a complex of inferiority (resentment)” (p. 113)–that captured the attention of historians, anthropologists, psychologists and sociologists. While creating a progressive renovation of the image of the New World and its inhabitants, Charlevoix, Vaissette and Madre de Deus helped create the lexicon of a national debate that, involuntarily, generated a reflection on Indigenous qualities and sensitivity “as an instrument of struggle based on resentment caused by the loss of privileges

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in the context of conflicts and negotiations related to society and identity.” (p. 132). With the following essay, the historical focus (“Demonym Cartography: Native Peoples and Inquisition in Portuguese America - 18th Century”) takes a step forward, both from a chronological viewpoint and as regards the research methods looked at. Indeed, Maria Leônia Chaves de Resende follows the trajectory of the processes of the inclusion of Indigenous peoples in the historical and social context of the colonial world through the eyes of inquisition trials. Through careful reading of the documentary material produced during the eighteenth century–in the detailed relations with regional situations–the author shows how identities seem to be the product of negotiations between forms of self-definition and social recognition: “It is precisely in this complex relation that Indigenous identities are constantly rebuilt, from exchanged and cultural appropriations reproducing, recreating, and renewing themselves into the historical process” (p. 150). In the book’s seventh essay (“Christian Bodies, Other Bodies: Processes of Conversion and Transformation in Northeastern Amazonia”), the methodology is developed in an anthropological perspective and pays attention to the most recent theoretical developments in studies of the Indigenous peoples of Amazonia. Indeed, the ethnographic approach makes it possible to observe the arrival of the missionaries and the establishment of the mission stations as a fundamental turning point in the lives of said Indigenous groups. Far from being interpreted in a doctrinal manner, the processes of conversion to Christianity are looked at starting from an Indigenous viewpoint as “a change experienced and located in the body” (p. 169). Therefore, the experience of the conversion of the Trio shows how a “chronic instability” of the Indigenous person offers the people of Amazonia a resource for interpreting the missionary experience in their own terms: “In an encounter of worldviews which generated a unique form of ‘controlled equivocation,’ both missionaries and Trio established a common project centred on the temporary suppression of the ‘fierce’ half of Trio identity in order to stabilise the ‘peaceful’ side” (p. 177). The dialogic “experiment” proposed by Paride Bollettin also finds expression within the ethnographic context of Amazonia (“Indian Missionary or Pastor? Reflections on a Religious Trajectory in the Amazon”). The essay tells the story of a member of the Mebengokré community, absorbed in a process of definition of his own identity, at the crossroads represented by the alternatives presented among various possibilities of placement in the Christian religious field. Therefore, in this

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Introduction

manner, the figure of Kapoto becomes an interesting example of appropriation of the knowledge of the “whites” as an instrument for acquiring cards to be played in politics through the prestige linked to the opportunity for travel: “The passage from ‘minister’ to ‘missionary’ is configured as the possibility of opening a universe of new partners, both for the possible acquisition of new kukradja, and to have been elected as a mediator with the outside world, both the Indigenous and the ‘white’” (p. 197). The following two essays are also set within a Brazilian context and shift the focus to an openly political level. The first essay (“The Indigenist Missionary Council: A Brazilian Experience between Culture and Faith”) by Marcos Pereira Rufino looks at the activities of the Conselho Indigenista Missionário (CIMI) as the undisputed ecclesiastical authority with regard to Indigenous politics and as a political player of key importance in relations with Brazilian society as a whole. It marks a radical turning point in the way in which the missionary world perceives cultural difference. Indeed, Rufino’s essay shows how the depletion of old categories such as the “oppressed,” “marginalised” or “excluded” identifies a new central role for CIMI in the reconstruction of Indigenous identities that becomes a political struggle focused on the defence of “collective rights.” The essay by Sidnei Clemente Peres takes a similar direction (“Religious Conflicts, Missionary Action and Indigenous Activism in the Western Brazilian Amazon”), examining the role of the Salesians in the “tri-national frontier” area (Brazil, Colombia and Venezuela), where the missionaries act as vicarious agents of the State, preceding it in the nationalisation of the Indigenous masses, resulting in the religious language of “modernisation.” Even if, in this context, the Salesians also seem to perform a positive role in the assertion of ethnic and ancestral pride in the Rio Negro area, the unveiling of the missionary discursive strategies truly shows “the Church’s role as guardian of national sovereignty” (p. 225). The essay by Alejandro Martínez (“Seeing is Believing? Vision and Indigenous Agency in the Anglican Evangelization of the Paraguayan Chaco”) closes the circle opened with the essay by Virginia Battisti Delia, examining once again the function of visual instruments in evangelisation, in this case with regard to the use of photography by Anglican missionaries who entered into contact with the Enxet people of the Paraguayan Chaco. In addition to acknowledging visual resources as effective instruments for evangelisation, Martínez offers an interesting Indigenous response to missionary policies: “Although the practice of

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photography and the use of visual media was led by these missionaries’ interests and expectancies and in spite of the fact that it was developed in the context of an asymmetric power relationship–between photographer/ missionary and photographed/Indigenous person–, it was observed that neither photography production nor the reception of images projected by the magic lantern developed took place in a context of a simple imposition of Anglican interests” (p. 261). Lastly, the book comes to an end with a brief essay by Valéria Nely Cézar de Carvalho (“The Hidden Heritage”) that highlights a problem of political management in the process of acknowledging Indigenous rights and of transforming their cultural patrimony into museum exhibits in the contemporary context. Therefore, the essay demonstrates the pressing modernity of the debate regarding relations between missions and Indigenous cultures in Latina America: “The indios […] must decode the symbols that, whether they wish it or not, have been transformed into a code giving access to their rights, and they must perforce participate in the re-definition of the nature of the ethnographic museum in the process of re-appropriating their cultural patrimony. In short, the Coppi Collection constitutes a valid subject that allows for discussion of the ideas as to how the colonial encounter with the ‘other’ need not end in the annihilation of the identity of the ‘other’” (p. 272). *** Whenever you have the luck to work on the publication of a collective volume, human and intellectual debts are made to the scholars who, knowingly and/or unknowingly, donated their own energy and work. The reward in terms of knowledge and experience always prevails over the onerous task of coordination in order to complete the collective work. In this case, I also had the chance to learn a great deal from the scholars that contributed to this project. Therefore, I firstly offer my most heartfelt thanks to those who took part in a symposium (“Misiones y culturas indígenas en América Latina”) held during the VI CEISAL Congress (Consejo Europeo de Investigaciones Sociales de América Latina), held in Toulouse (France) on 2 and 3 July, 2010. A special thank you goes to Valéria Nely Cézar de Carvalho, who helped me conceive of the symposium and coordinate part of the preparation. Given that she was unable to take part in the symposium for personal reasons, I am happy that Valeria was able to contribute an article that brings the book to a close with an up-to-date research proposal. I would also like to personally thank the speakers who, while not having had the possibility to contribute to this

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Introduction

book, were involved in the symposium, making it possible to develop a productive discussion. Therefore my thanks go to Pilar Máynez, Jimena Obregón Iturra, Benita Herreros Cleret de Langavant, Marie Morel and Marta Rosa Amoroso for their commitment to the project. I must also personally thank the speakers at a seminar (“L’impresa missionaria nel continente americano: contributi di antropologia, storia e storia delle religioni”) that I coordinated between 2007 and 2011 within the International Americanistic Studies Congress, held every year in Perugia thanks to the “Centro Studi Americanistici - Circolo Amerindiano”: the essays by Nikolai Rakutz and Maria Leônia Chaves de Resende originated from this working group and seemed to be complementary to those produced during the symposium held in France. Special thanks go to my colleagues and friends of the Religious Studies section of the Department of History, Cultures and Religions of the Sapienza University of Rome with whom I have shared projects, ideas and work over the years, always in the hope of promoting research in a country such as Italy that is experiencing a serious, possibly irreversible economic and cultural crisis. Lastly, I would especially like to thank the few, yet passionate Italian scholars of Americanistic Studies; these include many to whom I am indebted for scientific stimuli; I have a special friendship with Davide Domenici and Alessandro Lupo, whom I would like to thank for their constant support. In any case, this book would never have seen the light without Valentina, to whom I lovingly dedicate every small fruit of my daily efforts.

CHAPTER ONE TOWARDS A MISSIONARY THEORY OF POLYTHEISM: THE FRANCISCANS IN THE FACE OF THE INDIGENOUS RELIGIONS OF NEW SPAIN SERGIO BOTTA

Introduction At the beginning of the Modern Age, the notion of idolatry dominated European debate on religious alterity.1 Specifically, idolatry seems to have acted on various levels since the discovery of the Americas: on a theological level, it acted as a cognitive device able to provide an explanation of Indigenous religious “diversity” and hence to neutralise the potentially scandalous value of the ethnographic accounts that reached Europe from the New World.2 Meanwhile on a political level, the 1

On the history of idolatry, see: Jonathan Sheehan, “Thinking about Idols in Early Modern Europe,” Journal of the History of Ideas 67, no. 4 (2006): 561-570; Carina L. Johnson, “Idolatrous Cultures and the Practice of Religion,” Journal of the History of Ideas. 67, no. 4 (2006): 597-622; Francis Schmidt, “Polytheisms: Degeneration or progress?,” in The Inconceivable Polytheism: Studies in Religious Historiography (History & Anthropology, v. 3), ed. Francis Schmidt (LondonParis-New York: Harwood Academic Publishers, 1987), 9-60; Stephen C. Barton, ed., Idolatry. False Worship in the Bible, Early Judaism, and Christianity, (London-New York: T&T Clarke, 2007). 2 On ethnographic and travel accounts, see Joan-Pau Rubiés, “Theology, Ethnography, and the Historicization of Idolatry,” Journal of the History of Ideas 67, no. 4 (2006): 571-596; Jas Elsner and Joan-Pau Rubiés, eds., Voyages and Visions: Towards a Cultural History of Travel (London: Reaktion Books, 1999); Peter Hulme and Tim Youngs, eds., The Cambridge Companion to Travel Writing

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Chapter One

accusation of idolatry with regard to Indigenous beliefs and practices legitimised those social actions that guaranteed control of the conquered cultures.3 Therefore, as regards the mechanisms of this cognitive and political link, we can note how New Spain represented a perfect laboratory for observing the instruments that promoted the expansion of Christianity. Indeed, this was the area where Europeans encountered multifaceted civilisations, the military and spiritual conquest of which required complex devices in order to dominate them. The debate regarding the nature of Indigenous religious systems during the sixteenth century was led by missionary orders, and in particular by the Franciscans who, during the early colonial history, exploited a key political position in New Spain in order to impose their own interpretative model on the observation of Indigenous cultures.4 Our first objective is to analyse the colonial function of debate generated by the Franciscan order regarding the plurality of deities worshipped by Indigenous cultures. Hence the title of this paper–which (Cambridge, U.K.; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002); Margaret T. Hodgen, Early Anthropology in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1964). 3 “Idolatry is and has always been a charge made against someone else, a language of judgment used at certain times and for certain effects. But it was a potent charge”: Sheehan, “Thinking about Idols in Early Modern Europe,” 564. 4 Concerning Franciscan activity in New Spain, see Georges Baudot, Utopie et Histoire au Mexique. Les premiers chroniqueurs de la civilisation mexicaine (1520-1569) (Toulouse: Editions E. Privat, 1976); La pugna franciscana por México (México: Alianza Editorial Mexicana, Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes, 1990); Charles Braden, Religious Aspects of the Conquest of Mexico (Durham: Duke University Press, 1930); Christian Duverger, La conversión de los indios de Nueva España (México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1974); José Maria Kobayashi, La educación como conquista (empresa franciscana en México) (México: El Colegio de México, 1974); Francisco Morales, ed., Franciscan Presence in the Americas. Essays on the Activities of the Franciscan Friars in The Americas, 1492-1900 (Potomac: Academy of American Franciscan History, 1983); Elsa Cecilia Frost, La historia de Dios en las Indias. Visión franciscana del Nuevo Mundo (México: Tusquets Editores, 2002); José Antonio Maravall, “La utopía político-religiosa de los franciscanos en Nueva España,” Estudios Americanos 2 (1949): 199-227; John Leddy Phelan, The Millennial Kingdom of the Franciscans in the New World (London-Berkeley-Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1970); Robert Ricard, La conquête spirituelle du Mexique. Essai sur l’apostolat et les méthodes missionaires des ordres mendiants en Nouvelle-Espagne de 1523-24 à 1572 (Paris: Institut d’Ethnologie, 1933); Luis Weckmann, “Las esperanzas milenaristas de los franciscanos de la Nueva España,” Historia Mexicana 33, no. 1 (1982): 89-105.

Towards a Missionary Theory of Polytheism

13

makes reference to the existence of a “theory of polytheism”5–is deliberately paradoxical. Indeed, it is obvious how, at the beginning of the sixteenth century, a systematic theory on the plurality of gods could still not be singled out since the first records of use of the term in the Modern Age can only be found in the work by Jean Bodin, De la Démonomanie des Sorciers, published in France in 1580.6 In addition to this, a real interpretative model, which represented a kind of theory of religion ante litteram, was only formulated some decades later. Nevertheless, it must be remembered that the term had already been invented in the first century BC within a Jewish-Alexandrian setting where it had been used for the first time in De decalogo of Philo of Alexandria.7 In his work, Philo spoke of a polytheia (from the Greek ʌȠȜȪȢ and șİȠȓ) to defend the uniqueness of the Jewish God from the threat represented by the plurality of Greek deities. The original notion of polytheism put forward by Philo was a follow-on from the notion of idolatry which, in the same multicultural environment, had been examined in the Book of Wisdom. The latter was excluded from the Hebrew Bible canon before later being included in the Septuagint translation, becoming a part of the Christian canonical tradition. As has been mentioned, it was the concept of idolatry, albeit at different times in history, that steered the comparison between the JewishChristian world and “other” forms of religion.8 This took place until, after centuries of oblivion, the anti-Catholic debate was ignited that was also voiced in the works of the authors of the first theoretical observations on polytheism: these included the aforementioned work by Bodin and, above all, the Natural History of Religion by David Hume,9 which in 1757 provided the scientific foundations of a theory of religion where polytheism played a key role.10

5 For an updated theory of polytheism, see Burkhard Gladigow, “Polytheismus und Monotheismus. Zur historischen Dynamik einer europäischen Alternative,” in Polytheismus und Monotheismus in den Religionen des Vorderen Orients, ed. Manfred Krebernik and Jürgen von Oorschot (Münster: Ugarit-Verlag, 2002), 320. 6 Jean Bodin, De la démonomanie des sorciers (Paris: I. Du Puys, 1580). 7 See Mark S. Smith, God in Translation. Deities in Cross-Cultural Discourse in the Biblical World (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008). 8 Schmidt, “Polytheisms: Degeneration or progress?,” 9-60. 9 David Hume, Four dissertations. I. The natural history of religion. II. Of the passions. III. Of tragedy. IV. Of the standard of taste (London: Printed for A. Millar, 1757). 10 Francis Schmidt, “Naissance des polythéismes (1624-1757),” Archives des sciences sociales des religions 59, no. 1 (1985): 77-90.

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So, it has been pointed out on several occasions how this key notion of historical and religious lexicon appeared as an oppositive category, in other words created in an intellectual environment with the aim of defining the religions of different people, but also of formulating a critical instrument with regard to the “polytheist” and “idolatric” nature of Catholicism in the midst of the debate with Protestantism.11 The philosophical movement of English deists had also given rise to a process of diminution of biblical authority which, paradoxically, took its strength from the confrontation with the plurality of other religions; hence, the “relativism” introduced by deist critics generated a gradual destructuring of the notion of idolatry–and also of its judgemental value. Indeed, it was able to generate, through the use of comparison, a “neutral” category (or, at least, one that appeared less entangled in ideological processes), polytheism, susceptible to distancing other cultures from the control of theological judgement in order to expose them, in the future of religious sciences, to examination free from religious prejudice.12 Hence it is clear how, in these conditions, the construction of a “science of religions”13 took the form of an internal question of Christianity, as a result of the stripping of substance from theological requirements unable to provide a suitable device for the comprehension and control of a radically different religious and political condition, both inside and outside Christian civilization. Even if the importance of the question within Christianity cannot be denied, I feel that the effects of retroaction between the core and the edge of the Christian world throughout the Modern Age must be taken into account. In keeping with the views voiced by Ivan Strenski14 and Guy Stroumsa,15 I feel that the exit from the biblical type of interpretation was not only the result of an internal crisis, but also reflected a crisis outside of Christianity: in other words, it was the result of the discovery of the diversity of religions during the age of geographical exploration. Hence, it is clear how the example of New Spain represents a highly interesting case study due to its unique historical and geographical characteristics. Indeed, Franciscans made an 11

Carlos M.N. Eire, The War against the Idols: The Reformation of Worship from Erasmus to Calvin (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986). 12 Peter Byrne, Natural Religion and the Nature of Religion: The Legacy of Deism (London: Routledge 1989). 13 Philippe Borgeaud, Aux origines de l’histoire des religions (Paris: Seuil, 2004). 14 Ivan Strenski, Thinking about Religion. An Historical Introduction to Theories of Religion (Oxford: Blackwell 2006). 15 Guy G. Stroumsa, A New Science. The Discovery of Religion in the Age of Reason (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2010).

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all-important contribution to the reformulation of the notion of idolatry and to the development of innovative reflection regarding the plurality of extra-human entities worshipped by Indigenous populations that paved the way for a future theory of polytheism. So, the goal of this paper is two-fold: on the one hand, it tries to place historical and religious focus on processes traditionally viewed as marginal within religious studies; processes which even managed to make a marked contribution to the development of a mainstream reflection while constructing the modern sphere of religious debate. Indeed, as regards the history of the New World, we can see an underestimation of the first stages of the colonial debate that paid witness to the existence of clear signs of a change in the European imagination. Even if this question cannot be looked at in great detail, I feel that study of missionary writings can help reflect on the conditions for a theory of polytheism. As far as this is concerned, it may be useful to establish a dialogue with the “sceptic” perspective within Mesoamerican studies that has questioned at length the possibility of applying the polytheistic notion of divinity to analysis of this historical and religious context.16 Secondly, we can hope for an interpretation of the colonial debate developed during the Early Modern Period which, thanks to careful acknowledgement of the plurality of religious systems, makes it possible to reconsider with greater awareness the “conventional pact” which helped make said theory of polytheism useable in comparative terms.17 In other words, the lexicon which missionaries proposed during New Spain’s early colonial history needs to 16

In Mesoamerican studies there survives a “critical” or “sceptical” position concerning the possibility of using the polytheistic notion of deity. For a synthesis of this debate, see Enrique Florescano, “Sobre la naturaleza de los dioses de Mesoamérica,” Estudios de cultura náhuatl 27 (1997): 41-67. Among the most stimulating works there figures the analysis of Alfredo López Austin, “Nota sobre la fusión y la fisión de los dioses en el panteón mexica,” Anales de Antropología 20, no. 2 (1983): 75-87, and, in Mayan studies, the reflections of Karl A. Taube, The Major Gods of Ancient Yucatan (Washington D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks, 1992). Also seeking to set forth a new interpretative hypothesis are: Elizabeth Hill Boone, Incarnations of the Aztec Supernatural: The Image of Huitzilopochtli in Mexico and Europe (Philadelphia: Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, 1989); Doris Heyden, “Las diosas del agua y la vegetación,” Anales de Antropología 20, no. 2 (1983): 129-145; and Luis Reyes García, “Dioses y escritura pictográfica,” Arqueología Mexicana 23, no. 4 (1997): 24-33. 17 See, for example, from the perspective of Religious Studies: Bruce Lincoln, “Nature and Genesis of Pantheons,” in Gods and Demons. Critical Explorations in the History of Religions (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2012), 17-29.

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Chapter One

be looked at first of all in order to identify the specific characteristics of Mesoamerican polytheism. To this end, I will examine Franciscan thinking only; firstly to limit the field of study, but also to single out a line of continuity and sharing of common theological principles within their sphere of interpretation. Lastly, I will look exclusively at the development of some theoretical statements–implicit or explicit–proposed during the first century of New Spain’s colonial history by three of the most important representatives of the Franciscan order: Toribio de Benavente Motolinía, Bernardino de Sahagún and Juan de Torquemada. I will try to outline the emergence of independent thinking on the nature of Mesoamericans gods which sprang from retrieval of the ancient Christian interpretation regarding paganism. Therefore, a colonial notion of divinity will come to light as a “dialogic” object, as the result of comparison between different religious systems and as a device aimed at encouraging the inclusion of Indigenous diversity in a global system of representation of culture differences at the beginning of the Modern Age.

Indigenous Gods as Expressions of Nature The work of the Franciscan Toribio de Benavente Motolinía represents an excellent point of departure for an analysis of these unique writings.18 Indeed, his missionary activity took place during the first part of New Spain’s history (Motolinía was part of the famous expedition of doce which landed in Mexican territory for the first time in 1524) and hence is especially stimulating for observation of the first part of the “lexicon of comparison” which was to become increasingly complicated and complex as missionary activities developed. The precocity of Motolinía’s work had major consequences for beliefs regarding Indigenous religiosity since his writings appeared to be heavily influenced by the optimism that characterised the first phase of missionary activities. As regards the nature 18

Motolinía’s work has stimulated much scholarly discussion. For a reconstruction of its structure and contents, Edmundo O’Gorman’s reflections are particularly useful; see fray Toribio de Benavente Motolinía, Historia de los indios de la Nueva España, ed. Edmundo O’Gorman (México: Editorial Porrúa, 1958); Memoriales o Libro de las cosas de la Nueva España y de los naturales de ella, ed. Edmundo O’Gorman (México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 1971); Libro perdido, ensayo de reconstrucción de la obra histórica extraviada de Fray Toribio, ed. Edmundo O’Gorman (México: CONACULTA, 1989). See also Sergio Botta, “El politeísmo como sistema de traducción. La obra misionera de Toribio de Benavente Motolinía frente a la alteridad religiosa de la Nueva España,” Guaraguao. Revista de Cultura Latinoamericana 28 (2008): 9-26.

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of Indigenous deities, Motolinía put forward a simple yet extremely coherent interpretative model from a theological viewpoint. His observations did not seem to be the result of an “ethnographic” type of reply that we could define as interested in a description of “emic” values of Indigenous cultures, but rather a retrospective dialogue with the Christian literary tradition.19 Colonial events were interpreted by Motolinía through a providential historical model which identified in New Spain’s history the re-opening of the confrontation between the Christian “truth” and idolaters’ “errors.” After offering a lengthy description of the idolatric elements still found in all Indian villages after almost two decades of Christian domination, Motolinía explained to European readers in his Historia de los indios de la Nueva España the reasons for the need for “spiritual conquest” through analogy with the biblical account of the ten plagues of Egypt.20 In this way, the Franciscan offered a clear theology of history that achieved the result of nullifying the scandal generated by the emergence of a plurality of cultures: indeed, by establishing an ideal link with the history of Israel, Motolinía perceived colonial history in the sense of an eternal fight against the devil and hence, against a “universal” form of religious disorder. Consequently, the first problem Motolinía had to deal with was a possible classification of the populations of New Spain within a Christian model of interpreting religious diversity. In his Epistola proemial, after a lengthy study of Indigenous history, Motolinía stated that the naturales of New Spain had to be looked on as pagans. In his opinion–and contrary to what many seemed to affirm during the early years of New Spain’s colonial history–the Natives of Mesoamerica could not be considered as part of the generation of Moors, nor as part of the Jews.21 This statement, offered at 19

“Yet while ancient arguments and beliefs about idols were reiterated in Peru, their effect was not quite what it had been in Europe. Besides, the arguments shifted and changed in the new context. There is also the question, did these arguments ever achieve any-thing beyond imposing European ideas and cognitive models on the Andean world? Or did they succeed in touching upon some aspects at least of Andean religious practice and belief?”: Sabine MacCormack, “Gods, Demons, and Idols in the Andes,” Journal of the History of Ideas 67, no. 4 (2006): 624. 20 “Hirió Dios y castigó esta tierra, y a los que en ella se hallaron, así naturales como extranjeros, con diez plagas trabajosas”: Toribio de Benavente Motolinía, Historia de los indios de la Nueva España, ed. Claudio Esteva Fabregat (Madrid: Dastin, 2001), 69. 21 “Algunos españoles, considerados çiertos rritos y costumbres destos naturales, júzganlos y dicen que son de generación de moros; otros por algunas causas y rrazones y condiciones que en ellos ven, dizen que estos indios son y deçienden de

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Chapter One

the start of his work, demonstrated above all the urgent need for “classification” that seemed to torment the European imagination. Moreover, the decision to place Indigenous cultures in the category of pagans made it possible to implement, albeit in a decontextualized historical condition, the arguments used against ancient paganisms during Christian history. Said solution most certainly fulfilled a cognitive function, but also catered to a political need: indeed, the “American pagans” could be looked on as guiltless since the fact that they had had no revelation of Christianity meant they were still “in need” of a message of salvation. The first major question of Christian anti-pagan literature to reappear in Motolinía’s writings concerned the infinite plurality of idols: to his eyes, they appeared to be inexhaustible in number, hidden in all corners and made of the most diverse materials.22 The problem was tackled by Motolinía without having to reach a compromise with the Indigenous forms of organisation of knowledge and represented a re-affirmation of the programmatic refusal of divine plurality which characterised the entire Christian tradition in similar literary forms. Indeed, according to Motolinía, the Mesoamerican religion was not organised on the basis of a different order of meanings, but was the product of an error of perspective which Christianity was already familiar with since it had fought against it during the first centuries of its history. In the fourth chapter of the first essay of his Historia, the Franciscan offered a collection of Mesoamerican idolatry which showed the total lack of all ethnographic and cognitive interest: an inventory of idolatry was presented without any attempt to identify an organisational principle; the numerous Indigenous religious expressions were grouped together in a single, disorganised, omnicomprehensive category. It almost seemed as if, in the eyes of the missionary, it was pointless to look for a coherent order in the Indigenous vision of the world.23 Despite idolatry seeming to be an inexhaustible generaçion de judíos. La mayor parte y principal afirma que estos naturales son puros gentiles, y esta es la más común opinión y parece ser mas verdadera”: Toribio de Benavente Motolinía, Memoriales (Libro de oro, MS JGI 31), ed. Nancy J. Dyer (México: Colegio de México, 1996), 131. 22 “De como escondían los ýdolos y en que lugares tenían su adoración, y de la materia y forma que los hazían los quales eran ynumerables. […] No los podían agotar o acabar porque tenían ýdolos de piedra y de palo y de barro”: Motolinía, Memoriales, 155-156. 23 “Los indígenas poseen ídolos innumerables, que habitan muchos lugares: están en los templos, en los corrales, en los bosques, en las montañas, a lo largo de los caminos; están también cerca del agua, en las fuentes, en los árboles, en las

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phenomenon, when the writings took a closer look at the individual Native deities, the Franciscan made use of an interpretative model which clearly referred back to the Western literary tradition. Indeed at the start of his brief essay on Indigenous gods, Motolinía asserted that they acknowledged fire, air, water and earth as divinities.24 In this case, the reference to the framework of the four elements of nature performed a dual function: on the one hand, it promoted a first, elementary selection and classification of the Indigenous deities; on the other the interpretative model took on the form of a “judgement” and provided a clear explanation of the nature of the Indigenous error. The missionary proposed to explain the deities as forms of improper personification and deification of nature; in other words, it was proof of the Indigenous populations’ inability to distinguish the creator from his creatures which generated the breach from the substantiating hierarchy of Christian values. Therefore, from our viewpoint, another element of great interest comes to light: indeed, the use of the naturist model also seems to be the result of duplication of an interpretative model rooted in Old Testament tradition and apologetic literature. As already mentioned, the core of anti-idolatric arguments can be traced back to the Book of Wisdom. The essay found in chapters 13 to 15 offers a collection of the various forms of idolatric error: the adoration of natural phenomena and stars, the adoration of idols, the euhemeristic theory that explains the origin of the adoration of great men and dead rulers, and lastly the adoration of animals. This Jewish-Alexandrian model immediately generated a topos of the anti-pagan debate which was also taken up by Philo of Alexandria in the de Decalogo, hence also exercising a marked influence on the observations which led to creation of the term polytheism. While at a Christian level, the content of the Book of Wisdom became, for example, part of the Apology of Aristides of Athens,25 where the interpretative model was developed in a direction which could provocatively be defined as “proto-evolutionist.” In Aristides’ model, the different errors of idolaters were classified in accordance with the same encrucijadas, en los barrios y en los oratorios. Están hechos de piedra, de semillas, etcétera; son grandes, pequeños, medios; pueden representar hombres, mujeres, bestias feroces, serpientes, pájaros, águilas, tigres; el sol, la luna, la estrella, los peces grandes, hasta las ranas y los sapos”: Motolinía, Historia, 86-87. 24 “Tenían por dioses al fuego y al ayre y al agua y a la tierra”: Motolinía, Memoriales, 156. 25 See Aristide di Atene, Apologia, ed. Carlotta Alpigiano (Firenze: Nardini Editore, 1988) and Giuliano Gliozzi, “The Apostles in the New World: Monotheism and Idolatry between Revelation and Fetishism,” in The Inconceivable Polytheism, 123-148.

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Chapter One

quadripartite model of the Book of Wisdom, but had a precise historical and geographical distribution since they were assigned to four types of ideal populations. The truth of Christian monotheism can be found at the top of the evolutionary model describing religious diversity, outside the idolatric dimension, while at the bottom of the pyramid we can find the religion of barbarians that worship natural elements. The forms of error found in the religion of the Greeks, who worship human beings themselves, follows on from this in the progressive model of the development of idolatry. Lastly, at a higher level, we can find the Jews who, even if they worship only one God, have not achieved a knowledge of the truth comparable to that of Christianity. Hence, the explicit use of the Christian apologetic argument at the start of Motolinía’s work is interesting since it shows, from a missionary viewpoint, the basic error of all Indian idolatries: the incorrect adoration of creation instead of the creator itself. At the same time, at the beginning of an era during which contact between different worlds multiplied, this model offered Motolinía a simple yet effective classification of the populations encountered on the basis of a religious criterion: the problem of difference was thus resolved through generalisation of a theological way of thinking, making it possible to “translate” the systems of Indigenous values into a simple, special expression of a universal error.

Comparison with Ancient Times The application of this basic interpretative model was soon to prove inadequate to guarantee the colonial control of complex cultures such as those of Mesoamerica. Specifically, the naturist model put forward by Motolinía immediately showed its inability to satisfy the urgent taxonomic need that characterised this historical period. Indeed, the selection of Indigenous gods, organised around the ordering principle of the four elements of nature, soon proved insufficient to contain the complexity of the Indigenous religious systems slowly coming to light.26 With the passing of decades, the Franciscans’ missionary activities had to deal more and more with the plurality of Indigenous beliefs and practices. This is the reason why it was also necessary to develop more in-depth “ethnographic” knowledge that would make it possible to promote the definitive

26

James Lockhart, Nahuas after the Conquest: A Social and Cultural History of the Indians of Central Mexico, Sixteenth Through Eighteenth Centuries (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1992).

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eradication of Indigenous idolatry. The work of Bernardino de Sahagún,27 the complexity of which extends beyond the limits of this paper, appeared to be a direct product of this new socio-cultural condition. Indeed, the Franciscan, who arrived in New Spain in 1529, was the main actor in the second ethnographic surge that seemed to be a need that could not be put off from the second half of the sixteenth century on. Scarred by the cognitive failure of the first ethnographic phase–of which Motolinía and Andrés de Olmos were the leading exponents–the Franciscans came up with new methods and instruments to encourage in-depth knowledge of the Indigenous cultures. These included the famous paedagogical experiment of the Colegio Imperial de la Santa Cruz de Tlatelolco, of which Sahagún was one of the main sponsors. The pages of the so-called Coloquios de los Doce show the profound change in the temperament of the Franciscan mission which was experiencing a less brilliant period of pastoral activity.28 Sahagún, with the assistance of some of the school’s brightest Indigenous pupils, compiled said work in 1564 as a retrospective reflection on the first encounter on a theological level between Christians and Indigenous populations which had taken place in 1524. A refined rhetoric made it possible to enact, in these extraordinary pages of New Spanish colonial literature, the presumed victory of the Christian theological horizon over the Indigenous peoples’ paganism forty years after the start of the missions. This work, putting aside its numerous stratifications, clearly expressed a wish rather than concrete historical facts. Indeed it also contained a warning for the future generations of missionaries not to lower their guard in the development of the then still incomplete extirpation of idolatry. 27

On Bernardino de Sahagún, see Munro Edmonson, ed., Sixteenth Century Mexico. The Work of Sahagún (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1974); Jorge J. Klor De Alva, Henry B. Nicholson, Eloise Quiñones Keber, eds., The Work of Bernardino de Sahagun. Pioneer Ethnographer of Sixteenth-Century Aztec Mexico (Albany: University of Albany, Institute for Mesoamerican Studies, 1988); Miguel León-Portilla, Bernardino de Sahagún. Pioniero de la antropología (México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 1999); Miguel LeónPortilla, ed., Bernardino de Sahagún. Quinientos años de presencia (México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 2002). 28 Bernardino de Sahagún, Coloquios y doctrina cristiana: con que los doce frailes de San Francisco, enviados por el papa Adriano VI y por el emperador Carlos V, convirtieron a los indios de la Nueva España ...ࣟ: los diálogos de 1524, dispuestos por fray Bernardino de Sahagún y sus colaboradores, Antonio Valeriano ..., ed. Miguel León Portilla (México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas, Fundación de Investigaciones Sociales, 1986).

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Chapter One

Therefore the fact that, within the changed socio-political climate, Sahagún had included a need to generate knowledge inspired by practical purposes into his literary offerings was no mere coincidence. There is a quantity of material in his more clearly “ethnographic” works that cannot be equalled over the course of the history of New Spain. However, the highly detailed descriptions of Indigenous gods in Códice florentino is not be viewed so much as the product of a different theological interpretation of Indigenous religions, but rather as the product of an evolution of missionary strategies.29 As is well known, material focusing on the ancient Indigenous gods was grouped together in Book I of Sahagún’s encyclopaedia. A careful study of this extraordinary source cannot be performed herein. However, it is interesting to note how, from our viewpoint, Sahagún’s proposal represents an early sign of the crisis of modern applicability of the Book of Wisdom’s model which had, instead, dominated the model put forward by Motolinía. Indeed, even if the Franciscan opened his confutación de la idolatria, found in the Appendix to Book I, with a lengthy Latin quotation taken from the Book of Wisdom, it is clear that in the work’s overall economy it was only a rhetorical argument aimed at legitimising the Franciscan’s pastoral project.30 Indeed, the concise comparison with Indigenous material made Sahagún appear to be forced to extend the collection of exegetical instruments previously used by Franciscans in the laborious quest for an effective interpretative model that allowed for Indigenous practices to be wiped out. Sahagún added numerous instruments which had formed the lexicon of the Jewish29

Bernardino de Sahagún, Florentine codex: General History of the Things of New Spain, ed. Charles E. Dibble, Arthur J.O. Anderson (Santa Fe: University of Utah, 1950-1982). 30 “Síguese de aquí claramente que Huitzilopochtli, no es dios, ni tampoco Tláloc, ni tampoco Quetzalcóatl; Cihuacóatl no es diosa, Chicomecóatl no es diosa, Teteuinnan no es diosa, Tzaputlatena no es diosa, Cihuateteo no son diosas, Chalchiuhtliicue no es diosa, Huixtocíhuatl no es diosa, Tlazultéotl no es diosa, Xiuhtecuhtli no es diosa; Macuilxúchitl o Xuchipilli no es dios, Umácatl no es dios, Ixtlilton no es dios, Opuchtli no es dios, Xipe Tótec no es dios, Yiacatecuhtli no es dios, Chicunquiáhuitl no es dios, Chalmecacíhuatl no es diosa, Acxomúcuil no es dios, Nácxitl no es dios, Cochímetl no es dios, Yacapitzáhuac no es dios, Nappatecuhtli no es dios, tepictoton no son dioses, el Sol, ni la Luna, ni la Tierra, ni la Mar, ni ninguno de todos los otros que adorábades no es dios; todos son demonios. Ansí lo testifica la Sagrada Escriptura diciendo: omnes dii gentium demonia. Quiere decir: ‘Todos los dioses de los gentiles son demonios’”: Bernardino de Sahagún, Historia general de las cosas de Nueva España, ed. Alfredo López Austin and Josefina García Quintana (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1988), 68.

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Christian comparison with paganism31 to Motolinía’s basic model when analysing the individual deities. However, despite the cognitive urgency pushing the Franciscan to hope to tackle the comparison with Indigenous facts by using interpretative models of the apologetic tradition, these proved to be no longer able to contain the complexity of the facts observed. Hence, Sahagún was forced to single out a new exegetical direction, attempting to establish a systematic comparison with Greek and Roman paganism which led him to invent a genuine polytheistic pantheon thanks to an advanced “theological onomasiology”32 that made it possible to translate the Indigenous religious experience. Therefore, Sahagún’s encyclopaedic work33 seemed above all to cater to a new political need. Indeed, the main goal of his work was not to systematically bring together knowledge of the culture observed–the goal of all encyclopaedic projects–but to rethink a radically different culture through his own ways of knowing.34 Therefore, the drafting of Book I of the Códice florentino marked a turning point in the formation of missionary debate on the plurality of Indigenous deities. Indeed, firstly it generated the transformation of an implicit pictographic theology–the traditional pre-Hispanic representation of “divine bodies”–into an explicit idolatric theology–an interpretation that transformed pictographic materials into an “ancient paganism” which, paradoxically, was reproduced in the 31

See Guilhem Olivier, “El panteón en la Historia general de las cosas de Nueva España de fray Bernardino de Sahagún,” in Bernardino de Sahagún. Quinientos años de presencia, ed. Miguel León-Portilla (México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 2002), 61-80; “El panteón mexica a la luz del politeísmo grecolatino: el ejemplo de la obra de fray Bernardino de Sahagún,” Studi e Materiali di Storia delle Religioni 76, no. 2 (2010): 389-411. 32 Jan Assmann, “Translating Gods: Religion as a Factor of Cultural (Un)translatability,” in The Translatability of Cultures: Figurations of the Space Between, ed. Sandford Budick and Wolfgang Iser (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996), 25-36. 33 Arthur J.O. Anderson, “Sahagún’s ‘Doctrinal Encyclopedia’,” Estudios de Cultura Náhuatl 16 (1983): 109-122. 34 “The reconfiguration of the known coming from patterns of cultures alien to the knower’s tradition, resulting in the repression of native categories to perform the same classificatory operations. […] If encyclopedias (because of their complex story) are both grouping the known and organizing ways of knowing, Sahagún’s encyclopedia offers the wonderful spectacle of Mexica civilization as known by a Spanish Franciscan at the same time that it hides from us the Mexica’s own organization of their own ways of knowing”: Walter Mignolo, The Darker Side of the Renaissance. Literacy, Territoriality, and Colonization (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1995), 199-202.

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Chapter One

Americas. The ethnographic activity, performed through questionnaires thanks to which Sahagún produced valuable preparatory material–the socalled Primeros Memoriales35–had started a Western process of “deification” of those Indigenous pictographic representations that depicted extra-human entities, protagonists of myths, high standing men, priests, ritual operators, etc. In this way, Sahagún’s collection generated a decontextualization of Indigenous representations that were, indeed, isolated from their original pictographic and ritual context. Reinserted into an artificial encyclopaedic literary container, the images of the Primeros memoriales–the “emic” content of ethnographical activities–lost their Indigenous significance and were replaced by alphabetic descriptions and annotations that created genuine theological compendia.36 Therefore, the texts written in Nahuatl found in the encyclopaedic Códice florentino–and the final translations in Castilian found in Historia general de las cosas de la Nueva España–can be taken as a sign of the definitive alteration of the Indigenous religious imagination: after breaking the link between the images and their descriptions, Sahagún’s encyclopaedic activities created a “language of exclusion,” a colonial debate through which the Christian world appropriated itself of the Indigenous sense of world, cancelling it from the panorama of modern history.

The Universal History of Idolatry Not even the solutions put forward by Sahagún obtained the success hoped for. At the start of the seventeenth century, the work of Juan de Torquemada, Los veintiún libros rituales y Monarquía indiana,37 marked a new phase in the study of Indigenous gods. The culmination of Franciscan cultural achievement in New Spain,38 the work published in Seville in 1615 can be considered the point of arrival of the first long phase of their 35 Bernardino de Sahagún, Primeros Memoriales, ed. Thelma D. Sullivan (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1997). 36 Eloise Quiñones Keber, “Deity Images and Texts in the Primeros Memoriales and Florentine Codex,” in The Work of Bernardino de Sahagun. Pioneer Ethnographer of Sixteenth-Century Aztec Mexico, ed. Jorge J. Klor De Alva, Henry B. Nicholson, Eloise Quiñones Keber (Albany: University of Albany, Institute for Mesoamerican Studies, 1988), 255-272. 37 Juan de Torquemada, Monarquía indiana, ed. Miguel León-Portilla (México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas, 1983). 38 Benjamin Keen, La imagen azteca en el pensamiento occidental (México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1984), 191.

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mission. As regards the religion of the ancient Mesoamerican populations, the most important information can be found in Books 6 through 10 of Monarquía indiana.39 In the proposed descriptive order of Indigenous beliefs and practices drawn up by Torquemada, we can appreciate reproduction of the classification model proposed by the Dominican Bartolomé de Las Casas in his Apologética Historia Sumaria,40 from which the Franciscan borrowed the thematic organisation of religious facts and reproduced, almost identically, the grille conceptuelle that was acknowledged as its all-important characteristic by Carmen Bernand and Serge Gruzinski.41 Indeed, Book 6 of Monarquía indiana is explicitly dedicated to idolatry and gods, Book 7 to sacrifice, Book 8 to temples, Book 9 to priests and lastly, Book 10 to religious celebrations.42 Despite the influence of a demoniac interpretation, taken from the work of the Jesuit José de Acosta, Torquemada’s way of thinking also distanced itself from his Franciscan predecessors. From a Lascasian viewpoint, Torquemada felt that all forms of adoration had to be looked on as a sort of natural inclination. Hence, Man, in all historical and cultural conditions, would seem not be able to live without acknowledging the existence of God, be it true or false.43

39 Josefina García Quintana, “La visión del mundo indígena de Juan de Torquemada en la Monarquía indiana,” in Torquemada, Monarquía indiana, 396400. 40 David Brading, Orbe indiano. De la monarquía católica a la república criolla, 1492-1867 (México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1991), 304-322. 41 Carmen Bernand and Serge Gruzinski, De l’idolâtrie: une archéologie des sciences religieuses (Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1988). 42 Elsa Cecilia Frost, “El plan y la estructura de la obra,” in Torquemada, Monarquía indiana, vol. VII, 69-85. 43 “Por esta lumbre natural impresa en el ánima (que es el entendimiento) no podemos conocer más de que hay Dios, a quien los hombres están obligados a adorar y servir como a verdadero criador y señor de todo; pero que sea uno o muchos no se puede luego fácilmente alcanzar por razón natural por causa de que excede este conocimiento a toda nuestra capacidad en infinita manera; por cuanto Dios, que es el que ha de ser conocido, es infinito; y el hombre, que es el que ha de conocerle, finito y de corta y limitada capacidad; y por esta distancia infinita no hay cosa más apartada y alejada de nuestro conocimiento que el de Dios; y por esto decimos que el conocimiento que alcanzamos, por ley natural de su majestad santísima, es muy corto, limitado y confuso; y juntamente afirmamos la dicha inclinación en el hombre, con la cual se inclina a buscar (aunque confusamente) a este Dios y criador, a quien tanto debe”: Torquemada, Monarquía indiana, bk. VI, chap. I, 18-19.

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Thus, even if the Franciscan’s thoughts on idolatry were based on some theological principles common to the Franciscan tradition, the interpretation of Indigenous religiosity advanced in Monarquía indiana introduced some important new elements. Idolatry no longer seemed to perform the function of a conceptual instrument used to judge Indigenous religiosity in a excluding manner, as during the first phase of Franciscan history. In other words, it was no longer a question, as in the case of Motolinía, of creating a debate that relegated Indigenous beliefs and practices to a “barbaric” past. In Torquemada’s work, idolatry represented a form of “language of inclusion”: a complex device that favoured a new way of conceiving the inclusion of said beliefs and practices in a Christian horizon.44 During the first phase of the Franciscan mission–for example, in Motolinía’s work–missionaries singled out an absolute inability in Indigenous religion to distinguish the creator from its creatures, consequently discovering a sort of negation of the hierarchy of Christian values which they looked on as “natural” and hence necessarily “universal.”45 On the other hand, Torquemada’s interpretation made it possible to observe the entire history of humanity in a uniform manner, with its differences laid out in a virtually inexhaustible sequence, both at a synchronic and diachronic level. Indeed, idolatry represented the natural religious condition of all populations in the absence of a doctrine and the intervention of grace.46 The invenciones of America’s populations were not solely due to their imagination, but could also be considered the product of numerous other nations worldwide.47 In this perspective, the Franciscan applied the same comparative method, which had represented the great novelty of Sahagún’s encyclopaedic 44

Mignolo, The Darker Side of the Renaissance. Sergio Botta, Religione e conquista. Saggi sul discorso coloniale in Messico (Roma: Nuova Cultura, 2008), 53-92. 46 Torquemada “va a tratar de mostrar que todas las supersticiones y yerros que puedan echarse en cara a los indios son patrimonio de la humanidad toda, mientras no le llegue la luz del Evangelio”: Frost, El plan y la estructura de la obra, 77. 47 “Y no te parezca fuera de propósito, tratando de indios occidentales y de su moda de religión, hacer memoria de otras naciones de el mundo, tomando las cosas que han usado desde sus principios, porque uno de mis intentos, escribiendo esta larga y prolija historia, ha sido dar a entender que las cosas que estos indios usaron, así en la observancia de su religión como en las costumbres que tuvieron, que no fueron invenciones suyas nacidas de su solo antojo, sino que también lo fueron de otros muchos hombres del mundo, y que nada hicieron éstos que no fuese costumbre y hecho antiguo. Y que todo, o lo más que esotras naciones del mundo obraron, se verifica y comprueba en ésta, como parecerá en los libros que se siguen”: Torquemada, Monarquía indiana, bk. VII, prólogo, 136. 45

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model, to the study of Indigenous idolatry–and by extension to all idolatric systems. Nevertheless, Torquemada succeeded in showing how Indigenous superstitions could be considered an “asset” of all humanity.48 Torquemada’s theological objective was to show how natural reason, whose very essence tended to search for God, was equally led astray by Satan, generating similar religious developments in historically and geographically separate parts of the world.49 Hence the comparative method asserted itself at a higher level of theological generalisation compared to the function it performed in Sahagún’s work.50 In Monarquía indiana, Torquemada intended not only to include Indigenous religious history among classic cultures, but also to mark out a global vision. Thus the Franciscan outlined an intellectual project that made it possible to study Indigenous cultures–and potentially all the Native cultures encountered by Europeans during the Modern Age–through a new representation of the notion of idolatry that could be interpreted as a universal law of religious development.51 The interpretative change in Torquemada’s thinking was the result of a radically different historical context where missionaries were forced not only to inform European readers of the specific “ethnographic” condition of New Spain; indeed it was also a question of accounting for the possible role of these exotic worlds within a wider historical and geographical 48

On comparison, see Miguel León-Portilla, “Idea de la Historia en la Monarquía indiana,” in Torquemada, Monarquía indiana, vol. 7, 349-354. 49 Keen, La imagen azteca, 193. 50 Keen, La imagen azteca, 192. 51 “Caso muy fácil es caer de un error en otro, porque como dice la gente docta, dado un inconveniente, se siguen otros muchos en aquella causa; y así, es de pensar que les sucedió a todas las gentes del mundo, que comenzaron a errar en el conocimiento de Dios verdadero, porque dado caso (como ya hemos dicho), que tuvieron conocimiento de Dios confuso e indistinto, no se aprovecharon de él, de manera que les valiese para llegar a merecer el socorro de Dios para su verdadero y distinto conocimiento, por lo cual vinieron dando de ojos en errores y desatinos dignos de hombres desamparados. De la gracia y desposeídos de todo favor y ayuda; de aquí nació la invención de los muchos dioses y el tomarlos por defensores y amparadores de sus causas y necesidades; de cuyos hechos se ríe y mofa el glorioso padre San Agustín, diciendo no poder llegar a más la locura que reconocer y recibir por dioses, defensores de la patria, a dioses vencidos que a sí mismos no pudieron defenderse. Mas aunque es así, que ciegos con sus desatinos erraron en la erección y levantamiento de sus dioses, conocieron haber entre ellos unos que diferenciándose de los demás, les llamaron supremos, de quienes procedía el ser y vida de el hombre”: Torquemada, Monarquía indiana, bk. VI, chap. 8, 43-44.

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context that included the entire kingdom of Monarquía católica: a kingdom which was at its largest during the historical period when Torquemada wrote his work thanks to annexation by Philip II of the crown of Portugal.52 Missionary activities, which during their first phase had performed an ethnographic function, took on a complete “anthropological” function in Torquemada’s work. Indeed, the comparison, previously used as a translational instrument, was developed as a complex cognitive device that performed a taxonomic function. It is necessary to shed some light on the question: in Sahagún’s work, the comparison with Greek and Roman deities was needed to understand the specific functions and meanings of the Mesoamerican figures, the worship of which had to be definitively eradicated. So the comparison with the ancient world–at this stage fully understood and definitively conquered–was made in the hope of providing an explanation to the Mesoamerican dilemma and making it possible to unravel, analogically, a complex religious question. Even if the types of theological reflection may appear to be very similar, in Torquemada’s it was the aims of his writings that explained its different meaning. Indeed, the function of writing Monarquía indiana was no longer to promote understanding of Indigenous daily practices. The Franciscans at the beginning of the seventeenth century hoped that the exterior forms of Indigenous religiosity had completely disappeared and that it was no longer necessary to worry about them on a daily basis. What now interested them was an innovative “geopolitical” plan, dominated by the Spanish universal monarchy and which “logically” was aimed at grouping together all the populations under its rule. To this end, the study of idolatries and Indian divinities took on a clearly theological and political function. Although, even in this case, arguments already developed by his coreligionists were encountered, the solutions put forward by Torquemada appeared to be original. Indeed, if we are to look at the use made in Monarquía indiana of the question of the indefinite proliferation of idols which had characterised Motolinía’s work, we can see how a different manner of statement produced a radically different rhetoric. Indeed, Torquemada was not so much interested in observing the disorder of Indigenous cults as in retracing the “historical” reasons behind 52

“La Monarchie catholique se singularise aussi par l’espace planétaire qui la constitue. […] Sans passé et sans précédent, dénuée de la moindre unité géographique, la Monarchie est à la fois enracinée sur des continents–les Indes occidentales–et installée sur les mers–l’océan Indien des Portugais”: Serge Gruzinski, Les quatre parties du monde. Histoire d’une mondialisation (Paris: La Martinière, 2004), 30-31.

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this phenomenon. It seemed to him to be the direct product of the fall of the Tower of Babel which generated not only the diversity of languages, but also the diversity of names given to the infinite idolatric phenomena and infinite gods encountered in the world.53 Attributing all idolatry to a specific historical condition found in Christian sacred writings was the equivalent of legitimising the universal claim of possession of all the idolatric populations the Spanish monarchy reigned over: they were none other than different facets of a single phenomenon. In this way, the cognitive problem generated by political and cultural pluralism was linked to the Spanish monarchy: it was also basically Catholic and hence had to absorb the risk that a possible explosion of the Christian notion of religion–in the face of the infinite proliferation of idolatries and colonial experiences–could lead to a phase of religious and cultural relativism. So, in the global context of Monarquía católica, Torquemada was in search of a more effective interpretative model. In this perspective, his work offered a new viewpoint on the theological model that St. Augustine had formulated to combat Roman gods. The deconstruction of Varro’s tripartite theology found in De civitate Dei was taken up by Torquemada both due to its acknowledged authority, and because it provided him with a model of direct application of his “Babelic” interpretation.54 In Book 6 of Monarquía indiana, the Franciscan systematically used St. Augustine’s arguments in the belief that the principles governing organisation of the divine were basically the same in all naciones antiguas de los Gentiles.55 However, the identity among the ancient religious worlds was not to be found solely in macro-structural types of similarities, but also in the detail of the identities of the individual deities. Therefore, Torquemada was able 53

“Y de aquí nació también, que no sólo elegiesen dios falso, sino muchos dioses, unos diversos y distintos de otros; porque si todas las gentes fueran unas, en unidad de lengua, cayendo en este yerro por ignorancia, todas concordarán en un error, y así todas constituyeran un dios; pero pues cada una nación tenía su dios y dioses, parece de aquí no haber concordado en un consejo y deliberación, lo cual no lo causó sino la diversidad de las lenguas, de donde les provino a cada gente y lengua caer en sus particulares errores y cegueras y escoger sus particulares y especiales dioses”: Torquemada, Monarquía indiana, bk. VI, chap. VI, 40. 54 David Brading, “San Agustín y América. Hernán Cortés, el milenio franciscano y Bartolomé de Las Casas,” in Mito y profecía en la historia de México (México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1988), 23-78. 55 “De los antiguos sabemos (según San Agustín, en los libros de la Ciudad de Dios), cómo dividieron sus dioses en tres partes o géneros, el primero de los cuales nombraron selectos, que quiere decir apartados o escogidos; el segundo género era de los medio dioses, y el tercero, de los dioses rústicos o agrestes”: Torquemada, Monarquía indiana, bk. VI, chap. XV, 58.

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to use Augustine’s arguments and lists56 as instruments of translation in various parts of his work since there was a total interpenetration between the two worlds looked at: not only did the gods worshipped by the Indigenous populations and those worshipped in ancient times resemble each other in an extraordinary manner, but they were indeed the same expression of a single historical process.57

Conclusion Therefore, the form of “colonial semiosis”58 put forward in Monarquía indiana fully satisfied the needs that emerged during the second phase of New Spain’s missionary history. In that period, classification of “Indigenous polytheism” served to include the Indigenous religious otherness in the global space marked out by Christian thinking at the start of the Baroque period. The systematic analogy offered by the Franciscan reinforced the effectiveness of a colonial type of conceptual model that managed to place the Indigenous imagination in a specific phase of the universal development of idolatry. Classification of these religious systems also offered the Christian culture the instruments to consider the relations between cultures created during the Modern Age from a religious perspective. Therefore, from this viewpoint, the proto-theory of polytheism, released from the burden of a judgemental and excluding language–and hence also liberated from the bother of daily routine–was transformed into the including language of global and baroque modernity: a seemingly neutral instrument that would then be handed over to the scientific study of religions.

Bibliography Anderson, Arthur J.O. “Sahagún’s ‘Doctrinal Encyclopedia’.” Estudios de Cultura Náhuatl 16 (1983): 109-122. Aristide di Atene. Apologia, edited by Carlotta Alpigiano. Firenze: Nardini Editore, 1988.

56

“Los dioses del primero género eran los grandes y escogidos, de los cuales era el primero Júpiter, y después de él, Apolo, Marte, Saturno Mercurio, Juno, Diana, Orcus, Venus y otros, que el mismo San Agustín, refiere”: Torquemada, Monarquía indiana, bk. VI, chap. XV, 58. 57 Keen, La imagen azteca, 193. 58 Mignolo, The Darker Side of the Renaissance.

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Assmann, Jan. “Translating Gods: Religion as a Factor of Cultural (Un)translatability.” In The Translatability of Cultures: Figurations of the Space Between, edited by Sandford Budick and Wolfgang Iser, 2536. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996. Barton, Stephen C. ed. Idolatry. False Worship in the Bible, Early Judaism, and Christianity. London-New York: T&T Clarke, 2007. Baudot, Georges. Utopie et Histoire au Mexique. Les premiers chroniqueurs de la civilisation mexicaine (1520-1569). Toulouse: Editions E. Privat, 1976. —. La pugna franciscana por México. México: Alianza Editorial Mexicana, Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes, 1990. Bernand, Carmen, and Serge Gruzinski. De l’idolâtrie: une archéologie des sciences religieuses. Paris: Editions du Seuil, 1988. Bodin, Jean. De la démonomanie des sorciers. Paris: I. Du Puys, 1580. Boone, Elizabeth Hill. Incarnations of the Aztec Supernatural: The Image of Huitzilopochtli in Mexico and Europe. Philadelphia: Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, 1989. Borgeaud, Philippe. Aux origines de l’histoire des religions. Paris: Seuil, 2004. Botta, Sergio. “El politeísmo como sistema de traducción. La obra misionera de Toribio de Benavente Motolinía frente a la alteridad religiosa de la Nueva España.” Guaraguao. Revista de Cultura Latinoamericana 28 (2008): 9-26. —. Religione e conquista. Saggi sul discorso coloniale in Messico. Roma: Nuova Cultura, 2008. Braden, Charles. Religious Aspects of the Conquest of Mexico. Durham: Duke University Press, 1930. Brading, David. “San Agustín y América. Hernán Cortés, el milenio franciscano y Bartolomé de Las Casas.” In Mito y profecía en la historia de México, 23-78. México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1988. —. Orbe indiano. De la monarquía católica a la república criolla, 14921867. México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1991. Byrne, Peter. Natural Religion and the Nature of Religion: The Legacy of Deism. London: Routledge 1989. Duverger, Christian. La conversión de los indios de Nueva España. México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1974. Edmonson, Munro, ed. Sixteenth Century Mexico. The Work of Sahagún. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1974.

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Eire, Carlos M.N. The War against the Idols: The Reformation of Worship from Erasmus to Calvin. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986. Elsner, Jas, and Joan-Pau Rubiés, eds. Voyages and Visions: Towards a Cultural History of Travel. London: Reaktion Books, 1999. Florescano, Enrique. “Sobre la naturaleza de los dioses de Mesoamérica.” Estudios de cultura náhuatl 27 (1997): 41-67. Frost, Elsa Cecilia. “El plan y la estructura de la obra.” In Torquemada, Juan de. Monarquía indiana, edited by Miguel León-Portilla, vol. VII, 69-85. México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas, 1983. —. La historia de Dios en las Indias. Visión franciscana del Nuevo Mundo. México: Tusquets Editores, 2002. García Quintana, Josefina. “La visión del mundo indígena de Juan de Torquemada en la Monarquía indiana.” In Torquemada, Juan de. Monarquía indiana, edited by Miguel León-Portilla, 396-400. México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas, 1983. Gladigow, Burkhard. “Polytheismus und Monotheismus. Zur historischen Dynamik einer europäischen Alternative.” In Polytheismus und Monotheismus in den Religionen des Vorderen Orients, edited by Manfred Krebernik and Jürgen von Oorschot, 3-20. Münster: UgaritVerlag, 2002. Gliozzi, Giuliano. “The Apostles in the New World: Monotheism and Idolatry between Revelation and Fetishism.” In The Inconceivable Polytheism: Studies in Religious Historiography (History & Anthropology, v. 3), edited by Francis Schmidt, 123-148. LondonParis-New York: Harwood Academic Publishers, 1987. Gruzinski, Serge. Les quatre parties du monde. Histoire d’une mondialisation. Paris: La Martinière, 2004. Heyden, Doris. “Las diosas del agua y la vegetación.” Anales de Antropología 20, no. 2 (1983): 129-145 Hodgen, Margaret T. Early Anthropology in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1964. Hulme, Peter and Tim Youngs, eds. The Cambridge Companion to Travel Writing. Cambridge, U.K.; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Hume, David. Four dissertations. I. The natural history of religion. II. Of the passions. III. Of tragedy. IV. Of the standard of taste. London: Printed for A. Millar, 1757.

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Johnson, Carina L. “Idolatrous Cultures and the Practice of Religion.” Journal of the History of Ideas. 67, no. 4 (2006), 597-622. Keen, Benjamin. La imagen azteca en el pensamiento occidental (México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1984), 191. Klor De Alva, Jorge J., Henry B. Nicholson and Eloise Quiñones Keber, eds. The Work of Bernardino de Sahagun. Pioneer Ethnographer of Sixteenth-Century Aztec Mexico. Albany: University of Albany, Institute for Mesoamerican Studies, 1988. Kobayashi, José Maria. La educación como conquista (empresa franciscana en México). México: El Colegio de México, 1974. León-Portilla, Miguel. “Idea de la Historia en la Monarquía indiana.” In Torquemada, Juan de. Monarquía indiana, edited by Miguel LeónPortilla, vol. 7, 349-354. México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas, 1983. —. Bernardino de Sahagún. Pioniero de la antropología. México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 1999. —., ed. Bernardino de Sahagún. Quinientos años de presencia. México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 2002. Lincoln, Bruce. “Nature and Genesis of Pantheons.” in Gods and Demons. Critical Explorations in the History of Religions, 17-29. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2012. Lockhart, James. Nahuas after the Conquest: A Social and Cultural History of the Indians of Central Mexico, Sixteenth Through Eighteenth Centuries. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1992. López Austin, Alfredo. “Nota sobre la fusión y la fisión de los dioses en el panteón mexica.” Anales de Antropología 20, no. 2 (1983): 75-87 MacCormack, Sabine. “Gods, Demons, and Idols in the Andes.” Journal of the History of Ideas 67, no. 4 (2006): 623-647. Maravall, José Antonio. “La utopía político-religiosa de los franciscanos en Nueva España.” Estudios Americanos 2 (1949): 199-227 Mignolo, Walter. The Darker Side of the Renaissance. Literacy, Territoriality, and Colonization. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1995. Morales, Francisco, ed., Franciscan Presence in the Americas. Essays on the Activities of the Franciscan Friars in The Americas, 1492-1900. Potomac: Academy of American Franciscan History, 1983. Motolinía, Toribio de Benavente. Historia de los indios de la Nueva España, edited by Edmundo O’Gorman. México: Editorial Porrúa, 1958.

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—. Memoriales o Libro de las cosas de la Nueva España y de los naturales de ella, edited by Edmundo O’Gorman. México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 1971. —. Libro perdido, ensayo de reconstrucción de la obra histórica extraviada de Fray Toribio, edited by Edmundo O’Gorman. México: CONACULTA, 1989. —. Memoriales (Libro de oro, MS JGI 31), edited by Nancy J. Dyer. México: Colegio de México, 1996. —. Historia de los indios de la Nueva España, edited by Claudio Esteva Fabregat. Madrid: Dastin, 2001. Olivier, Guilhem. “El panteón en la Historia general de las cosas de Nueva España de fray Bernardino de Sahagún.” In Bernardino de Sahagún. Quinientos años de presencia, edited by Miguel LeónPortilla, 61-80. México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 2002. —. “El panteón mexica a la luz del politeísmo grecolatino: el ejemplo de la obra de fray Bernardino de Sahagún.” Studi e Materiali di Storia delle Religioni 76, no. 2 (2010): 389-411. Phelan, John Leddy. The Millennial Kingdom of the Franciscans in the New World. London-Berkeley-Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1970. Quiñones Keber, Eloise. “Deity Images and Texts in the Primeros Memoriales and Florentine Codex.” In The Work of Bernardino de Sahagun. Pioneer Ethnographer of Sixteenth-Century Aztec Mexico, edited by Jorge J. Klor De Alva, Henry B. Nicholson, Eloise Quiñones Keber, 255-272. Albany: University of Albany, Institute for Mesoamerican Studies, 1988. Reyes García, Luis. “Dioses y escritura pictográfica.” Arqueología Mexicana 23, no. 4 (1997): 24-33. Ricard, Robert. La conquête spirituelle du Mexique. Essai sur l’apostolat et les méthodes missionaires des ordres mendiants en NouvelleEspagne de 1523-24 à 1572. Paris: Institut d’Ethnologie, 1933. Rubiés, Joan-Pau. “Theology, Ethnography, and the Historicization of Idolatry.” Journal of the History of Ideas 67, no. 4 (2006): 571-596. Sahagún, Bernardino de. Florentine codex: General History of the Things of New Spain, edited by Charles E. Dibble, Arthur J.O. Anderson. Santa Fe: University of Utah, 1950-1982. —. Coloquios y doctrina cristiana: con que los doce frailes de San Francisco, enviados por el papa Adriano VI y por el emperador Carlos V, convirtieron a los indios de la Nueva España ...ࣟ: los diálogos de 1524, dispuestos por fray Bernardino de Sahagún y sus colaboradores,

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Antonio Valeriano ..., edited by Miguel León Portilla. México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas, Fundación de Investigaciones Sociales, 1986. —. Historia general de las cosas de Nueva España, edited by Alfredo López Austin and Josefina García Quintana. Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1988. —. Primeros Memoriales, edited by Thelma D. Sullivan. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1997. Schmidt, Francis. “Naissance des polythéismes (1624-1757).” Archives des sciences sociales des religions 59, no. 1 (1985): 77-90. —. “Polytheisms: Degeneration or progress?” In The Inconceivable Polytheism: Studies in Religious Historiography (History & Anthropology, v. 3), edited by Francis Schmidt, 9-60. London-ParisNew York: Harwood Academic Publishers, 1987. Sheehan, Jonathan. “Thinking about Idols in Early Modern Europe.” Journal of the History of Ideas 67, no. 4 (2006): 561-570. Smith, Mark S. God in Translation. Deities in Cross-Cultural Discourse in the Biblical World. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008. Strenski, Ivan. Thinking about Religion. An Historical Introduction to Theories of Religion. Oxford: Blackwell 2006. Stroumsa, Guy G. A New Science. The Discovery of Religion in the Age of Reason. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2010. Taube, Karl A. The Major Gods of Ancient Yucatan. Washington D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks, 1992. Torquemada, Juan de. Monarquía indiana, edited by Miguel León-Portilla. México: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas, 1983. Weckmann, Luis. “Las esperanzas milenaristas de los franciscanos de la Nueva España.” Historia Mexicana 33, no. 1 (1982): 89-105.

CHAPTER TWO THE DOCTRINE OF JULI: FOUNDATION, DEVELOPMENT AND THE NEW IDENTITY IN A SHARED SPACE VIRGINIA BATTISTI DELIA

It is widely stated that the arts, in addition to being material expressions of a cultural identity, are the most direct route to others’ education and comprehension.1 The Europeans who arrived in the Americas had to make this a truth of their own. The colonisers’ Western society found itself in full artistic bloom in this period. Between 1400 and 1500, the Renaissance and the Baroque had forever revolutionised the idea of art. The Catholic Church, with the counter-reformations at the Council of Trent, had identified in graphic representations an essential tool for driving ideas and theories. The Catholic Church was in danger due to the Lutheran Reformation and idolatry within the newly discovered population: the Church needed to gather strength. Therefore the importance of symbols already recognised as elements on which to build the model of each culture was undeniable. Colonisers and colonised shared neither language nor culture. Graphic representations, and art in general, were therefore considered privileged tools for evangelising the Native population. However, both cultures, Catholic and Native, had developed in very different ways. Thus it was necessary to build new symbolic structures. It was clear that Indigenous art, considered the material form of a pagan religion, had to disappear. The unique, righteous, and accepted truth was therefore to be established: the religion of the colonisers. The presence of any traditional iconographic features would only continue to feed Indigenous idolatry. Thus, a symbolic chaos was unleashed, where politics of the image carried out a fundamental role in the desire to reorganise the emerging new 1 Erwin Panofsky, El significado de las artes visuales (Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 2008).

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society. Already since the beginning of the conquest, Spaniards brought books, engravings and paintings of religious character to Peru that were utilised to decorate the church as a “model of allowed art.” With the understanding that in the Andean mentality there was an inseparable connection between representation and object, doctrine and icon, evangelisers used new images to explain the characteristic features of the Catholic religion preached in sermons.2 One battle Viceroy Toledo rushed to encourage was precisely the battle of imagery. Some regulations read that paintings on vases, staffs, walls, buildings, mantles and on any other kind of object commonly decorated by Natives were forbidden to avoid the preservation of any kind of idolatry: Y proveeréis entrando en cada repartimiento que ningún oficial de aquí adelante labre ni pinte las tales figuras, so graves penas, las cuales ejecutareis en sus personas y bienes lo contrario haciendo. Y las pinturas y figuras que tuvieran en sus casas y edificios y en demás instrumentos que buenamente y sin daño se pudieren quitar y señalareis que pongan cruces y otras insignias de xtianos en sus casas y edificios.3

Prohibition was not simply aimed at eliminating Indigenous art, but rather to effect a graphic substitution of ideas. The autochthonous symbols were replaced by objects and images brought by colonists, considered adequate and pious in the representation of the Catholic religion and Western culture. Actually, the situation developed differently from expected; the clash of cultures ended up causing a superimposition of two outlines, creating idiosyncratic art that took graphic inspiration from Western content and forms characteristic of the Native context. Therefore, a totally new order was born, in which art started to draw inspiration from both cultures. On the path to adopting a new religion, aiming to identify with it, reinterpretation becomes necessary to perceive the new cult as familiar and comprehensible.4 Natives filled their queros with Western symbolism or decorated the new objects with Andean symbolism to find a personal and more comprehensive space in the new context that had been created through the conquest. 2

Thomas B.F. Cummins, Brindis con el Inca: la abstracción andina y las imágenes coloniales de los queros (Lima: UNMSM Fondo Editorial, 2004). 3 “Francisco de Toledo. Disposiciones gubernativas para el virreinato del Perú 1569 - 1574” in Pierre Duviols, Procesos y visitas de idolatrías. Cajatambo, siglo XVII (Lima, Ed. PUCP 2003), 686. 4 Victor Turner, The Ritual Process. Structure and Anti-Structure (Chicago: Aldine Pub. Co., 1969).

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Many Catholic images were re-imagined and restructured in the Andean context: one only need think of the Vírgenes de los Apus. The aesthetics of colour, the realism, perspective and architectonic shapes in paintings stayed faithful to Catholic dogma, but at the same time they were filled up with other meanings; Natives had started to restructure their autochthonous context in the panorama of European artistic paradigms. The Jesuits first accepted art as a form of comprehension, attempting a change in perspective. When the Society of Jesus arrived to Peru in 1568, the colonisation and consequential evangelisation of Latin America had already been set in motion but were not giving the expected results. The evangelised Native population was still scarce, and missionary work did not seem adequate to face idolatry. Nevertheless, Jesuits had a different idea of evangelisation, an evangelisation that had to go, in the first place, through the knowledge of the evangelised human being, his customs, and traditions which, if valid, could be reintegrated in the process of indoctrination itself. Since its birth, religious members of this Company were characterised by their interest in artistic expressions. Some scholars state that Jesuit contribution to the birth of Baroque style is undeniable; without deepening the controversy, the Jesuits’ interest in the arts is certain: it was seen as a privileged medium to bring men closer to God. Jesuit novices themselves were also artistically instructed by great artists of the time.5 In Latin America, this marked predisposition took place in different settings; the well-known Paraguayan missions are not just an example of functionality, but also of aesthetics: the fine decorations and carvings of San Ignacio Miní witness the value Jesuits placed on beauty.6 In Peruvian territory however, the case of the mission to Juli is one that particularly attracts our attention. In Juli we can notice how religious art loses its purely aesthetic value to become a material example for the comprehension of others. Churches became a shared space to give life and shape to the new religion, which the Jesuits themselves seemed to promote: a Catholic religion, nevertheless charged at the same time with Native meanings. Jesuits and Natives together reinvented the art of conquest, fusing it with the old autochthonous view of the world and making it idiosyncratic.

5

Giovanni Sale S.J., Ignazio e l’arte dei gesuiti (Milano: Jaca Book, 2003). Horacio Bollini, El arte en las misiones jesuíticas (Buenos Aires: Ed. El Corregidor, 2007). 6

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1. Juli is a mission constantly used as an example. It is cited as a key mission which played vital roles in the development of Jesuit evangelisation and which inspired all other Jesuit missions and Indian reducciones in southern Peru, Bolivia, Argentina and Paraguay. The Jesuit Manuel Marzal, referring to Fr. Acosta and his De procuranda indorum salute, writes: Acosta, in the De procuranda, did not simply make a lucid theoretical analysis of the problems of evangelisation, offering adequate solutions, but also put them in practice when he promoted the doctrine at Juli which, despite being one of the 16 provinces that sent mitayos to the feared mines of Potosí, knife of the Natives, became, during the two centuries it was in Jesuit hands, a model of human promotion for Natives and of a respectful evangelisation of the Andean culture.7

Juli can therefore be considered a materialisation of the theories of evangelisation that all Jesuits, and Acosta in particular, were promoting, not only in Latin America, but in all Western colonies of the time. Thus, the organisation of Juli and its functional missionary structure were later reproduced in the construction of the Bolivian reductions at Chiquitos, Moxos and Santa Cruz.8 The Jesuit brothers who were to found and evangelise at Bolivian missions first stayed for a certain time in the Juli mission, where a language school for the study of Aymara had been established.9 The artistic workshops that the Jesuits developed in Juli– where Native builders, carvers, artists and sculptors decorated churches– were considered a valid educational tool and were later established at Paraguayan missions such as San Ignacio de Miní.10 Juli is therefore of undoubted importance for the missionary scene in Latin America. Moreover, to understand its relevance, a brief historicogeographic description is necessary. The most populated Inca Suyo was Collasuyu, located in the south of the kingdom. The Lupacas had settled in this province, an Aymara speaking ethnic group distributed in seven 7

Sandra Negro Tua and Manuel Marzal, Esclavitud, economía y Evangelización (Lima: Fondo Editorial PUCP, 2005). 8 Ramón Gutiérrez, “Propuestas urbanísticas,” in Un reino en la frontera. Las misiones jesuitas en la América colonial, eds. Sandra Negro and Manuel M. Marzal (Lima: Fondo Editorial PUCP, 1999), 251-269. 9 Xaviér Albó, “Notas sobre jesuitas y lengua aymara,” in Un reino en la frontera, 397-415. 10 Bollini, El arte en las misiones jesuíticas, 71-75.

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towns:11 the capital Chucuito and the towns of Ancora, Ilave, Juli, Pomata, Zepita and Yunguyo.12 In 1538, the Pizarro brothers, Hernando and Gonzalo, conquered the Collasuyu and, after the defeat of the Aymaras, Francisco Pizarro went to inspect the new domain, being impressed by the riches of the Lupaca lands. During the colonial period, it was customary to reserve the richest lands of each conquered territory for the King of Spain. After Pizarro’s visit, Chucuito was officially declared “King’s Land.”13 In 1547, the Main Religious Assembly, presided over by Tomás de San Martín, sent two Dominican frailes to Chucuito lands to start the task of evangelisation.14 Between 1567 and 1568, Garci Diéz de San Miguel was invited by the Viceroy to travel to Chucuito province as a visitor; his opinion did not favour the Dominican evangelization. In his letter to the Viceroy, the visitor Garci Diéz declares: Por esto es mejor para el descargo de la real conciencia de VM que la dicha provincia la doctrinasen los hermanos de la compañía de Jesús y que se esto no es posible a lo meno se deberían poner dos dellos en el pueblo de Xulí.15

Of all seven Lupacas towns, Garci Diéz names Juli as the main town of the province. Why? Firstly, Juli was the most populated town, and therefore the richest. Demographically, it exceeded Chucuito–the “formal capital”–in almost all stages of its pre-colonial and colonial history. Its location, in the exact centre of the province, favoured the movement of the evangelisers, who arrived from the north heading to the southern Bolivian mines. Additionally, Juli enjoyed a peculiar social situation: instead of being divided in two suyos, Hanansaya and Hurinsaya, in Juli, a third suyo appeared: Ayancas. Power was consequently divided between three curacas. At an architectonic level, Juli’s urban area was well developed. The town was founded on April 2, 1565 by order of vice-royal envoy Lope García de Castro and the first stones were set, as was customary, upon the

11

Pedro Cieza de León, La Crónica del Perú, trans. Franklin Pease G.Y. (Lima: Ediciones Peisa, 1973), chap. XCIX, 225. 12 Norman Meiklejohn, La iglesia y los lupaqas de Chucuito durante la colonia (Cuzco: CERA B. Las Casas, 1988). 13 John Murra, Formaciones económicas y políticas del mundo andino (Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, 1975). 14 Meiklejohn, La iglesia y los lupaqas. 15 Garcí Diéz de San Miguel, Visita hecha a la provincia de Chucuito (Lima: Edición Casa de la Cultura, 1964).

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ruins of the former curaca Cariadaza’s house.16 All these qualities made Juli the perfect candidate for a centre to begin a new process of evangelisation. On November 7th, 1572, the Dominicans abandoned the province and four years later Viceroy Toledo offered the doctrine to the Jesuits, a relatively “new” order in Peru and the Catholic world in general.

2. The Society of Jesus arrived in Peru in 1569,17 over 30 years later than the Franciscans, Dominicans, Augustinians and Mercedarians. However, they rushed into starting their process of evangelisation. They immediately founded the Colegio Máximo de San Pablo de Lima;18 they took charge of the Colegio San Francisco Borja del Cuzco for children of local political leaders; they started the evangelisation of the Native neighbourhood of Santiago de Cercado, in the capital’s suburbs. They also accepted the Huarochirí mission near Lima, where they arrived in 1569,19 but the missionary experiment did not last long. In 1573, the Jesuits abandoned Huarochirí due to problems with the Spanish Crown, who expected them to establish Indian reductions, and with other religious orders, who regarded the Jesuits’ methods of evangelisation with distrust, accused them of having stolen missions from secular priests. In 1576, Viceroy Toledo offered Juli to a Jesuit of the local province, Juan Plaza.20 Despite an initial denial for the Society in Peru, Rome and Toledo arrived at a formal agreement; vice-royal authorities would stay out of the management of the Indian reductions. Moreover, no Spaniards or any secular priests were allowed to live or even visit the town of Juli.21 Under these conditions, the Society accepted the doctrine, and in November of 1576 a group of Jesuits left Lima to return to Juli.

16 Juan Alberto Cuentas Zavala, Juli: cuatrocientos años (Puno: Ed. Los Andes, 1968). 17 Jeffrey Klaiber, S.J., Los jesuitas en América Latina 1549-2000 (Lima: Ed. UARM, 2007). 18 Monique Alaperrine-Bouyer, La educación de las élites indígenas (Lima: IFEA, 2007). 19 Ruben Vargas Ugarte, S.J., Historia de la Compañía de Jesús en el Perú (Burgos: Ed. Aldecoa, 1963). 20 Monumenta Peruana, ed. Antonio de Egaña S.J. (Romae: Monumenta Historica Soc. Iesu, 1986), vol. II, doc. 20 “El padre Juan de la Plaza,” Cuzco 12 de Diciembre 1576. 21 Klaiber, Los jesuitas en América Latina 1549-2000, 43.

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3. To understand the functionality of the churches and their role in Juli, we will briefly analyse the Indian reduction policy established by Viceroy Toledo and his importance in the architectonic and, consequently, life experience development of the town of Juli. According to regulations in the Laws of the Indies,22 Natives had to be reordered in towns according to the Indian reductions in order to facilitate the evangelisers’ work as well as the work of vice-royal authorities, who could easily find the townspeople when collecting tribute or asking for Native mitayos. In addition, when replanning Native towns, Spaniards better recognised the new urban structure. As previously seen, Juli was founded on April 2, 1565 and when the Jesuits arrived, the town perfectly respected the regulations of the Indian reductions plan established by the Spanish crown. The church, the main symbol of ecclesiastical power, and the Town Council, the symbol of civil jurisdiction, had been built in the Main Plaza. Besides Spanish religious and official symbols, the house of the leading curaca also found a space in the Main Plaza. It can be said that the plaza played two roles, the first as scenery to display Spanish authority: punishments would be carried out, pagan objects were burned, and the campaign to eradicate idolatry began. The second role was of “exchange,” as it became the spot where bonds between Native and colonial authorities were formally and informally strengthened. Viceroy Toledo’s urban policy did not limit itself only to a determined area […] in effect, vice-royal churches from this first period all across Puno’s high flatlands […] lie in the ecclesiastical square, which is an empty block of civilian buildings in an adjoining position to the town’s public plaza: this is the Toledan Urban Law.23

Nonetheless, an Urban Law was heading to what Geertz would call “appropriation of meaning”24 on behalf of the Spaniards. By conquering the plaza and organising it under colonial laws with Western style buildings,

22

Leyes de Indias, bk. VI, chap. III. In Archivo Digital de la Legislación en el Perú, accessed September 2012, http://www.congreso.gob.pe/ntley/LeyIndiaP.htm 23 Antonio San Cristóbal, Puno: esplendor de la arquitectura Virreinal (Lima: Ediciones PEISA S.A.C., 2004). 24 Clifford Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays (New York: Basic Books, 1973).

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they caused a place that up until that moment had been communitarian and autochthonous to lose its significance for the Native population. The population was also organised based on new Toledian laws: important townspeople, Spaniards and curacas set themselves around the Main Plaza, while the farther rims all the way to the town suburbs were selected as Indigenous houses: Streets were opened for them by blocks, in accordance with the design of Spanish spaces, taking the doors out to the streets so they could be seen and visited by justice and priests, [as] to learn to be a Christian, they are first in need to know to be men.25

Thus, Juli had been created as a Spanish town, where Natives were marginal townspeople, living far from the centre and without an urban space that would represent them.

4. When the Jesuits arrived, Juli found itself in a privileged architectural situation compared to many of the towns in Peru. The Dominicans had built a primal church, San Pedro Mártir, in the Main Plaza and had started to build two other churches, San Juan de Letrán and Nuestra Señora de la Asunción.26 The Jesuits decided to get to work finishing the churches left by Dominicans and in the meantime divide part of the Natives into a fourth parish.27 The fourth parish took the name of Santa Cruz de Jerusalén. Let us remember that the foundation of a parish did not necessarily mean the construction of a church. Therefore, the fourth parish, for Natives only–left in charge of one of the Jesuit brothers– gathered at first for weekly Masses in a shelter, “con muy poca decencia y irreverencia y incomodidades de parte de los oyentes.”28 As we will see, it was not until the late 1500s that Santa Cruz church began to be built, due also to the missions scarce finances. Building a church definitely constituted a greater expense, and the Jesuits needed to seek financing before starting construction projects. How did the expense distribution for 25 Lewis Hanke, Los virreyes españoles en América durante el gobierno de la Casa de Austria (Madrid: Atlas, 1978). 26 Monumenta Peruana, ed. Antonio de Egaña S.J. (Romae: Monumenta historica Soc. Iesu, 1986), vol. IV, doc. 112 “El P. Joan de Atienzo 2 de Enero 1589.” 27 The other three belonged to each of the three churches. 28 Monumenta Peruana, ed. Antonio de Egaña S.J. (Romae: Monumenta historica Soc. Iesu, 1986), vol. VII, doc. 112 “Juli 1 Marzo 1602.”

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the construction of a church work? In the Laws of the Indies, we can read about this: Que las iglesias parroquiales se edifiquen á costa del Rey, vezinos y Indios. Las Iglesias Parroquiales que se hizieren en Pueblos de Españoles, sean de edificio durable y decente, y la costa que en ella se hiziere se reparta y pague por tercias partes: la una de nuestra hazienda Real; la otra a costa de los vezinos Encomenderos de Indios de la parte donde se edificaren; y la otra de los Indios que hivere en ella y su comarca: y si en los terminos de la Cuidad Villa o Lugar estuvieren incorporados algunos indios en nuestra Real Corona Mandamos, que también se contribuya por nuestra parte con lo mismo que contribuyeren los vezinos Encomenderos respectivamente; y a los vezinos que no tuvieren Indios también se les reparta alguna cantidad pra el dicho efecto, conforme a la caliad de sus personas y haziendas, y lo que á estos se repartiere se desquente de la parte que tocare pagar a los indios.29

Nevertheless, there were no encomenderos in Juli and the town was located in the province of Chucuito, property of the Spanish Royalty. Under these circumstances, according to an official warrant of Viceroy Toledo of February 27th 1575, the King had to pay two thirds of the expenses to build the churches, while only one third came from Natives’ tributes: La una parte tenemos por bien sea de Nuestra real hazienda que nos perteneciere en la misma provincia y otra tercia parte se pague de los tributos que llevare el encomendero; si la encomienda estuviere en Nuestra Corona Real, se pague de Nuestra Real Hazienda, y la otra tercia parte paguen los indios, y los españoles que oviere en el tal pueblo que no tengan encomiendas, se les repartan conforme a la hazienda que tuvieren; y no siendo todo ello bastante, el Perlado terná iglesia y de dónde se le podrá proveer para el edificio y sustentación della que sea sin prejuizio de los indios, ni de otro tercero, para que Nos lo mandemos proveer.30

Obviously, the two thirds paid by the King of Spain were still an insufficient amount for the labours the Jesuits wanted to carry out. Therefore, the brothers of the Society set strategies in action so that Juli would obtain enough churches to take in the entire Native community. In the first place, benefit was obtained from Chucuito’s donation to the King of Spain. The Society achieved exceptional agreements with the Crown in 29

Leyes de Indias, bk. I, chap. II, Ley III. In Archivo Digital de la Legislación en el Perú, http://www.congreso.gob.pe/ntley/LeyIndiaP.htm. 30 ENCINAS, Cedulario I,147, en Archivum Romanum Societatis Iesu (ARSI).

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order to continue their labours for the construction of churches. In reading the Monumenta Peruana, it is easy to note that the King of Spain paid most of the expenses attached to church construction, religious ornaments, paintings and retables in virtue of his possession of the province. For example, the Juli Natives owed 460 Ducats of tax to the Vice-Kingdom. The Jesuits requested that the Natives’ debt be forgiven and that the same amount of money be invested in the construction of churches.31 Therefore, it was done. The Jesuits also requested that the King take charge of the altars’ retables, the golden ornaments, and the necessary decorations in each church, always appealing to the Crown’s possession of the churches in the province.32 For the lamp oil, the hosts and the candles used in each Mass, the Jesuits received 600 pesos per year.33 The King also decided to donate a chalice, a paten and a bell to each church in Juli: Nuestros oficiales de Nuestra Real Hazienda de las provincias del Pirú. Saved que aviéndosenos suplicado por parte de los religiosos de la Compañía de Jhesús, que en esas provincias residen, que atento su necesidad y que los otros religiosos de las Ordenes mendicantes avíamos mandado dar limosna para cada un monesterio, un cáliz con su patena y una campana, se llo mandásemos dar a ellos; visto por los de Nuestro Consejo de las Indias y acatando lo suso dicho, lo avemos tenido por bien; y ansí os mandamos que de qualsquier marvedises e hazienda Nuestra que fuere a vuestro cargo, compréis y agáis dar a cada una de las dichas casas y colexios de la dicha Compañía que al presente están fundadas y adelante se fundaren en esas provincias, un cáliz y una patena y una campana, que con carta de pago de los dichos religiosos o solamente de los Rectores o Superiores de las dichas casas y colexios, mandamos que se os sea 31

Monumenta Peruana, ed. Antonio de Egaña S.J. (Romae: Monumenta historica Soc. Iesu, 1986), vol. VII, doc. 112 “Padre Rodrigo Cabredo, Juli 1 Marzo 1602.” 32 “En la ciudad de Chucuito, a 26 de Agosto de 1592, Juan Vida juez y contador de esta ciudad y provincia de Chucuito, digo que, en conformidad de la provisión se le manda haga tasar las obras de los retablos de Juli y los colores y oro que era necesario para ello. Le ha parecido convenir que lo que ha de pagar Su Magestad, como de lo que le cave a pagar de bienes de comunidad se quiten y escalafonen mill y ducientos y cinquenta pesos de plata ensayada y marcada, y fecho el resumen y quitados la comunidad, restan a pagar de la caxa real 8. 184 pesos al Rector de la Compañía del nombre de Jesús del Pueblo de Juli a quién Su Excelencia manda que se le paguen, y asì se proveyó.” Documento Original, num. 64, folio 96 “Juan Vida, Chucuito 26 de Agosto 1592,” Biblioteca Nacional de Lima. 33 Monumenta Peruana, ed. Antonio de Egaña S.J. (Romae: Monumenta historica Soc. Iesu, 1986), vol. IV, doc. 112 “El P. Joan de Atienza Prov. 2 de Enero 1589.”

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recevido y pasado en quenta lo que en lo susodicho gastáredes, sin otro recaudo alguno. […]Yo, el Rey.34

Hence, the King of Spain’s possession of the lands of Chucuito was in favour of the Jesuits when the time came to build churches in Juli.

5. During the same period when the Jesuits arrived in Peru and took over the doctrine in Juli, the last stages of the Council of Trent were ending in Italy. Faced with the necessity of stopping the advancement of the Protestant Reformation, the Catholic Church had to find strategies to reaffirm its power. Art was one of the main tools used for this purpose. The rich decorations, the liveliness in paintings and the architectonic magnificence gave prestige to the papacy, and could once more bring the faithful close to the Church. Artists distanced themselves from sophisticated speculations and elaborated art forms to build a simple style, direct and highly figurative.35 In addition, dogmas proclaimed at the Council, such as Mary’s virginity, the mystery of the Trinity, and the Saints’ mystic ecstasy, became the absolute protagonists of paintings in the period. Architecture also found itself at the centre of the new ideology; the Baroque was the period of curved lines and “architectonic totality.” Architects experimented with new elements, such as the spiral, or Salomonic, columns to create a sense of movement. The building became a single and coherent space, with a strong interdependence between exterior and interior space. Paintings covered churches’ vaults. Ceilings represented paradise, clouds, the sky and the infinite spaces: the faithful would therefore have the impression that they were not in an enclosed building, but under the celestial heavens. For St. Ignatius of Loyola, image was fundamental to the life of a believer. The Society’s founder was interested in the vision and perception of each person, judging the sense of sight as vital to reach God. He stated that there should be no opposition between word and image. It was necessary to find mediation and integration between the two, to create a constructive dialogue, finding complementary ways capable of satisfying 34 Monumenta Peruana, ed. Antonio de Egaña S.J. (Romae: Monumenta historica Soc. Iesu, 1986), vol. III, doc. 56 “Felipe II Rey de España a los oficiales de la Real Hacienda del Peru Madrid 21 de Abril de 1583.” 35 Werner Weisbach, Arte barroco en Italia, Francia, Alemania y España (Barcelona: Labor, 1934).

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all senses in the life of a person: sight, hearing, tactile perception. All these aspects brought glory and praise to God. The first time Jesuits dealt with the issue of “style” was in 1558, when the General Congregation wrote in chapter XXXVIII of its annual report: Impóngase a los edificios de las casas y colegios el modo que nos es propio de manera que sean útiles, sanos y fuertes, para habitar y para el ejercicio de nuestros ministerios, en los cuales, sin embargo, seamos conscientes de nuestra pobreza por lo que no deberán ser ni suntuosos ni curiosos.36

This style was defined as Modus Nostrii. The primary requirements when building a religious space were that it should be useful and functional, and it should have style, artistic value. The General Congregation of 1565 decided that the Superior General would be in charge of approving the layouts of churches. All Jesuit buildings had to be approved, and all layouts and projects had to accede to the demands of functionality, rationality and exact spatial location. The Council had stated it preferred centralised floor plans, either elliptical or circular. Nevertheless, Jesuits found functional flaws in centralised floors, and designated the unique floor as the “preferred floor”: it was adapted to the precepts of functionality and safety, and the embracing function of the church was kept intact.37 Furthermore, Jesuits found single section churches to be more functional for administering the sacraments and preaching: the distance between seats and the pulpit was reduced since apses were closer to the central floor. Ideally, this brought the priest closer to his devout followers. Construction of churches was therefore not simply functional, but also enclosed a particular philosophy. In each church, a Native faithful had to recognise himself, feel accepted by his faith in God, and perceive the religious space as functional, personal and sacred. Churches were therefore modelled according to the architectural vision that the Jesuits had decided on and already experimented with in Rome. As we have seen, the Dominicans had finished building the church of Sts. Peter and Paul. This could be considered the cathedral of Juli. Located above an embankment, it dominated the entire Main Plaza and was reserved for the Spaniards’ Masses: 36 Alfonso Rodríguez Gutiérrez de Ceballos, S.I. Bartolomé de Bustamante y los orígenes de la arquitectura jesuítica en España (Roma, Institutum Historicum S.I., 1967), 67. 37 Giovanni Salle, Pauperismo architettonico e architettura gesuitica (Milano: Jaca Book 2001), 41-43.

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Más, se van edificando ahora las iglesias de las tres parrochias, por no estar edificada de propósito más que la mayor, que será obra de mucho lustre para el pueblo y provecho para los indios, porqué con esto assistirán a los divinos officios y sermones debajo de techado, lo qual hasta agora no han podido, por ser tantos que en todas quatro parrochias abrá como dose mill almas de confessión.38

St. Peter’s was practically built when the Jesuits arrived in Juli, and the Jesuits only attached, presumably a few years later, some decorative carvings in the bell tower. Jesuits took over the construction of the two other churches, which had been left to be finished. The Dominicans’ plans were not followed, and the churches were built according to the taste of the Society of Jesus. Therefore, all churches in Juli have a Latin cross floor. The personalisation of the architectural style was a way of setting the guideline between both evangelisations: the churches belonged to the Society, and the Natives had to recognise themselves in the Jesuit religious practices. Another method used by the Jesuits to take possession over the churches was naming them. Tzvetan Todorov analysed the Spaniards’ habit of renaming Native objects as a method of conquest.39 With the arrival of the Jesuits in Juli, the names of churches were gradually changed; this way, the Society took over the religious space and established it according to their own dogmatic vision. The main church of Sts. Peter and Paul was rechristened St. Peter Martyr. The Church of St. Ildefonso was renamed Our Lady of the Assumption. St. John the Baptist became St. John Lateran, and the last church took on the name of the Holy Cross of Jerusalem. By 1601, work on St. John Lateran had ended, while those of Our Lady of the Assumption continued and, in theory, the church of the Holy Cross of Jerusalem had started to be built. Ocho meses a que estoy en Juli, donde tengo salud y mucha ocupación. Ocúpome lo que puedo en predicar y confesar en las dos lenguas quichua y aimara y aun en la española en la ciudad de Chucuito, cabeça desta provincia, por no aver en casa quien lo haga. Tres iglesias hallé por acabar,

38

Monumenta Peruana, ed. Antonio de Egaña S.J. (Romae: Monumenta historica Soc. Iesu, 1986), vol. IV, doc. 112 “El P. Joan de Atienza Prov. 2 de Enero 1589.” 39 Tzvetan Todorov, La conquête de l’Amérique. La question de l’autre (Paris: Seuil, 1982).

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Chapter Two ya casi tengo acabada la una, y las otras dos dentro de un año se acabarán, como manda el P. Visitador.40

Even though the date when the construction of the Church of the Holy Cross began is uncertain, we know that the church had been finished by 1602, as it is witnessed in the Carta Anua of 1602, where Fr. Cabredo tells the Superior General Acquaviva about the importance of the churches in Juli. It is interesting to notice how, in the Carta Anua mentioned above, the beauty of the churches is equivalent to the Natives’ renewed faith, mirroring the religious conversion that the Jesuits effected in this province. Royal help was addressed towards building the nation’s most important temples in the King’s lands. However, the Jesuits took advantage of the particular situation in this province. Churches were never actually oriented to the Spaniards, but projected as fundamental tools of conversion. Art became a paedagogic method to bring Natives closer to God. The certainty of art’s utility in the conversion of Natives was not only ideological. Besides enjoying the beauty of the churches, Natives also had to be part of them, perceive them as their own and autochthonous, and be able to perceive the imposed Catholic religion as their own. The Jesuit order was never short of artists. In the Jesuits’ school in Rome, the Roman School, it was common practice for students to take art workshops: they learnt painting, sculpting, and art history, and the most capable students assisted Jesuit artists in the construction of churches. This paedagogic experience was then taken to Peru, and particularly to Juli. Natives did not simply remain external observers, but participated actively, getting to know and contributing in the construction of the temple. By turning from external observers to participant observers, locals were able to recognise themselves in the churches and, through material labour, approach the spiritual activities that took place in the temple. Natives took possession of the physical space, necessary for the rituals, through the creation of this space. They approached what was sacred through manual labour: Vienen a hazer sus iglesias, que si no fuera por este medio, nunca gozaran en verlas acavadas; y hechas dos iglesias, se an acavado este año en este pueblo por la buena diligencia de los Padres desta residencia que no las ay mejores en el Perú en lugar de indios y todos los que las ven se maravillan,

40

Monumenta Peruana, ed. Antonio de Egaña S.J. (Romae: Monumenta historica Soc. Iesu, 1986), vol. VII, doc. 51 “Juli 15 de Marzo de 1601 EL P. Nicolas Mastrilo Duran al P. Claudio Aquaviva.”

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viendo cosa tan bien acavada con tanta devoción y gradeza, como se puede desear.41

6. As previously seen, one of the tools used in the Conquest was the socalled “war of the images.”42 In Mexico, one strategy that soon became a leitmotif was to destroy ancient pagan temples and replace them with Catholic churches. The symbolic value of the act itself is powerful; Native gods disappeared and a material substitution was orchestrated at the centre of the sacred space. As can be imagined, this strategy created a religious confusion among Natives. Despite efforts by authorities, the new Catholic religion was transformed, taking in Indigenous features. Mexican art approached the European concept of art; it was in Peru that colonisers had greater difficulties deciding what would qualify as art. In the Inca state, the figurative patterns common in sixteenth century Europe were almost absent. Symbolic art, not understood by colonisers, was privileged. Thus, the “war of the images” in Peru did not reach the same violence as in Mexico. In addition, it had a relevant role in the evangelisation process. In the Constitución de los Naturales, drafted by Archbishop Jeronimo Loayza during the First Province Council in 1551, two constituciones (laws) refer to idolatry and Native images. The first states that in Native towns where there were converts, huacas should be destroyed and churches should be built above them, or at least a cross was to be set in their place. The second indicated the suitable punishment for Native priests who still practiced their religion and for any converted Natives who consulted them.43 The first objects to be identified as iconoclastic art pieces were the queros, which Cummins defined as “the physical manifestation of power and the Tahuantinsuyu’s legitimacy.”44 The Spaniards quickly understood the ritual value that queros held, and several chroniclers describe them as a fundamental part of Inca

41

Monumenta Peruana, ed. Antonio de Egaña S.J. (Romae: Monumenta historica Soc. Iesu, 1986), vol. VII, doc. 112 “Padre Rodrigo Cabredo, Juli 1 Marzo 1602.” 42 Serge Gruzinski, La guerra de las imágenes. De Cristóbal Colón a Blade Runners (México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1990). 43 “Los Concilios Provinciales de América Latina en los Siglos XVI y XVII” in “El Episcopado Latinoamericano y la liberación de los pobres,” en CLACSO, Consejoo Latinoamericano Ciencias Sociales, accessed September 2012, http://168.96.200.17/ar/libros/dussel/epis/cap5.pdf. 44 Cummins, Brindis con el Inca, 53.

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ceremonies.45 For this reason, they were reported to the authorities and, if discovered, disposed of. The elimination of Native art created a need for a replacement. Therefore, evangelists and colonisers started bringing art from Europe so the Natives would understand what kind of art was permitted. By 1545, one could already find books, engravings and paintings of religious character. Also, for the decoration of churches, Western art was used as a graphic explanation of the Catholic doctrine preached by the evangelists. Nevertheless, as had already happened in Mexico, religion in Peru also moulded itself to its context. Many Catholic images were re-imagined and restructured within the Andean context, where they adopted Native meaning. Locals started to imagine an Indigenous context within their view of the European scene, their reinterpretation resultin in an artistic combination. A classic example is Santiago Mata Moro, patron of warriors and of all who fight to establish the Catholic religion. In the Quechua tradition, the Catholic saint was compared to Illapa, the god of lightning. Guamán Poma states that Natives made sacrifices to Illapa on the same date that Spaniards honoured Santiago. Often, animal sacrifices were found in churches and beneath altars.46 According to the Spanish Crown, this mixed vision corroborated the opinion that art was a vehicle for idolatry, and the suppression of any idiosyncratic phenomena was necessary. However, the Jesuits did not share this vision. Idiosyncrasy was considered a natural occurrence in the process of converting the Natives. Rather than destroying autochthonous art, it was necessary to take it over, and create a style more identifiable by the Natives. The Indigenous idols did not have to be destroyed, as the Western graphic did not have to be imposed; it was necessary to find a balance so that both cultures could dialogue and together create a symbolic universe. Allowing Native symbols into the Western patterns that colonists attempted to impose in Peru, if only through art, was a way to reorganise a lost order. Attempting a deeper analysis of this reorganisation of the symbolic chaos, we will take as an example the decorated portals of St. John Lateran 45

See: Pedro Pizarro, Relación del descubrimiento y conquista del Perú [1571], ed. Guillermo Lohmann Villena (Lima: Fondo Editorial de la Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, 1986); and Juan Diez de Betanzos, Suma y narración de los Incas, seguida del Discurso sobre la descendencia y gobierno de los Incas, ed. María del Carmen Martín Rubio (Madrid: Ediciones Polifemo, 2004). 46 Harold Hernández Lefranc, “El trayecto de Santiago Apostol de Europa al Perú,” Investigaciones Sociales 16 (2006): 51-92.

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and Holy Cross of Jerusalem and the paintings of the Church of the Assumption. In the portals, Catholic symbols intertwine with iconography more typical of Andean regions, such as flowers, birds, pumas and monkeys. In addition, in these decorations evidently inspired by the Catholic religion, such as in the representation of the Passion of Christ, the carved figures are two-dimensional, the facial features are Andean and the geometric lines remind us more of the typology in Incan art than Baroque art. As mentioned before, the presence of Native symbols is found mainly in the portals of the Churches of San Juan and Santa Cruz. Both portals, shaped as retablos, are composed of three bodies, three streets and one attic. They are entirely carved in bas-relief with plants, flowers, birds and animals, in a style defined as mestizo baroque, or plain form style, typical only in the Puno region.47 When analysing the columns in San Juan, we can easily notice the presence of Andean influence on Catholic symbols. The animal shaped decorations, more often seen in a medieval bestiary, are the first to catch our attention. We find two animal shaped figures that alternate in the columns of San Juan de Letrán: in the first one, a bird pecks at a bunch of grapes. The grape, often used in the decoration of Catholic churches, represents the wine used in the Communion ritual. In Catholic iconography, birds generally represent the dove, a symbol for the Holy Spirit. The bird pecking the bunch of grapes therefore represents the mystic presence of the Holy Spirit during Communion.48 The second animal shaped character is a feline, represented with its jaws open among intertwined plants and flowers. The feline, puma or jaguar, was one of the most venerated and represented animals in pre-Columbian cultures. We can find representations of felines in the Nazca, Chimu, Pachacamac and Tiahuanaco cultures. In general, the puma refers to the celestial world as well as the underworld. The feline was a mythical animal, who could move along the different planes of the universe and was therefore often associated with the main, creator god, Viracocha.49 In the Inca culture, the puma was symbolically present in many rituals, such as the dance of the pumas, as well architecturally in Cuzco. Although the puma is not found in Christian iconographic culture, the lion is. A symbol of power and strength, the lion is sovereign, and thus can be fair or cruel. It is associated with one of the twelve tribes of Israel, Judah, considered to be the most powerful. The winged lion also became the symbol of one of the four 47

San Cristóbal, Puno: esplendor de la arquitectura Virreinal, 39. Edouard Urech, Dizionario dei simboli cristiani (Milano: Ed.Arkeios, 1995). 49 Julio César Tello, “Wiracocha,” Revista Inca 1, no. 1 (1923): 93-320 y no. 3 (1923): 583-606. 48

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evangelists, St. Mark.50 The feline was therefore considered positive by both cultures. The Incan puma could be associated with the biblical image of the lion, maintaining its ritual features and its characteristics of strength and power. A more complicated analysis is the case of the monkeys carved in the columns of the baptistery door at the Church of the Holy Cross of Jerusalem. Monkeys were an element present in the Catholic world, registered in medieval bestiaries. A harmful animal, it was considered a degraded form of humanity, an imitator. This is the reason why in medieval bestiaries it was associated with the Devil, called Simia Dei, the one who tries to imitate the things of God.51 In the Tuscan bestiary, the monkey “wants to do everything he sees done,” and thus also sinners, who imitate the Devil, the first to sin.52 The monkey was also a symbol of paganism and heresy, comprehensible if we consider that this animal is mainly native to non-Catholic regions. In addition, it is interesting to notice how, in the carvings of the portal of Santa Cruz, some monkeys hold the three nails of the Crucifixion in their hands, while others hang from the grapes previously mentioned. What is then the final meaning? In the “Virgen del Mono,” carved by Albrecht Dürer in 1498, there is a monkey chained to the Virgin Mary’s feet, more precisely, a macaque. The chained monkey symbolises, in this case, the concept of a new Church free from sin, the beginning of a new era for humankind, and Christ’s redemption.53 It could then be assumed that the monkey, generally related to paganism and the Devil, when represented with the symbols of the Passion and Communion on the baptistery doors, the sacred place of conversion, is here the symbol of evangelised Indians, of the old heretics now free of sin. Passing from the theme of animals to the theme of nature, we find one of the recurring decorations on portals in Juli, the Cantuta flower. The Cantuta is a perennial bush in the Andean area. In Quechua it is called the flor de k’antu and is also referred to as “the sacred flower of the Incas.”54

50

Michel Feuillet, Lessico dei simboli cristiani (Roma: Arkeios, 2007). Paolo Pettinari, “Bestie, uomini e virtù. Esempi da due bestiari medioevali,” L’Area di Broca 59 (1994), 26-46. 52 Feuillet, Lessico dei simboli cristiani, 103. 53 Larry Silver and Jeffrey Chipps, Albrecht Dürer (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2010). 54 “Es una mata que echa muchas ramas alrededor. No produce otro fruto esta planta más que flores del mismo nombre, las cuales son purpúreas de color encendido y otras amarillas; las mejores y de más agradable al parecer son las primeras. También la suelen llamar los indios "flor del Inca” porque la estimaban 51

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Since pre-Hispanic times, Andean people worshiped the sacred mountains and the Apus that protected their territories. In the ceremony of Chacra Yapuy Quilla55 in August, people made a pilgrimage to the borders of the mountains, leaving mounds decorated with Cantuta flowers as a symbol of appreciation and devotion. The Incas particularly promoted the cultivation of the Cantuta plant in lands dedicated to the Sun, offering these flowers to the god Inti.56 On the queros, the Cantuta flower was often used as a decorative element to fill out the space between figures. In some instances, as in the images of the chronicler Guaman Poma,57 the flower adopts a meaning of fertility and is associated with feminine figures. It is worth mentioning that in the Catholic religion, flowers have always been associated with the absolute feminine figure, the Virgin Mary. The lily is considered a symbol of virginity, and the cyclamen, due to its red heart, was compared to Mary’s heart during Christ’s Passion. The rose, queen of flowers, often represented the Virgin, in particular in her most classical representation, the Immaculate, while the rose’s thorns symbolise the Our Lady of Sorrows. Therefore, the Cantuta flower, associated with fertility, was well adapted to the Catholic symbolism of flowers associated with the feminine universe and with the Virgin in particular. The decorations of intertwined flowers, plants and animals also fitted with the Western religious vision. The evangelists promised paradise to convert Natives. The Catholic iconography of paradise bore metaphors that were the same as the Native ones: flowers of fertility, trees laden with fruit due to the land’s fertility, rivers symbolising the abundance of water. Diego Holguín, author of the famous Quechua dictionary, explains that the Hanacpacha, the earthly paradise, is defined as “La verdadera felicidad en el huerto (o jardín) del cielo.”58 A Native image, very similar to the concept of Eden, that awaited anyone who would convert to the new religion. In the Bible and in the sacred texts of the Catholic religion gardens were not only associated with paradise. Exuberant nature was often mucho los reyes incas” en Bernabé Cobo, Obras, ed. Francisco Matos (Madrid: Atlas, 1964), 218. 55 Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala, Nueva corónica y buen gobierno, ed. Franklin Pease (Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1980). 56 Luis E. Valcarcel, Historia del Perú antiguo (Lima: Editorial Juan Mejía Baca, 1964). 57 Guaman Poma de Ayala, Nueva corónica y buen gobierno, lam. 66. 58 Teresa Gisbert, “Los jardines en el Virreinato del Perú,” in El hombre y los Andes: homenaje a Franklin Pease (Lima: Pontificia Universidad Católica, 2002), 953-955.

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associated with divine creation, in comparison to earthly life. In the cases studied so far, both iconographic visions, Native and Western, found each other and fused together, creating a common code, a new artistic style, characteristic of the American context, often called “mestizo baroque.” In the case of the Cantuta flowers, Natives brought to the sacred Catholic space a symbol characteristic of their old religion. On the other hand, in the paintings of the Church of the Assumption, Western representations find their space between intertwined flowers and plants, much closer to the Native universe, all painted by Native hand. In this case, both visions, Native and Western, found themselves in the same iconography that became a common code. Nevertheless, there is also a third vision in Juli, in which the evangelists must rely on Native symbols to explain Catholic concepts. The Church of the Holy Cross of Jerusalem is the only church built entirely by the Jesuits. It was dedicated to the Passion of Christ and built in the northern part of the town, only a few meters from St. John Lateran. In the left section, a few meters before the pulpit, carved between a lateral door and a window, we can find a bas-relief depicting symbols of the Passion of Jesus. In the lower part of the carving, we find a granadilla whose branches grow up to the top end of the bas-relief, hugging a crown of thorns. In the middle is the monogram IHS. Between the crown of thorns and the granadilla, a column, another symbol of the Passion, is carved, representing the column to which Jesus was tied during the flagellation.59 Why include the granadilla? In 1569, the physician Nicolas Monardes describes the granadilla in the following way: Desde el continuente ellos me traíeron el fruto de una planta que crece salvaje en las montañas del Perú. El fruto se llama granadilla. Es el nombre que le dieron los españoles, porqué es similar a nuestro melograno, tiene el mismo tamaño y el mismo color.[...] la flor es muy similar a las flores de la rosa blanca, y parece hecho cuidadosamente para representar la Passion de Jesús Cristo.60

Monardes was the first to associate the granadilla with the Passion of Christ but the Spaniards in the American colonies had already taken this fruit as a God given sign. Everything in the granadilla could be read as a symbol of the Passion. The leaf represented the Lance, and the five anthers, the five wounds. The tendrils were the whips, and the column 59

Feuillet, Lessico dei simboli cristiani, 33. Thorsen Ulmer and John MacDougal, Passiflora: Passionflowers of the World (Portland: Timber Press, 2004). 60

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along the ovary was the pillar of the Cross. The stamens represented the hammers, and the dark circles in the centre of the flower were the Crown of Thorns. The calyx was the halo.61 Even the duration of its bloom was meaningful: three days, the time between Christ’s death and resurrection: “The Son of Man shall be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth.”62 In 1608, a dried granadilla plant reached Rome. The Spanish Jesuit Juan Romero presented it to Pope Paul V and, due to this, several engravings were printed around this time, particularly in Italy and Germany, with the granadilla fruit and flower as the main feature. The first engraving was made by the Dominican monk Simone Perlasca in Bologna, likely the only engraving based on an original dried plant. In the design, we read: “Fiore de la Granadiglia, overo della pasione di nostro Signore Giesu Christo.”63 The granadilla was later drawn and printed by Nieremberg in his Historia naturae, maxime peregrinae of 1635. Nieremberg, scholar, physicist, biologist, and member of the Society of Jesus, drew the granadilla, writing above the engraving: “Ipsius est nobis Cruz Paradisus.”64 Jesuits had also accepted without objection the association of the granadilla with the Passion of Christ. Although it is true that in the church of the Holy Cross native influences are more hidden and bound to the new Catholic logic, it is also true that the symbolism of the granadilla, a Native fruit, calls us back to the mestizo baroque style, present in all the churches in Juli. Animal decorations therefore take on meaning for Natives as part of Indigenous imagery, for evangelists as symbols present in Catholic iconography. The Cantuta flower, typically Native, finds its place in the facades of the churches as pure decoration. Flowers, plants and animals are taken as shared symbols to define Catholic paradise, or the old Native Hanacpacha. The granadilla, an American fruit, is adopted as a new Catholic symbol, capable of representing, in part, the encounter between cultures.

61 Michael E. Abrams “Clues to the mystery: Early passion flower depictions compared to Joos van Cleve's 'Mystery Artist' Madonna; a 1640s painting by Albert Eckhout; some interesting history about the early herbals and authors,” accessed september 2012, http://www.flwildflowers.com/clues. 62 Matthew 12:40 63 Simone Parlasca, Il fiore della granadiglia, overo della passione di nostro signore Giesu Christo, spiegato e lodato con discorsi e varie rime (Bologna: B. Cocchi, 1609) 33-42. 64 John Slater, Todos Son Hojas: Literatura e Historia Natural en el Barroco Español (Madrid: CSIC, 2010), 30.

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7. The Paraguayan Jesuit mission drew the attention of historians, anthropologists and even film directors, and the model under which they developed themselves was the model implemented by the mission in Juli by Lake Titicaca. This primal function, this missionary experiment with which the Jesuits tried to achieve a more complete and lasting evangelisation is undeniable and recognised by scholars around the world. Juli is identified in countless works pertaining to the Jesuits in Peru and in religious history as the “Pilot Mission.” Still, there is no monograph devoted to the Mission that takes into account its history, its organisation and the complex dynamics created between Jesuits and Natives. The Jesuit priest Marcelo Marzal wrote that during the Jesuit doctrine in Juli, it became a model for the promotion of humanity and respect towards local culture.65 Juli definitely had characteristics of a “utopian city,” the one Campanella imagined in his Città del Sole.66 Natives did not have private property, education was the pillar of the community, all inhabitants of the town enjoyed equal dignity, and daily life was well divided between work and prayer. The churches could be considered the materialisation of the Juli Company’s philosophy, as it represents the effort on both sides towards finding a common code of comprehension. Therefore, “inclusion” seems to be an accurate word to define the objective that the Jesuits tried to reach by taking charge of their first Andean Mission. Many times, scholars of Jesuit themes cultivate a romantic vision of the work of the Society of Jesus. Given our previous anthropologic formation, inculturation has always been perceived in a negative light, as it tends to remove the most characteristic features of the weaker society. Despite this ideological preconception, we must recognise that among all the orders evangelising in Latin America, the Jesuits gave the most value to the other culture, and moreover the Native culture. In a colonial universe that was often degrading, where Indian culture was repressed, the doctrine installed in Juli seems enlightened. The few extant documents from Native witnesses reaffirm the pacific coexistence between locals and Jesuits and describe the Mission as a harmonious microcosm, the most humanitarian example of evangelisation among those installed in Peruvian lands. As seen, the re-imagination and restructuring of Catholic images was a true reality that developed across Peru and in some cases, like Juli, was 65

Manuel Marzal and Luis Bacigalupo, eds., Los jesuitas y la modernidad en Iberoamérica (Lima: PUCP, IFEA, Pacifico, 2007). 66 Tommaso Campanella, La ciudad del sol (Madrid: Aguilar, 1954).

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even encouraged by the evangelists themselves. For the Society of Jesus, art was a basic tool in the inclusion of others and iconographic schemes were considered the material projection of the Natives’ mentality, allowing them to understand the Native way of thinking in depth. Moreover, though upon arrival in Juli a simple observer might attribute a merely decorative function to the engravings, for the locals in Juli these symbols represented their way of taking on religion. This way, churches in Juli became a shared space, where the new religion promoted by the Jesuits was born: a Catholic religion, nevertheless at the same time charged with Native meaning through a process of idiosyncratic reinvention that fused Western art with the ancient Indigenous cosmic vision. The cultural encounter produced a new way of representing reality and in consequently of world view. The cultural mix, instead of remaining simply an argument of philosophical speculations, became, through visual arts, a concrete and material fact.

Bibliography Abbate, Francesco. Storia dell’arte in Italia. Roma: Donzelli Editore, 2001. Abrams, Michael E. “Clues to the mystery: Early passion flower depictions compared to Joos van Cleve’s ‘Mystery Artist’ Madonna; a 1640s painting by Albert Eckhout; some interesting history about the early herbals and authors,” accessed September 2012, http://www.flwildflowers.com/clues/ Alaperrine-Bouyer, Monique. La educación de las élites indígenas. Lima: IFEA, 2007. Betanzos, Juan Diez de. Suma y narración de los Incas, seguida del Discurso sobre la descendencia y gobierno de los Incas, edited by María del Carmen Martín Rubio. Madrid: Ediciones Polifemo, 2004. Bollini, Horacio. El arte en las misiones jesuíticas. Buenos Aires: El Corregidor, 2007. Campanella, Tommaso. La ciudad del sol. Madrid: Aguilar 1954. Cieza de León, Pedro. La Crónica del Perú. Translated by Franklin G.Y. Pease. Lima: Ediciones Peisa, 1973. Cobo, Bernabé. Obras, edited by Francisco Matos. Madrid: Atlas, 1964. Cuentas Zavala, J. Alberto. Juli: cuatrocientos años. Puno: Ed. Los Andes, 1968. Cummins, Thomas. Brindis con el Inca: la abstracción andina y las imágenes coloniales de los queros. Lima: UNMSM Fondo Editorial, 2004.

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Dussel, Enrique. El Episcopado Latinoamericano y la liberación de los pobres. Consejo Latinoamericano Ciencias Sociales, accessed September 2012, http://168.96.200.17/ar/libros/dussel/epis/cap5.pdf. Duviols, Pierre. Procesos y visitas de idolatrías. Cajatambo, siglo XVII. Lima: Ed. PUCP, 2003. Estensorro, Juan Carlos. Del paganismo a la santidad. Lima: IFEA, 2003. Feuillet, Michel. Lessico dei simboli cristiani. Roma: Arkeios, 2007. Flores, Javier and Rafael Varón, El hombre y los Andes: homenaje a Franklin Pease. Lima: Fondo Editorial PUCP, 2002. Garcí, Diéz de San Miguel. Visita hecha a la provincia de Chucuito. Lima: Edición Casa de la Cultura, 1964. Geertz, Clifford. The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays. New York: Basic Books, 1973. Gruzinski, Serge. La guerra de las imágenes. De Cristóbal Colón a Blade Runner. México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1990. Guaman Poma de Ayala, Felipe. Nueva corónica y buen gobierno, edited by Franklin Pease. Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1980. Hanke, Lewis and Celso Rodríguez. Los Virreyes españoles en América durante el Gobierno de la Casa de Austria: Perú. Madrid: Atlas, 1978. Klaiber S.J., Jeffrey. Los jesuitas en América Latina 1549-2000. Lima: Ed. UARM, 2007. Lefranc, Harold. El trayecto de Santiago Apostol de Europa al Perú. Lima: Investigaciones Sociales UNMSM, 2006. Leyes de Indias en Archivo Digital de la Legislación en el Perú, accessed September 2012, http://www.congreso.gob.pe/ntley/LeyIndiaP.htm. Marzal Manuel and Luis Bacigalupo, eds. Los jesuitas y la modernidad en Iberoamérica. Lima: PUCP, IFEA, Pacifico, 2007. Meiklejohn, Norman. La iglesia y los lupaqas de Chucuito durante la colonia. Cuzco: Ed. B. Las Casas, 1988. Monumenta Peruana, edited by Antonio de Egaña S.J.. Romae: Monumenta Historica Soc. Iesu, 1986. Murra, John. Formaciones económicas y políticas del mundo andino. Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, 1975. Negro, Sandra and Manuel Marzal. Un reino en la frontera: las misiones jesuitas en la américa colonial. Lima: Fondo Editorial PUCP, 1999. —. Esclavitud, economía y Evangelización. Lima: Fondo Editorial PUCP, 2005. Panofsky, Erwin. El significado de las artes visuales. Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 2008.

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Parlasca, Simone. Il fiore della granadiglia, overo della passione di nostro signore Giesu Christo, spiegato e lodato con discorsi e varie rime. Bologna: B. Cocchi, 1609. Pettinari, Paolo. “Bestie, uomini e virtù. Esempi da due bestiari medioevali.” L’Area di Broca 59 (1994): 26-46. Pizarro, Pedro. Relación del descubrimiento y conquista del Perú [1571], edited by Guillermo Lohmann Villena. Lima: Fondo Editorial de la Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, 1986. Sale S.J., Giovanni. Pauperismo architettonico e architettura gesuitica. Milano: Jaca Book, 2001. —. Ignazio e l’arte dei gesuiti. Milano: Jaca Book, 2003. San Cristóbal, Antonio. Puno: esplendor de la arquitectura Virreinal. Lima: Ediciones PEISA S.A.C., 2004. Silver, Larry and Jeffrey Chipps. Albrecht Dürer. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2010. Slater, John. Todos son hojas: literatura e historia natural en el Barroco español. Madrid: CSIC 2010. Tello, Julio César. “Wiracocha.” Revista Inca I, no. 1 (1923): 583-606. Todorov, Tzvetan. La conquête de l’Amérique. La question de l’«autre». Paris: Seuil, 1982. Turner, Victor. The Ritual Process. Structure and Anti-Structure. Chicago: Aldine Pub. Co., 1969. Ulmer, Thorsen and John MacDougal. Passiflora: Passionflowers of the World. Portland: Timber Press, 2004. Urech, Edouard. Dizionario dei simboli cristiani. Milano: Arkeios, 1995. Valcarcel, Luis E. Historia del Perú antiguo. Lima: Editorial Juan Mejía Baca, 1964. Vargas Ugarte S.J., Rubén. Historia de la Compañía de Jesús en el Perú. Burgos: Aldecoa, 1963. Werner, Weisbach. Arte barroco en Italia, Francia, Alemania y España. Barcelona: Labor, 1934.

CHAPTER THREE JESUITS AND INDIANS IN THE BORDERLANDS (VICE-ROYALTY OF PERU, 16TH-18TH CENTURIES)* NIKOLAI RAKUTZ

Introduction The Jesuit experiment in the Americas is a very popular theme of research among the specialists of different sciences. The author of this paper would like to look at this phenomenon from an anthropological point of view as a unique example of intercultural contact, taking into account that many Jesuits were experts in various fields of culture and science, and that their documentation of the time contains a magnificent collection of ethnographic data. We can even qualify the Jesuits as applied ethnographers (such definitions, of course, are very relative), whose studies of aboriginal cultures were considered necessary for their missionary work, as it was well demonstrated by the postulates of the third Jesuit Superior General (1565-1572), San Francisco de Borja.1 The study of the Jesuit missionary work gives a possibility to better understand the evolution of their comprehension of the Amerindians’ world and culture, the process of the so-called intercultural contact in mission zones, the causes and effects of the successes and failures of their missionary activities. There are many works written on these topics, but some important problems are far from being resolved. It may sound ironic, but this situation is first of all the result of the wide popularity of all themes *

The author expresses his deep gratitude to the staff of the Archivum Romanum Societatis Jesu and its library for the assistance rendered to him during the preparation of this paper. 1 Antonio de Egaña, “La visión humanística del Indio Americano en los primeros jesuitas peruanos (1568-1576),” Analecta Gregoriana LXX (1954): 292.

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related to the Jesuits in colonial America; even today we see among the scholars who study this period both severe critics of Jesuit activities and those whom we can characterise as apologists for the Jesuits. Taking into account the large amount of literature on these issues it seems necessary to study the given results in the historical context of the colonial sociopolitical organisation, also taking into consideration the geographical features and political situations of the regions where the Jesuits worked. During the initial period of the Jesuit mission in Peru, the postulates concerning the evangelization process elaborated by Father José de Acosta–the first Jesuit Provincial of the viceroyalty (1576-1585) and a famous scholar of the period–in his work De procuranda indorum salute served the theoretical basis for the missionaries. However, it is known that from the beginning of their missionary work in America some of the Jesuits did not share Acosta’s opinions, which was well demonstrated during the discussion about the possibility of accepting the doctrina (parish) of Juli, which the viceroy Francisco de Toledo wanted the Jesuits to take. The members of the Company indicated that such practice contradicted their own Constitution elaborated by St. Ignatius of Loyola, which prohibited them from working as parish priests as it was against their missionary objectives and made them dependent on the local colonial civic and ecclesiastical administration. As this group of Jesuits declared, they as parish priests would have to obey some strict administrative and financial rules they objected to. In addition, by that time the Jesuits in Peru had already had their own experience of missionary work and had studied the (often ineffective) practices of other Orders. Thus, they understood clearly that Acosta’s theoretical propositions did not have a universal character. For example, during the first Jesuit American mission in Florida (which began in 1566), the Jesuits had complete military support (Acosta believed it was necessary to assure the safety of the missionaries). However, they were also entirely dependent on the local Spanish military chief and the colonial administration in Havana (with regards to the delivery of food and necessities from Cuba). The mission, as a result, failed. Of course, there were many other negative circumstances: the bellicosity of the Indians and the character of their economy based on the exploitation of sea resources, the presence of French Huguenots, and ignorance of Indian languages.2 2

Nicholas P. Cushner, Why Have You Come Here? The Jesuits and the First Evangelization of Native America (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 37-47; Rodrigo Moreno Jeria, Misiones en Chile Austral: los jesuitas en Chiloé (16081768) (Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, Consejo Superior de Investigación Científica, 2007), 47-48.

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The first group of eight Jesuits arrived in Lima in 1568 and three years later their first Peruvian mission, another feeble attempt, began in the province of Huarochirí. In Huarochirí, unlike the situation in Florida, there were two mestizos among the missionaries who both spoke Quechua as their mother tongue, but the severe climate, diseases, lack of good roads in a vast mountainous territory with a scattered population, and passive Indian resistance to evangelisation did not permit to the missionaries work effectively. Of course, one of the most important reasons was the lack of practical experience for the Fathers. Moreover, two of them soon died in Huarochirí. Both missions, in Florida and in Huarochirí, were abandoned in 1572.3 In Peru, where the parochial system had already been established as the only permissible and possible one just before the Jesuits’ arrival, they as a result became entirely dependent on the caprices of the viceroy and local Spanish nobility concerning the financing of the Jesuit program of evangelisation and so were obliged, in spite of their dissatisfaction and under the compulsion of the viceroy Francisco de Toledo and Fr. Acosta, to take the first parish in Santiago del Cercado in Lima and some years later had to establish their mission which included four parishes in Juli, near lake Titicaca. The Jesuits chose Juli firstly because its inhabitants were Crown Indians and it was proclaimed an Indian town, which meant that no Spaniards other than missionaries could live there. Their mission in Juli began in 1576 and functioned up until the expulsion of the Jesuits in 1767. The most important result of this compromise with the vice royal authorities was that Juli quickly became the centre of special training for the missionaries, where they studied Native languages and cultures and elaborated methods and techniques of evangelisation in concrete regions where they wished to or were going to work. They always took into consideration (and borrowed if necessary and useful) the ideas and methods of the Franciscans and other Orders which had arrived in Peru before them. So, Juli was at the same time a Jesuit residence, language school, parish and experimental mission station.4 Many famous Jesuit Fathers worked there during the colonial period, for example (to name only a few) L. de Bárzana, D. de Torres Bollo (I Provincial of Paraguay in 3 Francisco Borja Medina, “¿Exploradores o evangelizadores? La Misión de los Mojos: cambio y continuidad,” in La misión y los jesuitas en la América española, 1567-1767: cambios y permanencias, ed. José Palomo and Rodrigo Moreno Jeria (Sevilla: CSIS, 2005), 189; Moreno Jeria, Misiones en Chile Austral, 47-48; Sabine Hyland, The Jesuit and the Incas (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2003), 46. 4 Cushner, Why Have You Come Here?, 82.

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1607-1615), D. Gonzáles Holguín, L. Bertonio, B. Cobo, J. Anello Oliva, etc. Starting in the 1580s, the Jesuits also began to organise some so-called “flying,” i.e. volatile or itinerant missions, i.e. peregrinations, which were considered more adequate for missionary activities and permitted them to visit various places situated along their routes in a short time. Among those missionaries, many had also completed previous training in Juli.5 The theoretical basis of the missionary activities continued to be first of all Acosta’s famous book De procuranda indorum salute, in spite of the fact that already at the beginning of the seventeenth century some of its postulates were gradually corrected, changed, revised or even improved depending on the specific situations. But one of Acosta’s most important postulates or fundamental tenets–to preach only in Native Indian languages–continued to be strictly observed. This permitted the Fathers to establish good relations and even to enter in cooperation with the Indians (first of all with their chiefs as the decision makers of Native groups) without having problems with local interpreters (even if there were any, their low qualifications did not permit them to work effectively), to better understand the religious beliefs of the Natives and to administer the sacraments in full conformity with ecclesiastical rules, which fact, I think, was of special importance (in the case of preserving the seal of the confessional, for example).6 Some of the missionaries were outstanding experts on languages, true polyglot linguists. One of the most famous among them was Fr. Bárzana who worked in Tucuman and adjacent areas. He knew nine Indian languages, could sermonise in each and was the author of grammars and vocabularies for them.7

Missions outside Juli Up to the beginning of the great Jesuit experiment in Paraguay (and sometimes even later), in most parts of the viceroyalty of Peru the abovementioned and so-called volatile missions absolutely prevailed. Small 5

Egaña, “La visión humanística del Indio Americano,” 293; Alexandre Coello de la Rosa, “La doctrina de Julí en debate (1575-1585),” Revista de Estudios Extremeños LXIII, no. II (2007): 952-954, 967; Xavier Albó, “Jesuitas y culturas indígenas (Primera parte),” América Indígena XXVI, no. 3 (1966): 280. 6 Jesús Baigorri Jalón and Alonso Araguás Icíar, “Lenguas indígenas y mediación lingüística en las reducciones jesuíticas del Paraguay (s. XVII),” Mediazioni online. Rivista online di studi interdisciplinari su lingue e culture, (2007): 4. 7 Xavier Albó, “Jesuitas y culturas indígenas (Segunda parte),” América Indígena XXVI, no. 4 (1966): 404.

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groups of priests regularly visited the settlements, which were usually not situated far from the town or city (local provincial centre) where they had their residence, staying in each village for only two or three days administering necessary religious sacraments, then returning home to their residential houses.8 Such a mode of interaction with the local population corresponded well to the idea of mission as a constant peregrination formulated by Fr. Acosta.9 As a result, multiple missions were organised by the Jesuits in various parts of the viceroyalty, but Claudio Acquaviva, Superior General of the Company, was very displeased upon learning of this and soon wrote to the Father Provincial of Peru about the dangers of such activity, indicating that there were very few Jesuits in Peru and they should not work in so many places at the same time. It was Acquaviva who first decided to establish permanent missions south of Peru.10 At least one of those missions (most of them were sporadic or shortlived), the so-called circular mission of Chiloé in the Chilean archipelago, was undoubtedly successful. It was founded at the beginning of the seventeenth century when two priests came to the main island. However, it should be noted that this mission had some specific features that differentiated it from many others. The Jesuits worked with the Indians enslaved by Spanish colonists and acceded to their encomiendas (practically speaking–fiefs, or estates). There were also small groups of the Indians called Chonos, inhabitants of the most remote southern islands, not subjugated by Spanish encomenderos (fief owners), and so free, having only infrequent contact with the population of the zone controlled by the Spaniards. Later, defeated by a punitive expedition of colonists, the Chonos were reduced in a settlement by the Jesuits, but being maritime hunter-gatherers they could not live in permanent villages, knew nothing about agriculture or cattle-raising, and soon died out.11 The mission of Chiloé, unlike the others, had a permanent, regular character, its area was relatively small, and the itinerary of missionaries’ 8

María del Rosario Baravalle and María Florencia Font, “La Reducción que no fue. Santa María de Reyes de Guaycurúes, primeras décadas de siglo XVII,” Mundo Agrario. Revista de estudios rurales 7, no. 13 (2006): http://redalyc.uaemex.mx/redalyc/src/inicio/ArtPdfRed.jsp?iCve=8450130. 9 José de Acosta, Predicación del Evangelio en las Indias, bk. VI, chap. XXI. 10 Alexandre Coello de la Rosa, “Los jesuitas y las misiones de frontera del Alto Perú: Santa Cruz de la Sierra (1587-1603),” Revista Complutense de Historia de América 33 (2007): 168-169. 11 Rodrigo Moreno Jeria, Misiones en Chile Austral: los jesuitas en Chiloé (16081768) (Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, Consejo Superior de Investigación Científica, 2007), 189-198.

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visits was the same from year to year. The Fathers created a special system of small centres with so-called capillas (wooden chapels), in each of which the missionaries stayed for only two or three days, working with the neighbouring population which in due time visited the chapels. The Fathers also had special assistants, fiscales, who administered some sacraments in the absence of missionaries. The college of Chiloé, being the centre of the mission had four ranches where some Indians and Spaniards worked that gave the Jesuits of the mission the necessary means of subsistence. Despite frequent conflicts with Spanish colonists and the governors of Chiloé, the mission functioned until the expulsion of the Jesuits in 1767.12 As a result of the Jesuits’ successful work (at least from their own point of view), including the “extirpation of idolatry” among Peruvian Indians and the temporary pacification of bellicose tribes in Chile and the eastern regions of present-day Peru during the seventeenth century, they were welcomed in various provinces; however, it became obvious that the resources of “flying missions” were practically exhausted in many regions, first of all in the borderlands where free, unconquered Indian groups remained. That was why a new form of mission–the reductions (permanent, concentrated Indian settlements under Jesuit administration)– gradually became predominate and some groups of reductions were founded along the eastern frontier of the viceroyalty (in present-day southern Brazil, northwestern Argentina, Paraguay, eastern Bolivia and the Upper Amazon of Peru). Volatile missions survived only in some frontier areas where reductions could not be established. The reductions created by Viceroy Francisco de Toledo served as a model for Jesuit settlements, but they also took into consideration the Inca heritage studied in Juli.13 The reasons for such transformation of their missionary activity were various but were directly connected to the results of the first period of the Jesuits’ labour in Peru. 12

Michael Müller, “Jesuitas centro-europeos ó ‘alemanes’ en las misiones de indígenas de las antiguas provincias de Chile y del Paraguay (siglos XVII y XVIII),” in São Francisco Xavier: nos 500 anos do nascimento de São Francisco Xavier: da Europa para o mundo 1506-2006, ed. Zulmira Santos (Porto: Centro Interuniversitário de História da Espiritualidade, 2007), 88-92; Ramón Gutiérrez, “Las misiones circulares de los jesuitas en Chiloé,” Apuntes 20, no. 1 (2007): 5069; Moreno Jeria, Misiones en Chile Austral, 93, 107-109, 171-172, 180. 13 Fernando Mateos, ed., Historia general de la Compañía de Jesús en la provincia del Perú. Crónica anónima de 1600 que trata del establecimiento y misiones de la Compañía de Jesús en los países de habla española en la América meridional, (Madrid: Instituto Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo, 1944), 225.

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Jesuits in the Borderlands At the end of the sixteenth century, the Jesuits began to “migrate” to the periphery of the viceroyalty, east of the Andes where some years later, in 1604, their new separate Jesuit province was created: el Paraguay, divided in 1625 into two parts (el Paraguay and Chile), which included all territories of the Southern Cone of South America controlled by the Spaniards. This gradual process of transfer of missionary activities was caused first by the wide experience gained by the Jesuits in the Andes and by the knowledge and reputation they acquired there. Jesuits had understood that near colonial centres their flying (volatile) missions could not be successful because of their aim to put into practice the requirements of the Indian laws, elaborated in Spain. Nevertheless, these laws were almost never observed in the colonies, as the Spaniards cared little for the rights of the King who lived far away.14 It was also well known that Indians themselves often preferred to see Jesuits rather than other missionaries in their lands because the Jesuits spoke Native languages (if not, they did everything to learn them as quickly as possible), and during their visits they only dealt with their duties: they administered sacraments, but never punished the neophytes or asked for charity, etc. since it was forbidden by their Constitutions. The Jesuits were against the encomienda system and personal service of the Indians, the latter being “free vassals of the Crown” according to the Law, and fought those institutions primarily because they were offences against the human dignity of the Natives. But the result was only that they were accused of exploiting the Indians for their own benefits and made them many enemies among the colonists.15 At the same time, some provincial governors often invited the Jesuits to their territories to pacify hostile and bellicose Indian groups, but the Fathers in many occasions did not (and could not) criticise the colonial regime 14 Lenka Zajícová, “Algunos aspectos de las reducciones jesuíticas del Paraguay: la organización interna, las artes, las lenguas, y la religión,” Acta Universitatis Palackianae Olomucensis, Facultas Philosophica Philologica 74 (1999): 146; Robert Bontine Cunninghame Graham, A Vanished Arcadia (London: Century, [1901] 1988), 141. 15 Javier W. Matienzo Castillo, “La encomienda y las reducciones jesuíticas de América Meridional,” Temas Americanistas 21 (2008): 74-75; Thomas W. O’Brien, “Utopia in the Midst of Oppression? A Reconsideration of Guaraní/Jesuit Communities in Seventeenth and Eighteenth Century Paraguay,” Contemporary Justice Review 7, no. 4 (2004): 404; Graciela Chamorro, “Antonio Ruiz de Montoya: promotor y defensor de lenguas y pueblos indígenas,” Historia Unisinos 11, no. 2 (2007): 253.

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because of their economic dependence on local administration. They often were obliged to do extra work, i.e. visiting the areas where local priests ignored Indian languages.16 Sometimes they even had to take part in military expeditions against the Indians and work in encomiendas. They considered that all this undermined the effectiveness of their missionary activities, which was why they wanted to contact the Indians not subjugated by the colonists.17 But even in some marginal zones their situation of dependence was very similar to the one in the Andes, for example at the end of the sixteenth century in Santa Cruz de la Sierra, a remote town in the east of present day Bolivia, where the Jesuits, under absolute control of the local governor, had to keep silent and never wrote much in their annual reports about the genocide practised by the colonists. They also had to collaborate with the colonists, taking part in slavers’ expeditions against the Indians Chiquitos and Moxos despite knowing very well that General Claudio Acquaviva had forbidden missionaries from accompanying such excursions.18 All their plans to pacify the Chiriguano and establish some small reductions, among them one south of Santa Cruz, failed because of the constant wars between those Indians and the Spaniards.19 Almost a century later, in 1674, when the Father Provincial decided to study the possibility of beginning a mission in Moxos, a Peruvian province north of Santa Cruz, he sent there three priests from Peru who were not members of the Santa Cruz mission and so could work independently. What is most interesting about the expedition is that the Fathers were to present detailed information about the population of the area, their languages, customs and traditions, religion, everyday life, political organisation, etc.20 In fact, the Provincial recommended that the missionaries use the program of preliminary investigations elaborated, as I suppose, much earlier, at least at the beginning of the Jesuits’ expansion in 16

Baigorri Jalón and Araguas Icíar, “Lenguas indígenas y mediación lingüística en las reducciones jesuíticas del Paraguay,” 6. 17 Javier W. Matienzo Castillo, “La iglesia misionera en Indias: el caso de las reducciones de la Compañía de Jesús en América Meridional (siglos XVII y XVIII),” n.d.: http://www.utpl.edu.ec/portalchiquitano 18 Coello de la Rosa, “Los jesuitas y las misiones de frontera del Alto Perú,” 166; Massimo Livi Bacci, Eldorado nel pantano (Bologna: il Mulino, 2007), 96. 19 Mily Crevels, “Why Speakers Shift and Languages Die: an Account of Language Death in Amazonian Bolivia,” in Current Studies on South American Languages [Indigenous Languages of Latin America, 3], ed. Mily Crevels, Simon Van de Kerke, Sérgio Meira, Hein Van der Voort (Leiden: Research School of Asian, African, and Amerindian Studies, CNWS, 2002), 10. 20 Livi Bacci, Eldorado nel pantano, 97-98.

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Paraguay, where many reductions had been created during the first half of the seventeenth century. The Jesuits came to Paraguay first, of course, searching for the souls of the Indians and because they hoped that there, on the remote frontier, (where the population, among the Natives, qualified almost as atheists) they would be able to operate fairly independently of the colonial administration. But they had to work in peril of their lives because in that area, like in many others, attempts of armed conquest had already failed more than once before their arrival in Paraguay, and the Indians had had a long and bad experience with the Europeans who needed a labour force for their encomiendas and plantations. Paraguay was a poor colony with a very small Spanish population (almost all of the “Spaniards” were in fact mestizos), without rich gold or silver mines and other sources of raw materials, so its economy was based on agriculture and yerba mate picking. More than twenty years before the arrival of the Jesuits, the Franciscans had already begun their mission in the area and had established some reductions for enslaved Indians near Spanish settlements, such as Asunción and others.21 Father Luis Bolaños had written the first grammar and vocabulary of the Guarani language, which the first Jesuits arriving in the area used effectively and successfully.22 And from the very beginning they came into conflict with the colonists. Diego de Torres Bollo, just after being nominated First Provincial of Paraguay, freed all Indian slaves who worked at Jesuit colleges, ranches and estates. This act infuriated the colonists and provoked widespread dissatisfaction among them which a century later transformed into an active anti-Jesuit movement. Therefore, the Fathers concluded that their work would be possible, effective and successful only if it could be based on the isolation and economic independence of the missions.23 They took into account that the population of the province was dispersed–the Guarani lived in small villages each formed by some extended families–and that every few years, the villages had to be relocated because of soil depletion due to slash and burn agriculture. The Guarani’s subsistence system was based not only on agriculture, but also on hunting, fishing, and gathering, and did not allow 21

Julia A. Ossanna, “Las misiones jesuítas en la región del Guayrá en las primeras décadas del siglo XVII,” Mundo Agrario 8, no. 16 (2008): 5. 22 O’Brien, “Utopia in the Midst of Oppression?,” 397; Chamorro, “Antonio Ruiz de Montoya,” 253. 23 Jean Baptista, “A fome nos povoados missionais: dinâmicas históricas em meio ao debate sobre a subsistência entre jesuítas e indígenas,” Biblos 22, no. 2 (2008): 28; Cunninghame Graham, A Vanished Arcadia, 10; Cushner, Why Have You Come Here?, 117; Fleck, “Las reducciones jesuítico-guaraníes,” 22.

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for the constant presence of missionaries whose contact with the Natives should be, as the Jesuits at that time already thought, continuous and uninterrupted. So the Fathers concluded that without establishing reductions, permanent congregated settlements, far from the centres of colonisation the conversion of the Indians would be impossible. That was why the Jesuits began to create their reductions in eastern Paraguay, “far from the territory dominated by the Spaniards to protect the Indians from forced labour, disease, and the loose morals of the colonists,”24 where they hoped to create an ideal Christian society. The Guarani permitted them to establish the reductions because they wanted the missionaries as protection from Portuguese slave-hunters and the Spanish encomenderos who often invaded their lands.25 Between 1609 and 1630, some settlements were founded in the provinces of Guairá and Tapé, east of the Paraná River (present-day Brazil). The Portuguese slave-hunters, the so-called bandeirantes, destroyed almost all of those first reductions by the end of the 1630s; the rest were evacuated and re-established to the south, on the banks of the Paraná and Uruguay rivers. The history of those first reductions is described in detail in many papers, only some of which could be indicated here.26 The foundation of the missions was a long, sometimes slow and difficult process. The Jesuits completely rejected military assistance and went into free Indian lands in small groups (of 2-3 Fathers each) without arms. Specific situations and circumstances dictated the necessity of a more flexible policy than the one that had been used in Peru. A missionary could not establish his mission when and where he would like to, but only when and where (and if, we might add) the Indians permitted him to. The Jesuits knew very well that they had to employ only persuasion even when dealing with hostile groups of Natives.27 Coming to the Indians without any armed escort, they had no means of coercion but rather had to do everything to win their trust and convince them to come to live in a reduction. If the Indians were not content with the Jesuit rule, the missionaries had no power to prevent them from returning to the woods, as 24

Philip Healy, “Introduction,” in Robert Bontine Cunninghame Graham, A Vanished Arcadia (London: Century, [1901] 1988), X. 25 Cushner, Why Have You Come Here?, 105. 26 Cushner, Why Have You Come Here?; Cunninghame Graham, A Vanished Arcadia; Ossanna, “Las misiones jesuítas en la región del Guayrá.” 27 Matienzo Castillo, “La iglesia misionera en Indias”; Máxime Haubert, “Jesuitas, indios y fronteras coloniales en los Siglos XVII y XVIII. Algunas notas sobre las reducciones del Paraguay, su formación y su destrucción final,” Sociedad y Religión 9 (1992): 78.

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sometimes happened for various reasons. The missionaries then followed the neophytes and tried to persuade fugitives to come back, but the result was not always positive.28 It was very important for the missionaries to establish good relations with the local chiefs (caciques, as the Spaniards called them), as they were the decision makers. Only if the chief wanted his people to integrate themselves into a reduction, did they go. It was also easier to negotiate with those leaders, through persuasion and gifts, because the reduction promised them maintenance and strengthening of their social position.29 But there were also shamans, spiritual leaders, followers of the traditional order and religion. The Jesuits had to combat them, considering the shamans to be “servants of the devil” and qualifying them as sorcerers. As for the talent for persuasion, shamans and chiefs possessed it no less than the Jesuits. Father Roque González de Santa Cruz, the first Paraguayan saint–a Native of Asunción, whose mother tongue was Guarani (canonised in 1988)–was killed only because a famous shaman showed himself to be a more eloquent speaker.30 The Jesuit experiment in Paraguay could, in the long run, be considered successful (at least from the Jesuits’ point of view) thanks to the use of proper tactics for the situation. The Fathers could speak Guarani and declared it the sole official language of the reductions; they respected almost all aspects of the Guarani culture. They also brought with them various gifts: clothes, adornments (rosaries, for example), but especially iron articles that they themselves considered useful, practical tools that could facilitate agriculture and other everyday tasks (knives, fish hooks, scissors, needles, axes). But for the Guarani Indians all these iron tools were, as we understand now, highly appreciated first of all as prestige goods. Besides, the Jesuits introduced new crops and cattle raising. Later, paved streets also appeared in the reductions, along with water supply, sewage and drainage systems, workshops that produced various tools, wagons, clothing, weapons, including firearms, gunpowder, etc.31 As a 28

Cunninghame Graham, A Vanished Arcadia, 51. Cushner, Why Have You Come Here?, 111; Guillermo Wilde, “Poderes del ritual y rituales del poder: un análisis de las celebraciones en los pueblos jesuíticos de Guaraníes,” Revista Española de Antropología Americana 33 (2003): 216. 30 Ossanna, “Las misiones jesuítas en la región del Guayrá,” 10; Miguel Petty, “Las reducciones jesuíticas del Paraguay ¿posible modelo desarrollo sustantable?,” n.d., 12. 31 Elida Arenhardt, “El paisaje ordenado de la reducción de Santa Ana,” in Cuarto Encuentro Internacional Humboldt (Puerto Iguazú: Centro de Estudios Alexander von Humbold, 2002); O’Brien, “Utopia in the Midst of Oppression?,” 397-398; 29

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result, the Indians usually believed that the Jesuits were new, more powerful shamans than their own ones or even that they were culture heroes. In the Mbyá Guarani folktales of the twentieth century one such hero was known, by the name of Kechuita. It is interesting to note that the Jesuits had never converted this group, which lived outside the area of their reductions. We could also consider that Fr. Montoya would not have been very glad to know that the Indians considered him a reincarnation of their most powerful shaman, The Shining Sun.32 As for respect for the human dignity of the Indians, already proclaimed by the first Provincial of Paraguay, Father Diego de Torres Bollo,33 it should be noted that the missionaries, when describing Indian groups they worked with, used various conventional or special terms typical for the European science of the period. But it is extremely significant that they very rarely wrote about the Indians as “barbarians” (Father Acosta usually did). The most common definitions were: gentes (peoples), naciones (nations), indios (Indians), salvajes (savages), etc., and describing their religion, they sometimes used such words as paganos (pagans), idólatras (idolaters) or infieles (infidels). Jesuits also often used names of concrete Indian groups describing them in their annual relations, reports and histories (Cartas anuas, etc.): Guarani, Chiriguanás, Itatines, Moxos, Chiquitos, etc. Even taking into account the typical Eurocentric view of the Indians, it is obvious that in contrast to the Spanish colonists who conceived of the Indians as savage animals, the Jesuits treated them as men, as rational human beings.34 Although the main task of the authors of the sixteenth and the seventeenth centuries was to describe the successes of Christianisation, Jesuit records included, already at the end of the sixteenth century, brief descriptions of the Indians and their culture; even these scraps of information gathered during the “flying missions” provide interesting ethnographic data, though often it only consists of recording what a missionary had seen: ferocious or well-meaning people, their weapons, ornaments, houses, were they farmers or not, etc. Crevels, “Why Speakers Shift and Languages Die,” 13; Graciela María Viñuales, “Misiones jesuíticas de guaraníes (Argentina, Paraguay, Brasil),” Apuntes 20, no. 1 (2007): 108-125. 32 Chamorro, “Antonio Ruiz de Montoya,” 259; Cunninghame Graham, A Vanished Arcadia, 68. 33 Susana Frías, “La dignidad del indígena en los escritos de Diego de Torres,” Anuario del CEH 2-3, no. 2-3 (2002-2003): 321-336. 34 Frías “La dignidad del indígena en los escritos de Diego de Torres”; O’Brien, “Utopia in the Midst of Oppression?,” 397; Cunninghame Graham, A Vanished Arcadia, 79.

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Jesuits always paid particular attention to some issues which were very important to them from moral and practical points of view, such as the presence or absence of clothing, cannibalism, polygamy, drunkenness and similar sins. They also always noted whether or not the groups of Natives had chiefs, other authorities and sorcerers. The disposition to accept baptism was of course also very important.35 As regards, for example, the Paraguayan Indians, the first missionaries wrote that they were skilful labourers, gifted in music (a fact the missionaries often specially indicated in their reports) and handicrafts who could be, as they thought, easily converted from paganism to Christianity. Giving a general description of the Guarani, Jesuit missionaries also reported some cases of resistance, but generally believed that these Indians could accept baptism more easily and quickly than other neighbouring groups, being disposed to it and more civilised. It should be noted that, unlike the Franciscans, the Jesuits baptised the Indians only after thorough preparation, after they learnt the basics of the faith. And they did it only if the ward himself desired it. Sometimes missionaries had to wait years for such an event.36 Jesuit reductions were villages or towns (as some scholars describe them) built after a single plan, but each had its own specific features depending on its location. When choosing a site, the Jesuits always consulted the Indians, even if they themselves would like to follow the same patterns as in Juli.37 The population of the missions varied from one to seven thousand people; the average was from two to four thousand or more, but normally should not have exceeded 1,000 families, i.e. 5,000 persons.38 That is why some authors, as indicated above, have written and

35 See for example Monumenta Peruana VI, letters num. 9 (1596), 98 (1597) 192 (1599): annual reports to the General of the Company written by famous “extirpator of idolatry” Father José de Arriaga. 36 José Luiz Costa Neto, “Poligamia guarani e metodologia inaciana: reflexões acerca de uma fonte,” in XXIV Simpósio Nacional de História. Os Índios na História: Fontes e Problemas (2007), 5; Matienzo Castillo, “La iglesia misionera en Indias”; Ludovico Antonio Muratori, Il cristianesimo felice nelle missioni dei padri della Compagnia di Gesù nel Paraguai (Palermo: Sellerio Editore, 1985 [1743]), 94, 98-106; Antonio Ruiz de Montoya, Conquista espiritual (Madrid 1639). 37 Viñuales, “Misiones jesuíticas de guaranties.” 38 Massimo Livi Bacci and Ernesto Maeder, “The missions of Paraguay: The Demography of an Experiment,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 35, no. 2 (2004): 192.

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are writing about Jesuit towns.39 Economic independence of each separate community was impossible, so they formed a federation of reductions, which was economically self-sufficient. Their internal organization is well described in special literature and there is no need to dwell on the issue here.40 The fact that the missionaries could settle a variety of previously warring groups in one reduction should be recognised as one of the most important achievements of the Jesuits.41 And there is no doubt that the mission territory and adjacent areas were a zone of active and diverse cross-cultural (or intercultural) contact. Modern scholars sometimes argue that the Indians accepted Christianity and life in reductions with enthusiasm.42 But Jesuit sources indicate that it was not so, or rather not exactly so. The missionaries of the seventeenth century sometimes noticed that the interest of Indians in Christianity was a purely practical one. For example, it was so in the province of Moxos,43 and it is difficult to believe that this conclusion is unfair to Paraguay. In the course of the evangelisation of the Indians, the Jesuits showed a greater ability to adapt to reality, especially considering that Fr. Acosta had already pointed out that it was impossible to apply the same rules to all Indians and had demanded from the beginning a differentiated approach to evangelisation activity.44 This was impossible without good knowledge of how to meet neophytes’ wishes. But we have to take into consideration that the first missionaries of the Society who arrived in Peru were did not intend to study psychology in general and the culture of the Indians; they were going to convert them to the true faith.45 There can be no doubt that their main purpose was the conversion of the Indians to Christianity, the transformation of their customs, traditions and even their world view according to Christian norms and rules, to make them peoples of another culture, better than and superior to the aboriginal 39

In eighteenth century Montevideo there were little more than 4,000 inhabitants, see: Ramiro J. Podetti, “Roque González y su papel en el diseño y fundación de las ciudades guaranties,” Humanidades 5, no. 1 (2005): 132. 40 See Cunninghame Graham, A Vanished Arcadia; Viñuales, “Misiones jesuíticas de guaraníes”; Pablo P. Hernández, Organización social de las doctrinas guaraníes de la Compañía de Jesús (Barcelona: Gustavo Gili, 1913). 41 Wilde, “Poderes del ritual y rituales del poder,” 211. 42 Johannes Meier, “Totus mundus nostra fit habitatio. Jesuitas del territorio de lengua alemana en la América portuguesa y española,” in São Francisco Xavier. Nos 500 anos do nascimento de São Francisco Xavier: da Europa para o mundo. 1506-2006, ed. Zulmira Santos (Porto: Inova-Artes Gráficas, 2007), 73. 43 Livi-Bacci, Eldorado nel pantano, 98-99. 44 Acosta, Predicación del Evangelio en las Indias, bk. I, chap. I. 45 Egaña, “La visión humanística del Indio Americano,” 291.

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one according to the missionaries’ imagination. As is well known, if they could not score a success in a short time, they abandoned the missions in anticipation of better times, as had occurred in the province of Huarochirí or in the Guaikurú area of the Paraguayan Chaco.46 The Jesuits differed from the other colonists in general, first in their humanistic approach to the Indigenous population. This is not surprising, since among them were graduates of the best European universities. They came to Paraguay as champions of the idea of spiritual, not military conquest. We can see features similar to the East Paraguayan missions in the reductions organised later, at the end of the seventeenth century, in the provinces of Moxos and Chiquitos. The latter administratively belonged to Paraguay, the former to Peru. There were 15 missions in Moxos and 10 in Chiquitos.47 In their culture, the inhabitants of those missions were similar to the Guarani of Paraguay, but the population consisted of groups of different ethnic origins and spoke many different languages. Their villages were small and often had to be relocated due to floods and changes of the rivers’ courses. Social organisation was characterised by great diversity. In these provinces, the reductions were smaller than in Paraguay (about one to two thousand people) and it was impossible to use only one languagespeakers of three or four languages often lived together in a reduction at once. But these reductions were even more isolated from the Spanish colonial centres than the Paraguayan ones and conflicts with the Spaniards almost never took place. In the province of Moxos the majority of the reductions, like former Indian villages, had to be relocated from time to time due to regularly repeated floods. Reductions in the province of Chiquitos were stable.48

Cultural Processes in the Reductions In special literature the assertion has become widespread that the Jesuits did everything to eradicate or completely transform the Indian

46

Hyland, The Jesuit and the Incas, 46-47; Baravalle, Font, “La Reducción que no fue.” 47 Cunninghame Graham, A Vanished Arcadia, 177; Geoffrey A.P. Groesbeck “A Brief History of the Jesuit Missions of Chiquitos,” Bolivian Studies Journal 14 (2007): http://www.chiquitania.com/.../.pdf. 48 Groesbeck, “A Brief History of the Jesuit Missions of Chiquitos”; Concepción M. Bravo Guerreira, “Las misiones de Chiquitos: pervivencia y Resistencia de un modelo de colonización,” Revista Complutense de Historia de América 21 (1995): 29-55.

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culture while imposing their own.49 Recent studies have shown that transformations of the aboriginal culture did occur, but they were neither so categorically determined nor by any means fast. Thus, the abovementioned view does not agree with the facts. Yes, the Jesuits had done their best to convert the Indians to Christianity and believed that they became true Christians and that their neophytes became “civilised” people who began to live the “right” way, i.e. settled in villages and engaged in agriculture. And even the Guarani themselves thought that they were true Christians, much better than the Spaniards were. But we must not forget that the Jesuits themselves in the process of creating the reductions went through the so-called process of “inculturation,” that is (as we understand the term), they made their entry into the culture of the Guarani with the aim to convert them peacefully. In other words they were “guaranised” linguistically (Father Montoya wrote that he, after living some years in Paraguay, began to speak Guarani better than Spanish50) and culturally in a sense. The Jesuits did not eliminate many customs which in their opinion did not have a religious meaning (often they were wrong). Others they changed or transformed, but gradually, adapting them to the new culture formed in their reductions. Officially, the Jesuits stood firmly for the eradication of nudity, cannibalism, witchcraft and polygamy. The last tradition was presented (to the European and local Spanish public) almost as the main enemy of evangelisation. But what was really going on? Nudity (where it existed) was eradicated quickly and easily (clothes were a sort of prestige goods in the eyes of the Guarani) without resistance. Cannibalism was also eliminated quickly, simply because with the termination of the state of war between neighbouring groups, it lost its meaning. On the other hand, since it was associated with war and, as we know, the Guarani militia was used by Spanish governors to combat both external enemies and for the suppression of uprisings in the colonies, cannibalistic rituals sometimes took place at least in the first half of the seventeenth century but without the Jesuits’ knowledge. The visits to shamans were also practiced (in the case of disease, for example). Usually, such actions ended with making a confession and doing some penance; there is no mention in the documents of harsh punishments. Polygamy of the caciques in Paraguayan reductions disappeared only in the eighteenth century after long educational effort, i.e. it was in fact the most tolerable traditional practice of the Guarani, for the simple reason that the Jesuits 49

Cushner, Why Have You Come Here?, 102-103; Jorge Pinto Rodríguez, “Jesuitas, Franciscanos y Capuchinos italianos en la Araucanía (1600-1900),” Revista Complutense de Historia de América 19 (1993): 113-116, 121. 50 See Montoya, Conquista espiritual, 1.

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quickly realised that there were not only social–a matter of prestige–but also economic reasons for this tradition: the leader gave his “subordinates” much more than he received from them, therefore he needed many more labourers in his household. It was also important that polygamy was a special privilege of the chiefs, whose friendship the Jesuits always sought and whose authority they did their best to support. Thus, polygamy could not be immediately abolished.51 Practically speaking, the Jesuits could not understand the essence of the Guarani culture or at least many of its aspects, this was however through no fault of their own: their humanistic education could not give them any alternative: they were men of their time and their own culture. But, unlike other “civilised men” they, at least, honestly tried. The consequences were quite significant. First of all, the Jesuits preserved Indian community. They created a codified Guarani language with its own writing system based on the dialect of Guairá, which was completely lost by the end of the nineteenth century. Much of the traditional Guarani culture was also preserved, though transformed, taking into account the reality of the situation. Many Native American management practices– such as the cultivation of traditional crops, the combination of agriculture with hunting and fishing and animal husbandry–continued to exist, although before contact the Guarani had only raised some poultry, and when the Jesuits arrived the practice of hunting, for example, was limited but not completely suppressed by the introduction of cattle raising.52 As a result the diet changed considerably (beef, milk) but was balanced well enough.53 However, the Guarani had to accept a new form of labour division established by the Jesuits: before contact women were responsible for the cultivation of plants, while in the reductions agriculture became a male occupation.54 51

Baigorri Jalon, Araguas Icíar, “Lenguas indígenas y mediación lingüística en las reducciones jesuíticas del Paraguay,” 5; Costa Neto, “Poligamia guarani e metodologia inaciana”; Petty, “Las reducciones jesuíticas del Paraguay,” 5; Podetti, “Roque González y su papel en el diseño y fundación de las ciudades guaranties,” 12, 14, 21; Zajícová, “Algunos aspectos de las reducciones jesuíticas del Paraguay: la organización interna, las artes, las lenguas, y la religión,” 146, 154. 52 Bartolomeu Meliá, “Potirõ: las formas de trabajo entre los Guaraní antiguos, ‘reducidos’ y modernos,” Revista Complutense de Historia de América 22 (1996): 191-192; Bravo Guerreira, “Las misiones de Chiquitos,” 41. 53 Cushner, Why Have You Come Here?, 121-122; Livi Bacci, Maeder, “The missions of Paraguay,” 194. 54 Podetti, “Roque González y su papel en el diseño y fundación de las ciudades guaranties,” 4, 18.

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The Indians in the reductions continued to use canoes as a means of transport and used traditional tools, but replaced by iron ones; they built long communal houses, but divided into family units according to the Jesuits’ demand, etc. The most serious problem for the missionaries was the laziness of the Indians, which they never could eradicate since the Guarani were unaccustomed to regular work. But it should be taken into account that before the Indians came to live in reductions they never had free days and did not know such strict order (in fact in some of its aspects similar to in a barracks) and discipline. As a result some of them even ran away from their settlements.55 The Jesuits also preserved many other Native traditions and customs though sometimes transforming them considerably. In their opinion, these too did not conflict with Christianity. Even if they did not understand the significance of reciprocity among the Indians, they made wide use of such relations. The so-called “drunkenness” was eradicated because the Jesuits allowed the practice, very important for the Guarani, of ceremonial libations, but the chicha (local maize beer) was replaced by yerba mate.56 The Jesuits even began to cultivate mate (a Paraguayan tea also used for paying the royal tribute tax), which was domesticated by them (the secret was lost after 1767) because the missionaries understood that the public nature of the ritual (inter-communal rallies, meetings etc.) was most important and it did not matter what the Indians drank but rather in what circumstances. From the Jesuits’ point of view, these feasts were manifestations of Christian goodness. Because of reciprocal relations, different shops created by missionaries functioned in the missions. There, the Indians produced various items, including many Christian religious images in painting and sculpture. Even now the assertion is widespread, going back to the opinion of the Jesuits themselves, as presented in their letters, that the Guarani were good copyists but lacked creativity. However, in the reductions an original art style was developed in which the Indian tradition can be traced quite clearly (columnar figures, etc.). Sometimes the Indian master modified the given sample when copying it,

55

Cushner, Why Have You Come Here?, 113; Allan Greer, “Towards a Comparative Study of Jesuit Missions and Indigenous Peoples in SeventeenthCentury Canada and Paraguay,” in Native Christians. Modes and Effects of Christianity among Indigenous Peoples of the Americas, ed. Aparecida Vilaça and Robin M. Wright (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009), 28. 56 Bravo Guerreira, “Las misiones de Chiquitos,” 42.

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for example, making the eyes of an image larger and more expressive. Some pieces even look like a kind of caricature.57 The fact that the Guarani were fond of music and dancing was used for the purposes of evangelisation. The Indians soon began to play European musical instruments, using them in combination with their traditional ones. The missionaries permitted them to do so, not understanding that music, singing and dancing were inseparable parts of an important natural activity (which required a high degree of cooperation to be interpreted) that was an integral part of the Guarani communal spiritual culture and of course of its traditional religious ideas.58 But they did even more. Contrary to Acosta, who had declared that Indian languages did not have the concepts characteristic of European philosophy (“god,” “sin,” and so on, and even the term “religion,” in fact, did not exist in Guarani59), the Jesuits accepted the name of Tupá (the thunder and rain deity) for designating the Christian God. How did it happen that the name of a minor deity became synonymous with the Creator of the world? We can assume two possibilities: deliberate misinformation on the part of the Indians or a cruel joke that played with Jesuits by their own education. They certainly knew ancient mythology, where Zeus played a major role, and the Peruvian religion in which Ilyapa, also god of thunder, held an important place. When they discovered in Guarani narratives the god Tupá, the bearer of thunder and rain, who, of course, was often supplicated for a plentiful harvest, they mistakenly believed he was, for the Indians, the creator of the world. But the Guarani did not dissuade them because it helped them to keep their own tradition, diverting the attention of the missionaries to minor points. On the other hand, the Guarani could easily understand the sense of the phrase that “at the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God,” because according to their beliefs the world was created by words alone by the First Father Ñamandu.60

57

Cunninghame Graham, A Vanished Arcadia, 180-181; Bozidar Sustersic, “El ‘insigne artífice’ José Brasanelli. Su participación en la conformación de un nuevo lenguaje figurativo en las misiones jesuíticas-guaraníes,” n.d. 58 Ariel Germán Vila Redondo, “La música como dispositivo de control social en las misiones guaraníticas de la provincia Jesuítica del Paraguay (s. XVII-XVIII),” n.d., 6. 59 Graciela Chamorro, “La buena palabra. Experiencias y reflexiones religiosas de los grupos guaraníes,” Revista de Indias LXIV, no. 230 (2004):119. 60 Chamorro, “La buena palabra”; Irma Ruiz, “Cuestión de alteridades: la aciaga vida del Tupã guaraní en la literatura de los ‘blancos’ y en la vital versión de los mbyá,” Runa XXX, no. 2 (2009): 119-134.

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As for polygamy, the Jesuits took action for the manifestation of Christian virtue and were very glad when they could persuade a cacique to leave his concubines, as they were stigmatised, i.e. secondary wives, and to marry only one according to ecclesiastical rules. But this fact only indicates that the missionaries again could not understand the significance of reciprocity. Among the Indians, it was a common practice to offer women to guests with the aim of establishing friendly and familial relations. So, in offering his wives to missionaries, i.e. to members of his own and neighbouring communities congregated in a reduction, the chief acquired greater prestige in the eyes of its inhabitants.61 Many other practices were also permitted and even maintained by the Jesuits, for example the use of long hair as a sign of prestige and masculinity among the Chiquito Indians.62 The most interesting fact in this process of long intercultural contact was that Guarani settled in the reductions could preserve their Native traditions not only because the Jesuits permitted them to do so, but also largely due to the fact that during the colonial period, they continued to maintain contact with other Guarani groups which continued to be pagans and lived outside the reductions. These contacts were based on kinship.63 The exchange of cultural values, however, was not unilateral. Not only did the Jesuits teach the Indians some useful innovations, they themselves also learned many things from their neophytes. The Guarani knew many herbs; tobacco, for example, was used for medical purposes and in ritual, like many others. The concentration of the Indians in the reductions favoured the spread of imported diseases. For a long time the Jesuits were forced to use supernatural means including the images of saints, holy water, prayer and even spells adapted to be Christian; they practically acted like new shamans. Already in 1576, Pope Gregory XIII allowed the Jesuits to practice medicine, and some of them soon became good doctors and successfully used local plants for medicinal purposes. In the reductions patients were fed tobacco leaves during smallpox epidemics, cotton sprouts soaked in water were drunk as a mixture served as an antidote to the venomous bites of various snakes and scorpions, cotton 61

Guilherme G. Felippe, “Casar sim, mas não para sempre: o matrimônio cristão e a dinâmica cultural indígena nas reduções do Paraguai,” Historia Unisinos 12, no. 3 (2008): 253-255; Eliane Cristina Deckmann Fleck, “Sobre feitiços e ritos: enfermidade e cura nas reduções jesuítico-guaranís, século XVII,” Topoi VI, no. 10 (2005): 620. 62 Bravo Guerreira, “Las misiones de Chiquitos,” 42. 63 Guillermo Wilde, “Espacio, etnogénesis y ambigüedad en las misiones jesuíticas de la provincia del Paraguay (siglos XVII y XVIII),” n.d., 7, 10-11.

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grains were used to prevent dysentery, etc. These remedies were practically unknown in Europe at that time. The fact that Indian medicines were of general use allowed in turn the survival of shamanic healing practices.64 Thanks to Guarani information, Fr. Antonio Sepp was able to find raw materials that permitted him to create the first small forge and produce iron tools and firearms in his reduction.65 And of course the Jesuit monographs dedicated to certain Indian nations and their papers on geography and natural history of South America were written only thanks to the information collected among the Indians during missionary works. Here it suffices to name only a few of the best descriptions of Indian groups written by Jesuits; La conquista espiritual (“The spiritual conquest”) by Antonio Ruiz de Montoya, and others, written later but undoubtedly on the basis (at least partially) of data collected much earlier; Relación de los indios Chiquitos by Patricio Fernandez (“Relations of the Chiquito Indians”), An Account of the Abipones by Martin Dobrizhoffer, etc. These all were composed according to a system of rules, elaborated at least at the beginning of the seventeenth century and included in various combinations the following: detailed geographical characteristics of the physical area, its flora and fauna, natural resources, appearance of the Indians, their languages, garments and adornments, weapons, governing bodies, family life, settlement patterns, dwellings, everyday life, economy (hunting, fishing, gathering, agriculture), customs, religion (primarily information regarding the so-called sorcerers), feasts and rituals, that is, what missionaries should know prior to beginning to convert the Indians. At first glance, this program of data collection looks very much like one of up-to-date ethnographical research. But in reality, as well demonstrated in the works of Bartolomeu Meliá, a Jesuit scholar working in Paraguay, those Jesuit relations, histories and chronicles could by no means be considered ethnographical papers. They only described missionary impressions in general lines, how one saw what he believed to be the most characteristic features of local Indian culture without presenting a complete description of their way of life. As a result, his data and knowledge were fragmentary and sometimes unconnected and incomplete; a missionary described local culture from his own point of

64

Cushner, Why Have You Come Here?, 123; Eliane Cristina Deckmann Fleck, “Las reducciones jesuítico-guaraníes–un espacio de creación y de resignificación (Provincia Jesuítica de Paraguay - siglo XVII),” (2005), 71-72, 79, 83. 65 Tulio Alfredo Palacios, “Comienzos de la siderurgia colonial en la reducción indígena guaranítica de San Juan Bautista,” Asociación Argentina de Materiales 8, no. 1 (2001): 18-26.

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view and could not see the reality as such due to his subjectivity.66 And of course, he believed that the Indian culture, being pagan, was inferior in comparison with his own, superior Christian culture. But it is evident that the ethnographic data collected by the Jesuits give us now the possibility to reconstruct the Indian way of life in some territories, even taking into account the fact that missionaries often could not understand some social phenomena but did described them minutely. Many anthropological studies of the last decades are based on Jesuit works.67 During their missionary work, Jesuits also made a valuable contribution to Amerindian linguistics (thanks to their Indian informants): they wrote some grammars, vocabularies and religious texts in the Quechua, Aimara, Guarani, Araucanian, Tupí, Moxo, etc. languages, though their studies were only done from a practical point of view: Indian languages were first of all instruments, important, of course, for evangelisation.

Conclusion From an outsider’s viewpoint it looked as if the Jesuits of Paraguay won a decisive victory in their battle for the Christianisation of the Indians and did so fairly quickly, despite (or perhaps thanks to) the constant threat of invasion by Portuguese and Spanish slave-hunters. And even at the beginning of the 1760s, if only to speak about economic activities, as the bishop of Asunción wrote to the King, the reductions prospered while the neighbouring city of Asunción was rapidly falling into decay.68 In contrast to European colonists, the Jesuits at least tried to establish lasting and permanent intercultural peace and contact with the Indians of the frontier–in Paraguay, Chile, Chaco, on the Upper Amazon and in Patagonia. Many of their missions failed not only because of their incompetence or lack of experience, but primarily due to constant wars 66

Bartolomeu Meliá, “El ‘modo de ser’ guaraní en la primera documentación jesuítica (1594-1639),” Archivum Historicum Soc. Iesu 50 (1981): 212-33. 67 Alfred Métraux, The Native Tribes of Eastern Bolivia and Western Matto Grosso [Smithsonian Institution, Bureau of American Ethnology, Bulletin 134] (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution, 1942); Meliá, “El ‘modo de ser’ Guaraní and Potirõ”; Fleck, “Las reducciones jesuítico-guaraníes”; Maria Cristina Bohn Martins, “As festas de chicha guarani no relato jesuítico,” in Anais Eletrônicos do III Encontro da ANPHLAC, 1998. 68 Juan Villegas, “Reducciones jesuíticas del Paraguay, método de evangelización de guaraníes sin otros habitantes en los pueblos,” in Educación y Evangelización. La Experiencia de un Mundo Mejor, ed. Carlos A. Page (Córdoba: Universidad Católica de Córdoba, 2005), 41.

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and acts of violence against the Indians committed by the Spanish colonial administration, soldiers and colonists. The Jesuits showed a great capacity for strategic reorientation and adaptation to one or another form of evangelisation according to the circumstances, taking into account that Acosta many years prior had already stated that a missionary could not utilise the only one model and the same rules for evangelising all nations of the Indians. However, it is extremely significant that even in the eighteenth century, when the Jesuits (at least the majority of them) qualified the Indians as real human beings, as individuals who had souls and a capacity to understand the Gospel, they thought of them as of persons of undoubtedly lower mental abilities in comparison to the Jesuits themselves and Europeans in general. It should be noted that in the missions of Paraguay and in all others the Jesuits never admitted any of the Indians to their Company as a brother or priest.69 However, at that time and much later, after the Jesuit expulsion from America, we can see in their works some elements of the “good savage” myth, so popular among the European writers and philosophers of the Age of the Enlightenment.70 In spite of the fact that conversion provoked considerable transformations not only in the religious sphere, but also in their way of life and subsistence economy,71 the Guarani welcomed the Jesuits in the majority of cases, as it also was later in the provinces of Moxos and Chiquitos to the east of the Andes, territories even more isolated than eastern Paraguay. But it is difficult to believe that Indians everywhere enthusiastically accepted the new religion, as some modern Jesuit authors declare.72 In the seventeenth century missionaries had already understood well enough that the Indians were guided by their practical interests.73

69

Zajícová, “Algunos aspectos de las reducciones jesuíticas del Paraguay: la organización interna, las artes, las lenguas, y la religión,” 155. 70 See for example: Martin Dobrizhoffer, An Account of the Abipones: An Equestrian People of Paraguay (London: John Murray, 1822 [1788]); Juan de Velasco, Historia del reino de Quito en la América meridional (Quito: Casa de la Cultura Ecuatoriana, 1977 [1789]); Huffine, “Raising Paraguay from Decline: Memory, Ethnography, and Natural History in the Eighteenth-Century Accounts of the Jesuit Fathers,” in El saber de los jesuitas, historias naturals y el Nuevo Mundo, ed. Luis Millones Figueroa and Domingo Ledezma (Frankfurt, Madrid: Vervuert-Iberoamericana, 2005), 293-296. 71 Baigorri Jalon, Araguas Icíar, “Lenguas indígenas y mediación lingüística en las reducciones jesuíticas del Paraguay,” 1. 72 Meier, “Totus mundus nostra fit habitatio,” 73. 73 Livi-Bacci, Eldorado nel pantano, 98-101.

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In fact, Christianisation did not lead to the total destruction of the traditional way of life.74 The Jesuits themselves knew very well that that was impossible and in quite a number of cases unnecessary. Therefore they tolerated and even adapted some local traditions and customs to the new reality. The reductions were able to protect the inhabitants against external threats and gave them access to prestige goods, new tools and technologies. The Indians received from the Jesuits new crops, cattle, tools and weapons unknown to them before. The religious life was very intensive and the feasts were spectacular. Once accustomed to life in a reduction it was difficult to leave. It was a place of cultural tolerance and coexistence and if the Guarani accepted the reduction it was because they had seen in it their real chance to continue to be Guarani. They integrated many new elements into their culture, including the new religion, but only in ways that suited them.75 They adapted Christianity to their mentality and everyday life. At the same time however, the Jesuits succeeded in establishing the belief that their domination was a service to the Indians. Their power appeared legitimate, so the Guarani considered it their duty to serve those who served them though we know that some Indians occasionally resisted Jesuit domination.76 Apologists for the Jesuit Order sometimes do not take into consideration that the consolidation of the reduction system was a slow, conflicting and contradictory process. Sometimes Indians escaped from the reductions and returned to the woods, especially in times of epidemics (we must not forget that in some reductions there were no physicians nor pharmacists).77 It should also not be forgotten that during the Jesuit period and thanks to missionaries work some formerly widespread Indian languages disappeared. That was the result of selective bilingualism, when in multiethnic areas only some languages were chosen as linguae francae, as for example Quechua, Aimara, Araucanian or Guarani. As is known today, even taking into account the process of disintegration of Indian cultures after the wars of independence in the Americas, in the former province of Moxos where before the Jesuits’ arrival local peoples spoke 39 languages, today only three still exist, all of which are in danger of extinction.78 74

Bravo Guerreira, “Las misiones de Chiquitos,” 41. Greer, “Towards a Comparative Study of Jesuit Missions and Indigenous Peoples in Seventeenth-Century Canada and Paraguay,” 27. 76 Vila Redondo, “La música como dispositivo de control social,” 8; O’Brien, “Utopia in the Midst of Oppression?,” 403. 77 Arenhardt, “El paisaje ordenado de la reducción de Santa Ana.” 78 Crevels, “Why Speakers Shift and Languages Die,” 9. 75

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Jesuit missionary work served the purpose of creating conditions favourable to intensive intercultural contact and exchange because without this it would be impossible to achieve the main objective: evangelisation of the Indians and their transformation into a new, truly Christian, political and human society, but all from only the missionary point of view, without taking into account the opinion of the Indians. However, it was not the Jesuits’ fault, given that they were people of this concrete historical period. At that time, the Spanish Crown gave the Indians only two alternatives: some of them could choose between personal servitude or extermination on the one hand and reduction on the other. The results of missionary work depended on many and various factors; the type of Indian economy was only one of them. It is obvious that Jesuit Fathers worked more successfully among the groups of agriculturalists (Guarani, Moxos, Chiquitos), but the example of the mission of Chiloé shows that the economic factor was not the most important in some cases. Success of missionary activity also depended on the political situation in an area and the position of Spanish colonists and local administration who, as is well known, sometimes were much more dangerous enemies than hostile Indians. Constant wars against the Indians and slavers’ expeditions by Spaniards led to the failure of the Jesuit missions among the Guaycurú and Chiriguano, Araucanians of Chile and Patagonia. On the other hand, the incomprehension of peculiarities of the local way of life made it impossible to organise a successful mission in the province of Mainas.79 Jesuits were also unable to establish self-sufficient reductions in Chaco, among the nomadic Indian groups of the area, who did not want to change their way of life, something unintelligible from the Europeans’ point of view. It should also be noted that Jesuits came to Chaco only in the eighteenth century and did not have enough time to work successfully. Local Indian chiefs soon learned how they could take advantage of missions in their political manoeuvres as sites of contact, exchange,

79

María Susana Cipoletti, “Jesuitas y Tucanos en el noreste amazónico del siglo XVIII: una armonía imposible,” in Un reino en la frontera. Las misiones jesuitas en la América colonial, ed. Sandra Negro and Manuel M. Marzal (Quito, AbyaYala, 2000), 223-242; Sandra Negro, “Maynas, una misión entre la ilusión y el desencanto,” in Un reino en la frontera, 269-299; Jeffrey Klaiber, “Misiones exitosas y menos exitosas: los jesuitas en Mainas, Nueva España y Paraguay,” in Los jesuitas y la modernidad en Iberoamérica. 1549-1773, ed. Manuel Marzal and Luis Bacigalupo (Lima: Fondo Editorial de la PUCP, IFEA, Universidad del Pacífico, 2007), 324-336.

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meetings and as shelters, but the missionary work in such situations ended without significant positive results.80 But this is a special topic.

Bibliography Acosta, José de. Predicación del Evangelio en las Indias. (1577), accessed October 2012: http://www.cervantesvirtual.com. Albó, Xavier. “Jesuitas y culturas indígenas (Primera parte).” América Indígena XXVI, no. 3 (1966): 249-308. —. “Jesuitas y culturas indígenas (Segunda parte).” América Indígena XXVI, no. 4 (1966): 395-445. Arenhardt, Elida. “El paisaje ordenado de la reducción de Santa Ana.” In Cuarto Encuentro Internacional Humboldt. Puerto Iguazú: Centro de Estudios Alexander von Humbold, 2002, accessed October 2012: www.enciclopediademisiones.com/data/rtf/hist/HISTACT2368.pdf Baigorri Jalón, Jesús and Alonso Araguás Icíar. “Lenguas indígenas y mediación lingüística en las reducciones jesuíticas del Paraguay (s. XVII).” Mediazioni online. Rivista online di studi interdisciplinari su lingue e culture, 2007, accessed October 2012: http://www/mediazionionline.it/articoli/baigorri-alonso.html Baptista, Jean. “A fome nos povoados missionais: dinâmicas históricas em meio ao debate sobre a subsistência entre jesuítas e indígenas.” Biblos 22, no. 2 (2008): 27-38. Baravalle, María del Rosario and María Florencia Font. “La Reducción que no fue. Santa María de Reyes de Guaycurúes, primeras décadas de siglo XVII.” Mundo Agrario. Revista de estudios rurales 7, no. 13 (2006), accessed October 2012: http://redalyc.uaemex.mx/redalyc/src/ inicio/ArtPdfRed.jsp?iCve=84501305. Borja Medina, Francisco. “¿Exploradores o evangelizadores? La Misión de los Mojos: cambio y continuidad.” In La mision y los jesuitas en la América española, 1567-1767: cambios y permanencias, edited by José Palomo and Rodrigo Moreno Jeria, 187-238. Sevilla: CSIS, 2005. Bravo Guerreira, Concepción M. “Las misiones de Chiquitos: pervivencia y Resistencia de un modelo de colonización.” Revista Complutense de Historia de América 21 (1995): 29-55. 80

Lidia R. Nacuzzi, “Los grupos nómades de la Patagonia y el Chaco en el siglo XVIII: identidades, espacios, movimientos y recursos económicos ante la situación de contacto. Una reflexión comparativa,” Chungara, Revista de Antropología Chilena 39, no. 2 (2007): 221-234; Carina Lucaioli, “Alianzas y estrategias de los líderes indígenas abipones en el espacio fronterizo colonial (Chaco, siglo XVIII),” Revista Española de Antropología Americana 39, no. 1 (2009): 77-96.

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Chamorro, Graciela. “La buena palabra. Experiencias y reflexiones religiosas de los grupos guaraníes.” Revista de Indias LXIV, no. 230 (2004): 117-140. —. Teología guaraní. Quito: Abya Yala, 2004. —. “Antonio Ruiz de Montoya: promotor y defensor de lenguas y pueblos indígenas.” Historia Unisinos 11, no. 2 (2007): 252-260. Cipoletti, María Susana. “Jesuitas y Tucanos en el noreste amazónico del siglo XVIII: una armonía imposible.” In Un reino en la frontera. Las misiones jesuitas en la América colonial, edited by Sandra Negro and Manuel M. Marzal, 223-242. Quito, Abya-Yala, 2000. Coello de la Rosa, Alexandre. “La doctrina de Julí en debate (15751585).” Revista de Estudios Extremeños LXIII, no. II (2007): 951-990. —. “Los jesuitas y las misiones de frontera del Alto Perú: Santa Cruz de la Sierra (1587-1603).” Revista Complutense de Historia de América 33 (2007): 151-175. Costa Neto, José Luiz, “Poligamia guarani e metodologia inaciana: reflexões acerca de uma fonte.” In XXIV Simpósio Nacional de História. Os Índios na História: Fontes e Problemas (2007), accessed October 2012: www.ifch.unicamp.br/ihb/Textos/ST07JoseLuiz.pdf. Crevels, Mily. “Why Speakers Shift and Languages Die: an Account of Language Death in Amazonian Bolivia.” In Current Studies on South American Languages [Indigenous Languages of Latin America, 3], edited by Mily Crevels, Simon. Van de Kerke, Sérgio Meira, Hein Van der Voort, 9-30. Leiden: Research School of Asian, African, and Amerindian Studies (CNWS), 2002. Cunninghame Graham, Robert Bontine. A Vanished Arcadia. London: Century, [1901] 1988. Cushner, Nicholas P. Why Have You Come Here? The Jesuits and the First Evangelization of Native America. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006. Dobrizhoffer, Martin. An Account of the Abipones: An Equestrian People of Paraguay, vols. 1-3. London: John Murray, 1822 [1788]. Egaña, Antonio de. “La visión humanística del Indio Americano en los primeros jesuitas peruanos (1568-1576).” Analecta Gregoriana LXX (1954): 291-306. Egaña, Antonio de, ed. Monumenta Peruana, vol. VI. Roma: IHSI, 1974. Felippe, Guilherme G. “Casar sim, mas não para sempre: o matrimônio cristão e a dinâmica cultural indígena nas reduções do Paraguai.” Historia Unisinos 12, no. 3 (2008): 248-261.

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Fernandez, Patricio. Relación historial de las misiones de indios chiquitos que en el Paraguay tienen los padres de la Compañía de Jesús, t. I-II. Madrid: Librería de Victoriano Suárez, 1895 [1726]. Fleck, Eliane Cristina Deckmann. “Las reducciones jesuítico-guaraníes–un espacio de creación y de resignificación (Provincia Jesuítica de Paraguay–siglo XVII).” (2005), accessed October 2012: www.ifch.unicamp.br/ihb/estudos/Reducciones.pdf —. “Sobre feitiços e ritos: enfermidade e cura nas reduções jesuíticoguaranís, século XVII.” Topoi VI, no. 10 (2005): 71-98. —. “De mancebas auxiliares do demônio a devotas congregantes: mulheres e condutas em transformação (reduções jesuíticiguaranis, sec. XVIII).” Revista Estudos Feministas 14, no. 3 (2007): 617-634. Frías, Susana. “La dignidad del indígena en los escritos de Diego de Torres.” Anuario del CEH 2-3, no. 2-3 (2002-2003): 321-336. Greer, Alan. “Towards a Comparative Study of Jesuit Missions and Indigenous Peoples in Seventeenth-Century Canada and Paraguay.” In Native Christians. Modes and Effects of Christianity among Indigenous Peoples of the Americas, edited by Aparecida Vilaça and Robin M. Wright, 21-32. Farnham: Ashgate, 2009. Groesbeck, Geoffrey A.P. “A Brief History of the Jesuit Missions of Chiquitos.” Bolivian Studies Journal 14 (2007), accessed October 2012: http://www.chiquitania.com/.../.pdf. Gutiérrez, Ramón. “Las misiones circulares de los jesuitas en Chiloé.” Apuntes 20, no. 1 (2007): 50-69. Haubert, Máxime. “Jesuitas, indios y fronteras coloniales en los Siglos XVII y XVIII. Algunas notas sobre las reducciones del Paraguay, su formación y su destrucción final.” Sociedad y Religión 9 (1992): 6281. Healy, Philip. “Introduction.” In Robert Bontine Cunninghame Graham, A Vanished Arcadia, v-xiii. London: Century, [1901] 1988. Hernández, Pablo P. Organización social de las doctrinas guaraníes de la Compañía de Jesús, t. I-II. Barcelona: Gustavo Gili, 1913. Huffine, Kristin. “Raising Paraguay from Decline: Memory, Ethnography, and Natural History in the Eighteenth-Century Accounts of the Jesuit Fathers.” In El saber de los jesuitas, historias naturals y el Nuevo Mundo, edited by Luis Millones Figueroa and Domingo Ledezma, 279-302. Frankfurt, Madrid: Vervuert, Iberoamericana, 2005. Hyland, Sabine. The Jesuit and the Incas. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2003. Ibarra, María Florencia. “Leyes naturales y rituales aborígenes: fósiles, hechiceros, brujos y tigres, en los relatos de los Hnos. M. Dobrizhoffer

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y T. Falkner.” In VIII Encuentro Argentino de Historia de la Psiquiatría, la Psicología y el Psicoanálisis, 2007, accessed October 2012:http://23118.psi.uba.ar/academica/carrerasdegrado/psicologia/inf ormacion_adicional/obligatorias/034_historia_2/Archivos/inv/falkner_ dobrizhoffer.pdf. Klaiber, Jeffrey. “Misiones exitosas y menos exitosas: los jesuitas en Mainas, Nueva España y Paraguay.” In Los jesuitas y la modernidad en Iberoamérica. 1549-1773, edited by Manuel Marzal and Luis Bacigalupo, 324-336. Lima: Fondo Editorial de la PUCP, IFEA, Universidad del Pacífico, 2007. Livi Bacci, Massimo. Eldorado nel pantano. Bologna: il Mulino, 2007. Livi Bacci, Massimo and Ernesto Maeder. “The missions of Paraguay: The Demography of an Experiment.” Journal of Interdisciplinary History XXXV, no. 2 (2004): 185-224. Lucaioli, Carina. “Alianzas y estrategias de los líderes indígenas abipones en el espacio fronterizo colonial (Chaco, siglo XVIII).” Revista Española de Antropología Americana 39, no. 1 (2009): 77-96. Matienzo Castillo, Javier W. “La encomienda y las reducciones jesuíticas de América Meridional.” Temas Americanistas 21 (2008): 66-84. —. “La iglesia misionera en Indias: el caso de las reducciones de la Compañía de Jesús en América Meridional (siglos XVII y XVIII),” n.d., accessed October 2012: http://www.utpl.edu.ec/portalchiquitano /images/stories/bibliotecas/archivo_interno/mision_chiquitos/lamisione namerica_javier_matienzo_iglesias_reduccion_jesuitas_america.pdf. Martins, Maria Cristina Bohn. “As festas de chicha guarani no relato jesuítico.” Anais Eletrônicos do III Encontro da ANPHLAC, 1998, accessed October 2012: http://anphlac.org/upload/anais/encontro3/ maria_cristina_bohn.pdf. Mateos, Fernando, ed. Historia general de la Compañía de Jesús en la provincia del Perú. Crónica anónima de 1600 que trata del establecimiento y misiones de la Compañía de Jesús en los países de habla española en la América meridional, t. I. Madrid: Instituto Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo, 1944. Meier, Johannes. “Totus mundus nostra fit habitatio. Jesuitas del territorio de lengua alemana en la América portuguesa y española.” In São Francisco Xavier. Nos 500 anos do nascimento de São Francisco Xavier: da Europa para o mundo. 1506-2006, edited by Zulmira Santos, 57-86. Porto: Inova-Artes Gráficas, 2007. Meliá, Bartolomeu. “El ‘modo de ser’ guaraní en la primera documentación jesuítica (1594-1639).” Archivum Historicum Soc. Iesu 50 (1981): 212-33.

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—. “Potirõ: las formas de trabajo entre los Guaraní antiguos, ‘reducidos’ y modernos.” Revista Complutense de Historia de América 22 (1996): 183-208. Métraux, Alfred. The Native Tribes of Eastern Bolivia and Western Matto Grosso [Smithsonian Institution, Bureau of American Ethnology, Bulletin 134]. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution, 1942. Montoya, Antonio Ruiz de. Conquista espiritual. Madrid 1639, accessed October 2012: http://biblio.wdfiles.com/local--files/montoya-1639conquista/montoya_1639_conquista_Mindlin.pdf Moreno Jeria, Rodrigo. Misiones en Chile Austral: los jesuitas en Chiloé (1608-1768). Sevilla: Universidad de Sevilla, Consejo Superior de Investigación Científica, 2007. Muratori, Ludovico Antonio. Il cristianesimo felice nelle missioni dei padri della Compagnia di Gesù nel Paraguai. Palermo: Sellerio Editore, 1985 [1743]. Müller, Michael. “Jesuitas centro-europeos ó ‘alemanes’ en las misiones de indígenas de las antiguas provincias de Chile y del Paraguay (siglos XVII y XVIII).” In São Francisco Xavier: nos 500 anos do nascimento de São Francisco Xavier: da Europa para o mundo 1506-2006, edited by Zulmira Santos, 87-102. Porto: Centro Interuniversitário de História da Espiritualidade, 2007. Nacuzzi, Lidia R. “Los grupos nómades de la Patagonia y el Chaco en el siglo XVIII: identidades, espacios, movimientos y recursos económicos ante la situación de contacto. Una reflexión comparativa.” Chungara. Revista de Antropología Chilena 39, no. 2 (2007): 221-234. Negro, Sandra. “Maynas, una misión entre la ilusión y el desencanto.” In Un reino en la frontera, edited by Sandra Negro and Manuel Marzal, 269-299. Quito: Abya-Yala, 2000. O’Brien, Thomas W. “Utopia in the Midst of Oppression? A Reconsideration of Guaraní/Jesuit Communities in Seventeenth and Eighteenth Century Paraguay.” Contemporary Justice Review 7, no. 4 (2004): 395-410 Ossanna, Julia A. “Las misiones jesuítas en la región del Guayrá en las primeras décadas del siglo XVII.” Mundo Agrario 8, no. 16 (2008): 115. Palacios, Tulio Alfredo. “Comienzos de la siderurgia colonial en la reducción indígena guaranítica de San Juan Bautista.” Asociación Argentina de Materiales 8, no. 1 (2001): 18-26. Perusset, Macarena and Rosso, Cintia N. “Guerra, canibalismo y venganza colonial: los casos Mocoví y Guaraní.” Memoria Americana 17, no. 1 (2009): 61-83.

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Petty, Miguel. “Las reducciones jesuíticas del Paraguay ¿posible modelo desarrollo sustantable?” n.d., accessed October 2012: http://www.jesuitica.be/.../(Petty).pdf. Pinto Rodríguez, Jorge. “Jesuitas, Franciscanos y Capuchinos italianos en la Araucanía (1600-1900).” Revista Complutense de Historia de América 19 (1993): 109-147. Podetti, Ramiro J. “Roque González y su papel en el diseño y fundación de las ciudades guaranties.” Humanidades 5, no. 1 (2005): 131-146. —. “La mujer en las ciudades guaraníes según las Cartas Anuas.” 2009, accessed October 2012: http://www.um.edu.uy/_upload/_investigacion /web_investigacion_92_2009LamujerenlaciudadguaransegnlasCartasA nuas.pdf Ruiz, Irma. “Cuestión de alteridades: la aciaga vida del Tupã guaraní en la literatura de los “blancos” y en la vital versión de los mbyá.” Runa XXX, no. 2 (2009): 119-134. Sustersic Bozidar. “El “insigne artífice” José Brasanelli. Su participación en la conformación de un nuevo lenguaje figurativo en las misiones jesuíticas-guaraníes.” n.d., accessed October 2012: http://www.upo.es/ depa/webdhuma/areas/arte/3cb/documentos/42f.pdf Velasco, Juan de. Historia del reino de Quito en la América meridional, 3 vols. Quito: Casa de la Cultura Ecuatoriana, 1977 [1789]. Vila Redondo, Ariel Germán. “La música como dispositivo de control social en las misiones guaraníticas de la provincia Jesuítica del Paraguay (s. XVII-XVIII).” n.d., accessed October 2012: http://www.um.es/estructura/equipo/vicestudiantes/arquimedes2003/pd f/011-Arielvila.pdf Villegas, Juan. “Reducciones jesuíticas del Paraguay, método de evangelización de guaraníes sin otros habitantes en los pueblos.” In Educación y Evangelización. La Experiencia de un Mundo Mejor, edited by Carlos A. Page, 33-44. Córdoba: Universidad Católica de Cordoba, 2005. Viñuales, Graciela María. “Misiones jesuíticas de guaraníes (Argentina, Paraguay, Brasil).” Apuntes 20, no. 1 (2007): 108-125. Wilde, Guillermo. “Poderes del ritual y rituales del poder: un análisis de las celebraciones en los pueblos jesuíticos de Guaraníes.” Revista Española de Antropología Americana 33 (2003): 203-229. —. “Espacio, etnogénesis y ambigüedad en las misiones jesuíticas de la provincia del Paraguay (siglos XVII y XVIII).” n.d., accessed October 2012: www.utpl.edu.ec/.../lamisionenamerica_guillermo_wild_wilde_ espacio_etnogenesis_jesuitas_paraguay.pdf.

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Zajícová, Lenka. “Algunos aspectos de las reducciones jesuíticas del Paraguay: la organización interna, las artes, las lenguas, y la religión.” Acta Universitatis Palackianae Olomucensis, Facultas Philosophica Philologica 74 (1999), accessed October 2012: http://publib.upol.cz/ ~obd/fulltext/Romanica-8/Romanica-8_18.pdf.

CHAPTER FOUR MAKING THE INDIGENOUS SPEAK: THE JESUIT MISSIONARY DIEGO DE ROSALES TH * IN COLONIAL CHILE, 17 CENTURY RAFAEL GAUNE

To say that the Jesuits’ text made the Indigenous “speak” may sound like a terrible provocation. It is like stating that the Jesuit writers had ventriloqual powers, powers displayed in their texts produced in the Spanish Colonies, full of dialogues between Jesuits and Indigenous. These dialogues continually came after acts of violence, after some characters disapproved of the process of Christianisation, or after some Indigenous people accepted Christianity thus producing a defence of its goodness. There they are. All of the characters, sometimes individualised with their names, restate or counter the discourse of the missionaries. The subject of these dialogues may be trapped in an interpretative controversy. On the one hand, the dialogues or impassionate speeches could be interpreted with naïve positivism, thus considering them as truth. On the other hand, the interpreter may consider these texts from a radical Postmodern viewpoint, showing that all of what there exists is a reality external to the texts themselves; and claiming that these written discourses present nothing but the “discursive strategy” of the author. However, let us clarify some issues with regard to these texts in order to escape this interpretive polarity. Firstly, these dialogues are not a “visibilisation” of Indigenous people. Neither are they a reconstruction of an Indigenous historicity. They are not a dialogical picture. The subalterns do not speak here. They are not transcripts of speeches. They do not reflect Indigenous resistance. These voices, therefore, speak more about the authors than they *

Translation from Spanish to English by Nicolás Lema. The research for this article was supported by a Short-Term Scholar Fellowship (Spring Quarter, 2011), University of California, Los Angeles. I am particularly grateful to Claudio Rolle, Nicolás Lema and Francesco Ronco for their comments and suggestions.

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do about Indigenous people. It is not the anonymous Indigenous who responded in his native language to religious confessionaries. It is a conscious dissonance of the texts. This claim may sound obvious. However, we must justify it. The case of “Indigenous declarations,” texts such as letters by Indigenous people to the king (those written by Inca Garcilaso or Guamán Poma, for example), transcriptions of primordial myths, or the several accounts of the Spanish Conquest which give us traces of the so-called “Vision of the Vanquished.”1 These voices were produced through the crystallisation of primary sources, readings and the amalgamation of several ideas. There is a tradition that must be traced. It is customary to begin with a text in order to reconstruct its context. But, in order to disentangle these dialogues, it is convenient to start with the context and then move towards the text. Indeed, this is the process that will allow us to decipher the Indigenous voice, filtered through the Jesuit writings. In many cases, the Indigenous voice was used to tell what the authors themselves were not able to say, or to say what they actually wanted to say. Criticism and defence of Colonialism were constantly overlapped. Thus, we have the example of Hurao, an Indigenous man from the Mariana Islands, who put forward a furious criticism of Colonialism. He called for a rebellion, charging the Spaniards with the arrival of several diseases in the Islands and accusing them of forbidding nudity. The text was published in a book by French Jesuit Charles Le Gobien, Histoire des Îles Marianne–published in 1700 in Paris–as if was truly written by an Indigenous man who called for an anti-Spaniard uprising. Le Gobien was also the first one to put together the Lettres édifiantes et curieuse, sent from various missions to France and edited in 1702-76. This Jesuit used Hurao’s voice to secretly criticise Spanish Colonialism, something he could not have openly done in his own writings.2 1

See Edmundo Guillén, Versión Inca de la Conquista (Lima: Editorial Milla Batres, 1974); Miguel León-Portilla, Visión de los vencidos (La Habana: Casa de las Américas, 1969 [1959]) and El reverso de la conquista. Relaciones aztecas, mayas e incas (México: Joaquín Mortiz, 1964); Paulo Suess, ed., A Conquista Espiritual da América Espanhola (Petrópolis: Editorial Vozes, 1992), 21-224; Nathan Wachtel, La vision des vaincus. Les Indiens du Pérou devant la Conquête espagnole (1530-1570) (Paris: Gallimard, 1971). See also Serge Gruzinski and Nathan Wachtel, Le Nouveau Monde Mondes Nouveaux. L’expérience américaine (Paris: Éditions de l’École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, 1996). 2 Carlo Ginzburg deciphered Le Gobien’s text and reconstructed it. Ginzburg established that the core ideas of this writing were based on Salustio, Tacito and Montaigne. See “Le voci dell’altro. Una rivolta indigena nelle isole Marianne,” in Rapporti di forza. Storia, retorica, prova (Milano: Feltrinelli, 2001), 87-108.

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We also have the example of Jesuit Antonio Ruiz Montoya, historian and Guarani translator. In his Conquista espiritual hecha por los religiosos de la Compañía de Jesús, published in Madrid in 1636, he made known the martyrdom of Roque González de Santa Cruz, which occurred in 1628, after the betrayal of the sorcerer Ñezú. Following the martyrdom of three Jesuits, some Indigenous men were sent by the sorcerer to confirm Roque’s death. But in the meantime, his heart told them: Habéis muerto al que os ama, habéis muerto mi cuerpo y molido mis huesos, pero no mi alma, que está ya entre los bienaventurados en el cielo. Muchos trabajos os han de venir con ocasión de mi muerte, porque mis hijos vendrán a castigaros, por haber maltratado la imagen de la Madre de Dios.3

The Indigenous men replied to the talking heart of the missionary: “Aun habla este embustero.” Embustero (“liar”) is a word charged with Jesuit references. Jesuits were tagged as embusteros by non-Christianised Indigenous people in these kinds of dialogues. Roque’s heart was finally pierced with a spear. It was thus transformed into a precious missionary relic and brought to Rome. Due to the presence of his impaled heart in Rome, Roque González was canonised by Pope John Paul II in 1988 as the martyr saint of the River Plate.4 This account circulated widely. It fed many other Jesuit stories in the Province of Paraguay as well as legal testimonies regarding so-called “indios reducidos” and the death of Jesuit missionaries.5 Subsequent narratives about martyrdom in Colonial America reinforced some of the elements at stake in the deadly events in Paraguay: Indigenous betrayal, unburied bodies, iconoclasm and transgression. These Jesuit writings are related to the lives of their writers. Le Gobien defended Matteo Ricci’s practices in China, thus exacerbating even more 3

Antonio Ruiz de Montoya, Conquista espiritual hecha por los religiosos de la Compañía de Jesús en las provincias del Paraguay, Paraná, Uruguay y Tapé [1639] (Bilbao: Imprenta del Corazón de Jesús, 1892), 234-5. 4 See Claudio Rolle, “La politica della santità dei Gesuiti nelle missioni del Paraguay,” in Ordini religiosi, santità e culti: prospettive di ricerca tra Europa e America Latina, ed. Gabriella Zarri (Lecce: Congedo Editore, 2003), 37-51. 5 “Testimonio de Santiago Guarecupí, cacique de la Limpia Concepción” (17 de octubre de 1630); “Testimonio de Pablo Arayú, reducido en la reducción de la Candelaria” (10 de noviembre de 1631); “Testimonio de Guirayú, cacique reducido en la Candelaria” (10 de noviembre de 1631), in Martín Lienhard, Testimonios, cartas y manifiestos indígenas: desde la conquista hasta comienzos del siglo XX (Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1992), 316-24.

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the so-called “Chinese rites controversy.”6 Moreover, he was the editor of the “Edifying and curious letters,” which arrived from overseas and highlighted the missionary accommodation in the new territories. In turn, Ruiz de Montoya was not only a historian of the process of Spiritual Conquest, but also a producer of Guarani grammars and founder of reductions.7 His descriptions of Ñezú show that he was an expert in Indigenous rituals and spirituality and that he was in the reductions when the martyrdom took place. Furthermore, these writings follow another pattern: they are texts written outside the missions. Ruiz de Montoya took 25 years to produce them, while Le Gobien worked in Paris. Alonso de Ovalle and Diego de Rosales followed the same pattern in the case of Chile. This means some common elements are characteristic of all of the mentioned cases: the Spiritual Conquest is the centre of the stories, the writing process is done outside the missions and the “antiquary”8 is used as a method for interpreting other cultures. In this paper I will focus on the texts written by Diego de Rosales (Madrid, 1605-Santiago, 1677)9 which give a voice to Indigenous people. I 6

On “Chinese rites” see Joseph Brucker, “Chinoise, Rites,” in Dictionnaire de Théologie Catholique, contenant l’exposé des doctrines de la théologie catholique, leurs preuves et leur histoire, vol. II (Paris: Letouzey, 1932) and The Chinese Rites Controversy: Its History and Meaning, ed. David E. Mungello (San Francisco: The Ricci Institute for Chinese-Western Cultural History, 1994). See also Carlo Ginzburg, “Ancora sui riti cinesi: vecchi e nuovi documenti,” in A dieci anni dall’apertura dell’Archivio della Congregazione per la dottrina della fede: storia e archivi dell’Inquisizione (Roma: Scienze e Lettere, 2011), 131-44. 7 “El fundamento desta lengua son partículas, que muchas dellas por si no significa: pero compuestas con otras, o enteras, o partidas (porque muchas las cortan en composición) hazen vozes significativas; a cuya causa no ay verbo fixo, porque se componen destas partículas, o nombres, con otras”: in Antonio Ruiz de Montoya, Tesoro de la lengua guaraní (Madrid: Juan Sánchez, 1639). 8 On “antiquary” see the important article by Arnaldo Momigliano, “Ancient History and the Antiquarian,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institute 13, no. 3-4 (1950): 285-315. 9 On Diego de Rosales, see Charles O`Neill, SJ and Joaquín M. Domínguez, SJ, Diccionario histórico de la Compañía de Jesús. Biográfico–Temático, tomo IV (Roma-Madrid: Universidad Pontificia Comillas, Institutum Historicum, S.I., 2001), 3411-3412; Eduardo Tampe, Catálogo de jesuitas de Chile (1593-1767). Catálogo de regulares de la Compañía en el antiguo Reino de Chile y en el destierro (Santiago: Ediciones Universidad Alberto Hurtado, Instituto de HistoriaPontificia Universidad Católica de Chile, DIBAM, 2007), 226; José Toribio Medina, Historia de la literatura colonial de Chile, tomo II (Santiago: Imprenta de la Librería de El Mercurio, 1878), 243-87 and Diccionario biográfico colonial de Chile (Santiago: Imprenta Elziviriana, 1906), 764-767; Walter Hanisch, “La

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will thus try to individualise their literary and referential dimensions, by utilising the categories presented by the texts themselves. I shall inquire about what those Indigenous voices mean, how they became filtered through the text, and what they are signalling. I propose that the Indigenous voices written regarding Chile give clues to the relationship between accommodation and warfare. Therefore, we find in these letters a different view from the one we find in those sent from Paris. The latter describe the acclimatisation of the missionaries, mainly within local elite groups (in Japan, India and China), or the adaptation of the so-called “indios reducidos” (e.g. in Paraguay). In turn, the Indigenous voices in Chile show, to some extent, the contradictions of the process of warfare. In other words, they problematize ideas about “war by blood and fire,” they reproach barbarian behaviour and they describe military attitudes. In this sense, the Jesuit thinking put forward in these discourses reveals its own contradictions as well. In Rosales’ Historia General del Reino de Chile, Flandes indiano (1674) and Conquista espiritual (1674), it is possible to identify dialogues between Indigenous people and Jesuits, Indigenous men and other Indigenous people, harangues prior to and after battles. These discourses constitute the fabric of the Jesuit writings. It is important to highlight that Rosales began the actual writing after his twenty-five year missionary work in the Araucania region. Proto-ethnographic information gathered by the missionary, Chilean history in its moral and natural dimension and the wanderings of the Jesuits overlap in the pages of his text. Consequently, by taking into account his practice as a missionary, his intellectual training and the relationship between “war” and the Society of Jesus, I will follow two threads in order to analyse the Indigenous voice present in Rosales’ work. The first thread is the problem of the “just war” and the second one will be the voices of Christianisation and transgression. I shall quote two significant fragments in which Rosales gives voice to some eminent Indigenous men, Lautaro and Caupolicán. I will then analyse various dimension of those fragments, where controversial issues regarding “warfare” will arise. Some of the influences that led the Jesuit to write these dialogues will also surface. In one of the first harangues uttered by an Indigenous man in Historia General, Rosales uses the voice of Caupolicán in order to draw some formación del historiador Diego de Rosales,” Boletín de la Academia chilena de la Historia 94 (1983): 115-144; and “El manuscrito de la Historia General de Chile y su larga peregrinación,” Jahrbuch für Geschichte von Staat, Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft Lateiamerikas 22 (1985): 69-98; Francisco Ferreira, Vida del P. Diego de Rosales (Santiago: Imprenta Santiago, 1890).

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criticisms against the war carried out by the Spaniards. In a 1553 “Junta” in Tucapel–which occurred prior to the revolt that arose in the same year–, a possessed Indigenous man began making offerings to the Devil. While smoking tobacco and holding a spear in his left hand and an arrow in his right, he summoned the leaders and spoke out loud: Varones esclarecidos, que descendéis y tomáis los nombres de los fieros leones, tigres bravos, rapantes águilas, y despedazadores baharíes; ahora es tiempo, que el valor de la sangre, que arde en vuestras venas, y con osadía correspondiente al valor de vuestros nombres, acometáis, como leones, y tigres a despedazar con uñas, y dientes a los que injustamente os acometen en vuestras tierras, y os echan de vuestras casas. ¿Qué razón hay, para que siendo vosotros dueños, y señores de vuestras tierras, consistáis, que vengan extranjeras naciones a echarlos de ellas? ¿Por qué habéis consentido, que os dominen estos españoles, cuando con tanto valor se lo estorbasteis a los Incas? (…) ¿Y no solo les habéis franqueado vuestras haciendas; sino las ricas minas, de que no hartándose su codicia, cada día os imponen nuevos trabajos, y os cargan de incomportables tasas, y tareas haciendo os las cumplir a palos y azotes? ¿Cuando la nación chilena se sujetó a ningún señor? ¿Cuando nuestros antepasados, dieron la obediencia a nación alguna?10

His was a heroic voice that criticised labour, “tasas,” and beatings, thus calling for revolt against the Spaniards. This eloquent speech outlines what for him was the leitmotif of the war: the Spaniards’ greed [codicia]. At the same time Lautaro tried to cheer up the ones who felt defeated by Pedro de Valdivia’s victory, speaking in the following fashion: ¿Que es esto valerosos Araucanos y Tucapeles, las espaldas volvéis, cuando se trata de la libertad de la patria, de sus hijos y descendientes? ¿O recobrarla o perder en su demanda la vida. No miráis, que es menor inconveniente el morir que vivir sujetos? ¿La fama en tantos siglos alcanzada, queréis escurecer en una hora? Acordaros de vuestros antepasados, que haciendo rostro al enemigo, fueron Señores de sus tierras, y vosotros por vuestra cobardía las habéis perdido. ¿Como podréis beber la dulce chicha en vuestros bebedores, sujetos a unos extranjeros, que toda su sed es de oro? ¿Como podéis gozar de vuestras mujeres, si todo el año os ocupan en sus minas? ¿Como haréis vuestras Sementeras, ocupados en hacerles casas y torres de viento? Volved la cara al enemigo, que aquí estoy yo en vuestra ayuda con mis soldados, y aunque pudiera hacerme de parte de los vencedores, no he querido, sino pasarme a la de los vencidos, para animarnos, y deciros, que no temáis a los Españoles, que no tienen 10

Diego de Rosales, Historia General del Reino de Chile, Flandes indiano, vol. I [1674] (Santiago: Editorial Andrés Bello, 1989), bk. III, 423.

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más, que este primer ímpetu. Ya están cansados, y muchos muertos, y los que quedan heridos, que aunque blasonan de victorioso, no están para pelear, y los caballos, que es su mayor fuerza, los tienen fatigados, y no los pueden gobernar. Yo he estado entre ellos, y he servido al gobernador, y sé que es hombre como los demás.11

In these fragments, we begin to understand some of Rosales’ influences. In the section about the Incans, Caupolican’s voice makes reference to Garcilaso de la Vega and his Comentarios reales de los Incas,12 a work published in Lisbon in 1609 that had great popularity in Europe and America. In book III of his Historia, Rosales quotes and makes use of the Peruvian writer when drawing on the Incan presence in Chilean territory. Rosales does the same for a second time when he, through the voice of Lautaro, makes reference to the phrase “fama en tantos siglos alcanzada.” Garcilaso was an important source for Rosales. Through Garcilaso, Rosales gained knowledge of the Mapuche culture via the understanding of its myths, customs and rituals. In fact, Rosales describes these practices in book I of his Historia. As is known, Lautaro’s heroic fame was primarily filtered through Ericilla’s La Araucana (1574). In the quoted fragment, Rosales is actually citing Lautaro’s voice from Ercilla’s poem.13 Thus Rosales’ reading of Garcilaso and Ercilla are clear in his writings. Garcilaso and Ercilla are used in order to give voice to Indigenous speeches. Moreover, there is another influence at stake in Rosales’ writings, one which lies more hidden than the those previously mentioned. I am referring here to José de Acosta’s Historia natural y moral de las Indias published in Seville in 1590.14 This work describes rites, costumes, geography and idolatry pertaining to the Indigenous population of Peru and Mexico. This text became a model for the Jesuits of how to approach and decipher cultural aspects of unknown peoples. Until Acosta’s work, most of the unknown peoples were understood through classical and biblical images of the New

11

Rosales, Historia, vol. I, bk. III, 434. Comentarios reales de los Incas [1609] (Lima: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1991), bk. VII, chap. 18, 19, 20. 13 Alonso de Ercilla, La Araucana (Barcelona: Sopena, 1979), chap. III, 43-61. 14 See Edmundo O’Gorman, “Prólogo [1940],” in Historia natural y moral de las indias (México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1985), XI-XCV; Francisco Mateos, “Estudio preliminar,” in Obras del P. Acosta (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Españoles, 1954); José Alcina Franch, “Introducción,” in Historia natural y moral de las Indias (Madrid: Historia 16, 1987), 7-39. 12

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Figure 4.1: “Lautaro”15

World.16 I will neither expand on the scientific and cultural significance of Acosta’s Historia, nor on the influence that its main theses had on the

15

“Este indio mató a la gente que fue con Villagrán, del Gobernador Valdivia. Este es el traje de los indios de Chile: esta coraza es de cuero de vaca crudío. Esta arma se llama macana,” in Diego de Ocaña, Relación del viaje a Chile, año de 1600, contenida en la crónica de viaja intitulada A través de la América del Sur (Santiago: Editorial Universitaria, 1995), 70. 16 See Giuliano Gliozzi, Adamo e il Nuovo Mondo. La nascita dell’antropologia come ideologia coloniale: dalle genealogie bibliche alle teorie razziali (15001700) (Firenze: La Nuova Italia. 1977), 377-410; “Il Nuovo Mondo nella cultura

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Society of Jesus. I simply want to highlight that Rosales’ descriptions of rituals, customs and natural history were mainly based on Acosta’s ideas. However, Michel de Montaigne’s Essais were as important as Acosta’s Historia as a source for understanding local populations in the modern era. Montaigne published books I and II of his work in Bourdeaux in 1580. The complete and definitive edition was published in 1595. The Essais had a tremendous influence in Europe, at least until 1676 when the work was forbidden by the Sant’Uffizio and included in the Index Romanum.17 Montaigne’s perspective on diversity, his search for the peculiar and taste for extravagancies, and the antiquary style of the work were the elements that defined the Essais. On account of these features, the Essais influenced the proto-ethnographic attitude of the missionaries towards difference. Although Rosales does not quote Montaigne, the dialogue, plan and categories at stake in his work give us evidence of the possible influence. To paraphrase Carlo Ginzburg: if the missionaries did not travel with Montaigne’s text in their pockets, they at least carried it with them in their minds.18 In his essay Des Cannibales (I, XXXI),19 the French writer shifted the notion of “barbarism” through his perspective and description of Brazilian cannibals.20 In his essays titled De l’usage de se vestir (I, XXXVI)21 and De l’experience (III, XIII),22 the distinctions made between

del Seicento,” in La nascita dell’antropologia. L’Oriente religioso di Athanasius Kircher, ed. Dino Pastine (Firenze: La Nuova Italia, 1978), 67-84. 17 “Essais de Messire Michel, Seigneur de Montaigne. Bordeaux, Simon Millanges, 1580, in 8, 2 parties en 1 vol. Paris. B.N. Decretum 28-01-1676,” in Jesús Martínez de Bujanda (avec Marcella Richter), Index librorum prohibitorum, 1600-1966, vol. XI (Montréal-Genève: Médiaspaul-Libraire Droz, Centre d’Études de la Renaissance, Université de Sherbrooke, 2002), 630. 18 Ginzburg, “Le voci dell’altro,” 100-2 and François de Dainvile, La géographie des humanistes (Genève: Slatkine Reprints, 1969). 19 Michel de Montaigne, “Des Cannibales,” in Les Essais [1595] édition étable par Jean Balsamo, Michel Magnien et Catherine Magnien-Simonin (Paris: Gallimard, 2007), 208-21. 20 See the introduccion to Le Brésil de Montaigne: le Nouveau Monde des Essais (1580-1592), choix de textes, introduction et notes de Frank Lestringant (Paris: Chandeigne, 2005), 7-59. See also Michel de Certeau, “Montaigne’s ‘Of Cannibals’: The Savage ‘I’,” in Heterologies: Discourse on the Other (Minneapolis, Minn.: The University of Minnesota Press, 1986) and Carlo Ginzburg, “Montaigne, Cannibals and Grottoes,” History and Anthropology 6 (1993): 125-55. 21 Montaigne, “De l’usage de se vestir,” in Les Essais, 230-33. 22 Montaigne, “De l’experience,” in Les Essais, 1111-67.

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custom, nature and artifice established novel ways of describing and observing new populations. In Caupolican’s and Lautaro’s harangues before battle, Rosales dialogued with a famous passage from Montaigne: “the sweet liberty of nature’s primitive laws” (the author to the reader). The difference, however, between Brazilian cannibals and Indigenous Chileans stems from the fact that Lautaro was speaking about the “libertad de la patria, de sus hijos y descendientes,” and Caupolicán about the “dueños y señores de vuestras tierras,” within a military context. Thus the war modified Rosales’ text once again. The “noble savage” who used to live in harmony with nature’s laws became embodied in two Indigenous leaders who were protecting their “sweet freedom” through war. Rosales clearly rewrites Montaigne, especially when he refers to “barbarism.” He once more uses Lautaro’s voice, who speaks to the Spaniard captains Marcos Veas and Francisco de Villagra about the possibility of installing a proper frontier in Maule: Capitán, amigos somos, y por el amor que tengo no quisiera que peligraras, ni que los Españoles murieran tan ciegamente como han muerto en las batallas, que conmigo han tenido, porque llevados de su vana presunción, se han arrojado a morir más bárbaramente, que estos barbaros.23

The phrase “morir más bárbaramente que estos barbaros” (“dying more barbarically than these barbarians”) clearly refers back to the beginning of Montaigne’s essay about cannibals. While discussing Pyrrhus’ confrontation against the Romans, Montaigne quoted Plutarch, Life of Pyrrus, “what kind of barbarians these may be; but the disposition of this army that I see has nothing of barbarism in it.”24 Montaigne examined the ambiguities and complexities in the concept of “barbarian,” stating that “everyone gives the title of barbarism to everything that is not in use in his

23

“(…) y que si Villagra quiere quedarse en esta tierra con su gente, que le dexare; pero que ha de ser con estas condiciones: que no ha de pasar el, ni su gente de Maule, ni del fuerte que allí pondré de vuelta. De modo que los Españoles se estén de esta banda de Maule, y los Araucanos, y veliches de la otra, sin pasar los unos a las tierra de los otros. Lo segundo que le habían de pagar los Epañoles un tributo cada año treinta doncellas (como pagaron en España ciento al Rey Moro) diez caballos enjaezados, dieza perros bravos, y cien capas de grana, que entonces se usaban mucho. Y que assi mismo le avia de dar esa gloria de que le venciesse por ambre; sino por las armas,” in Rosales, Historia, vol. I, bk. IV, 464. 24 The Complete Works of Michel de Montaigne (London: John Templeman, 1842), 87.

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own country.”25 Acosta’s division of “barbarians” into three categories also influenced Rosales. The Indigenous people of Chile occupied a middle position between Aztecs and Incans and the “other savages similar to wild beasts.”26 Lautaro’s words also relate to the “barbarisation” of the Spanish military before the arrival of Governor Alonso de Ribera in 1601. There always existed an intrinsic relationship between missionaries and soldiers.27 This relationship was established through spiritual bonds as well as through strategic support provided by missionaries in order to penetrate into non-controlled areas. However, notwithstanding these strong ties, the majority of Jesuit writings strongly criticised the soldiery because of their lack of spirituality and constant obstruction of the process of Christianisation. “More barbarian than these barbarians” is a phrase that, within the Chilean military context, pointed towards a harsh criticism of the lack of professionalism of the Spanish army. Describing a “barbarian” past of the army was a strong rhetorical element, always used as a weapon of criticism. It allowed the writers to situate the army at the same level as the Indigenous people. On 16 March 1601, Ribera himself wrote analogous words in a letter sent to Phillip III. He pointed out that the soldiers “are more barbarian in themselves that the very Indians.”28 On the next day, Ribera wrote similarly, now tagging them as “people very badly

25

The Complete Works, 89. “Ocupan esta clase de barbaros grande extensión, porque primeramente forman imperios, como fue el de los Ingas, y después otros reinos y principados menores, cuales son comúnmente los de los caciques; y tienen públicos magistrados creados por la republica, como son los de Arauco, Tucapel y los demás del reino de Chile (…) Finalmente, a la tercera clase de barbaros no es fácil decir las muchas gentes y naciones del Nuevo Mundo que pertenecen. En ella entran los salvajes semejantes a fieras, que apenas tienen sentimiento humano; sin ley, sin rey, sin pactos, sin magistrados ni república,” José de Acosta, De procuranda indorum salute [1588], in Obras del P. José de Acosta, ed. Francisco Mateos (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores españoles, 1954), 393. 27 See Jaime Valenzuela, “Revisitando el ‘indigenismo’ jesuita: en torno a los ‘bárbaros’ de Arauco, la guerra y la esclavitud mapuche en el siglo XVII,” in Fronteiras e identidades: povos indígenas e missões religiosas, edited by Graciela Chamorro, Thiago Cavalcante and Carlos Gonçalves (São Bernardo do Campo, São Paulo: Nhanduti Editora, 2011), 61-79. 28 Quoted by Diego Barros Arana, Historia General de Chile, vol. III [1886] (Santiago: Editorial Universitaria, 2000), 265. On Alonso de Ribera see Fernando Campos, Alonso de Ribera, gobernador de Chile [1966] (Santiago: Editorial Universitaria, 1987). 26

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disciplined.”29 The question about who the barbarians were is again modelled in both Montaigne and Acosta. The Brazilian cannibals were not barbarians, nor were the Aztecs, Incans, or the Indigenous people of Juli– whom were well-known to Acosta. Rather, the question of barbarism appeared to branch and spread out even more within a military context. Indeed, Rosales understood the complexities and ambiguities of the concept of “barbarian” via the writing of Lautaro’s voice. However, we must not be confused by those Indigenous voices. The laws of nature and the sweet liberty of the barbarians needed to be transformed into Christian “police.” Now, what do those voices mean insofar as they countered the thoughts of the writer? In most cases, their missionary work and intellectual training encouraged the Jesuits to include in their texts voices that contradicted their own worldview. In the eyes of the Jesuit authors, these voices were always self-conscious and, in turn, they were instrumental in theorising other issues: hence the variable image of Indigenous people in their writings. These written voices built an image of the Indigenous that was used both for criticising war by “blood and fire” and for justifying acts of war against “Indigenous rebels.” Let us come back to Caupolican’s and Lautaro’s speeches. This time, I will not analyse these fragments trying to reveal some possible intellectual influences. In fact, I will now focus on the idea of “warfare” that underpins Rosales’ work. As I have explained, the image of Indigenous people that those fragments provide is ambiguous. The same happens with the concept of “war.” At first glance, Rosales seems to be a controversial writer, extremely critical of warfare. However, war is always criticised within a context of slavery. While Rosales was writing these Indigenous speeches, he was also exploring the problem of Indigenous slavery in his Flandes indiano. His Manifiesto apologético de los daños de la esclavitud en el Reino de Chile,30 written around 1670, is a controversial text. It draws on some 29

See also Alonso de Ribera, “Relación del modo y orden de militar que había en este Reino de Chile en campaña, fronteras y fuertes hasta la llegada del gobernador Alonso de Ribera, que fue el 9 de febrero del año de 1601,” in Historia física y política de Chile. Documentos II, ed. Claudio Gay (Santiago: Biblioteca Fundamentos de la Construcción de Chile, 2009), 97-106. 30 “Manifiesto apologético de los daños de la esclavitud del Reino de Chile,” in Domingo Amunátegui, Las encomiendas indígenas en Chile, vol. II, (Santiago: Imprenta Cervantes, 1910), 183-251. For a general overview on slavery and liberty in Chile see the useful article by Walter Hanisch, “Esclavitud y libertad de los indios de Chile. 1608-1696,” Historia 16 (1981), 5-65. For a different perspective on Indigenous slavery see Jaime Valenzuela, “Esclavos mapuches. Para una

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ideas by Francisco de Vitoria in order to argue against Spanish slavery. It criticises the institutions of personal service, encomienda and slavery. His main thesis–neither new nor daring–was that slavery used to “amplify” the war. In other words, it made war worse. The violence carried out by the Spaniards was a violation of the natural laws against children of God and vassals of the King. With this thesis, Rosales put forward his own views about the causes of Indigenous rebellions. This was a controversial idea, but not a new one. It was a wide-spread argument within the Society of Jesus, especially through the theory of Just War and also via the logic stating that “agravios” (“offences”) produce “agravios” (“offences”). These kinds of arguments were already outlined in a systematic fashion by Luis de Valdivia in a letter sent from Lima in 1604. Here Valdivia wrote against the outrages on the “indios de paz” (“peace Indians”).31 Rosales’ originality lies in the question: who can justly punish the Indigenous populations? A genuine critique is hidden in these words. The problem is not the enterprise of “war” itself, but the subjects that carry this enterprise out: the Spanish army and the economic dimension of its relationship with slavery. Who is a legitimate judge?32–asks the Jesuit. By historia del secuestro y deportación en la Colonia,” in Historias de racismo y discriminación en Chile, ed. Rafael Gaune and Martín Lara (Santiago: Uqbar editores, 2009), 225-60. For their development, see Álvaro Jara, Guerra y sociedad en Chile. La trasformación de la Guerra de Arauco y la esclavitud de los indios [1961] (Santiago: Editorial Universitaria, 1981). 31 ARSI, Provincia chilena, “Relacion que hizo el P. Luis de Valdivia sobre agravios que reciben los indios de paz que ay en Chile,” vol. 4, foll. 2-7v [4 December 1604]. 32 “Y como dice Aristóteles, a las bestias se les puede hacer guerra y cazar con fuerza de armas, y asi mismo se les hace guerra justa a los hombres que nacieron para servir: Bellica vi uti opostet contro bestias, contra eos homines, qui ad parendum nati sunt. Y los Romanos se hicieron señores de las gentes y los Israelitas de los Amorreos, haciéndoles guerra por sus idolatrías y por vengar las injurias hechas a Dios: la cual razón confirma San Cipriano diciendo que si antes de la venida de Cristo, por la honra de Dios, hicieron esto los de su pueblo, mejor lo pueden hacer los cristianos por la honra de Cristo. A lo cual digo: que no se puede negar, sino que es bien que sean cristianos y que vivan como tales, y que los vicios de los gentiles son abominables y dignos de castigo. Pero dice la Magestad de Dios en el Deuteronomio: has justamente lo que es justo: Juste quod justum est exequeris. Lo cual pondera bien San Dionisio, diciendo: justo es castigar semejantes delitos y celar las ofensas de Dios. ¿Pero la duda está en quién es el que los puedes castigar con justicia? Y ese es el punto de la difucultad, que no es cualquiera juez legitimo para castigarlos; que no porque una Republica tenga malas leyes, puede luego su vecina, porque las tienes buenas, hacer la guerra y pasarla a fuego y sangre,” in Rosales, Historia, vol. I, Bk. III, 397.

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considering Deuteronomy 16:20, “Justice, and only justice, you shall follow, that you may live and inherit the land that the Lord God is giving you,” he firstly criticised Aristotle’s Politics where the Greek philosopher said that war against “beasts” was fair.33 Secondly, Rosales argued against Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda and his work Democrates secundus, sive de justis belli causis.34 Aristotle’s arguments, a referential point difficult to attack, could be tempered with “Christian benignity.”35 Rosales’ criticism become more open in a letter to Pope Clement X, written on July 20, 1672, in which he requested a Bull excommunicating everyone who supported Indigenous slavery.36 Even though this letter did not have any actual effect, Rosales established that the leitmotif of the war was the institution of slavery and all of its repercussions. He said: Cazarlos, cautivarlos, quitarles las vidas y sujetarlos con yerro, y fuego hasta quitarles las vidas, y la libertad porque no hay entre los hombres servidumbre natural, y todos nacen ingenuos, y libres, y siéndolo estos indios por naturaleza a ninguno es licito reducirlos a esclavitud, ni servidumbre, con pretexto de sujetarlos a la fe cristiana.37 33

On Aristotle and Indigenous Americans see the still fundamental study by Lewis Hanke, Aristotle and the American Indians. A Study in Race Prejudice in the Modern World (London: Hollis and Carter, 1959). 34 On Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda as commentator and translator of Aristotle’s Politics see Carlo Ginzburg, “L’anima dei bruti. Una discussione cinquecentesca,” in Conversazioni per Alberto Gajano, ed. Carlo Ginzburg and Emanuela Scribano, (Pisa: Edizioni ETS, 2005), 163-75. 35 Rosales, Historia, vol. I, Bk. IV, 490. 36 “Os ruego Santísimo Padre, que para mayor gloria de Dios y conversión y provecho de los gentiles, os dignéis expedir una Bula saludable, en la cual prohibáis la esclavitud de los indios de Chile por cualquier título, por cualquiera causa, aun cuando sean apresados en guerra justa, y aun cuando los mismos indios hayan provocado la guerra y dado la causa y, como mandó Paulo III, aun cuando libremente rechacen la fe sean privados del dominio de sus bienes y de lo contrario todo lo que se hiciere sea considerado írrito y de ningún valor y los transgresores sean hechos con la espada de la excomunión latae sententiae, ipso facto incurrenda y reservada a la Sede Apostólica. Esto será muy agradable a Dios, a toda la Iglesia de las Indias y al Rey de España, que desde el principio prohibió la esclavitud en ambas Indias, y recientemente la prohibió en este Reino de Chile, y esta orden no se ha cumplido con fingidas súplicas y falsos colores. Estos gemidos, estas voces escapadas desde los confines de la tierra y de las regiones australes del Reino de Chile lleguen con éxito a los oídos de Vuestra Santidad y sean felizmente escuchadas,” in Archivio Storico di Propaganda Fide (Roma), Congregatio de Propaganda fide, vol. 449, 465-66. 37 Rosales, Historia, vol. I, bk. IV, 489.

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However, whenever the “naïve” and “free” Indigenous men take up arms (as in the abovementioned cases, or in those of Aganamón and Pelantaro who destroyed seven southern cities in 1598 or in that of Alejo in 1655), the Jesuit’s perspective changes. In fact, voices such as those of Lautaro and Capolicán actually justified a “just war.” Lautaro said: “despedazar con uñas y dientes a los que injustamente os acometen en vuestras tierras.” And Caupolicán wondered: “es menor inconveniente el morir que vivir sujetos.” A passage in Flandes indiano, clearly influenced by the 1655 rebellion, is quite open in this regard: if the Indigenous people take up arms and call for violent action, then war is lawful: De aquí se sigue que es licito hacer guerra a los barbaros, cuando sin hacerles mal, ni agravio ninguno, ellos no acometen a hacer guerra, asaltan los fuertes, y destruyen los sembrados, y así los Españoles, no solo podrán defenderse; sino castigarlos, y vengar sus injurias, porque justifica la guerra el Príncipe como dice el Padre Acosta. Ubi iniura lacessitus Princeps arma induit.38

Thus, the same voices that appear as a critique of Colonialism by “blood and fire” are also used as an element to support a “just war.” Writing the history of the war, including the 1553 speeches, was useful for Rosales so that he could allow and justify the war after the 1665 rebellion. His controversial viewpoint regarding slavery did not mean that punishment against rebels was ruled out. Rosales, however, embraced Ovalle’s thesis–“our sins are the ones that generate war”39–, while putting the 1598 rebellion into writing. The crucial point is that the logic “agravios” (“offences”) produce “agravios” (“offences”) works both ways for Rosales, regardless of the Spanish sins. His influences and readings– which were adapted to the Chilean war–helped him to write those Indigenous voices and, through them, to justify his thinking. He managed to produce an ambiguous Indigenous image: one that fluctuated between the barbarian thirsty to defend his liberty on the one hand, and a subject to be Christianised, punished and susceptible to suffering war on the other hand. Rosales used impassioned speeches, before and after battle, in order to make the Indigenous subject speak. However, he used other rhetorical devices for voices of Christianisation and transgression: dialogues and monologues. The dialogues have the following structure: there exists the voice of the transgressor who convincingly refutes the Christian, aided by 38 39

Rosales, Historia, vol. I, bk. IV, 491. Rosales, Historia, vol. II, bk. V, 664.

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the Devil’s tricks. Another voice appears afterwards: that of the Jesuit, ready to make the transgressor change his mind. Several voices overlapped: the regretful person, who at his last breath contemplates the truths of Christianity, the Indigenous man who counters the truths brought forward by the missionaries, and voices challenging the missionaries’ continence. It is possible to read tenderness and guilt in the case of the regretful one. He is surrounded by a calm atmosphere and his words are framed within a very well structured discourse. Contrarily, the transgressor’s voice is rusty and simple and holds weak arguments easily contradicted by his counterpart. Rosales also made this type of distinction in his texts. While he wrote most of the war harangues in Flandes indiano, the dialogues about Christianisation are found in Conquista espiritual, having the war purely as a background. After the defeat of Caupolican in 1557, García Hurtado de Mendoza travelled to Tucapel with hopes of victory. Through “prisoner Indians,” the Spaniards sent a message to the so-called “war Indians.” The message demanded conversion to Christianity as the only guarantee for peace. On account of this, “religiosos, y los clérigos con sus cruces en las manos, hablaban, y persuadían a los indios mensajeros.”40 The response of the Indigenous was clear. They defended their ritual customs and threatened the Spaniards by remembering a recent event: the death of Valdivia in order to make “flautas de sus canillas, y mates en que beber, su sabrosa chicha de sus calaveras.”41 Through a threatening voice, Rosales introduces his knowledge about Mapuche customs and the history of the Conquest in the south of Chile. This is the voice of the Indigenous warrior, 40

Rosales, Historia, vol. I, Book IV, 488. “Que se fuesen de sus tierra, que ni querían su amistad, ni su religión, que sin uno y sin otro habían vivido sus antepasados, y gozado de sus tierras, y comodidades, con mucho contento: que los Españoles comenzaban con halagos, y buenas palabras, y luego proseguían con palos y malas razones, y con la sed del oro no los dejaban sosegar en sus casa, oprimiéndolos a un continuo trabajo, y sujetándolos a una penosa servidumbre, y que eran libres, y por conservar su libertad habían de aventurar las vidas, que todavía tenían recientes las llagas de los azotes, y las descalabraduras de los palos, y que su sangre derramada estaba pidiendo venganza, y el derecho natural a defenderse, y repeler sus agravios les obligaba a tomar las arma, y echar de sus tierras, a los que venían a enseñorearse de ellas sin razón, y quitarles su libertad contra justicia, y así que se fortificasen mejor, que los pasados, que con estar tan bien fortalecidos los habían echado de sus tierras, y sembrado aquellas campañas de sus huesos, haciendo flautas de sus canillas, y mates en que beber, su sabrosa chicha de sus calaveras, como la habían hecho de la del Gobernador Valdivia, y sus capitanes, que lo mismo harían de Don García, y de los suyos,” in Rosales, Historia, vol. I, Book IV, 489. 41

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who neither accepts Christianity nor messages of peace. Rosales highlights the differences between the methods of the Jesuits and those of others by pointing out that before their arrival the “religious men and clerics” used to send messages through “prisoner Indians.” On the other hand, Rosales depicts a regretful Indigenous man, speaking with his son about the goodness of Christianity. On his deathbed the father renounces his past, full of “lust and vices.” He thus asks his son to “change” his life; in other words: to change his ritual customs. Siéntate a mi cabecera, que tengo que decirte, para mi última despedida. Sabrás le dijo, que por defender estos secos terrones, que mis Padres me dejaron en herencia, y por conservar mi libertad, quise más peinar en esta soledad mis cabellos canos, y defenderlos, que no perdiéndolos, servir, ni que tu sirviese a Españoles. Pero conociendo ya que por mucho que nuestra nación reúse dar la paz a los Españoles y resista a Dios, se ha de venir a humillar, como el buey al yugo por mas, que lo rehúya te aconsejo cuatro cosas, y como Padre te las mando por ultima despedida. La primera es, que vayas a donde los Españoles están y les des la paz, que por fuerza se ha de hacer es imprudencia y rebeldía, no hacerlo de voluntad. La segunda, que de tus mocedades, y vicios mudes el camino, que es error de la mocedad, no mirar al fin de la vida, y al paradero de la muerte. La tercera, que sirvas a tu buena madre, y la obedezca, para que cumplas con la obligación de hijo, y tengas larga vida, que no la puede tener el hijo, que no obedece, y respeta a sus Padres. Y la cuarta que hagas una cosa por mí, por ser la última, que te ruego, y mando. Y es que yo a tres noches, que sueño, que Soy Cristiano, y que me bautizan, y me llaman Juan, y por mucho que procuro desechar este pensamiento, y de este sueño, no puedo, ni tengo sosiego antes de pensar, que me lavan mi alma por medio del baptismo.42

In another fragment, an anonymous Indigenous man talks about baptism as salvation from death.43 It is a monologue on the acceptance of Christianity and the salvation of body and soul.44 It is an Indigenous voice 42

Rosales, Historia, vol. II, Book V, 666. This topic is developed by Rolf Foerster, Jesuitas y Mapuches, 1593-1767 (Santiago: Editorial Universitaria, 1996), 257-72. Also in Rolf Foerster and Hans Gundermann, “Acerca del nombre propio mapuche,” Nutram IX, no. 31 (1993): 41-58. See also Jorge Pinto, “Frontera, misiones y misioneros en Chile, La Araucanía (1600-1900),” in Misioneros en la Araucanía, 1600-1900. Un capítulo de historia fronteriza (Temuco: Ediciones Universidad de la Frontera, 1988), 17119. 44 See Adriano Prosperi, ed., Salvezza delle anime, disciplina dei corpi. Un seminario sulla storia del battesimo (Pisa: Edizione della Normale, 2006). 43

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that criticised a war that only “defended dry dirt” and freedom. It is a suppliant voice that says one should not reject peace, the Spaniards and God. Moreover, Rosales intelligently framed this voice in the appropriate historical context. In 1593, Governor Oñez de Loyola–at the time close to La Imperial–knew of the arrival of the Society of Jesus in Chile. When this news arrived in Santiago, a miracle took place: an Indigenous man found salvation and was converted to Christianity through baptism before his death. Rosales did not place this voice within miracles taken place due to the Jesuits’ arrival. Those miracles include, for example, that of Mother Constanza, an Auca Indian slave who lived in the Convent of the Agustinas and predicted the arrival of the Society; Rosales also mentions the miracle of Catalina de Miranda and her saint-like fame due to her encounter with the Society of Jesus in Spain and then in Chile. Rather, the voice of the anonymous Indigenous man is the sweet voice of actual conversion: from being a “noble savage” to being a “noble Christian” who has accepted the mistakes of his disbelief and turns himself over to peace, terrestrial peace and celestial peace as he washes his soul with the holy water of baptism. This voice is different from the one of transgression. The voice of conversion does not fall into the traps of liars. The latter are the voices of temptation, which try to make the missionary sin. The counterpart of this sweet voice is a missionary who fights against the Devil’s tricks and Indigenous cheats. Rosales reported polygamy, transgression and re-definition of Catholic rites in a dialogue between Jesuit Alonzo del Pozo,45 cacique Lepumante (a “foreign cacique” from Villarrica, according to Nuñez de Pineda’s Cautiverio Feliz46), and his son. Following the 1655 rebellion, the missionary was held captive by Lepumante in Claroa.47 The dialogue is brilliant. Rosales puts forwards the voice of the stoic Jesuit who fights against the Devil’s temptations expressed through the 45

Tampe, Catálogo, 209; Medina, Diccionario, 699. Francisco Núñez de Pineda, Cautiverio feliz y razón individual de las guerras dilatadas de Chile [1673] (Santiago: Ril Editores, Universidad de Chile, 2001), disc. 3, chap. XXXI. 47 On “captive” in Colonial Chile and Colonial Latin America see Constantino Bayle, Un sacerdote cautivo de los araucanos (Madrid: Missionalia Hispánica Instituto Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo, CSIC, 1945); Gabriel Guarda, “Los cautivos en la guerra de Arauco,” Boletín de la Academia chilena de la Historia 98 (1987): 93-157; Horacio Zapater, “Testimonio de un cautivo. Araucanía, 15991614,” Historia 23 (1988): 295-325 and Fernando Operé, Historias de la frontera. El cautiverio en la América hispánica (México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2001). 46

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voice of the Indigenous leader. The dialogue develops issues such as Mapuche polygamy and revolts that counter evangelisation: Lepumante: Triste te veo y melancólico, no quisiera que en mi casa alguno te diese pesadumbre cuando tengo encargado y no tienes gustos ninguno ni entretenimiento. Jesuit: Haz de saber que estoy con Dios, que es suma dulzura y sumo gusto y que nunca le tengo tan grande como cuando privándome de otros gustos, me estoy a solas con Él. Lepumante: Yo te quiero dar una mujer, para que no estés solo y tengas gusto con ella. Jesuit: No me trates de esas cosas, Lepumante, si me quiere bien, que los Padres no tenemos mujeres, y hacemos votos de castidad y fuera ese un gran pecado delante de Dios. Lepumante: No repares en eso, que ya es otro tiempo; ya la tierra se ha alzado y todas las cosas están trocadas, y no tienes obligación de ser Padre, sino como uno de nosotros, pues vives en nuestras tierras y te tenemos como a un cacique principal, y los caciques tienen muchas mujeres; que así lo hicieron en el alzamiento antiguo los curas que se quedaron con nosotros que se casaron y tuvieron mujeres (…) esta es buena india para ti, que ha servido españoles y sabe de todo (…) tenla, aunque es vieja, que después te buscare una moza.48

Two worldviews argue with one another in these dialogues. Lepumante’s voice allows Rosales both to strengthen his own beliefs and also to praise Del Pozo’s temperance. Lepumante’s proposal of “becoming one of us” just as “old priests” did by denying their chastity clashes with Del Pozo’s discipline. Lepumante puts forward an ambiguous speech, one which highlights the potential sanctity of the prisoner. The dialogue becomes violent when del Pozo confronts Lepumante’s son. Once again, Christian laws and barbarian laws are brought face to face. The son is more violent than his father is. He defends his law and challenges the Jesuit. It is the voice of the enemy; someone who even tries to re-define the institution of Catholic marriage: Lepumante’s son: Esta mujer he buscado y me haz de casar con ella que quiero hacer los que nos predicas y aconsejas, que nos casemos según el orden de la Santa Iglesia. Jesuit: ¿Si tienes otras mujeres, como te haz de casar con ella? ¿No ves que a los cristianos le es prohibido tener dos mujeres? 48

Diego de Rosales, Seis misioneros en la frontera Mapuche (del libro IV de la Conquista Espiritual del Reino de Chile, vol. I) (Temuco: Centro ecuménico Diego de Medellín, Ediciones Universidad de La Frontera, 1991), 104-5.

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Chapter Four Lepumante’s son: Cásame con entrambas. Que ya somos enemigos y no estamos atados a la leyes de los cristianos y de los españoles, que también hay aquí en la tierra españoles cautivos del otro alzamiento que tienen tres y cuatro mujeres, y cuando yo tenga dos que importa? Lepumante’s son: Te tengo en mi casa y no haces lo que yo te pido. Jesuit: Eso es contra Dios y no lo puedo hacer y así no lo haré lo que quisieres de mi.49

In these dialogues, Rosales shows how transgressions performed by former captive Spaniards and the 1655 rebellion turned Christian laws upside down in non-controlled areas. Indigenous people make use of Catholic rituals (marriage in this case) for their own convenience.50 Rosales displays the voice of the educator who tries to discipline laws which have gone astray from God. Rosales shows the re-definition of Christian rites in another short dialogue as well. Once again, the main character is del Pozo. The captive Spaniard now faces an anonymous Indigenous crowd. The crowd furiously interrogates del Pozo about their soldiers in the manner of their own machis. The Indigenous people reinterpreted Christian praying as a way of connecting their machi to Pillán.51 Praying is thus shown as an element that has adapted to the military needs of the Mapuche, even when asking about their missing soldiers. Indigenous: aquí te hemos llamado para que nos digas qué se han hecho nuestros soldados que fueron con el Maestre de Campo general; si son vivos o muertos o qué ha sido de ellos? Indigenous: no nos lo encubras que tú hablas con Dios (…) Indigenous: pues átenle y denle tormentos que él lo dirá por mal si no quieren por bien.52

These dialogues are included in del Pozo’s biography. Rosales depicts the Jesuit as someone who does not take part in these confused rituals. Rosales writes that del Pozo limited himself to say he “did not know” what had led their soldiers to those “torments.” These multiple Indigenous 49

Rosales, Seis misioneros, 106. This matter is developed by Guillaume Boccara, Los vencedores. Historia del pueblo Mapuche en la época colonial (Santiago: Universidad Católica del Norte, Línea Editorial IIam, Ocho libro editores, Universidad de Chile, 2009), 360-82. 51 On the machi, see the important article by Ana Mariella Bacigalupo, “The Struggle for Mapuche Shamans: Colonial Politics of Gender, Sexuality, and Power in Southern Chile,” Ethnohistory 51, no. 3 (2004): 489-533. 52 Rosales, Seis misioneros, 106-7. 50

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voices question and counter the validity of Christianity; speaking with God is transformed into speaking with a Machi. The dialogues were produced after del Pozo was rescued and was able to speak to Rosales about his imprisonment in Lepumante’s land. The inclusion of voices contradicting the missionary is a device used in order to reaffirm the sanctity of the Jesuit. Harangues, monologues and dialogues abound in Rosales’ writings. Regretful voices praising Christianity and peace are placed side by side with voices that counter the writer’s viewpoint. This curious exercise performed by Rosales was repeated around the world by other Jesuit writers. These voices allowed them to enter into other cultures and then describe and reshape them. In a monological text about the temporal and spiritual conquest of a territory, Rosales allows himself to include dialogical dimensions as well. These dialogical aspects give us clues for deciphering the contradictions in Jesuit thinking about Indigenous populations. The noble savage, the barbarian and the noble Christian are overlapped in these fragments by Rosales. These images and writings are shaped by the historical context and by their intellectual training and educational system. Consequently, to unravel the various layers of these fragments is also to decipher the image of Indigenous populations from a Jesuit perspective. Several intellectual influences that shaped the academic paradigms of the period are adapted according to the Chilean context. Authors situated at a global level, such as Montaigne, Garcilaso and Acosta, are re-located at the level of a local event, such as the 1655 rebellion. The Jesuits were specialists in this kind of intellectual blending and thus created these dialogues by weaving universal topics with local problems. Rosales’ Indigenous voices are no exception. They are voices that point towards universal issues (Christian conversion, religious warfare, slavery) from a local context of violence in the south of Chile. Making the Indigenous speak, in this sense, is another component in the adaptations the Jesuits produced, another angle of the conjunction between universal dimensions and the reality in the southern frontier.

Bibliography Acosta, José de. “De procuranda indorum salute [1588].” In Obras del P. José de Acosta, edited by Francisco Mateos. Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores españoles, 1954. Alcina Franch, José. “Introducción.” In Historia natural y moral de las Indias, 7-39. Madrid: Historia 16, 1987.

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Bacigalupo, Ana Mariella. “The Struggle for Mapuche Shamans: Colonial Politics of Gender, Sexuality, and Power in Southern Chile.” Ethnohistory 51, no. 3 (2004): 489-533. Barros Arana, Diego. Historia General de Chile, vol. III [1886]. Santiago: Editorial Universitaria, 2000. Bayle, Constantino. Un sacerdote cautivo de los araucanos. Madrid: Missionalia Hispánica Instituto Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo, CSIC, 1945. Boccara, Guillaume. Los vencedores. Historia del pueblo Mapuche en la época colonial. Santiago: Universidad Católica del Norte, Línea Editorial IIam, Ocho libro editores, Universidad de Chile, 2009. Brucker, Joseph. “Chinoise, Rites.” In Dictionnaire de Théologie Catholique, contenant l’exposé des doctrines de la théologie catholique, leurs preuves et leur histoire, vol. II. Paris: Letouzey, 1932. Campos, Fernando. Alonso de Ribera, gobernador de Chile [1966]. Santiago: Editorial Universitaria, 1987. Certeau, Michel de. “Montaigne’s ‘Of Cannibals’: The Savage ‘I’.” In Heterologies: Discourse on the Other. Minneapolis, Minn.: University of Minnesota Press, 1986. Dainvile, François de. La géographie des humanistes. Genève: Slatkine Reprints, 1969. Ercilla, Alonso de. La Araucana. Barcelona: Sopena, 1979. Ferreira, Francisco. Vida del P. Diego de Rosales. Santiago: Imprenta Santiago, 1890. Foerster, Rolf and Hans Gundermann. “Acerca del nombre propio mapuche.” Nutram IX, no. 31 (1993): 41-58. —. Jesuitas y Mapuches, 1593-1767. Santiago: Editorial Universitaria, 1996. Garcilaso de la Vega. Comentarios reales de los Incas [1609]. Lima: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1991. Ginzburg, Carlo. “Montaigne, Cannibals and Grottoes.” History and Anthropology 6 (1993): 125-55. —. “Le voci dell’altro. Una rivolta indigena nelle isole Marianne.” In Rapporti di forza. Storia, retorica, prova, 87-108. Milano: Feltrinelli, 2001. —. “L’anima dei bruti. Una discussione cinquecentesca.” In Conversazioni per Alberto Gajano, edited by Carlo Ginzburg and Emanuela Scribano, 163-75. Pisa: Edizioni ETS, 2005. —. “Ancora sui riti cinesi: vecchi e nuovi documenti.” In A dieci anni dall’apertura dell’Archivio della Congregazione per la dottrina della

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fede: storia e archivi dell’Inquisizione, 131-44. Roma: Scienze e Lettere, 2011. Gliozzi, Giuliano. Adamo e il Nuovo Mondo. La nascita dell’antropologia come ideologia coloniale: dalle genealogie bibliche alle teorie razziali (1500-1700). Firenze: La Nuova Italia. 1977. —. “Il Nuovo Mondo nella cultura del Seicento.” In La nascita dell’antropologia. L’Oriente religioso di Athanasius Kircher, edited by Dino Pastine, 67-84. Firenze: La Nuova Italia, 1978. Gruzinski, Serge and Nathan Wachtel. Le Nouveau Monde Mondes Nouveaux. L’expérience américaine. Paris: Éditions de l’École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, 1996. Guarda, Gabriel. “Los cautivos en la guerra de Arauco.” Boletín de la Academia chilena de la Historia 98 (1987): 93-157. Guillén, Edmundo. Versión Inca de la Conquista. Lima: Editorial Milla Batres, 1974. Hanisch, Walter. “Esclavitud y libertad de los indios de Chile. 16081696.” Historia 16 (1981): 5-65. —. “La formación del historiador Diego de Rosales.” Boletín de la Academia chilena de la Historia 94 (1983): 115-144. —. “El manuscrito de la Historia General de Chile y su larga peregrinación.” Jahrbuch für Geschichte von Staat, Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft Lateiamerikas 22 (1985): 69-98. Hanke, Lewis. Aristotle and the American Indians. A Study in Race Prejudice in the Modern World. London: Hollis and Carter, 1959. Jara, Álvaro. Guerra y sociedad en Chile. La trasformación de la Guerra de Arauco y la esclavitud de los indios [1961]. Santiago: Editorial Universitaria, 1981. Le Brésil de Montaigne: le Nouveau Monde des Essais (1580-1592), edited by Frank Lestringant. Paris: Chandeigne, 2005. León-Portilla, Miguel. El reverso de la conquista. Relaciones aztecas, mayas e incas. México: Joaquín Mortiz, 1964. —. Visión de los vencidos [1959]. La Habana: Casa de las Américas, 1969. Lienhard, Martín. Testimonios, cartas y manifiestos indígenas: desde la conquista hasta comienzos del siglo XX. Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1992. Martínez de Bujanda, Jesús (with Marcella Richter), ed., Index librorum prohibitorum, 1600-1966, vol. XI. Montréal-Genève: MédiaspaulLibraire Droz, Centre d’Études de la Renaissance, Université de Sherbrooke, 2002. Mateos, Francisco. “Estudio preliminar.” In Obras del P. Acosta. Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Españoles, 1954.

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Medina, José Toribio. Historia de la literatura colonial de Chile, tomo II. Santiago: Imprenta de la Librería de El Mercurio, 1878. —. Diccionario biográfico colonial de Chile. Santiago: Imprenta Elziviriana, 1906. Momigliano, Arnaldo. “Ancient History and the Antiquarian.” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institute 13, no. 3-4 (1950): 285-315. Montaigne, Michel de. Les Essais [1595], edited by Jean Balsamo, Michel Magnien and Catherine Magnien-Simonin. Paris: Gallimard, 2007. Mungello, David E., ed. The Chinese Rites Controversy: Its History and Meaning. San Francisco: The Ricci Institute for Chinese-Western Cultural History, 1994. Núñez de Pineda, Francisco. Cautiverio feliz y razón individual de las guerras dilatadas de Chile [1673]. Santiago: Ril Editores, Universidad de Chile, 2001. O`Neill, SJ, Charles and Joaquín M. Domínguez, SJ. Diccionario histórico de la Compañía de Jesús. Biográfico–Temático. Roma-Madrid: Universidad Pontificia Comillas, Institutum Historicum, S.I., 2001. O’Gorman, Edmundo. “Prólogo” [1940]. In José de Acosta, Historia natural y moral de las indias, XI-XCV. México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1985. Ocaña, Diego de. Relación del viaje a Chile, año de 1600, contenida en la crónica de viaja intitulada A través de la América del Sur. Santiago: Editorial Universitaria, 1995. Operé, Fernando. Historias de la frontera. El cautiverio en la América hispánica. México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2001. Pinto, Jorge. “Frontera, misiones y misioneros en Chile, La Araucanía (1600-1900).” In Misioneros en la Araucanía, 1600-1900. Un capítulo de historia fronteriza, edited by Jorge Pinto Rodríguez, 17-119. Temuco: Ediciones Universidad de la Frontera, 1988. Prosperi, Adriano, ed. Salvezza delle anime, disciplina dei corpi. Un seminario sulla storia del battesimo. Pisa: Edizione della Normale, 2006. Ribera, Alonso de. “Relación del modo y orden de militar que había en este Reino de Chile en campaña, fronteras y fuertes hasta la llegada del gobernador Alonso de Ribera, que fue el 9 de febrero del año de 1601.” In Historia física y política de Chile. Documentos II, edited by Claudio Gay, 97-106. Santiago: Biblioteca Fundamentos de la Construcción de Chile, 2009. Rolle, Claudio. “La politica della santità dei Gesuiti nelle missioni del Paraguay.” In Ordini religiosi, santità e culti: prospettive di ricerca tra

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Europa e America Latina, edited by Gabriella Zarri, 37-51. Lecce: Congedo Editore, 2003. Rosales, Diego de. “Manifiesto apologético de los daños de la esclavitud del Reino de Chile.” In Las encomiendas indígenas en Chile, vol. II, edited by Domingo Amunátegui, 183-251. Santiago: Imprenta Cervantes, 1910. —. Historia General del Reino de Chile, Flandes indiano, vol. I [1674]. Santiago: Editorial Andrés Bello, 1989. —. Seis misioneros en la frontera Mapuche (del libro IV de la Conquista Espiritual del Reino de Chile., vol. I). Temuco: Centro ecuménico Diego de Medellín, Ediciones Universidad de La Frontera, 1991. Ruiz de Montoya, Antonio. Tesoro de la lengua guaraní. Madrid: Juan Sánchez, 1639. —. Conquista espiritual hecha por los religiosos de la Compañía de Jesús en las provincias del Paraguay, Paraná, Uruguay y Tapé [1639]. Bilbao: Imprenta del Corazón de Jesús, 1892. Suess, Paulo, ed., A Conquista Espiritual da América Espanhola. Petrópolis: Editorial Vozes, 1992. Tampe, Eduardo. Catálogo de jesuitas de Chile (1593-1767). Catálogo de regulares de la Compañía en el antiguo Reino de Chile y en el destierro. Santiago: Ediciones Universidad Alberto Hurtado, Instituto de Historia-Pontificia Universidad Católica de Chile, DIBAM, 2007. The Complete Works of Michel de Montaigne, edited by William Hazlitt, London: John Templeman, 1842. Valenzuela Márquez, Jaime. “Esclavos mapuches. Para una historia del secuestro y deportación en la Colonia.” In Historias de racismo y discriminación en Chile, edited by Rafael Gaune and Martín Lara, 225260. Santiago: Uqbar editores, 2009. —. “Revisitando el ‘indigenismo’ jesuita: en torno a los ‘bárbaros’ de Arauco, la guerra y la esclavitud mapuche en el siglo XVII.” In Fronteiras e identidades: povos indígenas e missões religiosas, edited by Graciela Chamorro, Thiago Cavalcante and Carlos Gonçalves, 6179. São Bernardo do Campo, São Paulo: Nhanduti Editora, 2011. Wachtel, Nathan, La vision des vaincus. Les Indiens du Pérou devant la Conquête espagnole (1530-1570). Paris: Gallimard, 1971. Zapater, Horacio “Testimonio de un cautivo. Araucanía, 1599-1614.” Historia 23 (1988): 295-325.

CHAPTER FIVE NEGATION AND EXALTATION OF THE SERTANISTAS OF SÃO PAULO IN THE DISCOURSES OF PIERRE-FRANÇOISXAVIER DE CHARLEVOIX, D. JOSÉ VAISSETTE AND GASPAR DA MADRE DE DEUS (1756-1774) MICHEL KOBELINSKI*

Introduction Boasting and resentment are recurrent sensitivities in the formation of Brazilian society. Ties between citizens and nation together with the habit of attributing excessive value to these ties is the result of a historical model that exalted heroes and reverenced nature. This exasperation of virtues created the idea of a harmonious past but also dissimulated the sense of judgement and the existence of social incompatibilities. The great majority of individuals who suffered injustices and retaliation and were consequently disconnected from the formative ideal eventually became resentful. In spite of the feeling of powerlessness caused by this “malaise,” there was a prevalence of the malicious idea of ostentation that Brazilians show towards their country and themselves. This ostentation is continuously verified in continuous public opinion surveys conducted by the Ministry of the Environment and Institute of Religious Studies. *

I will forever be in debt to Sergio Botta, from Sapienza University of Rome, for his brilliant conduction of debates in the Ceisal Symposium, as well as to Sara Geane Kobelinski due to her efforts to translate the text, originally written in French (“La négation et l’exhaltation des sertanistas de São Paulo dans les discours des pères Pierre-François-Xavier de Charlevoix, D. José Vaissette et Gaspar da Madre de Deus. 1756-1774”).

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Brazilians consider their country to be the realm of nature, hospitality and cordiality.1 An imposing form of promoting the nation and nationality can be identified in the presuppositions of one of the most influential members of the Brazilian Geographical and Historical Institute, Conde Affonso Celso (1860-1939). According to his work, dated 1900, Why do I boast about my country, the naturalisation of history shifted from enumeration of the comparative advantages of Brazil to a comparison with other nations. Brazilians are proud of their weather, nature, miscegenation and history. From this perspective, national integration and patriotism were the instruments of criticism and confrontation of problems that threatened Brazil, such as politics, economic underdevelopment and bad governments. Consequently, the past was used to create an image that corresponded to a national identity. The effigy that came closest to this ideal was the sertanista2 of São Paulo. This mythology, which was widely disseminated in academic books until the 1980s, was the result of economic and political disputes that combined identity, progress and history. It is therefore of some significance that historians such as Alfredo Ellis Jr., Affonso D’Escragnolle Taunay and Alcântara Machado claim that the progress of the city of São Paulo resulted from the heroic actions of their ancestors, although this meant renouncing consanguinity to grant immigrants an identity that was associated with work, the development of São Paulo and, consequently, of Brazil.3 On the other hand, resentment was the object of attention of historians, anthropologists and sociologists, especially when the fields of history and psychology extended research horizons.4 In Brazilian history, repression

1

Samyra Crespo and Eduardo Novaes, O que os brasileiros pensam sobre a biodiversidade. Pesquisa Nacional de Opinião (Ministério do Meio Ambiente, Instituto de Estudos da Religião, 2006). 2 Sertanista is a Brazilian term used in the field of anthropology to describe an adventurer or explorer who ventures into the “sertão” or interior of Brazil in search of riches, especially in unknown Indigenous communities. This term is also used to describe someone who is an expert on the sertão. 3 Kátia Maria Abud, O sangue itimorato e as nobilíssimas tradições. A construção de um símbolo paulista: o bandeirante (São Paulo: Universidade do Estado de São Paulo, 1985); Jessita M.N. Moutinho, “A paulistanidade revista: algumas reflexões sobre um discurso político,” Tempo Social. Revista de Sociologia 1, no. 1 (1991): 109-117. 4 Stella Bresciani and Márcia Naxara, “Identidades inconclusas no Brasil do século XIX - Fundamentos de um lugar comum,” in Memória e (res)sentimento: indagações sobre uma questão sensível, ed. Stella Bresciani and Márcia Naxara

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was considered a historic legacy based on a preference for carnal pleasures, ambition and resentment. This behaviour carried implicit psychological disturbances and a feeling of not belonging to Brazil.5 In this sense, the sertanistas were demystified as their obsession for gold led them to commit crimes to satisfy their personal needs.6 This outcome reveals that the cloak of superiority (excessive patriotism) actually hides a complex of inferiority (resentment). These opposing sentiments resulted in the need for successive rhetorical rediscoveries and a constant search for the lost identity.7 After all, the conjecture of a white, civilised nation, a model that was mirrored in French culture, English economy and mainly bourgeois customs, was overshadowed by the dissemination of the myth of racial democracy8 and by the immigration policy of the Brazilian Empire.9 Furthermore, if Brazilian society is historically marked by the “balance of antagonisms,” this could also mean that despite patriotic exaltation, Brazilians lack a feeling of identity and do not recognise themselves in the national discourse.10 Gilberto Freyre admits the need for this kind of sentiment during the later colonial period.11 Nevertheless, it seems erroneous to assume that the amalgamation of extroverted and introverted individuals is the result of behavioural adaptation characterised by pleasure in causing suffering to people and animals and finding pleasure in the resulting physical and moral suffering. A form of sadomasochistic behaviour cannot be summarised as form of pleasure of the Brazilian population. On the contrary, it seems that the plausible pleasure is not related to introspection but to the incapacity to react to the inequalities within a system of distinctions and privileges. In addition, happiness that (Campinas: Editora Unicamp, 2004), 403-430; Marc Ferro, O ressentimento na história: ensaio (Rio de Janeiro: Agir, 2009). 5 Paulo Prado, Província & nação. Paulística. Retrato do Brasil: ensaio sobre a tristeza brasileira (Rio de Janeiro: Livraria José Olympio Editora, 1972). 6 Laura de Mello Souza, “Aspectos da historiografia da cultura sobre o Brasil colonial,” in Historiografia brasileira em perspectiva (São Paulo: Contexto, 2003), 206. 7 Marlize Meyer, Caminhos do imaginário no Brasil (São Paulo: Editora da Universidade de São Paulo, 2001), 19. 8 Karl Friederich Philipp von Martius, “Como se deve escrever a História do Brasil,” Revista do IHGB 6, no. 24 (1845): 381-403. 9 Luiz Felipe Alencastro and Maria Luiza Renaux, “Caras e modos dos migrantes e imigrantes,” in História da vida privada no Brasil. Império: a corte e a modernidade nacional (São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1997), 294-295. 10 Maria Rita Kehl, Ressentimento (São Paulo: Casa do Psicólogo, 2004), 236-237. 11 Gilberto Freyre, Casa grande & Senzala: introdução à sociedade patriarcal no Brasil (Rio de Janeiro: Record, 1990).

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is based on the pleasure of mocking fellow men and outsiders can be considered a form of violence. The aggressive drive gives meaning to human existence; it is a means of protection that guarantees survival and a way of mediation with the group with whom the individual identifies.12 Derision is therefore a condition of sensitivities that originated from miscegenation and existing conflicts during the founding of the nation, and the resulting connection of knowledge, behaviour, impositions and resistance.13 It is also important to mention that during the first decades of the twentieth century the critical aspect of resentment provided an opportunity to question personal behaviour and the political boundaries of colonisation. It was therefore necessary to overcome the rancidity of cordiality as, during miscegenation, there was no solidarity among Brazilians.14 The ambiguous images of exaltation and negation of the Brazilian identity refer us to the genesis of this process, that is, to the conflicts between the Portuguese and Brazilians and between Portuguese Brazilians and Spaniards in the eighteenth century. It is therefore essential to understand how those discursive constructions denied and/or exalted the action of the sertanistas and, consequently, the use of the past to strengthen an identity. In this sense, a study of these conflicts starting from their historical and literary roots in the colony allowed an understanding of the dynamics of debates that guided historiographical events at that time. These sensitivities–overoptimistic patriotism and resentment–should therefore be observed together, as they refer to individual and collective behaviour and social, cultural and historical manipulations.

The Evocation of Myths in the Portuguese-Brazilian Colony Boasting or overoptimistic and excessive patriotism is present in the narrative of fabulous and heroic times, in literature of travels, exploration and recognition of the New World. In its mythic tendency, it exalted the

12 Konrad Zacharias Lorenz, L’agression, une histoire naturelle du mal (Paris: Flamarion, 1969), 266. 13 Sanjay Subrahmanyam, “Connected Histories: Notes towards a Reconfiguration of Early Modern Eurasia,” Modern Asian Studies 31, no. 3 (1997): 745. 14 Sérgio Buarque de Holanda, Raízes do Brasil (São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1995); José Carlos Reis, As identidades do Brasil: de Varnhagen a FHC (Rio de Janeiro: Editora Fundação Getúlio Vargas, 2000).

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uncharted lands, “things, men and habits”15 that desired a simple, rustic life and rural graciousness by means of procedures that were renounced from classical tradition.16 In 1705, the renaissance poet Manuel Botelho de Oliveira (1636-1711) used the term in his work, Música de Parnasso, a mythology on the conversion of Anarda into a Brazilian muse. The absence of a correlation between the metaphor and Brazilian reality for the feelings of anguish, melancholy, contemplation and solitude was mostly mediated by lust and thirst for eternity, intentionally directed at the Portuguese, thus extracting a transfigured ideal of Brazilian woodlands and forests from Portuguese references. Later in 1731, Nuno Marques Pereira (1652-1731) revisited the allegory in Narrative Compendium of the Pilgrim of America that values the moral and spiritual nature of the emboabas (a person who was not born in the state of São Paulo) to the detriment of the people of São Paulo.17 The war of the Emboabas (1707-1709) marked the rivalry between the people of São Paulo, who were considered “outlaws,” and the emboabas or outsiders (Portuguese and Brazilian Natives) from Santos, Rio de Janeiro, Pernambuco, Bahia and Portugal. Golgher refutes the Hebraic derivation of the term emboaba (haboab) due to documental absence and supports its Amerindian origin, associated with a type of bird with feathers down to its “fingers” (mbuab) and a connotation to clothes worn by the Portuguese, that is, “boots or leggings that resemble the pinto calçudo (literally in Portuguese, bird with big pants).” Withal, Mello highlights the meaning and appearance of the term in documents of the period (Rocha Pitta, Antonil, Manoel Nunes Viana, Borba Gato, Ayres de Cazal, Santa Rita Durão, Theodoro Sampaio, and Francisco Adolfo de Varnhagen, among other).18 The paulistas (natives of the state São Paulo) attributed the term to its Indigenous origin before the conflicts in the mines, after which it was used to describe the “adversaries.” In Mello’s words, “why admit that it was used by the Indian in a belittling sense when it is much more natural to admit it was used as an expression of hatred?” Their 15 Aframo Coutinho and Eduardo de Faria Coutinho, A literatura no Brasil: era Barroca, era Neoclássica (São Paulo, Global, 1999), 126. 16 Alfredo Bossi, História concisa da literatura brasileira (São Paulo: Cultrix, 1994). 17 José Honório Rodrigues, História da História do Brasil: historiografia colonial (São Paulo: Editora Nacional; Brasília, INL, 1979), 337; Isaías Golgher, Guerra dos emboabas: a primeira guerra civil nas Américas (Belo Horizonte: Ed. Itatiaia, 1956), 28. 18 José Soares de Mello, Emboabas (São Paulo: Governo do Estado de São Paulo, 1979), 204.

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lucubration was endorsed by natural elements, wealth, virtue, knowledge and arts, and the use of the term pátria (homeland) to simultaneously define Portugal and the Portuguese-Brazilian colony. From those examples, it is possible to identify, within the context of the war between the Portuguese and paulistas for the mines of Minas Gerais, the manifestation of opposing sensitivities. Coutinho, for instance, emphasised that “the direct experience of the pilgrim [...] was based in the gold mine regions where the greed of the emboabas bubbled fervently, although it was obstinately inclined in another direction: religious faith.”19 These literary influences led to the emergence of excessively patriotic sensitivity that adopted Lusitanian “colonialism” as a reference and later resulted in a contradictory sensitivity (excessive patriotism/resentment) which was used as an instrument in the struggle for power and against enemies who competed for the boundaries of Portuguese possessions. Withal, it was in the works of Cláudio Manuel da Costa (1768-1774) that the manifestation of events in the colonial interior of Brazil swayed in favour of the paulistas. The poet was not content to grasp the essence of nature or provide a description. The poetic persona can feel it intensely, as opposed to merely seeing nature. Good taste was centred on the things that were in front of the individual and the effects of these things on the soul. Thus, the exterior world led to introspection and contemplation and also admitted the simultaneous bad taste, the suffering and disapproval of the observed. The poem Vila Rica portrays the foundation of Ouro Preto, the conflicts between paulistas and emboabas and the government of Albuquerque, who focused all efforts on establishing order in relation to the numerous conflicts that resulted from the discovery of gold and precious stones.20 The poet pays homage to the hero who was responsible for the foundation of Vila do Carmo, Vila Rica and Vila de Sabará in 1711, one of which initially flaunted the name of its founder (Vila Rica de Albuquerque). The poet also pays homage to the crystalline nature of a river that inspired and transcended him to the Arcadian myth: Cantemos, Musa, a fundação primeira Da Capital das Minas, onde inteira Se guarda ainda, e vive inda a memória Que enche de aplauso de Albuquerque a história.

19

Mello, Emboabas, 153. José Veríssimo, História da literatura brasileira: de Bento Teixeira (1601) a Machado de Assis (1908) (Brasília: Editora da Universidade de Brasília, 1963), 115-116.

20

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Tu, pátrio Ribeirão, que em outra idade Deste assunto a meu verso, na igualdade De um épico transporte, hoje me inspira Mais digno influxo, porque entoe a Lira, Por que leve o meu Canto ao clima estranho O claro heroi, que sigo e que acompanho: Faze vizinho ao Tejo, enfim, que eu veja Cheia as Ninfas de amorosa inveja. [Let us sing, o muse, the first foundation Of the Capital of Mines, where it is Still whole, and the memory remains Which fills history with applause of Albuquerque Thou, o patriotic stream, who in another age This matter in my verse, in the likeness Of an epic journey, today inspire in me More worthy influx, because I intone the Lyre Wherefore you can take my Song to the strange climate That noble hero, whom I follow and accompany: Make Tejo your neighbour, so that finally I may see The nymphs full of amorous envy.]21

This poet regarded the figure of Antônio de Albuquerque Coelho de Carvalho, who was the governor of the captaincy of Minas and São Paulo, as the image of paulista heroism. According to the poet, the governor confronted his adversities, demonstrating “justice and intelligence,” and questioned the environmental and moral degradation in the gold mines, which presented a landscape in ruins that was not representative of the Virgilian ideal. The absence of specific writings of the “mining bandeirante” (pioneer) due to the lack of requirements to keep a record of these non-official explorations and his lack of experience in writing about himself resulted in an organised movement of refutation against Portuguese dominion and influence and the discourses that clergymen from other countries made in São Paulo. Purification of the image of the paulista pioneers sought to minimise the impact of actions practised in Spanish Jesuit missions, creating a noble image linked to heroism. Queiroz highlights the meaning of the term sertanista:

21

Cláudio Manuel da Costa, “Canto I, de 1773,” in Sedução do Épico: Vila Rica, 199.

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Chapter Five The term “bandeirante” (literally, person who carries the flag or banner of their ruler, and currently used to describe a pioneer) is dated and does not appear as a noun or adjective until the nineteenth century. However, the term bandeira (flag or banner) was probably established in the seventeenth century and maintained its original meaning until the present day. A question that arises related to the past would undoubtedly reveal the moment in which the meaning of “paulista” and “bandeirante” were associated as synonyms, conveying a specific message.22

The discoveries of the mines in Minas Gerais in the late seventeenth century unleashed the first narratives that valorise the efforts of the paulistas “in the form of poetry, as information or as a report of events. The mines discovery awarded the bandeirantes the legitimacy they had not previously achieved, and probably did not want, with the capturing of the Indians.”23 Intellectual life in São Paulo was stagnated and there was no link with “literary movements.” The exception was Diogo Garção Tinoco, who wrote in 1690 Informação do Estado do Brazil e de suas necessidades and whose verses partially appear in Cláudio Manuel da Costa and some writings such as D. Afonso VI a Fernão Dias Paes in the late seventeenth century. This widespread shortage was not complete because public and administrative occupations required nobility and judicial activities required literacy: “thus, as there were few literate people in the captaincy, the role of judge was usually performed by the same people although they were also required to work in different places.”24 This gap in the realm of literature, however, does not mean there was no “feeling of separation” or detachment from Lusitanian literature. “Imitation” of the Portuguese was manifested in a few “writers and versifiers” and the foundation of literary academies, such as the Academy of the Forgotten (1724), the Academy of Happy People (1736), the Academy of Select People (1752) and the Academy of the Reborn (1759), marks a transition to a kind of literature that focused on the colony.25 In the early eighteenth century, a production was identified which, like Rocha Pitta, Nuno Marques Pereira and, later, Pedro Taques de Almeida Paes Leme, Frei Gaspar da Madre de Deus, Cláudio Manuel da Costa, Santa 22

Maria Isaura Pereira de Queiroz, “Ufanismo paulista vicissitudes de um imaginário,” Revista USP 13 (1992): 79. 23 Abud, O sangue itimorato e as nobilíssimas tradições, 32; John Manuel Monteiro, Negros da Terra: índios e bandeirantes nas origens de São Paulo (São Paulo: Companhia das Letras 1994), 6. 24 Elizabeth Darwiche Rabello, As elites na sociedade paulista na segunda metade do século XVIII (São Paulo: Editora Comercial Safady, 1980), 96. 25 Veríssimo, História da literatura brasileira, 87.

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Rita Durão, Basílio da Gama, Alvarenga Peixoto and others, highlighted the tendency to valorise the colony in relation to the metropolis while remaining close to the centre of gravity. These works are considered perceptions of the European and colonial worlds concurrent with the sentiment of nationality that encapsulated the idea of proximity and distancing of the social and political groups in which the subjects were inserted and which they struggled to maintain. Studies on the war of the emboabas include expressive and controversial texts that are inserted in differentiated historical and discursive processes in which the subject is sometimes presented as being linked to the greedy nature of man and sometimes as a “movement” linked to nativist rebellions for the independence of Portugal, as a misunderstood historical fact, as something contingent or related to human nature. The image that paulistas and emboabas portrayed of themselves and of one another resulted in excessive patriotism and resentment, especially because advantage of the opponent was considered a threat to the group and, most importantly, a threat to one’s own integrity.26 The emboabas had more resources and improved mining procedures and, as they had greater quantities of gold with the hydraulic disassembly process instead of the washing process, they extended their lead over their adversary, triggering rage and stimulating envy of things that others possessed or extracted from the land and rivers.27 The “rage” can therefore be the result of rivalries between bordering countries, wealth inequality and accumulated powers, or titles and concessions obtained by some and coveted by others. In this sense, the parties in dispute constructed a criticism that only targeted the illicit aspects practised by their opponents, leaving out the “good” deeds of their adversaries not only in the heat of momentary interests, but also when they were revived.28 26 Bronislaw Baczko, “Imaginação social,” in Enciclopéida Einaudi. Anthroposhomem (Lisboa: Imprensa Nacional; Casa da Moeda, 1985), 278. 27 Pedro Calmon, História do Brasil. Século XVI: formação brasileira. Século XVIII: riqueza e vicissitudes (Rio de Janeiro: Ed. José Olympio, 1959), 963. 28 Charle Ralph Boxer, A idade de ouro do Brasil (São Paulo: Editora Nacional, 1969); Laura de Mello Souza, Desclassificados do ouro: a pobreza mineira no século XVIII (Rio de Janeiro: Edições Graal, 1990); Rodrigues, História da História do Brasil; Diego de Vasconcelos, História media de Minas Gerais (Belo Horizonte: Imprensa Official de Minas, 1918); and História antiga das Minas Gerais. (1703-1720) (Rio de Janeiro: Imprensa Nacional, 1948); Affonso de E. Taunay, “Súmula Biográfica,” in Memórias para a história da Capitania de São Vicente hoje chamada de São Paulo (São Paulo: Martins Editora, n.d.); Rocha Pitta, História da América Portuguesa desde o Ano de 1500 do seu descobrimento até o de 1724 (Lisboa, 1880; repr. São Paulo: Gráfica Editôra Brasileira, 1950);

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Perversion and the Quest for Happiness in Charlevoix The paulista historians Pedro Taques de Almeida Paes Leme and Frei Gaspar da Madre de Deus had close ties with the imperial power network and consequently constructed a version of history that refuted the thesis of French Jesuits who disregarded the sertanistas of São Paulo. One of these Jesuits was Pierre-François-Xavier Charlevoix (1682-1761) who joined the Company of Jesus at the age of twelve (Collège des Enfants - France) and concluded his studies at the Collège de Quebec (New France - 1705) where he probably helped restructure the institution.29 He worked in activities linked to language teaching, humanities and philosophy that guaranteed him fame and notoriety. In France (1709), he was ordained and later appointed professor at the Collège Louis-le-Grand.30 Ten years later, King Louis XV (the well-loved king of France and Navarre) granted him the mission of verifying the boundaries of the new Arcadia. When he finished his investigations, he received a new mission which took him along the St. Lawrence river, the lakes of Michillimackinac, Lakes Michigan and Illinois and the Mississippi as far as New Orleans (17201722). His objective was to “discover a way to the eastern sea.” After that, he went to the Isle of São Domingo and from there returned to France, arriving at his destination in the beginning of 1723. After collecting picturesque facts of Canadian history, he worked as editor of the Jesuit newspaper Mémoires de Trévoux for twenty-four years. He published continuously: Histoire du Japon (1715), La Vie de la Mère Marie de l’Incarnation (1724), Histoire de l’Isle Espagnole ou de S. Domingue (1730), Histoire et description générale du Japon (1736), Histoire et description générale de la Nouvelle-France avec le Journal historique

André João Antonil, Cultura e opulência do Brasil por suas drogas e minas (Belo Horizonte: Ed. Itatiaia; Ed. da Universidade de São Paulo, 1982); Adriana Romeiro, Paulistas e emboabas no coração das Minas: ideias, práticas e imaginário político no século XVIII (Belo Horizonte: Editora da UFMG, 2008). 29 William Allen, An American Biographical and historical dictionary containing an account of the lives, characters, and writings of the most eminent persons in North America from its first settlement, and a summary of the history of the several colonies and of the United States (Boston: William & Co., 1832), 244-245. 30 William F.E. Morley, “A Bibliographical Study of Charlevoix’s: Histoire et Description Générale de la Nouvelle France,” in Cahiers de la Société bibliographique du Canada (Toronto: Université de Toronto, 1963), 62-67; JeanMarcel Paquette, “François-Xavier de Charlevoix ou la métaphore historienne. Contribution à une systématique du récit historiographique,” Recherches sociographiques, l’historiographie 15, no. 1 (1974): 9-19.

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d’un voyage fait par ordre du roi dans l’Amérique septentrionale (1744) and Histoire du Paraguay (1756). In Charlevoix, we find the basis of a classical and systematised historiography with an analytic and erudite spirit stitched together with epistolary writing that influenced Rousseau, Chateaubriand and Voltaire. Charlevoix distinguishes himself from other historians of his period due to his endless quest for truth, although he was influenced by Christian ideology and by the apology for missionary work and conciliated the critical method with a theological vision of history.31 The work Histoire et description générale de la Nouvelle France, avec le Journal historique d’un voyage fait par ordre du roi dans l’Amérique septentrionale is considered the most valuable of his publications because of the manner in which he portrayed the French colony and the attention given to Indigenous habits and customs. Although this work was considered significant, “his style was deficient and imprecise,”32 especially in relation to botany and natural history. Consequently, his historical perception underwent the evaluation of territorial exploration, the state of evangelisation, administrative, social and economic development, and the deeds of prominent men like Frontenac and the Jesuit martyrs. This work of literature is accompanied by thirty-six letters to the Duchess of Lesdiguière in which he states his opinion on the second expedition to America. According to Gagnon “he illustrated the nature, colonial and trade situation, behaviour and customs of the Indigenous communities from a critical standpoint, that is, of everything that he claimed to have observed in the territory.”33 This work presents historical summaries, indexes, plant descriptions and chronological and cartographic observations. Furthermore, it outlines a panorama of the French colony in America based on the results and reflections of the synthesising effort of human knowledge during that period. Charlevoix instilled the need for historical knowledge and selfvalorisation before the Court because he considered the annihilation of identity in overseas territories to have been caused by the failure of French enterprise, the lack of financing and the absence of support for the settlers. In this way, the construction of sensitivity was asserted in the identity and strategic recognition of colonial immensity, in the use of natural resources, in the need for religious conversion and the process of civilisation. After 31 Anne Gagnon, Charlevoix: un jésuite en quête de vérité. Étude historiographique d’Histoire et description générale de la Nouvelle France (Montreal: McGill University, 1997). 32 Allen, An American Biographical and historical dictionary, 245. 33 Gagnon, Charlevoix, 15.

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perceiving the colonial landscape in ruins, Charlevoix set out to defend and alter it by attributing a historical sense and identity although this meant manipulating colonial and metropolitan reality based on sensitivities qualified by political, religious, literary and philosophical behaviour. The reason behind the extended scope of Charlevoix in New France must be located in time and space, before and after his stay in America. The issues that were restricted to the world of ideas and perceptions materialised in the accounts of the habits of Amerindians and the evaluation of French and missionary enterprise in America. Charlevoix acquired the ideas that originally composed his works Histoire et description générale de la Nouvelle-France [...]and Histoire du Paraguay from his observations of French possessions in the New World, from his contact with literary society and his work in the Trévoux newspaper. In both works, the methodology is the same. The exception is the recurrence of indirect observations. Withal, the concerns with South America depart from the idea of fragility and uncertainty. Considering that French colonisation of the Americas included the St. Lawrence river valley, Terra Nova, the Rocky Mountains, the Hudson Bay, and the Gulf of Mexico, and settlements of the colonies of Canada, Acadia, Plaisance and Louisiana (1534-1763), Paraguay was consequently considered a distant, untamed land. It is not without reason that the Histoire du Paraguay consecrated optimism and prosperity due to the precariousness of the Spanish colonial enterprise and missionary action. By dealing with the struggle between good and evil, Charlevoix idealised the New World: “I talk about these Christian republics with models that are still unheard-of and unseen in the world, that were founded on the centre of the worst cruelty.”34 Hawthorne pointed out that ideas related to civility and religious morality were satirised in a veiled manner by François Marie Arouet Voltaire (1694-1778) in his work Candide ou l’Optimisme. This relation should be established because the work of Charlevoix reflects a reaction to the fall of prestige of the Jesuits in France and other European nations. The Order was the target of attacks until its suppression by Pope Clement XIX in 1773. Subsequently, Spanish civilisation and religious missions in Paraguay encountered spiritual and moral failure. In Candide ou l’Optimisme, corresponding and opposing sensitivities are manifested in the pairs of opposites: naivety and cunning, detachment and greed, charity and selfishness, tenderness and violence, love and hatred. The dialogue between Candide and Cacambo is fundamental to 34 Pierre-François-Xavier de Charlevoix, Histoire du Paraguay (Paris: Chez Didot, Giffard, Nyon, 1757), 5, v. 1.

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understanding the enunciations directed at the philosophy of Leibniz and the religious ideal: “priests there have everything and the people have nothing; it is the masterpiece of reason and justice; [...] Master Pangloss always said that everything is as good at it possibly can be in this world and I feel infinitely more touched with his extremely generosity.”35 The belief that everything is fine and that we are always moving towards a better future is severely repudiated by Voltaire, and Leibniz, by emphasising this point, “[...] rendered the human race the service of making him see that we should be extremely happy and that God could not have possibly done any more for us.”36 Similarly, to think solely of the garden was to have a short-sighted vision of reality, leading to the expression, “we must cultivate our garden.” If the missionary condition contrasted with the slavery practised by the Spanish, neither was the object of questioning. Commitment to the truth in Charlevoix is mitigated because his reflection is not merely in relation to whether the Indigenous people were better or worse after Spanish colonisation, but to how Jesuit reductions spiritually enlightened the souls of the New World and led them to happiness. The comparative outlook of Pierre-François-Xavier Charlevoix therefore emphasises the mythic and profane aspects of the paulista landscape during its initial years, such as the weather, fertility of the land, desolation, and libertinism and rusticity of the men. The beauty of nature and the divine gift are put to the test by Portuguese intervention in the fields of Piratininga: All the lands are fertile and give very good wheat; [...] and thus for no other reason than the spirit of debauchery and the benefits of pillage, they will, for a long time, contend with overpowering fatigue and endless dangers in these vast barbarous regions that will destroy two million men.37

The topics covered in Histoire du Paraguay focus on historical, natural and mineralogical aspects, hunting methods, animal behaviour, the use of mate (leaves to make a type of hot beverage), and the missionary enterprise, especially in Guairá and its pinnacle between 1650 and 1720. In addition to Spanish and Portuguese colonisation, he also mentions Indigenous behaviour: “[...] they are stupid, indolent, vindictive, drunk 35

François-Marie Arouet Voltaire, Dicionário Filosófico (Paris, 1764; repr. São Paulo: Martin Claret, 2002), 75, 29. 36 Voltaire, Dicionário Filosófico, 157. 37 Charlevoix, Histoire du Paraguay, 119.

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men for whom the priests have risked their lives,”38 and for the perverse effects of miscegenation, he wrote, “evil came from the contiguous colony of São Paulo where blood of the Portuguese mixed with blood of Brazilians [...] resulting in the birth of a perverse generation.”39 In Charlevoix, the Spanish are identified as greedy human beings whose spirit of adventure and desire for discovery did not make them different from the French in North America. This deviation of character also reached Ignacian brethren, hence the lack of orientation in taking care of the garden. The clear but undeclared objective was profit, which, in another plane, triggered Spanish resentment of the way Jesuit priests treated the Indians. This fact justified the establishment of missions in Paraguay and missionary work, since it cooperated with the State. The attainment of perfection therefore required “sincere adhesion to the dictates of religion and legitimate authority.”40

The Return of Heroic Narrative Gaspar Teixeira de Azevedo (1715-1800) was born in Santos of noble origin, the son of Domingos Teixeira de Azevedo and Ana de Siqueira Mendonça. As a young man, he entered the Benedictine order at São Bento Monastery in Bahia, where he concluded his studies and adopted the name Gaspar da Madre de Deus.41 He had an inclination for theology, philosophy and history, and consequently obtained the following titles and functions: a doctoral degree in 1749, the title of Abbot of the São Bento Monastery in São Paulo (1752), Definitor (1756), Abbot of the Monastery of Rio de Janeiro (1763) and Provincial Abbot in 1766. He lived in the Monastery of Santos in 1769 where he became interested in the study of history and researched the archives of Santos and São Paulo, gathering extensive documentation on Salvador and Rio de Janeiro. He was chief chronicler of the Benedictine order between 1774 and 1798, among many other duties. Both Frei Gaspar and Pedro Taques de Almeida Paes Leme shared racial prejudice as they were descendants of the small Portuguese nobility that had grown wealthy in the colony. Pedro Taques de Almeida Paes Leme is considered the first historian of the bandeiras paulistas (literally, 38

Charlevoix, Histoire du Paraguay, 5, v. 11-12. Charlevoix, Histoire du Paraguay, 3. 40 Margaret Rush Hawthorne, Pierre François-Xavier, S. J.: History and the French Atlantic World in the short Eighteenth Century, 1682-1764 (Lawrence: University of Kansas, 2007), 213. 41 Rodrigues, História da História do Brasil, 142. 39

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“paulista banners”) and therefore one of the most influential historians in the government of Dom Luís Antônio de Souza Botelho Mourão (Morgado de Mateus). His lineage and intellectual formation allowed him to act decisively in political matters in the colony from 1765. He was the son of the sertanista Bartolomeu Paes de Abreu; grandson of a nobleman from the Portuguese royal house and Captain General of the São Vicente and São Paulo captaincies, Pedro Taques de Almeida; great grandson of Lourenço Castanho Taques, discoverer of the Cataguazes mines; great grandson of Dom Francisco de Souza (the seventh General Governor), Pedro Taques; great grandnephew of Fernão Dias Paes and paternal descendant of Brás Cubas.42 Both historians were complacent with the colonial system, showing concern “with cleaning the blood of old Christians, Jews, Indians and blacks” and, primarily, taking social origin into consideration and above all, its disaffections. While Pedro Taques privileged “individuals” who were members of higher classes, bestowing upon them a form of protective armour, Frei Gaspar considered miscegenation and the acquired capability of Indigenous people to be a sense of freedom, courage and defiance.43 These historians maintained a consistent connection with the theoretical perspectives of research and the conception of history. This way of writing about history demanded a certain detachment from the ideas of Gianbatista Vico, Voltaire and Montesquieu and an approximation of Mabilon. The erudite history of the Benedictine of the Saint-Maur Congregation, of Saint-Germains-des-Près, Dom Mabilon (1632-1701), manifested in De Re Diplomatica, showed a concern for criticism and the authenticity of documents which would constitute the “science of diplomacy.”44 This erudition structured his works both in the sense of seeking documents in the diverse colonial and metropolitan archives and verifying their authenticity, and in the “act of transcribing and citing the sources of the works.”45 Friar Gaspar da Madre de Deus valorised the members of his ancestry, descendants of noble lineage who became “lords of land and slaves.” According to Taunay, “the ascendency of a monk is demonstrated by his kinship with several of the highest ranking officials of the pioneering 42

Affonso de Taunay, História das Bandeiras paulistas (São Paulo: Melhoramentos, 1951), 8-9. 43 Queiroz, “Ufanismo paulista vicissitudes de um imaginário,” 81. 44 Guy Bourdé and Martin Hervé, As escolas históricas (Lisboa: Publicações Europa-América, 1986), 61-95. 45 Abud, O sangue itimorato e as nobilíssimas tradições, 74-75.

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troops: Fernão Dias Paes, Anhanguera, Domingos Jorge Velho, Matias Cardoso de Almeida [...],” to mention some.46 Notably, the historians tried to transform their ancestors into heroes with this peculiarity of historiographical production while simultaneously relating these heroes to Portuguese minor nobility. Deep down, this form of valorisation (excessive patriotism and boasting) was a reaction based on resentments arising from the war of the emboabas and a path of access to the realms of power, given that “the place of the founding elite was threatened by Natives of the kingdom.”47 According to Kátia Abud,48 the first paulistas linked to commercial activities were from the petit bourgeoisie, while the real nobility, the bloodline nobility, and the upper bourgeoisie stayed in Europe. The link with nobility, since the Middle Ages, allowed a series of privileges based on juridical criteria that determined social behaviour. “Each individual occupied a definite position in this hierarchy that was established according to possessions and noble or ennobling titles.” As these values were incorporated and adapted to the colony, the municipalities performed a major role in the principle of “good men” until the Ordenações Filipinas, which established new parameters of equivalence and submission to the Portuguese State. Secondly, reactions that converge to excessive patriotism expose, in many instances, the subjectivity of resentment and the construction of nationality. This mythification encompassed genealogy, territorial conquests and military deeds as the first signs of nobility. Pedro Taques constructed an image for the sertanistas, the troop leaders and capitães do mato (the plural of the term capitão do mato, the person responsible for recapturing escaped slaves and criminals in the forests and fields) who conquered Indians and territories, discovered gold mines and were therefore considered noble. On the other hand, Gaspar da Madre de Deus tried to defend the paulistas from the accusations of Jesuits such as Montoya, who said they were like mamelucos (a miscegenation of Indians and Blacks) that had survived ruthless nature, “facing fever, rain and the beasts of the forest,” because they were resistant and intelligent due to miscegenation with Indians. In Gaspar da Madre de Deus, the initial image of the foundation of Vila de Piratininga, which he made a point of exploring, reinforces another idea, not of a desolate area but, on the contrary, the idea of a “capital” that propagated territorial conquest in the colony. Under the auspices of the Royal Academy of Science of Lisbon, in 1797, the Typography of the Royal Academy of Science published, with 46

Taunay, “Súmula Biográfica,” 9. Queiroz, “Ufanismo paulista vicissitudes de um imaginário.” 48 Abud, O sangue itimorato e as nobilíssimas tradições, 82. 47

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slight alterations, one of his most important works of that period, entitled Memórias para a História da Capitania de São Vicente hoje chamada de São Paulo, do Estado do Brasil. His extensive research in files and registry offices in São Paulo, Santos, Rio de Janeiro and Salvador, initiated in the monastery of Santos in 1769, was not only significant because of the resulting development of documental investigations, but also for the historical perspective and the narrative that he constructed with Pedro Taques. Furthermore, as a prestigious intellectual who was always remembered in different realms of power, the Benedictine effortlessly destroyed the narratives against the paulistas. The narrative of D. José Vaissette, “a respected historian and wise Benedictine of the S. Mauro Congregation in France,” and the Royal Attorney of Albi who wrote “Geographical Ecclesiastic and Civil History” in 1755, was also criticised by paulista historians.49 The preferred point of contention, however, was the work Histoire du Paraguay by Charlevoix, which was considered inappropriate by Gaspar da Madre de Deus. He pointed out where his ideas were published, Livro VI, and the year of publication, 1718, an integral part of the work Noticias das coisas do Brasil by Vasconcelos.50 According to Friar Gaspar, the material was contaminated with information that was inappropriate and dissonant with the documents in the colonial “archives”; “they had evidently both drank from the same swamp.”51 According to Simão de Vasconcelos,52 Brazil was paradise on earth “in which God, our Lord, placed our father Adam as He did in the garden” and to Campos de Piratininga was its opposite because it was the refuge of Satan, a place of disease, hatred and wars: “the Indians were struck with the terrible plague of pleurisy [...], those mamelucos, bad trees produce worse fruit, they have returned to revive resentments [...], and war [...] igniting the infernal spirit or the spirit of those same mamelucos.” This resulted in the “unfaithful” history that the Jesuits wrote about the paulistas. As Friar Gaspar reinforced a positive idea of the São Paulo captaincy, he ratified this same idea from history based on documental truth, undermining the sources of foreign interpretation of 49

José Carlos Pinto de Souza, Biblitoteca histórica de Portugal, e seus domínios (Lisboa: Typographia Chalcographica, Typoplastica, e litteraria do Arco do Cego, 1801), 183. 50 Serafim Leite, “Simão de Vasconcelos: vida e obra,” in Crônica da Companhia de Jesus (Petrópolis, Vozes, 1977), 13-16. 51 Gaspar da Madre de Deus, Memórias para a história da capitania de São Vicente (Lisboa 1797; São Paulo: Livraria Martins Editora, 1956), 117. 52 Simão de Vasconcelos, Crônica da Companhia de Jesus (Lisboa, 1668; repr. Petrópolis: Vozes, 1977), 257-259.

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the colonial interior in dispute and the object of personal interests between the Portuguese and Spanish. He said that he did not want to deceive his readers because São Paulo and the paulistas deserved a fairer history, without deceit, in order to obtain a “mildly truthful instruction in past facts”53 especially at that moment when the São Paulo captaincy was undergoing a “developmental” stage during the government of D. Luís Antônio de Souza Botelho Mourão. Friar Gaspar tried to reconstruct paradise in Vila de Piratininga, emphasising the pleasures of the delightful country landscapes of the plateau. He differentiated this landscape from the coastline, marked by breath-taking vegetation in opposition to fields. These impressions were also added to the literary images gathered in the imaginative and sensitive construction of the idealised landscape, integrating his personal experiences that were translated into incontestable truths. The descriptions of natural elements from the fields of Piratininga could only carry allusive positive images founded in centuries of paradisiacal “memories”: “On the top of Serra de Paranapiacaba and under the Austral Tropic, approximately, lies a delightful region that the Portuguese initially named Campo [...] de Piratininga.”54 It is interesting to see how the image of Friar Gaspar da Madre de Deus on time and space in the captaincy of São Paulo is influential and includes real and imaginary elements that allowed precise localisation. Friar Gaspar systematically deconstructed not only the texts of historians who invoked a set of historical and personal images on São Paulo, but also other experiences throughout America that are different from his own, in which interpretations of the past carried no validation and were therefore more fiction than reality, given the absence of documental analysis. It is a very well-directed contestation that refutes the degrading foreign version. The historian friar insisted on showing the interpretative errors; the falsities in the versions of Vaissette and Charlevoix were, in most cases, “frivolous and ridiculous.” An analysis of the writings of Vaissete reveals a series of mistakes, starting with the size of the captaincy and an incorrect usage of the French nautical mile that would result in a smaller dimension of the captaincy by a difference of twenty two nautical miles. Even the references widely applied by Vaissete, such as “capitania d’El-Rey,” made no sense. According to Friar Gaspar, the author forgot to mention the invasion of “missions and Castilian settlements in the Brazilian sertão” and, worse still, references to mineral and water 53 54

Madre de Deus, Memórias para a história da capitania de São Vicente, 117. Madre de Deus, Memórias para a história da capitania de São Vicente, 119.

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resources were also closely analysed. Strangely enough, he failed to mention that Vaissete made a mistake in claiming that there were productive silver mines in Biraçoiaba (Sorocaba) in 1599, probably because these explored resources were not productive. The smallest discrepancy was noted, such as the title of village instead of city of São Vicente, the correct distance between locations and the precise location of the captaincy of São Paulo in the system of geographic coordinates. When Vaissette stated that São Paulo originated from a “troop of Spaniards, Portuguese, Indians, mestiços and mulatos (persons of mixed race),” refugee fugitives concentrated in the woods, Friar Gaspar retaliated, emphasising that this assumption was undignified because that kind of history was unknown here or in Portugal and such mistakes were based on the influence of reports made by Paraguayan Jesuits, “bitter enemies” of the paulistas. Furthermore, he claimed that foreigners did not know what happened in “strange countries.” He considered Vaissete’s presuppositions to be narrative without credibility, noting the existence of the paulistana (of the city of São Paulo) Republic when it actually did not exist in the municipality of the city, the disgrace of considering the paulistas “Christian pirates” and even the existence of a Benedictine Congregation in Brazil or the settlement problems of Jesuits in São Paulo. Friar Gaspar argued that the Company of Jesus met Spanish interests and that the reason for attributing bad, corrupt and wild behaviour to the “mamelucos” was the mixture “that gave birth to a perverse human generation.” According to Charlevoix, the causes of this problem were the military qualities of those men, who had destroyed thirty-one “great Indigenous communities, founded by Castilian Jesuits in the extensive provinces of Guairá, Itati and Tapê,” their skills and experience in dealings in the sertão and finally, the guaranteed limits of Portuguese territory in America. It was, however, acknowledged that most homicides during the first years of the province were committed by them, considered by Friar Gasper to be a sensitive, rustic, untruthful and unscrupulous folk. He also acknowledged, however, that these crimes only occurred during the foundation of the captaincy and that at the moment of writing, the reality was quite different. Charlevoix’s allegation that “the Spanish, Italian, and Dutch who flee persecuted by the justice of men but who do not fear the justice of God, shall be established with them: many Indians shall participate, and immersed in the enthusiasm for devastation, shall surrender to it without

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limits and fill the immense extension of the country with horror”55 was refuted and considered a senseless “saga of fugitives.” According to Charlevoix, not all paulistas were mamelucos and the fact that Tomé de Souza had granted the jurisdiction of town to Santo André and that Mem de Sá (1500-1572) had ordered the change of the Pelourinho, Insígnia, Ofícios públicos e moradores (literally, “Pillory, Insignia, public and resident Offices”) were not good decisions as they intruded in issues that were not their responsibility. Consequently, many people fled from this “despotism” of the lords of the land. On the other hand, foreigners remained because “the Catholic king at that time” was the sovereign of Spain, Portugal, Naples, Milan and the Netherlands, which meant that his subjects could live in any of his domains. There is, however, a common element in the foundational controversy of Brazilian proto-nationality. Friar Gaspar agreed with Charlevoix on the work of the paulistas, stating: “their achievements and conquests are true, comprising works and labours that were better understood by this Frenchman than some ungrateful and envious Portuguese who claimed they were not worthy of recognition as the discoverers of mines and sertões.”56 Friar Gaspar somehow assumed that, in the early years of São Paulo, divine and human laws related to the freedom of Indigenous people were forgotten. However, his justification should be sought in the forgiveness and indulgence of the State, which had an interest in the discovery of gold mines. In his narratives, he emphasises that such abuses were not exclusive to that captaincy and also occurred in the mines of Maranhão and Pará. In São Paulo, paulistas had the misfortune of being the object of the scorn of Spanish Jesuits, who promoted the “strict subordination” of Indigenous people, and of “infiltrated” Spaniards in the captaincy of São Paulo who were involved in the acclamation of Amador Bueno.

Conclusion This study presents the argument that excessive patriotism and resentment are ways of acting and reacting within cooperating and conflicting social structures in different temporalities and representations of the past and of national identity. The study of colonial identities is a controversial topic in Brazilian historiography. Although these identities 55

Charlevoix, apud Madre de Deus, Memórias para a história da capitania de São Vicente, 132. 56 Madre de Deus, Memórias para a história da capitania de São Vicente, 135.

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were established during the colonial period, they presumably emerged during the process of independence.57 We consider that the proto national identities were linked to Lusitanian values and were eventually transformed and acquired their own specificities by distancing themselves from these values.58 The analysed narratives suggest that colonial identities, although not cohesive or uniform, were tied to the interests of Portugal, France and Spain in overseas territories. The historiographical controversy involved the historian Pedro Taques de Almeida Paes Leme and, on the other side, Friar Gaspar da Madre de Deus, who considered the past an instrument of political struggle and personal valorisation while refuting the Jesuit writings of Charlevoix and Vaissette who conversely tried to show an image of barbarism and social degeneration in the formation of the paulista capital. Images of the pioneers of São Paulo appeared in antagonist texts based on contrasting memories in different times and spaces, essentially manifesting in converging and opposing sensitivities (excessive patriotism/resentment). The essence of these sensitivities is expressed in the valorisation/degradation of man, nature and the interior colonial landscapes in a process of capture, freezing and representation of reality. These diverging perceptions carry experiences that valorise memorable scenes linked to everyday life and “literary” and historical images that arose from social conflicts. With respect to the generalisation of intransigence, conflicts between paulistas and the Portuguese were tied to contradictory interests inside and outside these same groups. It can therefore be concluded that excessive patriotism in the late 1700s was not merely produced by the power of ideas and social proximities and distances, but also by references abstracted from human sensitivities, politics and Portuguese culture. These sensitivities can be interpreted as an instrument of struggle based on resentment caused by the loss of privileges in the context of conflicts and negotiations related to society and identity. This focus, full of internalisation (repression), sought to solely present the dignifying aspects in order to create an impression and dominate. In summation, “yesterday” and today, we live alongside a harmonious image of miscegenation and another image that is marked by violence and social exclusion.

57

Nilo Odália, As formas do mesmo: ensaios sobre o pensamento historiográfico de Varnhagen e Oliveira Vianna (São Paulo: Editora Unesp, 1997), 12. 58 Jack P. Greene and Philip D. Morgan, Atlantic History: A Critical Appraisal (New York, Oxford University Press, 2009).

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Souza, José Carlos Pinto de. Biblitoteca histórica de Portugal, e seus domínios. Lisboa: Typographia Chalcographica, Typoplastica, e litteraria do Arco do Cego, 1801. Taunay, Affonso de E. “Súmula Biográfica.” In Memórias para a história da Capitania de São Vicente hoje chamada de São Paulo. São Paulo: Martins Editora, Sd. —. História das Bandeiras paulistas. São Paulo: Melhoramentos, 1951. Vasconcelos, Simão. Crônica da Companhia de Jesus. Lisboa, 1668; repr. Petrópolis: Vozes, 1977. Voltaire, François-Marie Arouet. Dicionário Filosófico. Paris, 1764; repr. São Paulo: Martin Claret, 2002.

CHAPTER SIX DEMONYM CARTOGRAPHY: NATIVE PEOPLES AND INQUISITION TH IN PORTUGUESE AMERICA (18 CENTURY)* MARIA LEÔNIA CHAVES DE RESENDE

Epidemics raged in the Americas, causing many deaths from the germs brought to the Natives of South America. Portuguese immigrants exploited the Indigenous with indiscriminate slave labour. Religious orders reduced Natives in their missions. The challenges above were not the only ones faced by the Native Peoples of Brazil. One more was yet to come: the Holy Office Trial act. This text proposes to map the crimes historically reported as having been committed against the Natives and their descendants in what I consider to be a demonym cartography of the Holy Inquisition in Portuguese America during the eighteenth century. The reason I began this research is not only because the case mentioned above is the only one in the Americas,1 but also because, despite the recent contributions of * From research (“Brasis sub examine: os índios e a inquisição na América Portuguesa”) sponsered by FAPEMIG and PQ/CNpq. 1 Different from the trials installed in America, the Lisbon Inquisition implicated the Natives of Brazil in their three visitations: in the sixteenth century in the states of Bahia and Pernambuco, in the seventeenth century, and in the third and last visitation in Pará, Maranhão and the Black River (Amazon Region). In Mexico, the execution of Don Carlos, chief of the Texcoco in 1539 removed the Natives from the jurisdiction of the Holy Office by Philip II in 23 February 1575. It is important to note, however, that the Natives remained under the bishop’s jurisdiction, considered to be as severe as the inquisitional action: Henry Kamen, La Inquisición española (Madrid: Alianza, 1973); Richard Greenleaf, La Inquisición en la Nueva España. Siglo XVI (México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1995). Jorge E.H. Traslosheros, “El Tribunal Eclesiastico y los indios en el Arzobispado de Mexico,” Historia Mexicana LI, no. 3 (2002): 485-516.

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research on the trial act in Brazil, few studies approached the issue of Native peoples, properly speaking.2 To stick to what we know about what happened to the Indigenous and their mixed-race descendants, the focus lay on the Third Visitation, specifically in “Grão-Pará.” Nevertheless, the richness of sources, spanning the whole century, is abundantly sufficient to cover the experience of these populations from diverse regions and ethnic origins, facing the presence of the Holy Office in the whole territory of Portuguese America.3 As it covers a broad and diverse ethno-cultural and 2

Ronaldo Vainfas, A heresia dos Índios: catolicismo e rebeldia no Brasil colonial (São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1995); Barbara Ann Sommer, Negotiated Settlements: Native Amazonians and Portuguese Policy in Pará, Brazil (New Mexico: University of New Mexico, 2000); Almir D. Carvalho JR, “Índios cristãos. A conversão dos gentios na Amazônia Portuguesa (1653-1769)” (PhD diss., Unicamp, 2005); Alida C. Medcalf, Go-betweens and the Colonization of Brasil (1500-1600) (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2005); Luiz Mott, “Um tupinambá feiticeiro do Espírito Santo na garra da Inquisição (1737-1744),” Revista Dimensões XX (2006): 13-27; Luiz Mott, “Um congresso de diabos e feiticeiras no Piauí colonial,” in Formas de Crer: Ensaios de história religiosa do mundo luso-afro-brasileiro, séculos XIV-XXI, ed. Ligia Bellini, Evergton Sales Souza and Gabriela dos Reis Sampaio (Salvador: Editora Corrupio, UFBa, 2006), 129-160; James E.Wadsworth, “Jurema and Batuque: Indians, Africans, and the Inquisition in colonial northeastern Brazil,” History of Religions 46, no. 2 (2006): 140-161; Maria Olindina Andrade Oliveira, “Olhares inquisitoriais na Amazônia Portuguesa. O tribunal do santo oficio e o disciplinamento dos costumes (XVIIXIX)” (Master’s thesis, UFAM, 2010); Stuart Schwartz, Cada um na sua lei: Tolerância religiosa e salvação no mundo atlântico ibérico (São Paulo: Cia. das Letras, 2009), 187-268; Carlos Henrique A. Cruz, Investigação Corema: beberagens e pactos demoníacos em um aldeamento indígena do Brasil colonial (século XVIII), forthcoming. My own work, Maria Leônia Chaves de Resende, “Devassas gentílicas: inquisição dos índios na Minas Gerais colonial,” in Caminhos Gerais: estudos históricos sobre Minas (séc. XVIII-XIX), ed. Maria Leônia Chaves de Resende and Maria Sílvia Bruger (São João del-Rei: UFSJ, 2005), 9-48; and “Brasis coloniales: índios e mestiços nas Minas Setecentistas,” in História de Minas Gerais: As Minas Setecentistas, Vol. 1, ed. Maria Efigênia Lage de Resende and Luiz Carlos Villalta (Belo Horizonte: Autêntica, 2007). See also regarding the Third Visitation act in Pedro Marcelo Campos, “Inquisição, magia e sociedade. Belém (1763-176)” (Master’s thesis, UFF, 1995); Evandro Domingues, “A pedagogia da desconfiança - o estigma da heresia lançado sobre as práticas de feitiçaria colonial durante a Visitação do Santo Ofício ao Estado do Grão-Pará (1763-1772)” (Master’s thesis, Unicamp, 2001); Yllan de Mattos, “A última inquisição: os meios de ação e funcionamento da inquisição no Grão Pará pombalino (1763-1769)” (Master’s thesis, UFF, 2009). 3 There is vast documentation of an inquisitorial nature. In addition to the books concerning the three visitations, there is a series of Prosecutor’s Notebooks

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geographic landscape, the inquisitorial documentation is valuable and illustrative, as it makes it possible for us to follow the cultural dilemmas imposed on the Indigenous by interethnic contact with the Portuguese, Portuguese-Brazilians and Africans, recovering their manner of “living in colony.” These sources are fragments from an array of infractions committed by the Indigenous, portraying their trajectories, their practices and their everyday experiences in the New World. By means of these reports it is possible to follow the complexity of the forms of insertion of the Native peoples in historical contexts and specific regions in the colony, as in the eighteenth century case of Minas Gerais, which I take as an illustration in parts of this text. .

Demonym Cartography: A Panorama of the Natives’ Sins According to Anita Novinsky, during the period lasting from the end of the sixteenth century to the beginning of the nineteenth century, among the 1076 Brazilian prisoners sentenced by the Holy Inquisition, thirty three men (4.24%) and seven women (2.69%) were either Indigenous or mamelucos, i.e. of mixed race.4 It is important to note, however, that the denunciations in the Prosecutor’s Notebooks distort the number of accusations against Natives, significantly amplifying them.5 In the eighteenth century, the Holy Office received 273 denunciations against Natives, in different degrees of contact and situations, as a result of a long process of conquest and colonisation, ranging from recently contacted Natives (who did not even speak Portuguese) to Native villagers newly installed in the missions by religious orders, and mixed-race (Cadernos do Promotor) and their respective trials. In this text, I use data from the Third Visitation (1763-1769), Book (785 (mic. 5221), published by Amaral Lapa, and the denunciations registered in the Prosecutor’s Notebooks in their 4 indices, concerning the eighteenth century, deposited in the National Archive of Torre do Tombo: Amaral Lapa, Livro da Visitação do Santo Ofício da Inquisição do estado do Grão-Pará.(1763-1769) (Petrópolis: Vozes, 1979), 81-105. In the section “Qualification of persons whose names appear in the Book of the Inquisition Holy Office Visitation in Grão-Pará,” there are, in the inventory, 55 Natives, 17 mamelucos (mixed-race: Native and European), and 6 cafuzos (mixed-race: African with Native South Americans); in total, 78 of native descent. 4 Anita Novisnky, Inquisição: prisioneiros do Brasil (séculos XVI-XIX) (Rio de Janeiro: Expressão e Cultura, 2002), 33. 5 It is important to observe that not all the denunciations in the Prosecutor’s Notebooks, as Bruno Feitler points out, were actually carried out by inquisitorial trial: Bruno Feitler et al., eds., A Inquisição em xeque: temas, controvérsias, estudos de caso (Rio de Janeiro: Eduerj, 2006), 44.

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descendants, no longer tribal, incorporated as everyday colonials. In this account, we found 168 of those denounced identified as Natives of various origins: Jê, occupants of a vast area in central high plains (“planalto central”); Tupi-Guarani, who inhabited the Atlantic coast and the Amazon; Aruaque, who lived on the banks of the Orinoco and Negro rivers, throughout the mid-Amazon River and the heads of the Madeira River. Yet, in these registers, the ethnic origin is rarely defined, including only a few ethnical references6 or rough groupings, namely Tabajara, Gueguê, Baré, Paiacu, Caipós, Curumariá, Pataxó, Nhambiquara; most appear under the form of generic terms defining an Indigenous origin, such as “gentile from the land,” carijó, or tapuia. In addition, there is the case of other 105 other accused who are referred to by designations of mixed race such as caboclo or mameluco (mixed race between European and Native Peoples) and cafuzo (mixed race between African and Native Peoples), indicating they have Native Brazilian heritage. All these terms marked the an adscription of Indigenous identity, in a profusion of contact situations that significantly resize and amplify the cultural mosaic of those accused, bringing important implications for comprehending the dimensions of the act of inquisition concerning Native Peoples. Most importantly, to acknowledge this, while treating inquisitorial material in the perspective of Native History, one must emphasise the historicity of the ethnic identities and cultures constructed in the different processes of

6

In general, the designations that appear in the sources are not proper ethnic groups but ethnonyms, i.e. names attributed in the contact process, in which fragmented groups are reordered by war, by the reduction in settlements, or by other causes in the varying historical processes, as shown in historical and anthropological literature. A good example is the case of Tabajara, very frequent in documentation, which is a classificatory category of the Tupi able to denominate groups that could establish relations of reciprocity or conflict. João Pacheco de Oliveira, “Uma etnologia dos ‘índios misturados’: situação colonial, territorialização e fluxos culturais,” in A viagem da volta: etnicidade, política e reelaboração cultural no Nordeste indígena, ed. João Pacheco de Oliveira (Rio de Janeiro: Ed. Contracapa. 1999), 11-41. On this subject, see also: Stuart Schwartz, “The Formation of Colonial Identities in Brazil,” in Colonial Identity in the Atlantic World 1500-1800, ed. Nicholas Canny and Anthony Pagden (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987), 15-50; Stuart Schwartz, “Brazilian Ethnogenesis: Mestiços, Mamelucos, and Pardos,” in Le Nouveau Monde Mondes Nouveaux. L’experience Americaine, ed. Serge Gruzinski and Nathan Wachtel (Paris: EHESS/CNRS, 1996), 7-27; Guillaume Boccara, “Etnogénesis Mapuche: Resistencia y Restructuración entre los Indígenas del Centro-Sur de Chile (Siglos XVI-XVIII),” Hispanic American Historical Review 79, no. 3 (1999): 415-61.

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contact to which they were subjected, with reference to specificities from each region; this requires deeper studies. Be that as it may, the reach of the inquisition did not exclude Native Peoples or mixed races, including the descendants of Native Peoples, as it adopted the same procedures as those applied to those of European descendant in the colony. Such denunciations were usually received by either missionaries or priests in the Indigenous’ act of confession and, with a license so as not to break the seal (though not always expressed by the confessor), were forwarded to the commissary, who would then send them for the analysis of the trial court.7 Some of these reports involved the religious themselves, particularly in scandalous cases of solicitation. This was the sin of the famous Friar Henrique de Populo, a Capuchin from the province of Santo Antônio, in Vila Maria do Icatu in Maranhão, denounced by Friar João de Vilar of the Society of Jesus. Despite constant disagreements between religious orders who quite often quarrelled, according to appalling testimony given to the commissary of the Holy Office, the Indigenous woman Maria was solicited by Friar Populo, who “laid her down on the floor of the sacristy and copulated with her, to her utter horror at being so treated in such a holy act.”8 The ad turpia solicitation, transgression during the sacramental act of confession, was a common practice from which Native women did not escape either. The then-common defence that fornication with non-European women was no sin extended throughout churches and holy temples, endorsed by some religious who preached, with liberality and impertinence, as did Friar Antônio da Trindade in Minas, that every woman who had illicit communication with a man of the cloth would receive a full indulgence, “putting this belief among gentiles.”9 It sounds to the ears as a good justification “in conscience” for many priests faltering in their work, who did not even spare the incarcerated maidens in prayer, attacked by the 7

In Brazil, Jesuits exercised the decisive role as interlocutors of the Holy Office. As religious orders were forbidden to be installed in Minas Gerais, the commissaries of the Holy Office there were recruited from the secular clergy: Aldair C. Rodrigues, “Sociedade e Inquisição em Minas colonial: os familiares do Santo Ofício (1711-1808)” (Master’s thesis, USP, 2007), 21-23. 8 National Archive of Torre do Tombo (ANTT), Lisbon Inquisition (IL), bk. 275, 75-78; 426; 438. 9 ANTT, CP (Prosecutor’s Notebooks), bk. 268, 0994, doc. 487. For Vainfas, the solicitants did not cultivate heretical doctrines. They were priests averse to the vow of chastity who took advantage of the moment of intimacy of confession to seduce women. On the discussion of fornication, see Ronaldo Vainfas, Trópico dos Pecados. Moral, sexualidade e Inquisição no Brasil (Rio de Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira, 2010), 79-89.

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sexual appetites of their voracious confessors. There is the testimony of Custódia Maria da Piedade, a Carijó woman who, at the young age of twenty two, was solicited by not one, but many priests, such as Father Antônio Álvares Pugas, Father João da Costa, Father Manoel Pinheiro de Oliveira, Father João Luís Brado–all were her confessors during the ten years in which she was locked up at Contemplation of our Lady of Conception of Macaúbas.10 If the weight of being a crime of inquisitorial nature fell on solicitation, as it harmed the sacrament of confession, there were many other crimes that involved the clergy, whom the moralising discourse of the Church did not always touch profoundly. Many priests were accused of leading a “dissolute life” with Indigenous women. In Minas Gerais, twenty four priests, two clerics in minoribus and three friars were denounced in diocesan visits for living with Carijó concubines.11 Others were denounced for not fulfilling their obligations in the ministry of the priesthood. Father Francisco Fernandes Guimarães himself was coadjutor in São José del-Rei, now called Tiradentes, and was forced to acknowledge the faults of Vicar Ferraz, who let “the Carijó Braz da Costa die without the due sacraments.” He also used to proceed to the baptism of adults without examining if they were instructed in matters of faith and admitted during Lent to many married men when their wives were absent, such as Francisco Rangel, “that he lived with a Carijó woman.”12 His 10

ANTT, IL, Process 256. Father Antônio Álvares Pugas, chaplain of Contemplation das Macaúbas, was denounced in 1741, arrested in 1742 and questioned in the prison of the inquisition in 1743. On soliciting in colonial Brazil, see Lana Lage da G. Lima, “A confissão pelo avesso: o crime de solicitaçao no Brasil Colonial” (PhD diss., USP, 1990). Lana Lima informs us that 403 women denounced 425 priests for solicitation in Brazil between 1610 and 1810. In order to try to de-characterise the inquisitorial crime, fathers Antônio Álvares Pugas and Manoel Pinheiro de Oliveira tried to benefit from the fact that, at Contemplation, there was no confessional and confessions took place at the bars of the Chapter House: Lana Lage da G. Lima, “As Contraditas no Processo Inquisitorial,” in IV Reunião de Antropologia do Mercosul (Curitiba, November 2001). At Contemplation of Macaúbas, 147 women lived between 1720 and 1822. See Leila Mezan Algranti, Honradas e devotas: mulheres da colônia: condição feminina nos conventos e recolhimentos do sudeste do Brasil, 1750-1822 (Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 1993). 11 Maria Leônia Chaves de Resende, “Gentios Brasílicos: índios coloniais em Minas Gerais setecentista” (PhD diss., Unicamp, 2003), 268. 12 In addition to the illegitimate character, the term “bastard” has another meaning: “Born and descending from an illicit union.” Or also “son of a public woman, born from incest, from an unmarried mother,” “generated from different species and, as

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negligence or slip suggests that he covered for himself. Some gossipers of the time said that he was living in sin with “a widow from the caste of the land,” that is, of Native descendant.13 Additionally, the priests would “walk through the woods” committing true “follies.” Father Antônio Soares, in Barbacena, had been living for years with a bastard woman of the land, Maria Pais, with whom he had children, living in parts of Sapucaí, “away in the woods, looking more like a brute than a clergyman.” He was arrested and sent to Rio de Janeiro.14 These cases, among others involving Indigenous, are fruits of the inquiries (“Devassas”) carried out in eighteenth century Minas Gerais, known as a “minor inquisition.”15 Inquisitorial denunciations against Native peoples reached the whole colony and led to the inquisitorial court. They impressively reached the furthest and most inaccessible places, covering practically the whole territory. The concentration of the denunciations in Pará during the 60s suggests to us that the repercussions of the Third Visitation of the Holy Office in Grão-Pará stimulated, with its presence, denounces in a territory “infested” by Indigenous. However, as the graph below indicates, these data, if compared in the time spectrum of the whole eighteenth century, continue a rising trend since the 1740s. a consequence, degenerating nature.” So “bastardising is denegenerating”: D. Raphael Bluteau, Vocabulário Português e Latino (Coimbra, 1712), vol. 2, t. I, 6364. Hence the common use of the term “bastard” to designate Natives and their children. 13 Mariana cury archive (ACM), bk. 31, Devassa, 231v. 14 ACM, Book 31, Z1, Devassa 1738, 145-148v. 15 About the Natives who were denounced in the inquiries, cf. Maria Leônia Chaves de Resende, “Devassas gentílicas: inquisição dos índios na Minas Gerais colonial,” in Maria Leônia Chaves de Resende and Maria Sílvia Bruger, eds., Caminhos Gerais: estudos históricos sobre Minas (séc. XVIII-XIX) (São João delRei: UFSJ, 2005), 9-48. About the devassas themselves, as they were known in pastoral or diocesan visits, see works by Francisco Vidal and Iracy Del Nero da Costa, “Devassas nas Minas Gerais do crime à punição,” Anuário de Esudios Americanos 39 (1982): 465-474; Laura de Mello de Souza, “As devassas eclesiásticas da Arquidiocese de Mariana para a história das mentalidades,” Anais do Museu Paulista 33 (1984): 65-73; Luciano Raposo A. Figueiredo, “Segredos de Mariana: pesquisando a inquisição mineira,” Acervo 2, no. 2 (1987), 1-34; Caio César Boschi, “As visitas diocesanas e a inquisição na colônia,” Revista Brasileira de História 7, no. 14 (1987); Luciano Figueiredo, “Peccata Mundi: a pequena inquisição mineira e as devassas episcopais,” in As Minas Setecentistas, ed. Maria Efigênia Lage Resende and Luiz Carlos Villalta (Belo Horizonte: Autêntica, 2007), v.2, 109-128.

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Table 6.1: Region - 18th Century Region / Denunciations Amazonas America Bahia Ceará Maranhão Mato Grosso Minas Gerais Pará Paraíba Pernambuco Piauí Rio de Janeiro Rio Grande do Sul São Paulo Tocantins Unlisted Not found

Quantity 06 02 06 16 11 01 14 128 03 20 10 14 08 14 01 18 01

Total

273

Sources: ANTT, Lisbon Inquisition, Prosecutor’s Notebooks [1700-1802]

Many historians assert that the role of the Third Visitation, interpreted by some as extemporaneous, was connected with the context of reformas pombalinas, whose political project for the region was aimed at “the safety and preservation of the territory, the valuing of agriculture and civilising Natives.”16 To civilise the Indigenous meant, according to the Directory of Natives (1757), to promote their conversion to Christianity, reinforced by teaching the Portuguese language and adopting Portuguese names and habits to transform them into vassals of the King.

16

Mattos, A última Inquisição, 20. Oliveira, Olharesinsuisitoriais, 78.

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Table 6.2: D Denouncemen nts - Period - 18th Centuryy 80 70 60 50 40 30 20 10 0

1700 11711 1721 1731 1741 1751 1 761 1771 1781 1 1791 – – – – – – – – – – 1710 11720 1730 1740 0 1750 1760 1 770 1780 1790 0 1800 Grraphic 7 8 3 12 65 69 72 9 3 5

If the T Third Visitattion was an actual efforrt towards pombalina instrumentallization, seekiing to normallise faith and habits in the strategic region of Grão-Pará (w which would d justify the attention on n Native populations in that regionn), greater imp portance arise s from the reaach of the denunciationns compared with the Inqu uisition of preevious periodss, and yet its actions exxtended throuughout the who ole territory, w with more than half the denunciationns diffused thhrough other regions. In adddition, we know k that the politics oof the Marquêês of Pombal were w adapted to the various realities and contextss, not always in harmony with w the idea oof law, as wass the case in Minas G Gerais when he h governed there. Lobo da Silva distorted its application.117 Perhaps for fo this speciific reason, iin Minas Geerais, the inquisitoriall machine asssociated with the bishop’s power compeeted with the same viggour, using thheir resources reinforced byy the network of agents of the Holy Office, with action from family membbers and comm missaries, whose poweers of social control in theeir territory nnoticeably inccreased in this period.18 In such tighht ties of comp plicity, the bisshop’s visits played p the 17

Hal Langffur, “Uncertainn Refuge: Fron ntier Formationn and the Orig gins of the Botocudo Waar in Late Colonial Brazil,” Hispanic H Americcan Historical Review R 82, no. 2 (2002): 248-249. 18 The peak w was reached inn the period from 1721 to 17778, when it reacched 1011 cooperants. Inn the case of Minas M Gerais, 23 3 commissaries are indicated. See S Aldair C. Rodriguess, “Sociedade e Inquisição em Minas coloniaal: os familiaress do Santo Ofício (1711--1808)” (Masterr’s thesis, USP,, 2007), 21.

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role of gathering denunciations and, after the usual investigations, they sent the inquisitorial cases for the appraisal of the Lisbon States Palace court. Under the command of Bishop José Geraldo Abranches, who acted in Minas Gerais for 50 years–in what was considered a “rehearsal”19 for his role as Visitor in Pará years later–the Indigenous and their descendants were also the object of attention. Table 6.3: Reason for Denunciation - 18th Century Reason for denunciation * Bigamy Sorcery Black magic Talisman Pact with the devil Superstition Healing (Medicine Man’s actions) Heretical proposition False confession Divination Demonic summoning Consecrated particle Blasphemy Charms Bestiality Icon profanation Ambush Malefic act Indignant deals with the devil Charming Catching sacred particle Apostate Drinking jurema potion under superstitious circumstances Devil worship Lewd conduct Desecration Evil Diabolical summoning Receiving communion without fasting Not attending Mass Removing the holy sacrament from the church tabernacle

Quantity 78 63 31 09 11 11 12 03 06 06 04 05 04 02 02 02 02 02 02 01 01 01 01 01 01 01 02 01 01 01 01

Using poisons and selling a Native woman Unlisted

01 04

Total

273

Sources: ANTT, Lisbon Inquisition, Prosecutor’s Notebooks [1700-1802]. * as indicated in source 19

Figueiredo, “Peccata Mundi,” 114.

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From them come fourteen inquisitorial denunciations against Natives and their descendants that were readily forwarded: superstition (three), consecrated particle (three), sorcery (two), devilish pact (two), evil (two), desecration (one), talisman (one). As far as concerns Brazil, the reasons for the denunciations against Natives and those of mixed race registered in the so-called Prosecutor’s Notebooks were various, according to the judgement of the secretary who was in charge of taking notes at his discretion at the heading of the document, the nature of the crime being later categorised by the prosecutor after the fashion of the Inquisitorial Regiment. It is not difficult to suppose a generalisation of the inquisitorial sieve. Unable to respond to the amplitude and dimension of the deviations to Catholic orthodoxy related to the denunciations, and facing the profusion of the crimes, it seems the court defined, instead, a spectrum of action in a general range on which it acted. In addition, according to the principles of the Inquisitorial Code, we could fit these crimes into the following parameters: Table 6.4. 18th Century Reason for denunciation, according to the Inquisitorial Code – Quantity 1774 Title VII: Apostates, renegades and heretics 01 Title VIII: Blasphemers and those uttering heretical, fearful or 14 scandalous propositions Title IX: Desecrating the Holy Sacrament or icons or receiving 11 communion without fasting Title XI: Sorcery, fortune telling, divination, judiciary astrologists 158 and malefic deeds Title XII: Bigamists 78 Title XVIII: Disturbing the ministry of the Holy Office 01 Title XXII: Committing the disgraceful act of sodomy 02 Others 04 Unlisted 04 Total 273 Sources: ANTT, Lisbon Inquisition, Prosecutor’s Notebooks [1700-1802]

Restricted to the inquisitorial perspective, this model was unable to take account of the nature and specificity of the crimes on the American continent. In the Indigenous perspective, it is hence fitting that the investigations of historians perform an archaeology of such Indigenous practices that to these populations marked an insertion of their own into

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the colonial world. Only by closely reading the denunciations, taking into account the particular experiences of these Indigenous groups and the regional context of the application of different politics towards these Natives, can one clarify the true meaning of the denunciations. The typology of the crimes, the nature of the infractions takes hold of a larger range of meanings, resulting from a greater or lesser degree of proximity and intensity of contact with colonial society, thus impressing a gamut of meanings much more complex than the court labels following the canons of the inquisitorial regiment. It is necessary to consider these denunciations in the context of the diverse and different regional historic processes to which these populations have been submitted. Since we cannot here deepen this discussion, it is important to bring to our attention that studies of identity–in the sense of taking interethnic contact between the Indigenous and society in its multiplicity of perspectives–are marked by dynamic socio-cultural interactions.20 As a historical construct, identity is defined by self-attribution and by another’s social acknowledgement. It is precisely in this complex relation that Indigenous identities are constantly rebuilt, from exchanged cultural appropriations reproducing, recreating, and renewing themselves in the historical process. One must abandon the idea of a pretentious unity or essence attributed to the culture of Indigenous societies built from an archaic tradition: monolithic, static and ahistorical. These societies are not “cold” or without history, intrinsically opposed to change. On the contrary, they are flowing and supple. Their agents act in a relational perspective with other social actors and are able to respond to challenges that stem from their different historical processes, promoting strategic cultural mixtures and adaptations. This is the case, for example, in the denunciations for sorcery and magic-religious practices of Indigenous people accused of being involved in the theft, selling and bargaining of consecrated particles for the production of amulets, popular pouches of magic that, once attached to the neck, would protect the person against black magic or of talismans used as love charms to “seduce and attract the will of the lover,” practices of 20

Guillaume Boccara, ed., Colonización, resitencia y mestizaje en las Americas (Siglos XVI-XX) (Quito: Ediciones Abya-Yala, 2002); Lea Geeler and Evelyne Sanchez, “América: identidades movidas,” Nuevo Mundo Mundos Nuevos (2005); accessed February 22, 2012, http://nuevomundo.revues.org/444; Maria Regina Celestino de Almeida and Sara Ortelli, “Atravesando fronteras. Circulación de población en los márgenes iberoamericanos. Siglos XVI-XIX,” Nuevo Mundo Mundos Nuevos (2011); accessed February 22, 2012, http://nuevomundo.revues.org/60702.

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African origin found in both Portugal and Brazil. This kind of report shows, in an excellent way, the convergence of Native Brazilian and African heritages inherent to colonial life, where Indigenous magic, Christianity and even Islamic practices seem to melt together towards a greater power and efficacy.21 Practices circulated among Native Brazilians and Africans in a school of magic office, crossing the territory–as was the case of the Indigenous Anselmo da Costa of the bishopric of Grão-Pará, accused of magic in 176422 and ending up in Minas Gerais in 1799–with João, another sacrilegious Indigenous who had sewn a pouch, obtaining with this “a good relic to keep the body away from the evils of snake bits, iron and stick-hitting.”23 In many cases, the Indigenous were the ones who, being the true masters of such magical practices, “taught”–here I mean to reinforce this sense–the populations of African origin and those of European descent such arts, editing and adding other elements, in an amalgam of hybrid religious practices constituting a sharing in the dominion of or a dispute over what is sacred. The use of plants, objects, prayers mediated by divinations, fortune-telling and conjurations formed part of the richness of elements incorporated that confirmed the importance of such practices and rituals to the Natives when, rearranging, elaborating on and editing to their own and those of others, they sought, after their own fashion, to confront everyday adversities in the profusion of cultural matrices in the colony.24 Another good example is the sorcery with dolls, commonly used and broadly documented in the archives of the inquisition, using earth from a grave, hair, nails and bones–whose origin lies in African traditions, but was also re-appropriated by Natives. The Indigenous woman Narcisa was accused of producing precisely such sorcery in the shape of a doll made of hair, fish bones, rags and strings, all stuck with needles and pins. When unmaking the doll, a sister of the one affected had wounds in her hands that could only be healed with exorcisms and blessed olive oil.25 Acting in addition to these Natives were others who uncovered such evils using divination, performing African magic, naming the evil-doers and unearthing their evil deeds. They also produced omens and extraordinary healings, to the surprise of many of European descent, who often resorted to them. A famous case is that of Sabina, an Indigenous 21

Daniela Buono Calainho, Metrópole das Mandingas. Religiosidade Negra e Inquisição Portuguesa no Antigo Regime (Rio de Janeiro: Garamond, 2008), 156. 22 ANTT, Process 213. 23 ACM, JE (Ecclesiastic Judgement), n. 2783, [1800]. 24 Souza, O Diabo e a terra de Santa Cruz, 221-224. 25 ANTT, process 13202.

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woman who worked for about 20 years in the city of Belém, in the state of Pará and its surroundings, helping those from the lower to the upper classes, even the governor himself, João de Abreu Castelo Branco–leaving to show that, under the surface, the combination of everyday strengths merged two symbolic universes, mixing their practices: the Christian and the Indigenous, in an amalgam of beliefs in colonial daily life. While they used smoke, suction and herbs to heal–a characteristic of the Native tradition–they also affirmed the value of Christian gestures, prayers and exorcisms, as shown in Almir Carvalho’s study.26 The court was more rigorous with those who participated in true pagan rituals. This was the case of “diabolical summoning,” so frightening to the ears of the inquisitors. Many Indigenous were accused of participating in demonic “congresses,” drinking jurema potions while the master, playing the maracá, intoned the dance with Natives singing. Those who tasted the drink fell to the ground and had visions of the dead–in a macabre scenario described as collective possession.27 It was due to such an event that, in 1720, D. Souza e Castro, Principal Indigenous and governor of his Tabajara nation, in the village of the mountains of Ibiapaba, went personally to the court of the Holy Office in Lisbon.28 He told, by means of his interpreter,29 Father Antônio de Souza Leal, that the Native woman Antônia Guiragasu “summoned demons who answered to various questions from the other world.” For this, “she smoked great fumes of tobacco in a pipe until she was out of her mind.” The denunciation was collected and translated by an interpreter of the denouncer who did not even speak Portuguese. It does not seem improbable that there have been many misunderstandings in cultural translation.30 Unfortunately, we do not have more thorough or deeper descriptions of the beliefs that inspired such a ritual, but we know it was not an isolated denouncement in Ceará. There was a spread of “devil worship” from there to Paraíba, according to the 26

Carvalho JR, Índios cristãos. ANTT, bk. 299, 381-382. 28 ANTT, bk. 286, 585-593. 29 When the Natives could not speak Portuguese, the inquisitional court summoned an interpreter who performed the translation in an “interpreter’s term.” See ANTT, IL, Brief 47 – Forms of the term of reduction and interpreter. 30 About difficulties in “cultural” translations because of language, see Icíar Alonso Araguás, esús Baigorri Jalón and Gertrudis Payàs Puigarnau. “Nahuatlatos y familias de intérpretes en el México colonial,” Revista de Historia de Traducción 2 (2008): 1-7; Maria Cândida D.M. Barros, “Um caso de política linguística: a questão do intérprete e do discurso religioso no Brasil colonial,” Amerindia 11 (1986): 69-77. 27

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convergence of the reports in a broad movement, as James Wadsworth pointed out.31 Years later, another Tapuia Native was denounced in the village of Corema, in Paraíba, in 1753, confirming these practices. In his confession, Antônio Barroso “denounced himself in regret,” “spontaneously and voluntarily” for “the mistakes committed against the holy Catholic faith.” His confession is very rich as it encompasses all sorts of denunciations that fell on the Natives. He told that: “since he was a little boy, he had made pact with the devil who he visibly brought with him, holding him from his left side” and that, in the presence of the same demon, he had “given his body and soul,” “denying God, the Holy Trinity, Jesus Christ, the Blessed Virgin Mary and all angels and saints in Heaven.” All this was proved with “a paper written in his own blood that the demon extracted from his body, making a slit in him” as a sign of his subservience. He started then to worship him as his true lord and god. And he said that, many times, he had committed “foul acts with the demon,” unholy and sodomising meetings with the demon in the form of a black man and sometimes taking the shape of a goat.32 Antônio Álvares Guerra, commissary of the Holy Office, soon reputed him as an apostate. It is impossible not to associate this denunciation with a the rituals of beverages so common in the ethnographic reports that crossed landscapes and colonial eras, reprised in the sabbatical plot that, from the inquisitors’ point of view, repeated itself here through the inspiration and transmigration of the diabolical imagery to the other side of the ocean. In the eyes of the inquisition, it was a dangerous and heretical perversion in an intricate game involving the action of the court, between the imperative of repressing such gentile rituals and the pressure of colonial authorities fearful of severe correction that would bring about disastrous instability in the region. Interesting and little studied are the heterodox ideas and behaviours as certain studies show them to be found in the Portuguese-Spanish world.33 Not unrelated to these are the accusations against the Natives in the cases of the desecration of holy icons, as in the case of the Indigenous woman Isabel, “of the deal of Thomas Luís Teixeira,” for having, according to her, under the command of her master, thrown from the two-storey house where they lived “a vase of fetid filth” with such an impact on the procession walking by that the statue broke on the ground and the people, 31

Wadsworth, Jurema and Batuque. ANTT, Notebook 114, bk. 306, 95; doc. 211-214. 33 Stuart Schwartz, Cada um na sua lei. Tolerância religiosa e salvação no mundo atlântico ibérico (São Paulo: Cia das Letras, 2009); Vainfas, Trópico dos Pecados, 309-355. 32

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all covered with filth, screamed in the riot: “Jew! Jew!” A similar case is that of Cristina, a Carijó woman from Itaverava, Minas Gerais, also accused along with her master, Domingos Morato, of setting fire to the image of Christ, of Veronica and the rosary.34 Denunciations pointing at Jewish acts performed by those of European descent in the colony could also suggest complicities built with the domestic contact between Indigenous and their New-Christian35 administrators, manifested by means of such behaviours, still little investigated. Due to the negative talk that took place in the alleys of these places, denunciations for bigamy were certainly one of the most frequently reported infractions. As it was a violation of the union sanctified by the church, bigamy was responsible for an avalanche of denunciations. In fact, it was so common that the reason the denouncers alleged was usually that it was the typical gentile lifestyle, reminiscent of polygamous practises, as common sense and the discourse of the church at the time suggested.36 Yet, even if this justification was not critically reproduced, one can better understand the sense of these unions for the Natives, which assumed their own characteristics and interpretations–with meanings that go beyond the banal and episodic sense, commonly attributed to the relationships with Indigenous women.37 In Minas Gerais for example, it was not bigamy that fell on the Native population, but the predominance of unions not sanctioned by the church, as is often found in the inquiries of the bishops’ visits.38 As it escaped the 34

ANTT, IL, bk. 297, doc. 241, v.253. The “New-Christians” (Cristão-Novos) were Jews who converted to Catholicism, sometimes forcibly (Translator’s Note). 36 Cf. Resende, Gentios brasílicos, 221. See also Resende, Devassas gentílicas, 948. 37 Ronaldo Vainfas, “Moralidades brasílicas: deleites sexuais e linguagem erótica na sociedade escravista,” in História da vida privada: cotidiano e vida privada na América Portuguesa, ed. Laura de Melo e Souza (São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1997), 231. 38 For a discussion on taking concubines and marriages in the colony, see: Maria Beatriz Nizza da Silva, Sistema de casamento no Brasil colonial (São Paulo: Edusp, 1984); Ida Lewkowicz, “Vida em família: caminhos da igualdade em Minas Gerais (séculos XVIII e XIX)” (PhD diss., USP, 1992); and “Concubinato e casamento nas Minas Setecentista,” in História de Minas Gerais, As Minas Setecentistas, ed. M. Efigenia L.Resende and Luiz Carlos Villalta (Belo Horizonte: Autêntica, 2007), vol. 2, 531-547; Luciano Figueiredo, Barrocas famílias: vida familiar em Minas Gerais no século XVIII (São Paulo: Hucitec, 1997); Fernando Torres-Londoño, A outra família: concubinato, escândalo e Igreja na colônia (São Paulo: Loyola, 1999); Silvia Maria Jardim Brügger, Minas patriarcal - Família e 35

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control of the Church, taking concubines was massively denounced in the inquiries as a “crime against the family,”39 involving 660 accusations against Indigenous during the bishop’s visits in Minas Gerais during the eighteenth century.40 These data suggest once more the specificity of the nature of these crimes in Minas Gerais, in part at least justified by the nature of the insertion of Native populations into the colonial world. Not in accord with the policy of interethnic marriages in 1755, the Law of the Directory of Indigenous was implemented in 1758, favouring those who married Native women;41 in Minas Gerais, there was a prominent divide between law and custom, opposing the idea that Pombal’s politics were effective in their imperative application to the whole colony. The attempt to guarantee this equality was here a failure, where animosity regarding unions with Indigenous women mirrored the difficulty for the society of Minas Gerais in accepting marriage between unequals.42 When the phase of occupying and populating the mining region was over, they sought, due to the intense racial mixture that was produced and that made social borders more fluid sociedade (São João Del Rei - Séculos XVIII e XIX) (Belo Horizonte: Annablume, 2007). More specifically in the case of Natives in colonial Minas Gerais, see Maria Resende, Gentios brasílicos, especially chapters 3 and 4. 39 According to Luna, these were “crimes against the institution of the family: incest, bigamy, taking concubines, sodomy, bestiality, pre-marital sex, forbidden marriage without a legitimate dispensation, fathers or husbands who allowed their daughters or wives “to harm themselves,” couples who lived apart with no just cause, husbands who gave their wives an “indecent life”: Francisco Vidal Luna and Iraci del Nero da Costa, “Devassa nas Minas Gerais: do crime à puniçao,” Boletim do CEPEHIB 3 (1980): 3-7 (also published in Anuario de Estudios Americanos 39 (1982): 465-474. 40 See Resende, Devassas gentílicas, 14. 41 On this subject, see Rita Heloísa de Almeida, O diretório dos índios: um projeto de civilização do Brasil no século XVIII (Brasilia: Ed. UNB, 1997); Ângela Domingues, Quando os índios eram vassalos: Colonização e relações de poder no norte do Brasil na segunda metade do século XVIII (Lisbon: Comissão Nacional para os Descobrimentos Portugueses, 2000), 151-169. 42 Ronaldo Vainfas considered that racial prejudices–clearly noted in expressions such as “clean blood,” “infected races”–were not rooted in the enslavement of Africans and Native South Americans, since these prejudices, transplanted from Portugal to Brazil, predated it. In colonial reality, the prejudices of colour–derived from an enslaving colonialism–victimised non-white women: Vainfas, Moralidades brasílicas, 238-239. In Minas Gerais, the natives’ bad reputation was recurrent. For example: Adão Magnão was denounced for propositions and, among other ideas, he argued that “gentiles were not people,” Minas Gerais [S/D]. ANTT, Prosecutor’s Notebooks, bk. 319, doc. 390.

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and less precise, to limit and link by means of distance, so as to define a hierarchical society in social space. For example, many relatives did not hesitate to resort to the ecclesiastical authorities to put an end to mixed weddings, ill-regarded in the governed area (“capitania”), putting various restrictions on marriages between their white relatives and Indigenous women. Facing this, it was not unusual for malcontent relatives to interpose all sorts of obstacles to those getting married.43 On the contrary, according to the Indigenous perspective, marriage had a very particular sense, following their own logic that was not limited to the doctrinal principles of the Catholic Church and in a sense that was very far from the reasons which motivated bigamy in other parts of the colony. For the Native peoples in Minas Gerais, marriage was a marker of the condition of free men. On the other hand, the idea of lawful life with a Native woman hides the diverse reality, that is, the value of affection in these illicit relations, so common in Minas Gerais that they competed with marriage as a stable relationship, thus becoming the reason for an even greater scandal.44 Many of European descent were denounced precisely for “overestimating” and “dealing affectionately” with their Native consorts. Some displayed their Native consorts publicly with no shame, embarrassing puritans. The renowned Captain Matias Barbosa was severely criticised for his spiteful behaviour: he brought his Indigenous concubine “to the Mass, with shoes on, well dressed, with a veil and with other slaves.”45 It seems the indignation of the most ardent ones, in addition to the fact that it was “public and notorious,” deviated precisely in order to portray the affection many ended up devoting to their concubines, especially in cases of adultery, thus damaging the bonds of holy matrimony. Thus, an inversion of the socially consecrated order was produced: concubines took the place of the wife, dressed in dignity and supported, while wives suffered in misery and shame. A situation qualified so conveniently as “scandalous” for representing a clear challenge to the orders of the Church was always invoked by denouncers and reinforced by ecclesiastical judgement. 43

Such paternal decisions were supported by the Church, which reproached clandestine weddings celebrated without the consent of the parents or, in their absence, tutors or caretakers. See examples: ACM, PM, José da Costa Silva & Ana Joaquina (1793), Barra Longa, cabinet 4, folder 486, process 4852; José Gonçalves Bastos & Agostinha Joaquina de São José (1789), Conselheiro Lafaiete, cabinet 5, folder 510, process 5098. 44 See Maria Leônia Chaves de Resende, “Amores proibidos, amores possíveis,” Revistas do Arquivo Mineiro XLVII, no. 1 (2011): 64-77. 45 ACM, bk. 23, Devassa, 121.

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Bigamy was an easy target as a common behaviour among Natives–as well as for a great number of those of European descent. What we can infer from these denunciations is that the Church played a role in emphasising a disqualifying discourse against Indigenous, based in the roots of the “gentile of the land,” which in their eyes constituted the main reason, if not the main justification of such “unlawfulness and promiscuity.” In this sense, the Church naturalised the proposition that Native origins impose certain behaviour, tainted by libido, disseminating such an idea everywhere. Reproaching this conduct and imputing lecherous behaviour to those of Indigenous origin, it sought to affect colonial everyday life, immersing the Natives in a way of living that differed greatly from the standards dictated during the visitations. Explosively prevalent, bigamy was a cause of concern for the inquisitorial court.46 To try to escape their control, Natives resorted to all sort of gimmicks: they lied about their marital status, stating they were either single or widowed, spreading the news of the death of their spouse, presenting false testimonials, changing their names–all expedients tricks, often adopted by other bigamists. However, what draws special attention is the frequent attempt of being declared innocent under the claim that they did not know they were “committing a sin.” This pretext did not only mark the sagacity of the Indigenous in pinning the responsibility on their evangelisers, but also stimulated the reflection on a debate quite heated at the time on the assumed innocence of the Indigenous, based on the principle of their “invincible ignorance.”47 46

Of the denouncements carried out in trials, twenty four are for bigamy (Felícia Ana’s being fragmented in three trials). Seventeen have no final sentence, either due to the fact of being fragmented, or inconclusive. Six others were taken as “extraordinary cases of absolution” and only one proceeded to sentencing: that of Custódio da Silva. 47 In the eighteenth century, this thesis is referred as an example of the Jesuits’ atrocities. “For the same reason, a gentile who ignored invincibly the true God, will not sin formally worshiping idols. Accordingly, he will not sin, in any way, if, for invincible ignorance, he follows the Antichrist.” (Compêndio Histórico do Estado da Universidade de Coimbra (1771), II Centenário da Reforma Pombalina, por Ordem da Universidade de Coimbra, 1972, Appendix to the Second Chapter of the Second part, 19, paragraphs 40-48.) Vieira defended this theses in Clavis against Suárez and Saint Thomas Aquinas who, based in Saint Paul, understood all pagans had inscribed in their heart the natural law that teaches them to discern good from evil and to love God. For this reason, pagans were not excluded from guilt: Pedro Calafate, As Grandes Questões da Clauis Prophetarum e o seu contexto doutrinal. Forthcoming. See especially the topic “A questão do pecado filosófico nos povos americanos: fora da igreja pode haver salvação.”

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According to this thesis, Indigenous, for their invincible ignorance of the natural law, committed only venial sin. Despite the gravity of their sins, they could not be taken as intentional offences towards God and, therefore, no eternal punishment would be fit. This was an important counterargument at Escola Peninsular da Paz, shared by Francisco de Vitória and Father Antônio Vieira. It seems to have touched at least some members of the court based on the content of the judgements. This could help explain the disagreement among sentences and the controversy over crimes of the same inquisitorial nature. The fact is that “ignorance” and lack of knowledge were widely used by Natives, voiced by their advocates. This is the defence used by Antônio da Silva, an Indigenous, born in the Capuchins’ mission, bishopric of Pernambuco, 24 years of age. He was denounced and sentenced for getting married a second time, while his first and legitimate wife was still alive. The missionary Friar Antônio de Nazaré arrested him. He spent two years in jail and was then shipped to Lisbon. In his confession, he claimed he was guilty only “for ignoring the great evil he was committing,” attributing his crime to the inefficiency of the doctrine teaching.48 However, this Indigenous man did not even have the time to be heard. The alcaide in charge of the secret prisons communicated to the inquisitors that he had died shortly after a severe case of water retention.49 Others did not even survive the journey, such as Nazário Gonçalvez, from the village of São José, in São Paulo, who married a second time after changing his name to José Pacheco. He was arrested in Minas Gerais where he lived and was taken to be delivered to the Holy Office. Before he arrived there, he died of an obstruction of the bowels worsened by a high fever while crossing the Atlantic.50 Some were not even arrested. In 1756 in Minas Gerais, a Carijó married woman committed “superstitions,” but was “relieved from being penalised” because it was “with no pact, out of simplicity, because she is a gentile from the land who barely knows God.”51 In 1751, Felícia Ana from the Black River got around the court due to her lack of knowledge of doctrine, as, according to her testimony, “she did not know what heaven or hell was, nor had anyone ever instructed her.”52 Rosaura, a Native Japurá, showed her disregard for law. She was roughly reprehended and forced to maintain marital life with her first husband. Her 48

ANTT, IL, Process 6275. ANTT, IL, Process 6275. 50 ANTT, IL, Process 6275. 51 ANTT, Prosecutor’s Notebooks, bk. 308, 0380-0382, doc. 151-152. 52 ANTT, IL, Process 2911. 49

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second marriage was nullified. She actually got married three times, according to the inquisitor who investigated her case.53 Many claimed lack of knowledge of doctrine so as to try to justify themselves. The implicit criticism coming from the Natives of the missionaries’ role of evangelising and the inefficiency of religious learning was also applied when the Indigenous claimed they were married against their will, a clever expedient jeopardising the validity of matrimony, according to the Constitutions and Christianity’s own terms. When asked if he knew he had committed bigamy, the Indigenous Custódio reported that his missionary, Father Bento da Cruz, “forced him to get married and thus considered, ignorantly, that his first marriage was null and that he could freely marry for a second time.”54 He did not seem to be so ignorant in matters of faith and worked them out in his favour. He was then scolded and set free. Such arguments seem to have been considered and the inquisitorial court dwelled on this matter, favouring milder sentences, “acknowledging their ignorance, great rusticity and lack of instruction.” Finally, the decisions portray a “benign interpretation” of the Natives as being “poor and miserable, born and raised as pagan gentiles, not receiving any instruction in doctrine and mysteries of faith and more necessary things for salvation, who did not even leave the regrettable ignorance and total rusticity that are properly ordinary of Natives!”55–repeated justifications in final dispatches. There is one extraordinary case of condemnation for bigamy: that of Custódio da Silva, an Indigenous born in the village of Menino Jesus of the Church of Igarapé Grande in Maranhão, denounced by the Friar of São José de Santa Teresa in 1741.56 At the age of 28, he presented his testimony by means of an interpreter, Father Aires, because he could not speak Portuguese. He was judged and qualified as a bigamist. At his 53

ANTT, IL, Process 222. ANTT, IL, Process 6689. 55 ANTT, IL, Process 2701. 56 ANTT, IL, Process 11178. ANTT, IL, Brief 31, unnumbered. “In the printed list of people who were sentenced, read in the public auto da fé celebrated at the Church of the Convent of São Domingos in Lisbon, 26 September 1745, being the general inquisitor his Eminence, Reverend Sire Nuno da Cunha, presbyter cardinal of the Holy Church of Rome in the title of Santa Anastádia do Conselho do Estado” there is the name of Custódio da Silva, Indigenous, carpenter, born in the village of Menino Jesus, of Igarapé Grande, resident at Roça do Marayo, bishopric of Pará, prosecuted for bigamy and sentenced to scourging and 5 years in the chain gang. 54

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sentencing, he pleaded his ignorance of the Catholic faith. Instructed in the mysteries of faith, he fulfilled the penalties and spiritual penance imposed on him. Looked upon by a multitude, he performed the auto da fé as it is usually done. He was then scourged citra sanguinis effusionem through the public streets of Lisbon as far as the Church of São Domingos, where, in the presence of King D. João V, the Prince and the infants D. Pedro and Antônio, inquisitors, more ministers and the whole noblesse, he was sentenced to be exiled for five years working in his Majesty’s chain-gang. How to explain the disparities among sentences, the rigour of the court in this one and singular case and complacency in the others, if the nature of the crime of bigamy was the same? Bigamy, considered a mixed forum crime, had its jurisdiction shared by civil justice, bishops and the inquisitorial court, which could lead to conflicts in interpretation and competence.57 The Inquisition in charge sometimes acted severely in cases when the defendants “felt badly” towards the Sacrament of matrimony, attacking Christian doctrine and, consequently, the Church; sometimes more complacently, taking softening circumstances into account, judging it not to be properly a matter of faith.58 In this case, one should seek to emphasise the interpretational rivalries and tensions on how the “invincible ignorance” of the Natives reverberated at the court. One should also consider that similar crimes were appreciated differently, according to the time or to the court’s judgement, showing that the court did not follow the protocol rigorously, as Francisco Bittencourt pointed out. So the analysis of the cases and their sentences is revealing, when compared throughout time and diverse regions, suggesting different interpretations and decisions taken by inquisitorial agents. In many of those cases, what slips between the lines is an institution limited by conflicts of competence, critical towards the efficiency of evangelisation, mocked by the Natives’ supposed ignorance of doctrine, unable to control immense territories and their peoples, the “tropicalisation of the conscience” of the clergy, the reticence of colonial authorities and the weakening of the Court itself–all reasons competing with an action that hung between austerity and the application of the law and the reality of Native South-Americans of each portion of the great and different Brazil.

57

Isabel M.R. Mendes Drumond, “O Brasil Setecentista como cenário de bigamia,” in Estudos em homenagem a Luís António de Oliveira Ramos, ed. Francisco Ribeiro da Silva et al. (Porto: Faculdade de Letras da Universidade do Porto, 2004), 309. 58 Drumond, O Brasil setecentista com cenário da bigamia, 309. Vainfas, Trópico dos pecados, 322-327.

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Perhaps for the same reason, in the rattle of the final years of the Holy Office’s action, the court released an opinion acknowledging, in 1810, the failure of inquisitorial action facing the persistency of superstitions among the Indigenous that still ravaged the colony.59 When consulted regarding these practices and other “frivolities,” it recommended that “the facts referred to of simple superstition belong to the knowledge of the Holy Office, however, granting the ignorance and materiality with which the work is done, you shall be able to absolve the penitents implicated in similar failings, [...] imposing on them the spiritual penance judged necessary for correction.” That is, it seems the Holy Office finally accepted the sterility of this territory for the vines of the Lord. Finally, the inquisitional denunciations here reported are highlighted for using the Indigenous perspective to describe different perceptions that built on the challenges the Indigenous lived. In order to understand this complex scenario, the comprehension of Indigenous identity and culture should be, then, characterised by flexibility. This should be more fluid and relational, analysed in each historical context in the complex landscape of the multiple experiences of Native peoples of the colony. As the new native history teaches, it would be necessary to take into account the reconstructions of identities and cultures in various situations of contact involving both Indigenous and their descendants. This text was an effort in that direction. While attempting to adopt this point of view, I sought to behold in these inquisitorial narratives a Native plot, scenery still so little known of our Indigenous Brazil, of our Indigenous Minas Gerais.

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59 ANTT, Lisbon Inquisition, Brief 28, doc. 19. Letter of the court in response to the consultation by Marcos Pinto Soares.

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Jorge Martins Ribeiro, and Helena Porto Osswald, 299-311. Porto: Faculdade de Letras da Universidade do Porto, 2004. Feitler, Bruno, Lana Lage da Gama Lima, and Ronaldo Vainfas, eds. A Inquisição em xeque: temas, controvérsias, estudos de caso. Rio de Janeiro: Eduerj, 2006. Figueiredo, Luciano Raposo A. “Segredos de Mariana: pesquisando a inquisição mineira.” Acervo 2, no. 2 (1987): 1-34. —. Barrocas famílias: vida familiar em Minas Gerais no século XVIII. São Paulo: Hucitec, 1997. —. “Peccata Mundi: a pequena inquisição mineira e as devassas episcopais.” in As Minas Setecentistas, edited by Maria Efigênia Lage Resende and Luiz Carlos Villalta, 109-128. Belo Horizonte: Autêntica, 2007. Geler, Lea and Evelyne Sanchez. “América: identidades movidas.” Nuevo Mundo Mundos Nuevos (2005), accessed february 22, 2012, http://nuevomundo.revues.org/444. Greenleaf, Richard. La Inquisición en la Nueva España. Siglo XVI. México: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1995. Kamen, Henry. La Inquisición española. Madrid: Alianza Editorial, 1973. Langfur, Hal. “Uncertain Refuge: Frontier Formation and the Origins of the Botocudo War in Late Colonial Brazil.” Hispanic American Historical Review 82, no. 2 (2002): 248-249. Lapa, Amaral. Livro da Visitação do Santo Ofício da Inquisição do estado do Grão-Pará (1763-1769). Petrópolis: Vozes, 1979 Lewkowicz, Ida. “Vida em família: caminhos da igualdade em Minas Gerais (séculos XVIII e XIX).” PhD diss., USP, 1992. —. “Concubinato e casamento nas Minas Setecentista.” In História de Minas Gerais, As Minas Setecentistas, edited by M. Efigenia L. Resende, Luiz Carlos Villalta, 531-547. Belo Horizonte: Autêntica, 2007. Lima, Lana Lage da G. “A confissão pelo avesso: o crime de solicitaçao no Brasil Colonial.” PhD diss., USP, 1990. —. “As Contraditas no Processo Inquisitorial.” IV Reunião de Antropologia do Mercosul, Curitiba, November 2001. Luna, Francisco Vidal and Iraci del Nero da Costa. “Devassa nas Minas Gerais: do crime à puniçao.” Boletim do CEPEHIB 3 (1980): 3-7; also published in Anuario de Estudios Americanos 39 (1982): 465-474. Mattos, Yllan de. “A última inquisição: os meios de ação e funcionamento da inquisição no Grão Pará pombalino (1763-1769).” Master’s thesis, UFF, 2009.

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Medcalf, Alida C. Go-betweens and the Colonization of Brasil (15001600). Austin: University of Texas Press, 2005. Mott, Luiz. “Um congresso de diabos e feiticeiras no Piauí colonial.” In Formas de Crer: Ensaios de história religiosa do mundo luso-afrobrasileiro, séculos XIV-XXI, edited by Ligia Bellini, Evergton Sales Souza, Gabriela dos Reis Sampaio, 129-160. Salvador: Editora Corrupio, UFBa, 2006. —. “Um tupinambá feiticeiro do Espírito Santo na garra da Inquisição (1737-1744).” Revista Dimensões XX (2006): 13-27. Novisnky, Anita. Inquisição: prisioneiros do Brasil (séculos XVI-XIX). Rio de Janeiro: Expressão e Cultura, 2002. Oliveira, João Pacheco de. “Uma etnologia dos ‘índios misturados’: situação colonial, territorialização e fluxos culturais.” In A viagem da volta: etnicidade, política e reelaboração cultural no Nordeste indígena, edited by João Pacheco de Oliveira, 44-77. Rio de Janeiro: Ed. Contracapam, 1999. Oliveira, Maria Olindina Andrade. “Olhares inquisitoriais na Amazônia Portuguesa. O tribunal do santo oficio e o disciplinamento dos costumes (XVII-XIX).” Master’s thesis, UFAM, 2010. Resende, Maria Leônia Chaves de. “Gentios Brasílicos: índios coloniais em Minas Gerais setecentista.” PhD diss., Unicamp, 2003. —. “Devassas gentílicas: inquisição dos índios na Minas Gerais colonial.” In Caminhos Gerais: estudos históricos sobre Minas (séc. XVIII-XIX), edited by Maria Leônia Chaves de Resende and Maria Sílvia Brugger, 1-203. São João del-Rei: UFSJ, 2005. —. “Brasis coloniales: índios e mestiços nas Minas Setecentistas.” In História de Minas Gerais: As Minas Setecentistas, edited by Maria Efigênia Lage de Resende and Luiz Carlos Villalta, vol. 1. Belo Horizonte: Autêntica, 2007. —. “Amores proibidos, amores possíveis.” Revistas do Arquivo Mineiro XLVII, no. 1 (2011): 64-77. Rodrigues, Aldair C. “Sociedade e Inquisição em Minas colonial: os familiares do Santo Ofício (1711-1808).” Master’s thesis, USP, 2007. Schwartz, Stuart. “The Formation of Colonial Identities in Brazil.” In Colonial Identity in the Atlantic World 1500-1800, edited by Nicholas Canny and Anthony Pagden, 15-51. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987. —. “Brazilian Ethnogenesis: Mestiços, Mamelucos, and Pardos.” In Le Nouveau Monde Mondes Nouveaux. L’experience Americaine, edited by Serge Gruzinski and Nathan Wachtel, 7-27. Paris: EHESS/CNRS, 1996.

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—. Cada um na sua lei. Tolerância religiosa e salvação no mundo atlântico ibérico. São Paulo: Cia das Letras, 2009. Silva, Maria Beatriz Nizza da. Sistema de casamento no Brasil colonial. São Paulo: Edusp, 1984. Sommer, Barbara Ann. Negotiated Settlements: Native Amazonians and Portuguese Policy in Pará, Brazil. New Mexico: University of New Mexico, 2000. Souza, Laura de Mello e. “As devassas eclesiásticas da Arquidiocese de Mariana para a história das mentalidades.” Anais do Museu Paulista 33 (1984): 65-73. Torres-Londoño, Fernando. A outra família: concubinato, escândalo e Igreja na colônia. São Paulo: Loyola, 1999. Traslosheros, Jorge E.H. “El Tribunal Eclesiastico y los indios en el Arzobispado de Mexico.” Historia Mexicana LI, no. 3 (2002): 485516. Vainfas, Ronaldo. A heresia dos Índios: catolicismo e rebeldia no Brasil colonial. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1995. —. “Moralidades brasílicas: deleites sexuais e linguagem erótica na sociedade escravista.” In História da vida privada: cotidiano e vida privada na América Portuguesa, edited by Laura de Melo e Souza, 221-274. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1997. —. Trópico dos Pecados. Moral, sexualidade e Inquisição no Brasil. Rio de Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira, 2010. Vidal, Francisco and Iracy Del Nero da Costa, eds. “Devassas nas Minas Gerais do crime à punição.” Anuário de Estudios Americanos 39 (1982): 465-474. Wadsworth, James E. “Jurema and Batuque: Indians, Africans, and the Inquisition in colonial northeastern Brazil.” History of Religions 46, no. 2 (2006): 140-161. .

CHAPTER SEVEN CHRISTIAN BODIES, OTHER BODIES: PROCESSES OF CONVERSION AND TRANSFORMATION IN NORTHEASTERN AMAZONIA* VANESSA ELISA GROTTI

Introduction The study of Christianity and religious conversion is a burgeoning field in Native Amazonia, and particularly among Indigenous populations of the Guiana shield. Early explorers and colonisers brought representatives of the Catholic Church on their vessels to the New World: priests who attended to the travellers, but also planners such as Jesuits who set up missions where the settlers developed plantations, and colonisation projects of various kinds. Indeed in some parts of Amazonia, such as coastal Brazil, Peru or Paraguay, the presence of missions dates back to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.1 In coastal Guiana, the Jesuits had *

This chapter is based on fieldwork among the Trio, Wayana and Akuriyo of Suriname and French Guiana, mainly funded by the UK ESRC, Trinity College (Cambridge) and the Gates Cambridge Trust. Additional postdoctoral funding from the Ville de Paris and the British Academy allowed me to further develop the ideas presented herein. This chapter was presented in a shorter form at conferences in Lisbon, Perugia and Toulouse, and I thank members of the audience for their questions and comments. I am grateful to Sergio Botta, co-convenor of the CEISAL panel “Misiones e Culturas Indígenas en América Latina” (Toulouse 2010) and editor of this volume, for inviting me to submit an expanded version. I am grateful to Marc Brightman for comments on earlier drafts. I remain indebted to the Trio, Akuriyo and Wayana who kindly welcomed me and participated in my research. 1 Peter Gow, “Christians: A Transforming Concept in Peruvian Amazonia,” in Native Christians. Modes and Effects of Christianity Among Indigenous Peoples of the Americas, ed. Aparecida Vilaça and Robin M. Wright (London: Ashgate,

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set up missions among the Carib and Arawak populations such as the Kali’na and the Palikur in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries respectively,2 while the Reformed Church first established itself in Dutch Guiana in the seventeenth century.3 These remaining attempts focused on the narrow strip of coastal land on which European colonisers had managed to settle successfully. The Guianese interior remained largely unexplored territory. The difficult terrain made any attempt to reach the populations living further inland an arduous task, particularly in the Guianas, where rivers are hard to navigate and the forest is a succession of muddy hills and swamps. Indeed it was not until the autonomous Surinamese government embarked in the early 1960s in “Operation Grasshopper,” a concerted project to “open up the interior” by clearing airstrips at various locations considered to be strategic for subsoil exploration and the securing of the international borders with Guyana and Brazil, that direct access to the remote Indigenous and Maroon communities of the interior was made possible.4 This was when a missionary organisation called the Door-to-Life Mission was granted the permission it had been requesting since 1959 to establish itself among the Trio and Wayana populations of the interior with a view to delivering healthcare and education, together with pastoral care.5 Door-to-Life’s involvement in Suriname was short-lived and soon taken over by a consortium of North American Protestant missions present in the region at the time, the West Indies Mission and the Unevangelized Fields Mission. The latter had settled in Suriname and Guiana in the post2009), 33-52; Allan Greer, “Towards a Comparative Study of Jesuit Missions and Indigenous Peoples in Seventeenth-Century Canada and Paraguay,” in Native Christians, 21-32; John Hemming, Red Gold: The Conquest of the Brazilian Indians (London: MacMillan, 1978); Aparecida Vilaça and Robin M. Wright, “Introduction,” in Native Christians, 1-20. 2 Gérard Collomb, “Missionnaires ou Chamanes: Malentendus et Traduction Culturelle dans les Missions Jésuites en Guyane,” in La Guyane Française au Temps de l’Esclavage: Discours, Pratiques et Représentations, ed. Jaqueline Zonzon (Guyane: Ibis Rouge, 2011), 435-55; Artionka Capiberibe, Batismo de Fogo: Os Palikur e o Cristianismo (São Paulo/Rio de Janeiro: Annablume/ Fapesp/Nuti, 2007). 3 Joop Vernooij, Indianen en Kerken in Suriname: Identiteit en Autonomie in het Binnenland (Paramaribo: Stichting Wetenschappelijke Informatie, 1989). 4 Eithne Carlin, A Grammar of Trio: A Cariban Language of Suriname (Frankfurt am Main & New York: Peter Lang, 2004); Peter Rivière, pers. comm. 5 Joseph F. Conley, Drumbeats that Changed the World: A History of the Regions Beyond Missionary Union and the West Indies Mission (Pasadena: William Cavey Library, 2000); Vernooij, Indianen en Kerken in Suriname.

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war period at a time when Protestant churches based in the United States of America started to take a closer interest in South America. The missions, which reached Indigenous peoples such as the Trio in the 1960s, were small privately run enterprises, which relied on funds collected in local churches back in the United States. They were staffed by ministers who made a point of travelling with their families and were usually trained as technicians, linguists or healthcare practitioners. Operating at a time when the South American forests were considered one of the central missionary goals,6 these Protestant evangelical missions benefited from advances in medicine and technology such as single engine aircrafts, short-wave radios and anti-malarials. The Trio and the Wayana are two central Carib-speaking peoples whose territory straddles the international border which separates Suriname, French Guiana and Brazil. Their villages are interconnected through extensive kinship networks that are reinforced by regular travel and radio communication between distant relatives. While the Wayana in Suriname live on the headwaters of the Maroni River and the lower reaches of the Tapanahoni in the east, the Trio are settled further west in a territory which stretches all the way to the border with Guyana, along the Tapanahoni and the Sipaliwini rivers. Although both groups were the target of the missionary organisations I discuss in this chapter, I will focus here on the Trio, and base my discussion on the data I collected in the village of Tëpu. Several years ago, as I was conducting my first period of fieldwork among the Trio, I was immediately struck by my hosts’ narratives about their past and their historic trajectories. These narratives highlighted the arrival of the missionaries and the establishment of the mission-stations as a fundamental turning point in their lives which has lasting consequences up to the present day. From their own perspective, in the early 1960s, when they started to aggregate around the first mission-stations, the Trio performed a radical break from the past: they decided to live alongside former enemies in large sedentary villages. The shift to this new way of being was often spoken of as a change experienced and located in the body. The Trio accepted living in “white people’s villages” (pananakiri ipata,7 i.e. the villages founded by the missionaries), and ending endemic shamanic battles in order to live in peace with one another. The Trio are still known by other Amerindians across the region for their powerful shamanic curses (ëremi) and poisonous plant preparations; indeed their ethno-botanical knowledge is extensive and sophisticated, and senior plant 6 7

Conley, Drumbeats that Changed the World. All words in italics are in Trio unless stated otherwise.

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healers from Tëpu can be flown across the region to tend to sick Trio and Wayana patients. Transcending this reputation there remains an enthusiasm among the Trio, in particular senior ones who have become church elders, to relate conversion to Christianity to life in peace with affines (sasame wehto8). Among the Trio, the process of conversion appears to be located in the body. In this chapter, I will thus analyse a Native process of conversion to Christianity by using the body as a category to understand cultural change and continuity in Lowland South America. The anthropological study of the introduction of and/or conversion to Christianity among the Native populations of Latin America remains scarce compared to the surge experienced by Melanesian anthropologists,9 and it is to Melanesia that Amazonian anthropologists have sometimes turned to devise theoretical frameworks to analyse Native conversion to Christianity.10 An Amazonian specificity has been to take an approach focused on historicity and kinship,11 in a process of “Amerindianisation” of conversion which has examined the appeal of external goods, people and forms of knowledge and their incorporation into Indigenous cultures (a move to bring the outside in) for the sake of social reproduction.12 My 8

Sasame wehto could be loosely translated as “state of happiness” and describes a bodily state marked by exuberance and jollity. This is a specific reciprocal and relational form of happiness which describes states between affines, rather than kin, and is particularly visible at times of communal celebrations: Vanessa Elisa Grotti, “Un Corps en Mouvement: Parenté, ‘Diffusion de l’Influence’ et Transformations Corporelles dans les Fêtes de Bière Tirio, Amazonie du NordEst,” Journal de la Société des Américanistes de Paris 95, no. 1 (2009): 73-96. 9 e.g. Mark Mosko, “Partible Penitents: Dividual Personhood and Christian Practice in Melanesia and the West,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 16, no. 2 (2010): 215-40; Joel Robbins, Becoming Sinners: Christianity + Moral Torment in a Papua New Guinea Society (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004) and “Melanesia, Christianity, and Cultural Change: A Comment on Mosko’s ‘Partible Penitents’,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 16, no. 2 (2010): 241-43; see Vilaça and Wright, “Introduction,” 1-20. 10 Aparecida Vilaça, “Christianity, Perspective and Predation,” in Native Christians, 147-66; and “Dividuality in Amazonia: God, the Devil, and the Constitution of Personhood in Wari’ Christianity,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 17 (2011): 243-62. 11 Peter G. Gow, “Forgetting Conversion: The Summer Institute of Linguistics Mission in the Piro Lived World,” in The Anthropology of Christianity, ed. Fenella Cannell (Durham: Duke University Press, 2006), 211-39. 12 Eduardo Viveiros de Castro, “O mármore e a murta: sobre a inconstância da alma selvagem,” in A inconstância da alma selvagem e outros ensaios de antropologia, (São Paolo: Cosac e Naify, 2002), 181-264.

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chapter remains close to this tradition by focusing on bodiliness and materiality, which are pertinent from an Amerindian perspective. My objective is to study relations between bodies among two Carib-speaking peoples living in the village of Tëpu, by focusing on bodily practices introduced through sedentarisation and conversion to Christianity. I hope to be able to demonstrate that social landscape, historicity, kinship and the body remain central, key elements in the understanding of conversion processes as experienced and constructed by Indigenous populations of northern Amazonia.

Sasame wehto: Sedentarisation and Pacification among the Trio Contemporary Trio villages in Suriname result, as mentioned above, from a missionary policy of population concentration and sedentarisation through the provision of health care, trade and education. They are larger in size than the more traditional settlements observed by Peter Rivière in the 1960s,13 but the pattern of settlement is equally defined by kinship networks: although their total population varies from about 300 for a village like Tëpu to over 1,000 for the largest village, called Kwamalasamutu, the way extended families are spatially organised, as clusters that gravitate like satellites around the public buildings (the school, church and clinic), replicates the shape of traditional settlements numbering 30 to 40 people and follows the same aspiration to endogamy and uxorilocality. As such, the cognatic clusters co-exist side by side and are themselves referred to by the Trio as “villages” (pata). They are named after their original founders, some of whom are still alive today and represent elders of authority (tamu) and who have roles either in the Church or as governmental employees. In addition, the Trio see these clusters as different from the village as a whole, to which they refer as pananakiri ipata (“white people’s village”). The difference between traditional Trio settlements and larger villages like Tëpu lies in their longevity and therefore in the relationship their inhabitants have to alterity: the villages and many of the houses are still the same, defying the tendency to entropy characteristic of affinal relations among Carib populations and introducing a new relationship towards the dead; in the past, villages would relocate following the death of their 13

Peter Rivière, Marriage Among the Trio: A Principle of Social Organisation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1969); and Individual and Society in Guiana: A Comparative Study of Amerindian Social Organisation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984).

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founder. Today, it is not uncommon to see former enemies solve disputes through ceremonial drinking of manioc beer, or for a widow, her daughters and in-laws to live in the house built by her deceased husband. This different relationship towards alterity is described in positive terms by the Trio who live in these villages, as a process of pacification which they have undergone willingly, and which they contrast with their past life marked by warfare. Today, there are no foreign missionaries permanently residing in the villages, but the Trio elders who assisted the missionaries when they originally founded the villages and who accompanied them on contact expeditions to the Akuriyo hunter-gatherers have taken on the role of managers of affinal relations. These men, who represent the first generation of Christian converts, each head a household unit and regard it as their role both in everyday life and through ritual celebrations to perpetuate this communal state of social pacification, known in Trio as sasame wehto. These elderly heads of household also each “own” a family of Akuriyo helpers who execute services for them; this has been so since this small group of hunter-gatherers was “contacted” in the Uremari headwater region in southeastern Suriname and brought back to Tëpu in the early 1970s.14 The contemporary configuration of sedentary Trio villages has brought unrelated people to live in close proximity to one another but has also encouraged the nurturing of kinship ties across the region: in practice, spatial distance between kin living in different villages is minimised by frequent radio communication and travel. All Trio belong to an extensive network of relations which span the region and engulf villages across the international borders with Brazil and French Guiana, as well as urban centres such as Paramaribo, Cayenne or Macapá. However, the Trio’s understanding of themselves includes some distinctions that resist this daily feeding of kinship ties. Differences remain which are strongly embedded in the place of residence, and the Trio concept of personhood is defined by a social environment composed of localised bodily practices. How the Trio imagine this corporeal social environment will become clearer as I describe the contrasting relations that the Trio of Tëpu have with other “true” people: I will first discuss the image of the Trio who live in the Catholic village of Missão Tiriyó, and who have extensive kinship ties with Tëpu. I will then take the example of the hunter-gatherers called

14 Vanessa Elisa Grotti, “Protestant Evangelism and the Transformability of Amerindian Bodies,” in Native Christians, 109-26.

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the Akuriyo who were contacted in the early 1970s by a missionary-led expedition to be brought back to live a sedentary life in Tëpu.

Protestant and Catholic Trio: Conversion as Practice The village of Missão in Brazil was founded by a Franciscan missionary in 1959 with the support of the Brazilian military and the Service for the Protection of the Indians. As a savannah village with grazing cattle and a military base, it could not be more different from Tëpu which is a riverine settlement cleared in the forest. But to describe how life differs in the two places, instead of highlighting these features the Trio emphasise a distinction located in bodily practices. The Trio of Tëpu say that life is different in Missão because there the Trio had maintained public shamanic healing sessions, the production and consumption of manioc beer, the cultivation and consumption of tobacco, many dances and chants, potions and scarifications. All of these practices had been strictly banned by the Protestant missionaries in Tëpu.15 The Trio of Tëpu, when describing Missão, also said that the people there were more quarrelsome and less respectful of their wives, and that they drank too much and smoked too much. Brazilian Trio visiting Tëpu also agreed with this view. Although they complained of the parochialism of Tëpu, because it has no shops, roads or bars, they said that it was a place where people grew to be stronger because they followed stricter rules regulating the body. This was put succinctly by the nephew of my host in Tëpu who had come to stay in Tëpu from Missão for the first time during the major beer drinking festivals of December 2004. He said that the villagers of Missão are disorderly, they argue a lot, cheat on each other and cannot control their drinking of manioc beer, all because they are Catholics, as opposed to Protestants. By the time I was conducting fieldwork in 2004, some of the differences between the two denominations had started to fade away. People in Tëpu and in particular the younger generations had started to produce and consume manioc beer and to organise festivals and dances, and while conventional shamanic practice did not occur openly, there was gossip about sudden illnesses and deaths that could only be attributed to shamanic attacks. Tensions between co-resident affines would also burst out as fights, accusations of thefts and disputes between in-laws, in 15

Protásio Frikel, Dez Anos de Aculturação Tiriyó, 1960-70: Mudanças e Problemas (Belém: Publicações Avulsas do Museu Goeldi, 1971); John Hemming, Die if You Must: Brazilian Indians in the Twentieth Century (London: Macmillan, 2003).

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particular during drinking feasts. The villagers of Tëpu appeared to be displaying the same potential for dissent as their Brazilian neighbours, even if their daily conversation greatly emphasised the morality of communal life in peace with non-relatives. Yet, the denominations seemed to have been linked not only with a set of bodily rules and regulations but equally with the fame of the founders of these sedentary settlements. The Protestant missionaries were famed for their severe and frequent admonitions, whereas the Catholic priests’ laissez-faire attitude, though equally acknowledged, inspired less admiration. The latter even smoked and drank with the Trio, suggesting that at the level of everyday and festive sociability, they had a better relationship with the Trio than the Protestants; yet they seemed to be less well respected, and their reputations carried less power. The observation of my host’s relative from Missão pointed at this precise correlation between processes of conversion and sets of bodily practices which remained attached to places. It was as if the social environment constituted for the body an additional layer, similar to clothing or bodily ornaments. This will become more apparent as I turn to describe the relationship the Trio have developed with the small group of hunter-gatherers known as the Akuriyo whom they first contacted in the late 1960s before capturing them and bringing them back to settle in Tëpu under their close supervision and with the material support of the Protestant missionaries.

The Co-Resident Akuriyo: Sedentarisation as Transformation In 1968, after an initial sighting made by some Wayana who had gone fishing in a creek located at the southernmost border between Suriname and French Guiana, there began a series of expeditions organised by a handful of missionaries based in Wayana and Trio villages to locate and contact an elusive group of hunter-gatherers which had until then avoided developing long-lasting links with other Amerindian groups. The Trio expedition members mostly originated from Tëpu; they were for the most part influential men in their prime who had recently converted to Christianity. The reports written by the missionary expedition leaders portray the Akuriyo in the forest as a “stone age tribe” who are dirty and diseased, and thus barely human.16 Their project of evangelisation was 16

See for instance Ivan L. Schoen, Report on the Second Contact with the Akurio (Wama) Stone Axe Tribe, Surinam, September 1968 (Washington: Centre for Short-Lived Phenomena, Smithsonian Institution, 1969); and Report on the Emergency Trip Made by the West Indies Mission to the Akoerio Indians - June

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thus assimilated with a project of civilisation and, in their own words, accelerated evolution. However, the accounts of some of the Trio who took part in these first contacts, which I collected during fieldwork, emphasise different things. The Trio describe the Akuriyo as belonging to the category of humans or Amerindians (wïtoto), but wild ones (wajiarikure), fierce ones (ëire). According to them, the Akuriyo whom they found in the forest were not diseased, but on the contrary were almost super-humanly healthy, with fantastic hunting and fighting powers; however they were fierce, and two key things were evidence of their fierceness: the fact that they did not cultivate manioc, and the fact that they did not wear or own anything which could have been obtained from trade. When they encountered them in the forest, the Akuriyo only wore bodily decorations made from products gathered in the forest. This is why, in contrast to the narratives of the missionaries, which focus on the salvation of diseased heathens, the Trio accounts in turn describe the process of contact in terms of the capture and nurture of potential enemies into pets. The Akuriyo were brought back to Tëpu after infectious diseases had indeed started to spread among them, and the additional stress of the relocation in an open and sedentary settlement did inflict a heavy burden on them: as a result, about a quarter of them died within a year from illness or trauma. The surviving families were eventually divided up between the Trio expedition members who each took one under their wing. This nurturing process implied an education in the Trio way of life, centred on the cultivation and processing of manioc, the production of bread and beer, and the mastering of the Trio language and notions about the Christian God. However, the assimilation was never fully achieved and today the Akuriyo remain a people on the margin who seem to be continually struggling to master the conventions which the Trio regard as central to proper socialisation. From “wild people” they have become “helpers” (peito) or servants,17 who are in constant need of nurture but cannot 1971 (Washington: Centre for Short-Lived Phenomena, Smithsonian Institution, 1971); Art Yohner, Contact with a New Group of Akurijo Indians of Suriname (Washington: Centre for Short-Lived Phenomena, Smithsonian Institution, 1970); and Akurijo Contact Report Sept./Oct. 1970 (Washington: Centre for Short-Lived Phenomena, Smithsonian Institution, 1970). 17 The Trio-Akuriyo relationship is a fascinating contemporary example of the “master-servant” relationship which, as we have seen, has the peculiarity of having emerged in a context of missionary contact expeditions. I have analysed at length elsewhere features of this relationship based on predation and nurture (Vanessa Elisa Grotti, “Nurturing the Other: Wellbeing, Social Body and Transformability in Northeastern Amazonia” (PhD diss., Cambridge University, 2007); and “Protestant

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become potential marriage partners. Without these skills, the Akuriyo remain wild, powerful transformational predators in the forest but marginal beings likened to children when in the village. In this case, nurturing practice has not achieved the transformation of the Akuriyo into Trio; the former’s body resisted sedentarisation and conversion to Christianity. Or rather, the Akuriyo bodies have remained capable of “chronic instability”18 in their transformational capacity, something which the Trio cannot achieve as well as they used to, as they have settled into a peaceful bodily state which may have considerably enhanced their capacity for social interaction with increasingly distant social spheres such as the city, but which has led them consequently to cut off ties of intimacy with the spirit world.

Conclusion In this chapter, I have discussed the Trio perspective on the body in a context of sedentarisation and conversion to Christianity, which I have argued represents a change in the way the contemporary inhabitants of Tëpu relate to alterity and in particular to the management of affinity. My objective has been to highlight the connection between a historical process of conversion to Christianity and an Amerindian notion of the body, which is defined by daily practices of nurture, commensality and sociability. Somehow, in the dialogue that the Protestant evangelical missionaries and the Trio established in the 1960s, culturally distinct perspectives on the body became mutually attractive through the discourse of historic transformation and pacification, to which both parties regularly return in their narratives about their past and present co-existence in Suriname. To the missionaries, shamanism and shamanic practices were associated with the Devil and his agents, which take the form of spirits, and it was the Devil who led the Trio to live in fear of one another and in a constant state of warfare. To them, conversion meant winning the battle of peace by

Evangelism and the Transformability of Amerindian Bodies”). For discussions of relations of mastery and slavery across Amazonia, see Carlos Fausto, “Too Many Owners: Mastery and Ownership in Amazonia,” in Animism in Rainforest and Tundra: Personhood, Animals, Plants and Things in Contemporary Amazonia and Siberia, ed. Marc Brightman, Vanessa Elisa Grotti and Olga Ulturgasheva (New York and Oxford: Berghahn, 2012), 29-47; and Fernando Santos-Granero, Vital Enemies: Slavery, Predation and the Amerindian Political Economy of Life (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2009). 18 Aparecida Vilaça, “Chronically Unstable Bodies: Reflections on Amazonian Corporealities,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 11 (2005): 445--64

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rejecting war and adopting non-related affines as potential kin. To the Trio, a sense of self and body has always been characterised by the oscillation between the mutually incompatible states of peace and warfare, sasame and ëire, representing concurrently bodily states and collective states. This “perpetual disequilibrium” between two incompatible halves is indeed, as Lévi-Strauss pointed out in Histoire de Lynx, an ontological characteristic of Amerindian thought.19 In an encounter of worldviews which generated a unique form of “controlled equivocation,”20 both missionaries and Trio established a common project centred on the temporary suppression of the “fierce” half of Trio identity in order to stabilise the “peaceful” side. This represented an attractive project to the Trio at the time of contact in the early 1960s, marked by demographic collapse due to the rapid spread of infectious diseases, a collapse attributed to a cycle of revenge killings. With the slow recovery of the ensuing years thanks to the medical treatment provided by the mission stations, Trio pacification seemed to have become a concrete manifestation of a social project. But faced with the possibility of becoming a society in which distant affines had become processual kin, the Trio sought to incorporate within the extended social body of the village a new form of fierceness, a group of Others who were maintained in a state of wildness, the Akuriyo. These represent a possibility for the Trio, that their society has not become sterile, and that the necessary absorption of distant, outside resources, such as people and goods in order to secure social reproduction, is maintained.

Bibliography Capiberibe, Artionka. Batismo de Fogo: Os Palikur e o Cristianismo. São Paulo/Rio de Janeiro: Annablume/Fapesp/Nuti, 2007. Carlin, Eithne. A Grammar of Trio: A Cariban Language of Suriname. Frankfurt am Main & New York: Peter Lang, 2004. Collomb, Gérard. “Missionnaires ou Chamanes: Malentendus et Traduction Culturelle dans les Missions Jésuites en Guyane.” In La Guyane Française au Temps de l’Esclavage: Discours, Pratiques et Représentations, edited by Jaqueline Zonzon, 435-55. Guyane: Ibis Rouge, 2011. Conley, Joseph F. Drumbeats that Changed the World: A History of the Regions Beyond Missionary Union and the West Indies Mission. Pasadena: William Cavey Library, 2000. 19 20

Claude Lévi-Strauss, Histoire de Lynx (Paris: Plon, 1991). Viveiros de Castro, “O mármore e a murta.”

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Fausto, Carlos. “Too Many Owners: Mastery and Ownership in Amazonia.” In Animism in Rainforest and Tundra: Personhood, Animals, Plants and Things in Contemporary Amazonia and Siberia, edited by Marc Brightman, Vanessa Elisa Grotti and Olga Ulturgasheva, 29-47. New York and Oxford: Berghahn, 2012. Frikel, Protásio. Dez Anos de Aculturação Tiriyó, 1960-70: Mudanças e Problemas. Belém: Publicações Avulsas do Museu Goeldi (16), 1971. Gow, Peter G. “Forgetting Conversion: The Summer Institute of Linguistics Mission in the Piro Lived World.” In The Anthropology of Christianity, edited by Fenella Cannell, 211-39. Durham: Duke University Press, 2007 [2006]. —. “Christians: A Transforming Concept in Peruvian Amazonia.” In Native Christians. Modes and Effects of Christianity Among Indigenous Peoples of the Americas, edited by Aparecida Vilaça and Robin M. Wright, 33-52. London: Ashgate, 2009. Greer, Allan. “Towards a Comparative Study of Jesuit Missions and Indigenous Peoples in Seventeenth-Century Canada and Paraguay.” In Native Christians. Modes and Effects of Christianity Among Indigenous Peoples of the Americas, edited by Aparecida Vilaça and Robin M. Wright, 21-32. London: Ashgate, 2009. Grotti, Vanessa Elisa. “Nurturing the Other: Wellbeing, Social Body and Transformability in Northeastern Amazonia.” PhD diss., Cambridge University, 2007. —. “Un Corps en Mouvement: Parenté, ‘Diffusion de l’Influence’ et Transformations Corporelles dans les Fêtes de Bière Tirio, Amazonie du Nord-Est.” Journal de la Société des Américanistes de Paris 95, no. 1 (2009): 73-96. —. “Protestant Evangelism and the Transformability of Amerindian Bodies.” In Native Christians. Modes and Effects of Christianity Among Indigenous Peoples of the Americas, edited by Aparecida Vilaça and Robin M. Wright, 109-26. London: Ashgate, 2009. —. “Happy with the Enemy: Kinship, Pacification, and Corporeal Transformations in Trio Beer Feasts, Northeastern Amazonia.” Anthropology and Humanism 37, no. 2 (2012): 191-200. Hemming, John. Red Gold: The Conquest of the Brazilian Indians. London: MacMillan, 1978. —. Die if You Must: Brazilian Indians in the Twentieth Century. London: Macmillan, 2003. Lévi-Strauss, Claude. Histoire de Lynx. Paris: Plon, 1991.

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Mosko, Mark. “Partible Penitents: Dividual Personhood and Christian Practice in Melanesia and the West.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 16, no. 2 (2010): 215-40. Rivière, Paul. Marriage Among the Trio: A Principle of Social Organisation. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1969. —. Individual and Society in Guiana: A Comparative Study of Amerindian Social Organisation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984. Robbins, Joel. Becoming Sinners: Christianity + Moral Torment in a Papua New Guinea Society. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004. —. “Melanesia, Christianity, and Cultural Change: A Comment on Mosko’s ‘Partible Penitents’.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 16, no. 2 (2010): 241-43. Santos-Granero, Fernando. Vital Enemies: Slavery, Predation and the Amerindian Political Economy of Life. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2009. Schoen, Ivan L. Report on the Second Contact with the Akurio (Wama) Stone Axe Tribe, Surinam, September 1968. Washington: Centre for Short-Lived Phenomena, Smithsonian Institution, 1969. —. Report on the Emergency Trip Made by the West Indies Mission to the Akoerio Indians - June 1971. Washington: Centre for Short-Lived Phenomena, Smithsonian Institution, 1971. Vernooij, Joop. Indianen en Kerken in Suriname: Identiteit en Autonomie in het Binnenland. Paramaribo: Stichting Wetenschappelijke Informatie, 1989. Vilaça, Aparecida. “Chronically Unstable Bodies: Reflections on Amazonian Corporealities.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 11 (2005): 445-64. —. “Christianity, Perspective and Predation.” In Native Christians. Modes and Effects of Christianity Among Indigenous Peoples of the Americas, edited by Aparecida Vilaça and Robin M. Wright, 147-66. London: Ashgate, 2009. —. “Dividuality in Amazonia: God, the Devil, and the Constitution of Personhood in Wari’ Christianity.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 17 (2011): 243-62. Vilaça, Aparecida, and Robin M. Wright. “Introduction.” In Native Christians. Modes and Effects of Christianity Among Indigenous Peoples of the Americas, edited by Aparecida Vilaça and Robin M. Wright, 1-20. London: Ashgate, 2009.

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Viveiros de Castro, Eduardo. “O mármore e a murta: sobre a inconstância da alma selvagem.” In A inconstância da alma selvagem e outros ensaios de antropologia, 181-264. São Paolo: Cosac e Naify, 2002. Yohner, Art. Akurijo Contact Report Sept./Oct. 1970. Washington: Centre for Short-Lived Phenomena, Smithsonian Institution, 1970. —. Contact with a New Group of Akurijo Indians of Suriname. Washington: Centre for Short-Lived Phenomena, Smithsonian Institution, 1970.

CHAPTER EIGHT INDIAN MISSIONARY OR PASTOR? REFLECTIONS ON A RELIGIOUS TRAJECTORY IN THE AMAZON PARIDE BOLLETTIN

In many ethnographies devoted to Indigenous peoples of the Amazon there appears more or less explicitly the presence of Christian missionaries working within the local collectivities. In this text, however, I will not develop an analysis of these agents’ activities, but I shall present the history of a member of the Mebengokré community, who live along the Bakajá River in the Brazilian Amazon. My proposal is that through this specific parabola it is possible to provide some features of local experience. To do this I will first describe the context of this ethnographic analysis and then describe some especially relevant moments for understanding the current situation. Finally, I will try to place this trajectory within the process of meaning experienced daily by the Mebengokré.1

1

I started my research with this group in 2005 and I am now following my researches thanks to a Post-Doctoral fellowship by the Fundação de Amparo à Pesquisa do Estado de São Paulo - FAPESP - with which I am working at the Centro de Estudos Ameríndios at São Paulo University (Brazil). About this specific group, the most relevant writings were produced by Willian Fisher in “Dualism and its discontent: social process and village fissioning among the Xikrin-Kayapó of central Brazil” (PhD diss., Cornell University, 1991), and in Rain Forest Exchange (Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 2000), by Clarice Cohn, “Relações de Diferença no Brasil Central: os Mebengokré e seus Outros” (PhD diss., Universidade de São Paulo, 2005), and by Paride Bollettin, “Identità in trasformazione. Pratiche e mitologie a Mrõtidjam, un villaggio del Brasile centrale” (PhD diss., Università degli Studi di Siena, 2011). I wish to thank Marta Amoroso, Sergio Botta and Marc Brightman for their comments on the previous versions of this text.

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This narrative strategy is intended to highlight that any situation in which two different cosmological visions2 meet one another is made up of different times, so the analysis has to follow the interface between the agents’ actions and the relational networks in which they act.3 This requires us to overlook neither the context in which actions are realised nor the voices of the agents involved. This remark may seem trivial, but it is common that analysis focused on this matter is biased for or against specific agents. Therefore, I will not express an opinion on individuals or organisations, but will try to show how a process of resemantisation of practices, ideas and rhetoric takes place. Besides this methodological consideration, I think it is important to outline an ethnographic context within which to situate this text. The classics of social thought addressed the theme of religion, seeing in this an important key to access an understanding of social life.4 An important reference to highlight the boundaries of the debates within the Amazon is certainly represented by the text of Viveiros de Castro which addresses the historical topic of the conversion of the Tupinambas to Christianity.5 In the text, the author shows how it was not an individual and religious conversion, but a collective phenomenon that must be investigated from the “native” point of view. Likewise, Gow claims that the Jesuits or the anthropologists view Christianity differently from what it means from an Indigenous perspective.6 Other authors take into account missionary

2

I use the term “cosmology” not as a provocation, but because I understand that any worldview which tries to explain in holistically the actual situation and its meaning is a specific way of thinking about reality and so constitutes a “cosmology.” From this perspective, a theology, which aims to explain the purposes of the world, or a cosmogony, which deals with origins, fits within this kind of discourse. Starting from this idea, I aim to see how the Mebengokré and the protestant missionaries meet each other. 3 Bruno Latour, Reassembling the Social. An Introduction to Actor-NetworkTheory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). 4 See, for example, the works of Marx, Durkheim and Weber, to name a few of the best known. Obviously, this reflection passed across an important segment of the successive reflections as well, but this is not the place to perform a broad overview of those works. Other works are useful for this; see among others Alessandra Ciattini, Antropologia delle religioni (Roma: Carocci, 1997), and Enrico Comba, Antropologia delle religioni. Un’introduzione (Bari-Roma: Laterza, 2008). 5 Eduardo Viveiros de Castro, “O mármore e a murta: sobre a inconstância da alma selvagem,” Revista de Antropologia 35 (1992): 21-74. 6 Peter Gow, “Christians: A Transforming Concept in Peruvian Amazonia,” in Native Christians. Modes and Effects of Christianity among Indigenous Peoples of

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strategies that determined the adhesion of large sections of the Indigenous population to the Christian religion, highlighting the dialectic between catechesis and education.7 Others topics analysed by other authors are: the conflicts between religious and local populations,8 the relation between different concepts of person through care of the body,9 religion as an instrument of separation and as an element of vindication of a difference,10 or as a specific form of reflection about the relationship with “others” from a local point of view,11 among others. In recent years, some collective works have indicated the complexity of encounters between Indigenous groups and missionaries, both historically and presently, emphasising the process of “cultural mediation,”12 or the necessity of correlating missionaries’ discourses with missionaries’ practices on the one hand, and with Indigenous cosmologies and institutions on the other hand.13

the Americas, ed. Aparecida Vilaça and Robin Wright (Farnham, U.K.: Ashgate, 2009), 46. 7 Marta Rosa Amoroso, “Mudança de hábito. Catequese e educação para índios nos aldeamentos capuchinhos,” Revista Brasileira de Ciências Sociais 13, no. 37 (1998): 101-114. 8 See Odair Giraldin, “Catequese e Civilização. Os Capuchinhos ‘entre’ os Selvagens do Araquaia e Tocantins,” Boletim do Museu Paraense Emílio Goeldi 18, no. 2 (2002): 27-42, and Valéria Nely Cézar de Carvalho, “Profanazione e trasformazione: la catechesi cattolica tra le popolazioni indigene del nordovest amazzonico,” in Ricerca sul campo in Amazzonia. 2008: resoconti di studio, ed. Bollettin Paride and Mondini Umberto (Roma: Bulzoni, 2009). 9 Vanessa Grotti, “Protestant Evangelism and the transformability of Amerindian bodies in Northeastern Amazonia,” in Native Christians. Modes and Effects of Christianity among Indigenous Peoples of the Americas, ed. Aparecida Vilaça and Robin Wright (Farnham, U.K.: Ashgate, 2009), 109-125. 10 Artionka Capiberibe, “Nas duas margens do rio: alteridade e transformações entre os Palikur na fronteira Brasil/Guiana francesa/Artionka Capiberibe” (PhD diss., Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro, 2009). 11 Marília Sene de Lourenço, “A presença do antigos em tempo de conversão. Etnografia dos Kaingan do Oeste paulista” (Master’s thesis, Universidade Federal de São Carlos, 2011). 12 Paula Monteiro, ed., Deus na aldeia: missionários, índios e mediação cultural (São Paulo: Globo, 2006). 13 See Robin Wright, ed., Trasformando os deuses: os multiplos sentos da conversão entre os povos indígenas do Brasil (Campinas: Editora da Unicamp, 1999). There are also works that offer a more general perspective comparing different experiences across the Americas; see: Aparecida Vilaça and Robin Wright, eds., Native Christians. Modes and effects of Christianity among Indigenous peoples of the Americas (Farnham, U.K.: Ashgate, 2009).

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In this context of studies with varied and different approaches, I think it interesting not only to describe the events that led Kapoto, the protagonist of the events I will recount, to become a “pastor” or a “missionary” (I will return to this distinction), but also how they were used and built by him. To do this I will begin by describing the process of the arrival of Christianity in the Trincheira-Bakajá Indigenous Area, where we find the village of Mrõtidjam, in which he lives with his family.

The Arrival of Christianity The history of contact between the Kayapo Mebengokré and Christian missionaries dates back to the early 1930s among the Gorotire, by means of the action of the Missão de Evangelização Mundial, the name of the International Worldwide Evangelisation for Christ in Brazil.14 This activity seems to have begun due to the failure in health care from the Brazilian Government, and successively through school activities. It may have declined in importance both due to the progressive expansion of Gorotire involvement into the regional economy and the establishment of 14 Terence Turner, “De cosmologia a História: resistência, adaptação e consciência social entre os Kayapó,” in Amazônia: etnologia e história indígena, ed. Eduardo Viveiros de Castro and Manuela Carneiro da Cunha (São Paulo: NHIIUSP/FAPESP, 1993), 43-66. The Mebengokré of the Trincheira-Bakajá Indigenous Area are commonly called “Xikrin,” a term by which they identify themselves and which they use to differentiate themselves from other MebengokreKayapó groups (for a discussion of the meanings of those ethnonyms, see Bollettin, “Identità in trasformazione”). Throughout this text, however, I chose to use the term “Mebengokré” (literally “those who come from the middle of the waters”), because it is a self-definition. Therefore, where not otherwise noted, the term indicates members only of this specific community. The academic corpus about the Mebengokré is vast, and it may be interesting to indicate that one of the earliest texts about them was written by a priest: Pere Caron, Il domenicano degli indios (Milano: Mondadori, 1973). Other texts of particular interest for an ethnographic overview are Lux Vidal, “O espaço habitado entre os Kaiapó-Xikrin (Jê) e os Parakanã (Tupi), do Médio Tocantins, Pará,” in Habitações indígenas, ed. Sylvia Caiuby Novaes (São Paulo: Nobel, Edusp, 1983), 77-102; Isabelle Giannini, “A Ave Resgatada: ‘A impossibilidade da leveza do Ser’” (Master’s thesis, Universidade de São Paulo, 1991); and Cesar Gordon, Economia selvagem. Ritual e mercadoria entre os índios Xikrin-Mebêngôkre (São Paulo-Rio de Janeiro: Editora UNESP, NUTI, 2006), who have worked in the Cateté Indigenous Area, where a Mebengokré community lives with which the Bakajá lived together until the 60s (a more complete presentation of the anthropological corpus about the various Mebengokré can be encountered in Bollettin, “Identità in trasformazione”).

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an educational policy by the Ministry of Education of the Brazilian Government.15 Even though they had relations with the Gorotire, the Mebengokré to whom I am referring in this paper had not experienced missionary practices in their villages.16 As reported by Cohn, the entry of Protestant Christianity into the village of Bakajá (the first of the Indigenous Area) took place through the presence and the activities of a member of the Rio Cateté Mebengokré community, which had tried, without much success, to organise weekly services.17 Already in 1993 this attempt was abandoned, to be resuscitated in 1997 after the visit of a missionary, which caused “a great impression among the Xikrin because he was, as they said to me, an old man with white hair who speaks their language very well and understands so much of their culture.”18 After this visit, four young men began to attend a “course” in São Felix do Xingu. Cohn continues, saying that from 1998 the religious services began to have a weekly status in the village of Bakajá.19 During my first and second visits to the village of Mrõtidjam in 2005 and 2006, however, I saw no worship in the months I spent with the Mebengokré. The only time they told me anything regarding this question, which was not a very common subject, they told me something of this sort: “we send priests away” or “here religious cannot enter.” Comparing those discourses with what was related by the author above, the entry of Christianity through another Mebengokré man, I think this exemplifies a specific method of defining such a meeting with an emphasis on the ability to determine the forms and circumstances of the same. I will return to this point later.

15 Cássio Noronha Inglez de Souza, “Aprendendo a viver junto: reflexões sobre a experiência escolar kayapó-gorotire,” in Antropologia, História e Educação, ed. Aracy Lopes da Silva and Mariana Kawall Leal Ferreira (São Paulo: Global/MARI-USP/FAPESP, 2001), 238-274. 16 For the recent history of the Trincheira Bakajá Indigenous Area, see Fisher, “Dualism and its discontent”; Cohn, “Relações de Diferença no Brasil Central”; and Bollettin, “Identità in trasformazione.” 17 Clarice Cohn, “Índios Missionários: Cultos Protestantes Entre os Xicrin do Bacajà,” Campos 1 (2001): 11. She refers to him as Bep-komati, and he has a very interesting trajectory to which I will return later. 18 Cohn, “Índios Missionários,” 12. 19 There are now several villages in the Indigenous Area. The Mrõtidjam village, to which I am referring in this text, was built in 2005 (see Bollettin, “Identità in trasformazione”).

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During the third visit, in 2008, I met a young man reading the Bible in the Ngab, the Men’s House,20 in front of his family and just a few other young people. It was getting dark, it was late afternoon and Kapoto (this is the name of the young man), dressed in a yellow shirt and blue shorts, was reading without the aid of any amplification in the middle of the building. Holding a translation of the New Testament in his hands,21 he was reading slowly, enunciating his words almost without moving. Other participants were seated in front of him, some on stools and some on the fence that surrounds the Ngab. They listened silently, only interjecting at the points when they had to repeat “Amen” or some other expression. Some of them held pamphlets, which were reproductions of specific parts of the text; others simply listened with their eyes fixed on the floor. Sitting at a short distance away, in front of the house of an elder known to be a valuable connoisseur of the “culture” (an interesting term to which I will return later), I exchanged comments with him about what we were watching. “What do you think about it?” I asked. “It’s a thing of his; his family watches. It’s a thing of youth,” he replied, stretching himself as if he had no great interest in the matter. The others in the village seemed to confirm this feeling: all busy with their tasks, no one seemed to pay attention to what was happening in the Ngab. The situation seemed to be familiar to them, but I was extremely curious about this novelty and decided to ask Kapoto if he was prepared to tell me more about their adherence to Protestant Christianity. Initially he looked at me curiously, as if this was not a subject of interest for an anthropologist, and asked me why I wanted to know about it. I replied that I was interested because he was reading very well and I wanted to know what he thought about what he had just read. We therefore decided to talk about it the following day.

20

The Men’s House, located in the centre of the village, is a spatial point of reference in Mebengokré social organisation (see Vidal, “O espaço habitado entre os Kaiapó-Xikrin [Jê] e os Parakanã [Tupi]”), so the fact he occupied this place is an important element for understanding the realisation of that meeting. 21 I think it was the version of the New Testament translated into the Mebengokré language by the Summer Institute of Linguistics. Cohn (“Índios Missionários,” 12) tells of some audio tapes containing hymns. I have not found any of them in the village of Mrõtidjam, but it is possible that these instruments are present in some other villages.

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The Various Religions of the “Whites” The day after, we met in front of the “pharmacy,” the medicine dispensary where I was staying during that visit to the village of Mrõtidjam. I was transcribing and translating some stories I had collected and Socco, the Atendente Indígena de Saúde of the village, was assisting me. When Kapoto arrived, we interrupted our work and started to talk about various issues, until Socco left, saying he needed to return to his house. Kapoto and I stayed, sitting on the stools in front of the pharmacy, in the shadows, watching the animated children who were playing in the open area in front of us. I entered directly into the topic: “What do you think about what you were reading yesterday?” “It is the word of God; I learned it at the mission. There in São Felix. When I was there, they taught me to read the book and they gave me one. It is very important for me to read.” He replied with conviction, and continued: “I learned from the missionaries it is the word of God, and now I'm the pastor here.” Curious about the way he referred to himself, I asked him: “Are you the pastor? I do not understand.” “I was chosen by the missionaries to read the word of God here in the village because I’m the one who can read best. It was hard; they tested us: we had to memorise a lot of pages of the book, but I was able to do it.” He proudly explained how he demonstrated this ability that made him capable of standing out in front of the missionaries: “So they gave me the book to read here.” “But don’t you think that it’s a thing of the whites?22 Why did you want to have this role?” “I get 150 R$ every month from the Mission to read the book. So I can buy things for my family.” His pragmatic response made me curious, so I wanted to continue asking about the matter: “Do you think that what is written is true?”

22

In the Mebengokré language, “kuben” is the term that defines the nonIndigenous. It is used in different ways depending on the context: sometimes it refers only to non-Indigenous, other times it extends to also cover other Indigenous groups. About this elasticity of the term and the existence of intermediary terms such as “kuben kakrit” (“quite white”), see Bollettin, “Identità in trasformazione.” In this case the term is being used to refer to the non-Indigenous; for this reason I chose to translate it as “white,” as it is translated by the Mebengokré.

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“Yes. The missionary taught us that it is the word of God; the book was written by God, so it is true. Don’t you know?” He looked at me curiously and it was his turn to ask me questions. “They say it is, but I do not agree. Books are written by people, I think.” My atheism came out in this way: “There are several books written by people that are presented as written by God.” “This is not true! Don’t you understand? God is one. He wrote the book. Everybody knows it. Don’t you know? Every white person knows it. In the mission I learned that all the whites know the word of God.” “I don’t believe it.” I was trying to respond to his attempt to proselytise, but it seemed that this created more interest on his part to continue. “Why you don’t know? All the whites know!” “Not all the white people believe in the same book and in the same God! Many people wrote books, but I do not necessarily have to believe they are the word of God.” “But this is the book of God! You have to believe; otherwise you will go to hell.” His attitude was getting a little nervous, and as consequence I began to feel embarrassed too, because I remembered many other conversations about this topic with other people of faith who had tried to convince me before. “But how can I be sure that this is the true book of God if there are many other books that talk about different things and it is said they were written by God? Whites have many religions; how can I choose which one is true?” I was trying to use the argument of relativism. “You don’t understand; there is one God, and he wrote this book which is his word.” He was getting more nervous and suddenly rose to leave, adding: “You’re lying! There is only one God; there is no other!” When he stood up and angrily turned his back to me, I felt a great fear that he might be angry with me. I tried to call him back but he did not return. Soon Bep-eti, the benadjure, or “chief” of the village, appeared. And he laughed to see me worried; he told me it was “a young man’s thing.” Still, I kept thinking about the dialogue that we had had that afternoon; I was worried that I might have been too rigid in my views. Early the next morning, to my great surprise, Kapoto appeared in the pharmacy. So, I offered him a coffee and we sat down in front of the pharmacy. After a few moments of silence, he asked me: “You have said that there are many religions of the whites. Which ones are they?” “I don’t know so well.” I replied. “But the whites are many different peoples, as the Indians are different from each other. Every nation has a

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religion. There are Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus; there are so many religions.” “But how can whites have many religions, if there is one God?” I had succeeded in arousing his curiosity. “Well, I think each one can assign a different name to God. As you have the metumiaren,23 similarly white people, depending on where they come from, have their own metumiaren, not always the same...” I tried to draw the speech in the direction of a dialogue between whites’ beliefs and those of the Mebengokré. “Do you believe the metumiaren?” Kapoto stayed in silence for a while and then he said: “Yes, but only the elders know metumiaren.” “But then, if you believe the metumiaren you can see there are many true stories, not only the Bible that the whites have given to you. Likewise the whites too have many true stories.” I continued. “Tell me those stories...” His curiosity was now directed to learning the multiple religions of whites, so I tried to describe a bit of some religions. We talked the whole morning, until he invited me to have lunch at his house and we changed the subject. We did not return to the subject during that stay in Mrõtidjam. Only when we went down the river Bakajá by boat towards the city of Altamira, near at the end of my stay there, did he tell me he was going to participate in a “Bible class”24 in Imperatriz do Maranhão. He was traveling with his family, and explained to me that he was going to spend an entire year in the city of Maranhão.25

23 Metumiaren are literally “tales of the elders,” namely the set of stories, myths and others narratives which contribute to forming Mebengokré “knowledge” about the world. 24 This class is organised by the Centro de Treinamento Biblico Carlos Harrison, a part of the Missão Evangelica aos Índios do Brasil. On their website, they present their aims: “To enable believers, men and women, for the work of evangelism and the edification of the church; […] biblical and theological preparation for strengthening the local church; […] missiological preparation for the expansion of the kingdom of God among other ethnic groups.” The justification of these aims refers to specific verses: “The great commission of Jesus was given to all his followers. This means that even the Indians and backwoodsmen have the same responsibility to evangelise the lost than any other Christian,” (italics are mine) cited as: 2 Timothy 4:2-3, Titus 2:1-3, Titus 1:7-9. 25 A few weeks later, he called me in Sao Paulo, where I was before returning to Italy, and he told me he did not want to stay there and that he wanted to return to the village, but later I discovered that he remained there for the whole duration of the course.

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Learning to be a Missionary In June 2011 I finally returned to the village of Mrõtidjam to deliver a copy of my doctoral dissertation to the Mebengokré. I presented the dissertation in the House of Men during a general meeting where the elders and the majority of the men met.26 I gradually introduced the various parts of the work, the various matters that I had dealt with and the way I had chosen to address them. Their reaction was very exciting because it triggered discussions on several matters: the choice of subjects, which more properly represented a question, finally pointed out many topics and caught the attention of the participants.27 At the end of the night, Kapoto came up to me and told me he wanted to show me something important. Therefore, we decided to meet the next day. When I arrived at his house, which had changed and was now placed slightly apart from the circle of other houses,28 he invited me in and he shows me the certificate from the Bible course that he had attended. He started telling me about his experience in the “Bible Course.” “At the beginning it was very difficult; I thought I would not be able to stay there. We had many classes. Classes began at 7:30 in the morning and continued until noon. Then I had lunch. In the afternoon we had classes from 2 PM to 5 PM. After the classes we had things to do at home.” I asked him what the lessons were about, and he began to show me the syllabus of the course of study: Devotional Life, Bible Study Method, Knowing the Word of God, Discipleship, Portuguese, Chronological

26 Regarding the division of age classes among the Mebengokré, see Vidal, “O espaço habitado entre os Kaiapó-Xikrin (Jê) e os Parakanã (Tupi),” Fisher, “Dualism and its discontent,” and Bollettin, “Identità in trasformazione,” among the several works treating the matter. Cohn (“Índios Missionários”) presents the possibility that Protestantism is more of a way of affirming the opposition between the age classes among the Mebengokré; this idea seems to be confirmed by the tolerant and quite indifferent attitude of the elders in the face of these practices. 27 It is important to note that the photos contained in the dissertation were an element of great interest; those photos became the central theme of the discussions. Finally, the Mebengoké asked me for another work: a photo book (which unfortunately does not yet exist). 28 I later learned that this new building had been built to host a North American missionary who spent some days there. I did not collect more information on the matter, but they told me that he was expelled by FUNAI just a few days after his arrival. I am not going to adress this issue here because I do not have sufficient material to do so, but I think it is interesting to note that the current occupants of the house are Kapoto and his family.

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Studies, Biblical Narratives, Doctrine, Panorama of the Old Testament, History of the Church, Christian House, etc. After he had described the classes, Kapoto returned to comment on the difficulties he encountered along that path: “The course is very hard. When I came here for holidays in the village, I wanted to give up but then I decided to finish. I decided to stop only when I was here.” I asked him how the daily life in the Mission was, and he told me that the Mission itself provided board and lodging to all the Indigenous and their families. Then he added: “Not all churches help us. We had to buy two books; one, which came from Goiais, cost 180.00 R$, and the other, which came from Manaus, 200.00 R$.” I asked him where he had found the money to buy these books, and he answered: “The money was given to me by some American believers29 who live here in Brazil. They helped me.” “What else did you do in the Mission, besides studying?” I asked. “We went to visit the villages of other Amerindians. We travelled by the Pará and Maranhão visiting many villages. This is the work of the Missionary; he has to travel to several villages. I was chosen to be Missionary to all Indians.” He replied with great pride that he had been chosen by the Mission to conduct this work. “What does it mean for you to be a Missionary?” I asked. “That I have to travel to other villages. This is very good,” he said, “with the Missionaries from the Mission and also traveling alone.” We then parted because it was lunchtime and he told me that in the afternoon he was going to hold a function at the House of Men. Therefore, I returned to the pharmacy for lunch and met another person, Kapoto’s brother-in-law, and we started talking about various things, until he asked me if I intended to participate in the function that afternoon. “I do not know. Why? Will you participate?” I answered him with a question. “Yes, I will.” “Are you a believer?” “Yes.” “When did you get involved; you were not participating before...?”

29

It is interesting to underline that the USA appears as a paradigm of a distant place in various Mebengokré narrations. For example, in the myth of the origin of dogs, it is said that they had gone to take them to the USA (see Bollettin, “Identità in trasformazione,” 325 and following, where I address this issue in more detail). This may explain the emphasis with which he remarked that the aid he had received came from someone from the USA.

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He looked at me and started telling me a story: “Once upon a time a person was reading the Bible and another one told him: ‘What are you doing?’ ‘I’m reading,’ he answered. ‘Throw away that book, it is worthless!’ ‘It is useful, it is important, it is the word of God.’ ‘It’s not true!’ A few days later, this one looked for the first one but he was not there anymore. He had risen to koikwa.30 It seems that God took him up there and he will not return...” I asked him: “Do you think that’s true?” He replied to me with confidence: “Yes, I think so. It is a true story.” Soon after, he went away to return to his home. I reflected on the parallels between this story and some others I had heard before and that were told to me by Karangré, one of the elders, generally recognised as knowledgeable of metumiaren. In these stories, the sky often has a determining role in the development of action. For example, from the sky comes the woman who brings edible plants, or it is there that a character in another myth hides to avoid vengeance, etc.31 In the afternoon, some young men of the village gathered to play soccer in the field located next to the airstrip in Mrõtidjam. As usually happens in sporting events, the division of the teams followed a difference in age: on the one team there were young men with one or no children, and 30

Literally: “the roof of sky,” the layer above this world, located in the sky. In another narrative it is the place from where men in this world originate. For this story and others I will quote, please refer to Vidal, “O espaço habitado entre os Kaiapó-Xikrin (Jê) e os Parakanã (Tupi)”; Fisher, “Dualism and its discontent”; Cohn, “Relações de Diferença no Brasil Central”; and Bollettin, “Identità in trasformazione,” among the various authors who have treated them. I find it interesting, in this direction, to show Taussig’s comment: “the poetic echo of what is said to have happened long ago in the time before history, additional evidence for which is provided by striking features in the physical landscape, in the mountains, reefs, and rocky outcrops in the ocean”: Michael Taussig, What Color is the Sacred? (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2009), 102. To express this in another way, the sky takes on the role of a marker of spatiality that links directly to exceptional events that shape the everyday experience. 31 Similarities between these myths show a redefinition of the narrative formula toward a legitimation of a situation experienced on a daily basis by the Mebengokré. In this sense, it stands to reason to consider the words of Calávia Sáez, who claims that “at most they are not myths in which one can infer a cosmological constant, but a cosmology that produces, so to speak, a series of myths”: Oscar Calávia Sáez, “A variação mítica como reflexão,” Revista de Antropologia 45, no. 1 (2002): 13. That is, the use of a formula that shaped a narrative style already recognised as effective presents a “new” situation in an explanatory pattern that can put it in the context of local experience.

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on the other team those who had two or more children. In this game, the two groups wore T-shirts in different colours: green for the first and red for the second. Among them was a referee. During my previous stays, I had never encountered this presence. Curious, I asked the audience: “Since when is there a referee on the field?” Another young man who was waiting his turn to enter the game on the team of young men with more than one child said: “Kapoto is the referee since he returned from the journey.” The referee was Kapoto. He followed the entire game, wearing a black shirt and black shorts, the usual uniform for referees of football. I watched the entire game with the public, commenting on the plays made, both good and bad, amidst the laughter that always accompanies such events. When the game ended (with the victory of the younger team), all the participants gathered at the House of Men, where each one took his clothes and gave his football uniform to two of them who took the clothes home for their wives to wash. At this point, I approached Kapoto. “How is it to be the referee?” “It’s good. I always referee the games.” He replied. “Who chose you to be the referee?” “Everybody!” He started to explain how he become the referee of football matches. “At the Mission it was explained to me that those who work in the Mission cannot play football. Therefore, I do not play anymore. Nevertheless, I was chosen to be the judge. As I do not play, I was asked to be the judge.” “Why you?” “Because I do not play. So I can be the referee.” Shortly after, he was called by his son and we parted once more. Some time later, in the afternoon, I decided to participate in the “function.” This time, unlike the experience reported above, the participation was much greater and the arrangements for holding the meeting changed. In addition to Kapoto and his family, several other community members were sitting along the benches of the House of Men. In the middle stood another young man from Mrõtidjam, reading a passage from the Bible with a microphone connected to a speaker. Kapoto was standing behind the other participants and approached me, so I asked him if I could take some pictures. He pulled out his camera and told me: “Yes you can. Take some pictures with mine also when I talk...” I took his camera and thanked him for the permission. When the first reader finished the prayer, he began to sing a religious song that all the others joined in with. Kapoto went to the centre of the House of Men, standing next to the other man. When the song ended, he took the

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microphone and began to read another passage from the Bible. Silence returned among the participants, who listened to his words with their heads bowed. Only a few children were playing, running along the outskirts of the House of Men, while the rest of the community stayed in front of their homes, occupied in other activities. Kapoto went on reading for nearly half an hour, then sang another song that all the participants sang as they had done with the previous one. When they finished, Kapoto began to talk freely about various topics, from time to time asking questions, to which the others responded with acclamations of approval. When he finished his own speech, the others sang a song to end the “function.” The event was just ending when Bep-Komati came to me; he was the boy who, according to Clarice Cohn, had introduced Protestant Christianity to the Mebengokré of Bakajá.32 He came up to me to inform me that at night we would have a meeting at the Men’s House to discuss the issue of Belo Monte hydroelectric dam. I took advantage of the situation to ask him: “Why don’t you participate in the function?” He answered quietly: “I do not participate. Kapoto is the pastor.” “But you believe in God?” “Yes.” “Who taught Kapoto?” “I taught Kapoto, but now I no longer do. He is now the one who does this.” Once he had told me that, he went away to return to his house. At the same time, Kapoto came to ask me what I thought about the “function.” “It was interesting,” I replied: “I saw that the number of participants has greatly increased since the last time I was here.” “Yes,” he said: “In the Mission they told me to read for everyone. Did you take pictures?” Kapoto was more interested in the photos that I had taken with the two cameras, his and mine, so we looked at the pictures. He told me he wanted to send the photos to the Mission to show them his work: “The Mission wants to see how I do my job.” I then showed the pictures I had taken during the football game: “Do you want these too?” “Yes, so I can also show this.” “Who bought the speaker?” “I bought it with the money I received from the Mission.” 32

See reference above.

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“And why are there some others who read before you?” “Because I’m no longer the pastor; now I’m working as a missionary...”

The Ways of Faith Kapoto’s story, summarised here, allows me to highlight interesting aspects of local experience of this encounter between the Mebengokré and the Mission. A first reflection comes from a suggestion already proposed by Clarice Cohn in her text on the entry of Protestants into the village of Bakajá. She says: “the appreciation of the New Testament then binds to the appreciation of the written word and literacy.”33 This clearly appears in the words of Kapoto when he explains that he was chosen to be the “pastor” because of his proficiency in the Portuguese language and his reading skills. This factor, certainly crucial for him to take the job, cannot be seen as separate from the strategy of legitimation that he brings forward as a privileged interlocutor with the “whites.” In another text,34 I have analysed the introduction of the telephone to the village of Mrõtidjam, seeking to demonstrate how this functions as a marker of individual differences. The use of the telephone legitimates the one who uses it to propose himself as a subject carrying a particular connection with the world outside the village. The only two people I have seen using it are Kapoto, who communicates with the Mission, and Bepeti, one of the village’s benadjure, or “leaders,” who communicates with the Fundação Nacional do Índio. Looking at this function of the telephone and at the reading of Christian texts as parallels, I can say that the domain of the written word, in the case of Kapoto, assumes the value of a subjectivising and differentiating element. The two elements allow him to make a claim to others on that particular link. The doubts that I posed to them are directly linked to this question: if the “whites” have more than one God, more than one religion, this multiplicity must enter into the process of appropriation. Kapoto, as I have said, uses religion as an instrument of affirmation and individualisation, but how does this process take place? An interesting element that allows me to elucidate this question is given by the notion of kukradja, a set of tangible and intangible elements that contribute to defining who is who. Some aspects of this set need further consideration: the fact that they transfer from the outside, the need to maintain them as scarce goods, and 33 34

Cohn, “Índios Missionários,” 13. Bollettin, “Identità in trasformazione,” 249-252.

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the continuous replacement of items.35 It follows that if Kapoto appropriates religion to add it to his own set of kukradja, the existence of more than one religion of “whites” implies the need for him to seek knowledge about alternative possibilities as well. Therefore, it clearly appears how his attitude at the discovery of this multiplicity and subsequently his curiosity to know it would make him determined to try to use it too as a subjective prestige element within the community. A consequence of this is that, if religion is considered from a local point of view, what is important is not with what it is transmitted, but rather the appropriation of knowledge about the world of “whites” through this instrument. In other words, the fact that Kapoto came to ask me about the many religions of “whites” suggests that he was not interested in moral content, but in the possibility of obtaining new knowledge that would enable him to acquire one more card to play in the local political game. It does not mean that such content is not crucial to his claim, as is clearly demonstrated by the fact that he assumed the role of referee in football: he uses the prohibition arising from a teaching he learned in the Mission in order to achieve a leading role in such games. The ban on playing games becomes an instrument to take on a unique function. Another element, directly connected with the last, that I find interesting to highlight consists of the motives he gives to explain the reasons that led him to choose to become a “missionary” instead of a “pastor.” The main motivation seems to be the possibility of travel. Once again, we can draw a parallel with Bep-eti. In 2006, during a conversation we had on relations between the Mebengokré of Bakajá and others Mebengokré-Kayapó groups, he told me of his intention to spend some time in another Indigenous Area (which has not actually happened as of today), to “be able to learn with my relatives.” He put so much emphasis on its purpose; he added the fact that he had relatives living in these villages, that he had travelled to still other villages and that he used to travel between villages. This discourse demonstrates the fact that the possibility of travelling is presented as a crucial element for acquiring legitimacy in the eyes of the community for the strategic role of mediation between inside and outside. In this sense, travel and Kapoto’s permanence in the Mission and in the other villages can be seen from the viewpoint of a strategy of acquiring new knowledge from the outside world, but also as a tool to obtain the prestige connected with the idea of travelling. The fact that he explicitly 35

Bollettin, “Identità in trasformazione,” 261-270. See also Vanessa Lea, “Nomes e ‘nekrets’ Kayapo: uma concepcao de riqueza” (PhD diss., Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro, 1986); Fisher, “Dualism and its discontent”; Cohn, “Relações de Diferença no Brasil Central”; Gordon, Economia selvagem.

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declared this when I asked him what it means to be a missionary clearly demonstrates the distinguishing value of his new job. The passage from “minister” to “missionary” is configured as a possibility of opening a universe of new partners, both for the possible acquisition of new kukradja, and to have been elected as a mediator with the outside world, both the Indigenous and the “white.” The discussion we had that I have reported above about the many religions of “whites” has the same purpose. I affirm my foreignness to Christianity; he feels a loss of power over his own legitimation strategy. After all, if not all whites are believers in God, then the belief itself cannot be seen as carrying a specificity. The solution he found, therefore, was to seek other religions, to know alternative possibilities in order to reaffirm his own legitimacy as a carrier of the knowledge of “whites.” Wondering about other religious forms, he was not abdicating from his own specificity, to be the legitimate connoisseur of the world of “whites,” but was extending and strengthening this strategy. I do not feel able, because my research has not been systematic, to judge if Kapoto and the other participants really accepted the Protestant rhetoric. Cohn says the Protestant religion may be regarded as a “definitive solution to an ambiguous situation.”36 That is, Protestantism offers the solution to the final separation between the living and the dead that is not present in Mebengokré cosmology. Nevertheless, this is not what I aim to discuss here. What interests me is not to show whether the Mebengokré, or some of them, turned into Protestant Christians, but to highlight the ways in which Kapoto explains his own experience and how this is interpreted by others. The narrative of the young man who read the Bible and rose to heaven, the fact that the services take place in the House of Men, and the reaction of indifference by the elders indicate the importance of looking at these Protestant practices as an appreciation of novelty from outside within an internal policy of the community. When Bep-Komati explains that he no longer participates in the functions, he is claiming that his own political strategy has changed. He now competes for prestige in other ways, for example by being the only one who drives a car, or mediating with Fundação Nacional do Índio in the matters related to the construction of the Belo Monte Hydroelectric Dam. For this reason, he no longer needs to be recognised as a carrier of Protestantism. Although he still says he is a Christian, the claim that the position of “minister” is no longer under his jurisdiction indicates the possibility of entering and exiting such a situation, depending upon whether someone needs it or not. At the same 36

Cohn, “Índios Missionários,” 20.

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time, it could also be said that to be “Protestant” is a temporary condition, since this is not the first time they experience this possibility. This is another sign, in my view, which shows how this possibility has to be seen from a local point of view that resemanticised the experience, using it for finalities of specific sites. Obviously these few reflections could address other important issues and could involve other agents. Still, I think that– through dialogues we participated in and moments we experienced–it is possible to see the entry of Protestantism among the Mebengokré of Bakajá not as a linear path, but as a journey always reworked, reinterpreted and re-signified by the agents involved.

Bibliography Amoroso, Marta Rosa. “Mudança de hábito. Catequese e educação para índios nos aldeamentos capuchinhos.” Revista Brasileira de Ciências Sociais 13, no. 37 (1998): 101-114. Bollettin, Paride. “Identità in trasformazione. Pratiche e mitologie a Mrõtidjam, un villaggio del Brasile centrale.” PhD diss., Università degli Studi di Siena, 2011. Calávia Sáez, Oscar. “A variação mítica como reflexão.” Revista de Antropologia 45, no. 1 (2002): 7-36. Capiberibe, Artionka. “Nas duas margens do rio: alteridade e transformações entre os Palikur na fronteira Brasil/Guiana francesa/ Artionka Capiberibe.” PhD diss., Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro, 2009. Caron, Pere. Il domenicano degli indios. Milano: Mondadori, 1973. Carvalho, Valéria Nely Cézar de. “Profanazione e trasformazione: la catechesi cattolica tra le popolazioni indigene del nordovest amazzonico.” In Ricerca sul campo in Amazzonia. 2008: resoconti di studio, edited by Paride Bollettin and Umberto Mondini. Roma: Bulzoni, 2009. Ciattini, Alessandra. Antropologia delle religioni. Roma: Carocci, 1997. Cohn, Clarice. “Índios Missionários: Cultos Protestantes Entre os Xicrin do Bacajà.” Campos 1 (2001): 9-30. —. “Relações de Diferença no Brasil Central: os Mebengokré e seus Outros.” PhD diss., Universidade de São Paulo, 2006. Comba, Enrico. Antropologia delle religioni. Un’introduzione. BariRoma: Laterza, 2008. Fisher, William. “Dualism and its discontent: social process and village fissioning among the Xikrin-Kayapó of central Brazil.” PhD diss., Cornell University, 1991.

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—. Rain Forest Exchange. Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 2000. —. “Age-Based Genders among the Kayapo.” In Gender in Amazonia and Melanesia: an exploration of the comparative method, edited by Thomas Gregor and Donald Tuzin, 115-140. Berkeley-Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2001. Giannini, Isabelle. “A Ave Resgatada: ‘A impossibilidade da leveza do Ser’.” Master’s thesis, Universidade de São Paulo, 1991. Giraldin, Odair. “Catequese e Civilização. Os Capuchinhos ‘entre’ os Selvagens do Araquaia e Tocantins.” Boletim do Museu Paraense Emílio Goeldi 18, no. 2 (2002): 27-42. Gordon, Cesar. Economia selvagem. Ritual e mercadoria entre os índios Xikrin-Mebêngôkre. São Paulo-Rio de Janeiro: Editora UNESP, NUTI, 2006. Gow, Peter. “Christians: A Transforming Concept in Peruvian Amazonia.” In Native Christians. Modes and Effects of Christianity among Indigenous Peoples of the Americas, edited by Aparecida Vilaça and Robin Wright, 33-52. Farnham, U.K.: Ashgate, 2009. Grotti, Vanessa. “Protestant Evangelism and the transformability of Amerindian bodies in Northeastern Amazonia.” In Native Christians. Modes and Effects of Christianity among Indigenous Peoples of the Americas, edited by Aparecida Vilaça and Robin Wright, 109-125. Farnham, U.K.: Ashgate, 2009. Inglez de Souza, Cássio Noronha. “Aprendendo a viver junto: reflexões sobre a experiência escolar kayapó-gorotire.” In Antropologia, História e Educação, edited by Aracy Lopes da Silvaand Mariana Kawall Leal Ferreira, 238-274. São Paulo: Global/MARI-USP/FAPESP, 2001. Latour, Bruno. Reassembling the Social. An Introduction to ActorNetwork-Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005. Lea, Vanessa. “Nomes e ‘nekrets’ Kayapo: uma concepcao de riqueza.” PhD diss., Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro, 1986. Monteiro, Paula, ed. Deus na aldeia: missionários, índios e mediação cultural. São Paulo: Globo, 2006. Sene de Lourenço, Marília. “A presença do antigos em tempo de conversão. Etnografia dos Kaingan do Oeste paulista.” Master’s thesis, Universidade Federal de São Carlos, 2011. Taussig Michael. What Color is the Sacred? Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2009. Turner, Terence. “De cosmologia a História: resistência, adaptação e consciência social entre os Kayapó.” In Amazônia: etnologia e história

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indígena, edited by Eduardo Viveiros de Castro and Manuela Carneiro da Cunha, 43-66. São Paulo: NHII-USP/FAPESP, 1993. Vidal, Lux. “O espaço habitado entre os Kaiapó-Xikrin (Jê) e os Parakanã (Tupi), do Médio Tocantins, Pará.” In Habitações indígenas, edited by Sylvia Caiuby Novaes, 77-102. São Paulo: Nobel, Edusp, 1983. Vilaça, Aparecida and Robin Wright, eds. Native Christians. Modes and effects of Christianity among Indigenous peoples of the Americas. Farnham, U.K.: Ashgate, 2009. Viveiros de Castro, Eduardo. “O mármore e a murta: sobre a inconstância da alma selvagem.” Revista de Antropologia 35 (1992): 21-74. Wright, Robin, ed. Trasformando os deuses: os multiplos sentos da conversão entre os povos indígenas do Brasil. Campinas: Editora da Unicamp, 1999.

CHAPTER NINE THE INDIGENIST MISSIONARY COUNCIL: A BRAZILIAN EXPERIENCE BETWEEN CULTURE AND FAITH MARCOS PEREIRA RUFINO

Introduction A New Christian Mission among the Indians in Brazil In this chapter we will outline and characterise a missionary experience that occurred in the early 1970s in Brazil. It was highly significant because it showed how the Catholic Church in that country reacted to a number of ecclesiastical changes that were taking place in the world and in Latin America at the time, but also because it laid the foundations for the social practices of Catholic missionary work among the Indians of Brazil for decades to follow. The analysis we will conduct of the work of these missionaries is of great importance. In fact, it shows us the tensions caused by the approach they adopted and their interpretation of reality, which are reflected in two theological formulations of great significance for Brazilian Catholicism: Liberation Theology and the Theology of Inculturation. The missionary experience that we will analyse is the Indigenist Missionary Council (Conselho Indigenista Missionário - CIMI), an agency that reports to the Catholic Church in an official capacity about issues regarding Indians in Brazil. This body has a privileged position in the Church hierarchy because of its wide range of agencies and social ministries,1 making it an undisputed representative of the ecclesiastical

1

CIMI is a missionary institution which lacks the autonomy enjoyed by missionaries of Catholic religious orders and congregations. It is directly linked to the presidency of the National Conference of Bishops of Brazil (CNBB) and is chaired by a bishop, elected by the General Assembly of the CNBB. In this chapter, we use the terms CIMI or Indigenous Pastoral Program to refer to the

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authorities with regard to Indigenous policies. This missionary institution also occupies a central place in the relationship of the Church with Brazilian society which, given its diversity, makes it a kind of pastoral task force that acts on the borders of culture.2 CIMI is assigned the task of making all Catholics aware of social problems, whether they are religious figures, lay ministers or domestic institutions involved in the everyday lives of hundreds of Indigenous people in the territory. The reality of the lives of these Native populations is that they are often subject to frequent and deadly attacks. The missionaries are assigned the task of being present and active among the Indians in their territories, as well as in their political struggles, which involve complaints and disputes arising from their contact with people from the rest of Brazilian society. CIMI is certainly the best-known Catholic symbol in the world of the political struggle that is waged within the Indigenous movement and one of the most visible of many social movements aimed at defending collective rights. To a large extent, the historical background behind this missionary work among the Indians reveals a new meaning that the Catholic Church ascribes to the problem of “otherness” and cultural differences. An examination of some of those moments of change is therefore essential for us to understand the way the Brazilian Church of today has appropriated certain theological formulations such as the term “inculturation.” As a result, we can understand this missionary experience as being both the consequence and cause of these changes that affect, among other things, the definition, purpose and form of evangelisation. The idea of setting up the CIMI first arose at the Third Meeting of Indigenous Pastoral Studies held in Brasilia in April 1972. This group of missionaries, which would later carry out valuable Indigenous pastoral work, was the outcome of a complex range of situations and social processes that have exerted a strong influence on the Catholic Church in Brazil. The emergence of this missionary agency was not only due to the same group of missionaries, who are committed to the political practices and theological guidelines that will be discussed throughout this text. 2 An analysis of CIMI must necessarily adopt a standpoint, given the range of situations, relationships and activities found in the institution. For the purposes of this investigation, we will confine our discussion to a fraction of the work of this missionary agency, namely its central apparatus. We will restrict ourselves, more precisely, to the intellectual output arising from its national command structure. Thus it should not be regarded as an ethnographic analysis of a local CIMI experience. The work of CIMI on the ground consists of more than 400 grassroots groups, which act in direct contact with Indigenous peoples.

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significant transformations taking place in the Catholic Church at that time but also due to the political and social changes that national society underwent in the late 1960s and 1970s. Its appearance can also be attributed to the activities of the Anchieta Operation (Opan).3 Founded a few years earlier in 1969, Opan was formed during a Maria Youth meeting and, in its early stages, was inspired by the traditional features of catechetical work, such as those found in the Catholic missions that had catered to the needs of the Indigenous people since the previous century.4 These features entailed the practice of catechism and religious proselytism, and resulted in serious interference in the daily life of the Indians, since it led to changes in the structure of villages, social organisation, cosmological representations and so on. However, a radical shift in attitude was experienced by the Catholic Church–and a new perspective on Latin America and the rest of the world–as a result of the Second General Conference of Latin America and the Second Vatican Council, both held in the 1960s; this provided the conditions for dissenting voices to emerge within the Church. These voices were very critical of the “model” of missionary work that governed the efforts of religious orders in Latin American and Brazilian colonial history. Opan became an arena for raising these questions and gradually assumed a more critical stance of its own work. The traditional Catholic missionary organisations that worked among the Indians in Brazil had their foundations shaken in a very short space of time. We will see that there were several reasons for this, but certainly the atmosphere of excitement and renewal that left the whole Church in turmoil played a central role. Bishops, religious and lay people in their parishes and Catholic Action groups were driven to action by the conciliar documents, which for many years would stir up intense debate. The reading and re-reading–sometimes in study groups across the country–of the conclusions of the Second Vatican Council (which ended in 1965) and Medellin (in 1968) led to a reappraisal of many concepts and practices that from then on began to be seen as anachronistic. As for the catechesis of the Indians in Brazil, this movement of historical revision only increased the feeling of unease that many missionaries had towards the image they 3

Opan operates today as a non-governmental organisation and is now known as the Native Amazon Operation. It carries out several projects with Indigenous people from the north and central-west of the country. 4 OPAN (Operação Anchieta), “História e linhas de ação da Operação Anchieta, [History and courses of action taken by the Anchieta Operation]” in Simpósio Ação indigenista como ação política [Synposium - Indigenous action as a form of political activity] (Cuiabá: Opan, 1987), 84.

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presented to society. However, at least in the case of some, such as those gathered in Opan, the experience they had of being immersed in the world of the Indians and all the misfortunes they believed this had caused was no longer a cause for rejoicing, but rather of embarrassment.

Periods of Renovation: Vatican II and Medellin A brief discussion of the Second Vatican Council is needed to provide a historical perspective of the sudden hypersensitivity of the Church to criticism of its strategies of evangelisation among Indigenous peoples. The Council, in our opinion, was essential for creating the right climate for the reception of the symbolic missionary practices within the Church. Ecclesiastical and academic literature attributes to this event not only the responsibility for significant changes in the life and functioning of the clerical sphere but also in the pastoral practices of the Church. The Council reflected an environment of greater lay participation in pastoral activities and a feeling that the Church, in some measure, had to update its relationship with the modern world. The theme of Church renewal in the face of changing times is embodied in the Italian term aggiornamento, which has become a byword for the issues discussed in the council. In its turn, the Second General Conference of Latin American Bishops, held in Medellín in 1968, conducted an in-depth inquiry into the issues raised at the Second Vatican Council in the specific context of the churches of Latin America and attempted to locate the most pressing issues that should be addressed in the light of the Ecumenical Council. The meeting in Medellin, however, was not a mere restatement at a local level of what was discussed at the Second Vatican Council. The feature that was perhaps most remarkable about the specific questions dealt with in this meeting was its analysis of the social conditions of the continent and its political engagement in the “transformation of social structures” in Latin America.5 The concern for the poor was an issue in Medellin and a hallmark of the kind of social integration sought by Latin American bishops. We will see later that, unlike what occurred at the Second Vatican Council, the issue of cultural otherness did not unduly concern the bishops who attended the meeting in Medellin. Pope John XXIII announced the preparation for the Second Vatican Council in 1959, early in his pontificate. This solemn moment of reflection and decision for the whole Church served as an impetus for the Church to 5 Paul Sigmund, Liberation Theology at the Crossroads. Democracy or Revolution (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990).

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adopt a new approach, together with all Christians split from Rome, and stimulated the awakening of the missionary fervour of all Catholics.6 The Council was also designed to bring together bishops from around the world and hold a broad consultation on the issues and dilemmas experienced by the Church. Thus, the Vatican Secretary of State and President of the Preparatory Committee of the Council, Domenico Tardini, was instructed to correspond with more than 2,500 bishops from around the world and invite then to submit suggestions of topics for the meeting. The climate of openness and reconciliation that was evident in the preparatory stages of the Council was an important opportunity for groups to express their sympathy with the spiritual renewal of the Church and conduct a critical review of its history. When the Council began in 1962, it was evident that there were distinct and antagonistic camps among the episcopate. As Zizola demonstrates,7 a confrontation between two distinct groups could be discerned in the discussions that took place in the sessions: those committed to adhering to traditional doctrines and those others concerned with the contemporary pastoral challenges that required new responses from the Church. The changes that took place in the real practice of the Church with regard to the Indians in Brazil in the early 1970s–with the establishment of CIMI–must be viewed within this larger context of intra-ecclesiastical conflicts. Even John XXIII, in some remarks made at the beginning of the Council, advised the leaders to adopt a spirit of frank openness to achieve renewal. The Church must now live a in period of forgiveness and understanding, which involved listening to and entering into dialogue with the world. The results of the Council promised significant changes in the Church. It is not possible to discuss all the implications of these changes here. However, one of the documents ratified at this meeting, should draw our attention. The Ad Gentes (or “On the Church’s missionary activity”) occupies a central place in our discussion. This decree redefines the meaning of participation in the Church as an evangelising practice aimed 6

The Second Vatican Council was the only ecumenical council held in the twentieth century, and there have only been twenty one altogether throughout the history of the Church. The convening of meetings of this nature occurs very rarely because of the broad authority they have in regulating the operations of the Church and reformulating doctrine. Contrary to the synods of bishops and regional episcopal conferences, the decrees of an ecumenical council are binding and irrefutable with regard to the subjects they address. 7 Giancarlo Zizola, The Utopia of Pope John XXIII (New York: Orbis Books, 1979).

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at those who do not know the word of God. The conciliar fathers wanted to awaken a sense of unease among Catholics regarding the long way they had to go to fulfil Christ’s mission for world evangelisation. The faithful, the document says, should share the same anxiety as the hierarchy about the arduous task that remained ahead for the Church. The theme of the missionary Church is nothing new in itself. The Ad Gentes (no. 2) begins its preamble by assuming the premise of evangelisation to be axiomatic because “The pilgrim Church is missionary by her very nature, since it is from the mission of the Son and the mission of the Holy Spirit that she draws her origin, in accordance with the decree of God the Father.” What we should note, however, is how the question of evangelisation is redefined in the context of a deep internal review that the Church carried out at the Second Vatican Council. The document puts forward propositions that significantly alter our understanding of the missionary field. The Church, in a solemn doctrinal statement, directed the missionaries, from now on, to enter into others’ lives in a holistic manner. The episcopate required them to engage in establishing close and intimate ties, inspired by a sincere feeling of sharing, and reflecting the same kind of love that Christ devoted to men. In these new guidelines for evangelisation work, the missionary is asked to be fully aware of the wide range of signs, values and traditions that define the uniqueness of each people or nation. It should be noted however that this new approach does not appear, at least in its theoretical representation, as simply a strategy for increasing the size of the Christian flock. It results from a principle that requires a radical transformation in the Church’s relationship with the object of missionary activity. In addition, this principle will play a major role in fostering the Theology of Inculturation a decade later: each culture where a missionary is present is already embedded with the seeds of the Gospel, although these are hidden beneath foreign cultural and symbolic systems. For the first time, the notion emerges that the missionary should be able to detect the signs that reveal the presence of God who is already present in these people and recognise the treasure that “a generous God has distributed among the nations of the earth.” The corollary of this is the tenet that it is no longer the prerogative of the missionary, in his dealings with these groups, to claim exclusive possession of knowledge of God. This new era of missionary work must therefore reassess the role of those involved in evangelisation. The Church, the document says, must accept that the forces acting on the fringes of the Christian world should be composed in a different way and that the responsibility for spreading the Christian message to other peoples should be shared with the laity. The

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presence of the laity in this mission should even be regarded as essential for fulfilling the true spirit of evangelisation. At the Medellin Conference, the participants refer to the previous pronouncements on lay participation, but seek to review the nature of this participation in the light of the peculiar historical circumstances on the continent. After outlining the situation “of marginalisation, alienation and poverty that, in recent years, has been brought about by the patterns of economic, political and cultural dependency with regard to the industrial metropolises,”8 the bishops concluded that the role of the laity must be to renew itself, and the church must become more integrated in social and political activities. The outcome of the Medellin Conference was that the Latin American Church would have to involve the laity in its pastoral duties. This required a new understanding of the evolving pattern of evangelisation that would allow the Church to spread the Gospel in a way that took account of the new socio-historical conditions of the continent. The Brazilian bishops, who were enthusiastic participants of the Second Vatican Council, and the Conference of Medellin, set out pastoral plans which testified to their full compliance with this spirit of reconciliation. This was outlined in political terms at the CNBB (the Brazilian National Bishops Conference) in the early 1970s, and the bishops warmly supported the introduction of the new kind of missionary experience that would reflect the form of evangelisation proposed by the Medellin Conference.

The “Excluded” in their Indigenous Situation In Brazil, the new understanding of what was happening in the world outside that was reflected at the Second Vatican Council and Medellin seriously disrupted the relationship between those engaged in Catholic apostolate work with the Indians. However, we will not address here the changes that occurred among different missionary orders at that time. Our concern here is to focus on a particular experience: the structuring of pastoral work with the Indians by setting up a secular body that was inextricably linked to the national hierarchy of the Church in its organisation and procedures, and was a significant expression of lay participation. As we noted earlier, in the period immediately preceding the birth of CIMI, there was a distinct feeling of unease among some missionaries, 8

CELAM (Consejo Episcopal Latinoamericano), Conclusões de Medellin (São Paulo: Edições Paulinas, 1984), 99.

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especially those gathered within Opan. This discomfort arose from critical assessment of the theological foundations of the missionary work that had been carried out so far. Much of what would have formerly been dismissed by the institution as vestiges of the “black legend” of Pius XII was now listened to with attention. In addition to criticism from outside the Church expressed by researchers and anthropologists, the Catholics of this “renewed” Church were also affected by their very presence in the institution and sometimes by their evangelising activities with the Indians on the ground, as was the case with many of the Opan participants. The apologetic tone which had been employed by the missionaries for centuries began to disappear. The way the Brazilian Church planned to overcome this awkwardness was deeply embedded in the new pastoral and theological attitudes that had arisen in the new post-conciliar environment. The recommendations of Medellin were particularly evident at this time. The rejection of the “traditional missionary approach” as represented by the participants of Opan was accompanied by stress on the importance of “human development.”9 The hardships and deprivation experienced by many Indigenous groups with regard to health and education were at the forefront of missionary concerns. This new guidance for the missionaries detached pastoral activities from the sphere of culture, and helped them abandon their policy of intervening in the daily lives of Indians. A symbolic milestone of this new period was the closing down of the premises of the Utiariti Mission, which symbolised the definitive break of Opan with the past.10 The emphasis on social and economic problems affecting the Indigenous groups encouraged this new experience of evangelisation to follow another trend that was already implicit in the Medellin guidelines. In general, orthodox sociologists define the relationship between Indians and whites in terms of the entitlement of Indigenous people to economic, political and social rights.11 The denial of these rights leads to the assimilation of the Indians into one common category: the “excluded.” The struggle for the rights of the “excluded”–also called the “marginalised”–can be attributed to a broad intellectual movement that 9

OPAN, “História e linhas de ação da Operação Anchieta.” Joana Fernandes Silva, “Utiariti. A última tarefa,” In Transformando os deuses. Os múltiplos sentidos da conversão entre os povos indígenas no Brasil, ed. Robin M. Wright (Campinas: Editora da Unicamp, 1999), 399-424. 11 Marcos Pereira Rufino, “A missão calada: pastoral indigenista e a Nova Evangelização,” in Entre o mito e a história. O V Centenário do Descobrimento da América, ed. Paula Montero (Petrópolis: Vozes, 1996), 155. 10

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would not have been possible without the strong support of this “renewed” Church, which has become increasingly identified with the poor in Latin America. While the Second Vatican Council opened up new frontiers for theological and doctrinal reform, the Conference of Medellin, in the context of Latin America, certainly endorsed a form of pastoral activity that was mainly concerned with the “humanisation” of social structures and highly critical of the forces of “capitalism.” The Medellin recommendations led to a new synthesis which brought together all social minorities, including Indigenous peoples, into the same social group. This measure was explained as being a response to a historical interpretation that described these communities as belonging to a common situation of dispossession and suffering that was caused by current economic policies and the past political effects of European colonialism on Latin American countries. The idea of setting up the CIMI emerged in the midst of this intellectual environment. We can say that this event occurred at the same time as the “generic” Indian (that shadowy figure who is the result of a wide range of overlapping symbolic features taken from here and there, appropriated by different groups in time and space) was being replaced by an even more complex image, far from being “deconstructed” into different components. This new chapter in the Church’s pastoral activities among the Brazilian Indians thus begins with a “semantic” operation that enabled the missionary activities to correspond to the mental categories formulated at Medellin. When the Indians were viewed in terms of the symbolism of the “excluded,” this allowed them to be included in the main project that the Church wished to carry out for this society. Both the clergy and the laity of the post-Medellin Church now have a great burden to bear. The Indigenous groups have been understood from a “global” perspective because they are embedded in a social, political and economic setting that subjects them to a situation of violence and hardship. The working model adopted in this article will assume that missionary activity can be better understood if we take into account a keyword in this historic period: Incarnation. We have here a concept that suggests that the act of evangelisation must usher in a new wind of social change. Hence, from a global perspective, a desire to act entails examining the various dimensions of Indian life and seeking to combat anything that prevents people from having a full life. What is required for this to happen is the incarnation of the missionary into the social reality of those who suffer. The new missionaries should show their commitment to the world and history. This type of missionary incarnation has taken place since the birth of CIMI by emphasising the issue of social progress and adopting a hostile

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position against the nation state and private groups involved in the economic expansion of the country. Contrary to the rationale of the local missionary groups–who are only concerned with what happens within the limits of their territories–the CIMI has taken on the responsibility of handling Indigenous policies in their national dimension.

The Importance of Politics and the End of Culture In the mid-1980s, there was a significant change in the vocabulary of CIMI which ushered in a new era for the understanding of what evangelisation should involve. One concept that has played a key role in forming the model of action of CIMI (while causing considerable difficulties) was the notion of missionary “incarnation.” The theme of “incarnation” allowed significant values and ideas of the missionaries to be expressed, especially those that combine the Christian message with political struggle. However, although this notion allowed political action to be redefined in terms of a Christian worldview and the Gospels to be reinterpreted as a liberating and revolutionary political project, it downplayed a key element for those attracted to this alternative approach: the question of culture. This theology of incarnation that evolved in Latin America in the late 1960s is a constituent part of the same process that led to the “preferential option for the poor,” which was adopted by the ecclesiastical leaders of the continent at the Medellin Conference in 1968. This theology was also associated with a larger set of recommendations that politicised the Church by introducing doctrines of historical materialism and class antagonism and incorporating them into the pastoral program of Liberation Theology. This “Church of the oppressed,” symbolically founded in Medellin, did not operate under the code of culture and otherness. Rather, its main attempt at the postulation of meaning was based on the construction of a historical figure that aggregated the perceived “otherness” in a rational amalgamation of common features: the “oppressed,” characterised by historical martyrdom and deprivation imposed by the forces of capitalism. If the work of evangelisation is viewed in its proper context of interests and practices, it can be said that the missionaries were–from the early 1970s until the middle of the 1980s–unaware of the perception of difference, but not of the need to annihilate it in symbolical terms. Hence, the Indians were incorporated into a frame of reference where everyone becomes a single social being, and which is able to express the ontological essence of the peoples of the continent: a single large Latin American nation that is asleep, characterised by the exploitation of many centuries.

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Thus, the various Indigenous peoples of Brazil should be brought closer not only to each other but also to the industrial workers, the uprooted peasants, the blacks of African descent, the outcasts in the urban centres and anyone else who fits into this wide range of excluded people. The radical changes that were observed in the theoretical and theological discussions of the missionaries in the late 1980s involved the handling of cultural problems. This shift in intellectual attitudes was driven by changes in the perceptions held about cultural diversity, which is now gaining increasing importance in the Church. The term “inculturation” became the central concept of this second period in the history of Catholic missions among Indians in Brazil in the second half of the twentieth century. Here there was a significant change in the way missionaries conceived Indigenous cultural diversity in the country. The terminology employed in expressions such as the “oppressed,” “marginalised,” or “excluded,” as a means of categorising different peoples and social communities, no longer made sense. From this time on, missionaries set out on the patient work of rebuilding the Indigenous cultural identities that had been lost due to their previous missionary activities. They had to patiently undo the narrative that spoke of Indigenous peoples in one particular way. Of course, the attempt to understand the novelty of “inculturation”– which soon became an ubiquitous topic within the mission–would not have achieved its goal if had not been able to answer a fundamental question: what were the circumstances and motivating factors that, in a short time, placed the issues of culture and otherness in the privileged place that they now have for the Church? The relationship between missionary work and culture should not be separated from the changes that the Church as a whole underwent in this matter. Despite the prominence of missionary inculturation in theological debates, it was not CIMI who started it. If these missionaries now serve as a point of reference for this question within the Church in Brazil, they are competing with other forces for a position of legitimacy and authority. This is due to a combination of factors that must be viewed from a broader perspective.

The Rebirth of Culture When the Brazilian Church began insisting on employing the vocabulary of culture, it did so within a semantic field, which only partly reflected the meanings intended by the Second Vatican Council. Its main point of reference was in the representations made in two episcopal conferences on the continent that occurred shortly after the ecumenical

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council. The Episcopal Conferences of Medellin (Colombia) in 1968 and Puebla (Mexico), which took place ten years later, are two great occasions in the history of the Latin American Church and were characterised by an attempt to adapt and adjust to the issues discussed at the Second Vatican Council. The Conference of Puebla interests us more directly because it devoted more attention to the issue of culture. In its lengthy final document, it restates the “preferential option for the poor” formulated at Medellin, but also links the question of social exclusion and injustice on the continent to a wider range of themes. The debates in Puebla express, albeit in their early stages, an internal tension regarding the evangelisation of communities of different cultures. This conference represents a transitional period for the Church with regard to the issue of otherness and the specific requirements of pastoral work involving Indigenous groups. As we move forward to later discussion about inculturation, we can see that, at Puebla, the Church lacked the appropriate vocabulary and categories to formulate the question that would dominate its apostolic commitment in Latin America a decade later, namely, the re-evangelisation of people, while at the same time entering into a “dialogue” with different cultures. Although still employing the category of the “oppressed,” the narrative of Puebla strives to recreate it dialectically, and views Latin America as the synthesis of a tension between the one (the oppressed) and the crowd (the many social and cultural identities). The theological appropriation of the image of Pachamama, Mother Earth for many Andean Indians, is certainly a sign of this process. The allegorical allusions presented in the meeting’s final document, which was reproduced in numerous other writings and speeches of the Church in Brazil, suggest that a holographic technique can be used as a metaphor. Wherever we place ourselves in relation to the oppressed, we see a different layout. We are always facing the same oppressed, but different facets–or “features,” as employed in the language of the document–are clearly recognisable. All these layouts express the many “features of the suffering of Christ”: the elderly, peasants, workers, unemployed, children and young people. There are also “the features of Indigenous people and African-Americans, living in inhuman situations. They can be regarded as the poorest of the poor.”12 The missionaries were among the first to systematically absorb and spread the concept of inculturation in the country in the early 1990s. Rather than entering into a theological debate that then expanded throughout the ecumene, which mobilised the churches of Asia and Africa, 12

CELAM, Conclusões de Medellin, 95.

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they sought to reconstruct the internal codes that form this theology and that led them to use symbolism that was familiar to the Church of Latin America. However, before they could accomplish this symbolic recoding, the missionaries had to achieve the impossible: manipulate the genealogy of certain historical periods and recent formulations of the Church on the continent, and include the discourse of inculturation in the same historical lineage of Medellin, Puebla, and Liberation Theology, without any apparent contradiction.

The Code of Inculturation The peculiar way these missionaries formed their understanding of the recent past of the Church, creatively interweaving it with the present, is an expression of the original way that the missionaries introduced inculturation into Brazil. Thus this missionary sector acts as a privileged mediator within the Church, which, if it does not employ a strategy, at least provides a suitable place where the Church can think about otherness. However, before we can understand what the missionaries of CIMI were able to recode in their discussions about inculturation, and the way they offered meanings of great local appeal, we must examine the broader context in which inculturation has been debated. Throughout the Catholic world in the early 1980s, there began to emerge the results of a good deal of reflection on the nature of the relationship between culture and evangelisation. Some Jesuit theologians can be viewed as among the major pioneers of multidisciplinary studies on the subject. After 1981, they played a role in three important meetings that were held to study the position of the Church with regard to the problems posed by inter-ethnic contact with Indigenous peoples. The reports produced at these meetings undertook a pioneering analysis of the missionary work being carried out in various parts of the world in the light of inculturation, which was then a term used by the Jesuits to refer to a theoretical “tool” employed to understand evangelisation in non-Western cultures. We are particularly interested in the effects of the intellectual debate beyond the borders of the Society of Jesus. The strength of these new formulations can be measured by the fact that they were incorporated into the doctrines of the Vatican, in terms very close to how they were expressed by the Jesuits. Arij Roest Crollius, one of the main organisers of these meetings, defined inculturation as follows: The inculturation of the Church is a means of integrating the Christian experience of a local Church with the culture of its people, in such a way

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The innovations introduced by this concept strengthen the role of local churches and reaffirm their ties with Native societies. Perhaps its principal effect is the change in the concept of culture. The concept is based on a purely descriptive perspective–where often “culture” is equated with the notion of material culture–and concentrates on more fluid definitions that allow the Church to regard culture as serving as a meeting point for all kinds of phenomena, such as economic, political, philosophical, religious and domestic problems.14 A second innovative dimension of inculturation is the fact that it allows a greater awareness of the dialogical character of the relationship between Church and culture. This has the merit of providing us with a strategy of evangelisation that is a two-way process: it is a movement from the Church to the culture, but also from the culture to the Church. The way the concept applies to the larger context of discussions about the New Evangelisation can be partly explained by its ability to view the task of this New Evangelisation as a paedagogical challenge for the Church. Hence, in the case of the Indigenous Pastoral Movement in Latin America, inculturation implies being able to overcome a pedagogical system aimed at subduing Indigenous people with the imposition of European cultural values. This change affects not only the kind of values being transmitted. The paedagogical system of inculturation presupposes the end of an ancient Christian tradition that ranks the shepherd differentially from his flock. It purports to abolish this distinction that separates the agent of evangelisation and the evangelised by postulating a methodology that, paradoxically, abandons the act of teaching, since it can no longer assume that the other does not know the presence of God. The incarnation of Mary in the Mexican experience by means of the Virgin of Guadalupe, addressing the Aztec Indigenous people in Nahuatl, was an exemplary case of this paedagogical system that has gone

13 Ary Roest Crollius, S.J., “What is So New about Inculturation,” in Inculturation: Working Papers on Living Faith and Cultures (Rome: Centre “Cultures and Religions” – Pontifical Gregorian University, 1984), 15. 14 Marcello de Carvalho Azevedo, S.J., “Inculturation and the Challenges of Modernity,” in Inculturation: Working Papers on Living Faith and Cultures, 8.

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unnoticed by the Church.15 The image of the Virgin, adapted to Indian culture, was itself one of the most significant expressions of the “dialoguism” brought about by inculturation. In the reading of this contemporary experience of Christianity in Mexico, we have a saint who has been “incarnated” into the Aztec cultural universe and established a direct link of this Christian experience with the message it brings. A third important aspect of inculturation was the emphasis it laid on the local church. It should play an active role in the environment, and include responsibilities and commitments that were previously unheard of in this sphere, for example granting a relative degree of autonomy in their liturgical rites or in reformulating important parts of Christian doctrine so that they are compatible with the cultural code of the “other.” The decentralisation that inculturation seeks to introduce to the relationship between the various ecclesiastical sectors–even with regard to the relationship between the Holy See and the particular churches–is confronted with a fundamentally problematic issue for the ecclesiastical institutions as a whole. At the same time, the transnational character of the Church can be seen as a privileged sign of Catholicism–which is the only way to create an intelligible meaning in a world marked by fragmentation. The Church stresses the importance of reviving the local historical memory such as, for example, the history of regional and national saints, thus allowing the plurality of situations where the Church is present to be fully understood. CIMI’s concern with the theme of inculturation featured prominently at the Sacramental Pastoral Meeting, held in 1986. The Sacramental Pastoral Sector, which was the outcome of this meeting, is a milestone in the history of CIMI because it enshrines the commitment to the fact that missionaries must reflect on the relationship between evangelisation and culture. This relationship is no longer the concern of each individual missionary but instead has become an institutional concern. This sector underwent some adjustments in 1991 and was renamed the National Expression of Religious Dialogue and Inculturation; it was thus in accord with the new theological vocabulary. By creating this specialised sector, CIMI sought to systematise the many missionary experiences among Indigenous peoples and encourage them to conduct an assessment and analysis of their own activities. We understand, however, that CIMI was also concerned with making the religious significance of its actions evident. 15

Leonardo Boff, América Latina: Da conquista à Nova Evangelização (São Paulo: Ática, 1992), 112.

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Chapter Nine The religious dimension permeates all aspects of culture and must be taken into account when working in the fields of health, education, and subsistence. As a result, it is necessary for the missionaries to become aware of the importance that religion has in these fields, as well as in political struggles in the face of current changes.16

The passage above represents a critical view of the Indigenous Pastoral Program made by traditional sectors of the Church: the changes made to the social structures that affect the lives of Indians cannot make the missionary a mere militant for the Indigenous movement; he/she cannot be confused with all the others who have taken part in this field. The Catholic missionaries now censure the program for lacking what before it had in excess. In its earlier incarnations, the missionaries shifted their focus from religious proselytism to social progress; however, we have now gone to the other extreme because of the ideas about inculturation. The Indigenous Pastoral Program is today trying to fulfil its task of injecting religious meaning into its practice, but in a way that avoids the errors of the “traditional” missionary. When evaluating the path taken over the years, the missionaries try to identify what they regard as victories in the field of inculturation. Here are some examples among many others: the Kaingang of Xapecozinho resumed the practice of Kiki, their cult of the dead, after several decades without practising it. This recovery was a direct result of the support that has been provided by CIMI since the late 1970s. The Indian area of Xapecó (in Santa Catarina) is the only Kaingang territory where people still practise this ritual there, led by prayers. Another important result was the revival of the traditional religious practices of the Guarani people. Among the four Indigenous communities in the municipality of Oiapoque (in Amapá), religion became the engine and the driving force that led to the demarcation of their land and the need to face problems relating to health, education, economic alternatives and the reevaluation of their culture. Among the Xavante (in Mato Grosso) there was systematic work aimed at the inculturation of the liturgy.17

These excerpts from positive missionary experiences, however, do not touch upon the most delicate and challenging factors arising from inculturation. These cases only refer to the missionary support that has been granted to the recovery of ancient religious practices that the 16

CIMI (Conselho Indigenista Missionário), Relatório geral de avaliação do Cimi – contribuições sistematizadas a partir das bases (Brasília: Cimi, 1997), 39. 17 CIMI, Relatório geral de avaliação do Cimi, 38.

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missionaries once helped to eradicate. It is not that these efforts are of little importance. Rather, we must remember that the project of inculturation poses an even greater challenge, which is to articulate these attitudes of respect for cultural otherness so that they can be reconciled with the spread of the fundamental core of the Christian message. As was seen in the theological definition given by Crollius quoted above, the mission must not only make the Christian experience an essential part of other cultures– as manifested in the Native code–, but also must make this incarnated experience capable of “inspiring, guiding and renovating ” culture–which, in turn, can act for the benefit of the universal Church. CIMI takes advantage of this immanently loose definition of the concept of inculturation. Like many other people involved in disputes about the concept, CIMI does its best to establish the authority of its discourse. The missionaries have provided a large number of representations and narratives that reveal their own practice among the Indians. The Indigenous Pastoral Program took the lead in the dissemination of experiences, evaluations and recommendations for inculturation. When the term “inculturation” began to become fashionable in the speeches and writings of the Brazilian Church, CIMI, to some extent, became “proficient” in this new language. The Indigenous Pastoral Program adopts a cautious approach in face of the uproar caused by the discussion of inculturation. Since they occupied a unique position among those who bear the hallmarks of field experience and who are constantly involved in the reality of Indigenous life, the missionaries took a circumspect view of the matter. If the much desired symbolic unity of the Christian message must come from the roots of each culture where the missionaries are present, then they should not have to worry about what will emerge in due time. After all, the inculturated missionary should not seek a syncretic blending, where the resulting symbolism only serves to cover up discordant signs and irreconcilable differences. Before achieving this symbolic unity, the Indigenous Pastoral Program seeks to pursue another utopian dream: the establishment of Indian churches. The prospect of these “pluralised” churches is still clearly on the distant horizon. However, they at least constitute something that is possible to imagine, according to these missionaries. These multi-cultural and multi-ethnic churches would be formed by the Natives themselves: they would have their own liturgical forms and would interpret Christian doctrine from their experiences. The model of inculturation put forward by the missionaries in Brazil began with the implosion of the hologram mentioned earlier. The bodies and souls that need to be evangelised can no

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longer be found in the same locus, around which the missionary used to see different plans, different people, and different faces which were gradually revealed at every change in perspective. Instead, the goals of missionary action are now scattered in space and move in various directions. When formulating their own kind of inculturation, missionaries must recognise how intangible this otherness is and thus are forced to admit they cannot understand many of its manifestations.

Bibliography ANDRI (Articulação Nacional de Diálogo Religioso e Inculturação). Fundamentalismo: o desafio da modernidade. Belém: Cimi Norte II, 1994. Azevedo, Marcello de Carvalho, S.J. “Inculturation and the Challenges of Modernity.” In Inculturation: Working Papers on Living Faith and Cultures, edited by Ary A. Roest Crollius, S.J. Rome: Centre “Cultures and Religions” - Pontifical Gregorian University, 1982. Boff, Leonardo. América Latina: Da conquista à Nova Evangelização. São Paulo: Ática, 1992. CELAM (Consejo Episcopal Latinoamericano). Conclusões de Medellin. São Paulo: Edições Paulinas, 1984. —. Conclusões da Conferência de Puebla. São Paulo: Edições Paulinas, 1986. CIMI (Conselho Indigenista Missionário). Relatório geral de avaliação do Cimi – contribuições sistematizadas a partir das bases. Brasília: Cimi, 1997. CNBB (Conferencia Nacional dos Bispos do Brasil). Carta de Pio XI ao episcopado brasileiro. Biblioteca do Instituto Nacional de Pastoral. Brasília: CNBB, 1946. Comblin, José. “Evangelização e inculturação: implicações pastorais.” In Teologia da Inculturação e Inculturação da teologia, edited by Márcio Fabri Dos Anjos, 57-89. Petrópolis, Vozes, 1995. Crollius, Ary Roest, S.J. “What is So New aboutI.” In Inculturation: Working Papers on Living Faith and Cultures. Rome: Centre “Cultures and Religions” - Pontifical Gregorian University, 1984. —. “Inculturation from the Babel to Pentecost.” In Creative Inculturation and the Unity of Faith, edited by Ary A. Roest Crollius, Paul Surlis, Thomas Langan, and Rodger Van Allen, 1-7. Rome: Centre “Cultures and Religions” - Pontifical Gregorian University, 1986. Maurer, Eugenio, S.J. “Inculturation or Transculturation among the Indians.” In Effective Inculturation and Ethnic Identity, edited by Ary

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A. Roest Crollius, S.J., 99-127. Rome: Centre “Cultures and Religions” - Pontifical Gregorian University, 1982. Montero, Paula. “Tradição e modernidade: João Paulo II e o problema da cultura.” Revista brasileira de ciências sociais 7, no. 20 (1982): 90112. —. “A universalidade da missão e a particularidade das culturas.” In Entre o mito e a história. O V centenário do descobrimento da América, edited by Paula Montero, 31-135. Petrópolis: Vozes 1996. —. “Índios e missionários no Brasil: por uma teoria da mediação cultural.” In Deus na aldeia: Missionários, índios e mediação cultural, edited by Paula Montero, 31-66. São Paulo: Editora Globo, 2006. Nkéramihigo, Théoneste, S.J. “On Inculturation of Christianity.” In What is so new about inculturation, edited by Ary A. Roest Crollius, S.J., 21-29. Rome: Centre “Cultures and Religions” - Pontifical Gregorian University, 1984. —. “Inculturation and the Specificity of Christian Faith.” Inculturation. Its Meaning and Urgency, edited by John M. Waliggo, 67-74. Nairobi: Saint Paul Publication, 1986. OPAN (Operação Anchieta). “História e linhas de ação da Operação Anchieta.” In Simpósio – Ação indigenista como ação política. Cuiabá: Opan, 1987. Pollock, David K. “Conversion and ‘Community’ in Amazonia.” In Conversion to Christianity. Historical and Anthropological Perspectives on a Great Transformation, edited by Robert W. Hefner, 165-198. California: University of California Press, 1993. Rufino, Marcos Pereira. “A missão calada: pastoral indigenista e a Nova Evangelização.” In Entre o mito e a história. O V Centenário do Descobrimento da América, edited by Paula Montero, 137-202. Petrópolis: Vozes, 1996. —. “Ide, portanto, mas em silêncio. Faces de um indigenismo missionário católico heterodoxo.” PhD diss., Universidade de São Paulo, 2002. Shapiro, Judith. “Ideologies of Catholic Missionary Practice in a Postcolonial Era.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 23, no. 1 (1981): 130-149. Sigmund, Paul. Liberation Theology at the Crossroads. Democracy or Revolution. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990. Silva, Joana Fernandes. “Utiariti. A última tarefa.” In Transformando os deuses. Os múltiplos sentidos da conversão entre os povos indígenas no Brasil, edited by Robin M. Wright, 399-424. Campinas: Editora da Unicamp, 1999.

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Suess, Paulo. A causa indígena na caminhada e a proposta do Cimi: 1972-1989. Petrópolis: Vozes, 1989. —. “A disputa pela inculturação.” In Teologia da inculturação e inculturação da teologia, edited by Márcio Fabri Dos Anjos, 113-132. Petrópolis, Vozes, 1995. Zizola, Giancarlo. The Utopia of Pope John XXIII. New York: Orbis Books, 1979.

CHAPTER TEN RELIGIOUS CONFLICTS, MISSIONARY ACTION AND INDIGENOUS ACTIVISM IN THE WESTERN BRAZILIAN AMAZON SIDNEI CLEMENTE PERES

Introduction Only a few systematic and long-term studies concerning both the historical and sociological relations between missionary activity and the formation of the contemporary Indigenous movement1 have been published to date in Brazil. The socio-genesis of the Indigenous movement in Rio Negro fits in with the formation of an extensive social activist network, whose expression can be found in the Federação das Organizações Indígenas do Rio Negro (FOIRN), closely connected to international cooperation and non-governmental organisations with technical and political aims. FOIRN consolidated a regional, Indigenous public sphere that was supported in the political field of so-called transnational indigenism and environmentalism, and transformed Rio Negro into the region with the greatest number of Indigenous associations in the entire Brazilian territory.2 I shall describe and analyse herein both 1

For a study of the Xocó ethnogenesis, in the hinterland of Sergipe State–an area of action of missionaries of the Centro Indigenista Missionário (CIMI)–, see José Maurício Arruti, “A produção da alteridade: o Toré e as conversões missionárias e indígenas,” in Deus na aldeia: missionários, índios e mediação cultural, ed. Paula Montero (São Paulo: Globo, 2006), 381-426. 2 Sidnei Clemente Peres, “Cultura, Política e Identidade na Amazônia: o associativismo indígena no Baixo Rio Negro” (PhD diss., Universidade Estadual de Campinas, 2003); and “A formação do associativismo indígena no Rio Negro: perspectivas de construção da democracia e do diálogo intercultural na Amazônia,” in Movimentos sociais, políticas sociais e questão social: elementos para uma análise da realidade no Brasil e na América Latina, ed. Lucí Faria Pinheiro (Rio de Janeiro: Gramma, 2011), 55-71.

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the unforeseen convergence of the subjects–due to the efforts of Salesian pastoral reform–and the rise of movements and politics of ethnic recognition. I would also like to separate the way in which such processes developed within a context of religious struggle between Catholic and Protestant missionaries that threatened Salesian hegemony. Nevertheless, it is opportune to offer a brief description of the origin of the Indigenous tutelage, in conflict with the ecclesiastic tutelage of Indigenous peoples. It is also necessary to examine the link between the transformation of pastoral action and the subsequent formation of Indigenous activism in the Western Brazilian Amazon.

State Tutelage, Ecclesiastic Tutelage and Missionary Indigenism in Rio Negro The Serviço de Proteção aos Índios (SPI) (Indian Protection Service) emerged due to the convergence of the interests of a group of soldiers devoted to positivism. Said soldiers were all engineers graduated from Escola Militar da Praia Vermelha and had an almost pious adoration of science and technology as the driving forces of civilisation and national integration. They were linked institutionally to Serviço de Povoamento do Ministério da Guerra; they were split into segments dominated by the latifundiary agro-exporter bourgeoisie, represented by both the Sociedade Nacional de Agricultura (SNA, National Society of Agriculture) and the Ministério da Agricultura, Indústria e Comércio (MAIC, Ministry of Agriculture, Industry and Trade). SNA and MAIC were both established in 1909. Right from the beginning, these two institutions acted in opposition to the hegemony of coffee growers that dominated the economic and financial development of the Republican State insofar as they held the command of Ministério do Planejamento.3 Rural development and frontiersman ideologies (the so called ruralismo and sertanismo) became complementary during the organisation process, involving the population’s politics and colonisation, territorial integration and formation of the rural workforce. According to both the evolutionist conception of human history and the positivist paradigm, Indians were thought of as stationed in the lowest stage of civilisation, as if representative of primitive and infantile mental development. Said conception presupposed the Indians’ capacity to

3

Antonio Carlos de Souza Lima, “Aos fetichistas, ordem e progresso: um estudo do campo indigenista no seu estado de formação” (Master’s thesis, PPGAS/MN, 1985).

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reach higher stages of evolution and, consequently, to grant them the possibility to be assimilated into the nation. The anticlerical stance of SPI’s engineer-soldiers was due to a positivist formation which occurred during the consolidation of the Republican State at the beginning of the twentieth century. However, said ideological position was not institutionally shared and supported by other governmental bodies (such as the Serviço de Povoamento do Ministério da Agricultura), which intensified cooperation with the Catholic Church in the Amazonian borderlands with other countries. Indeed, we cannot speak of an abstract and generic opposition between State and Church, but of a tense–and sometimes conflicting–relationship between indigenist and religious agencies that struggled for resources and political status within the State. At times, the conflict possibly became more intense, as occurred in 1954 when, on the occasion of the presentation of a bill of law to the House of Representatives, the dismissal of the SPI and the assignment of all their duties to religious missions was suggested.4 In some contexts, the SPI had to admit or tolerate the presence of–or even submit to–extensive and consolidated missionary organisations working with Indigenous groups, as occurred in Salesian areas (in Rio Negro, among the Tucano- and Aruak-speaking population, and in Mato Grosso, among the Bororo and Xavante). The conflict with the Salesians started with the establishment of the SPI in 1910 and continued for many decades. It was perpetrated by means of mutual accusations among leaders of the indigenist and religious bodies, respectively propagated in publications by Positivists and by the Catholic Church. Among the many accusations directed at missionaries, the attempts at disqualifying the Salesians as agents of imperialism are noteworthy: their aim was both to perform methodical denationalisation of Indians and to educate Indians in Italian.5 We have observed the conflict between two forms of tutelage imposed on the Indigenous peoples: the national tutelage and ecclesiastic tutelage. The Salesians settled in Rio Negro in 1914. They first arrived in São Gabriel da Cachoeira, in the Amazon state, where they created the Apostolic Prefecture. In 1912, the SPI experienced financial restriction in favour of the concession of public funds to the Salesian order. Missionary centres were established at different strategic points along the Rio Negro 4

Carlos Augusto da Rocha Freire, “A Criação do Conselho Nacional de Proteção aos Índios e o Indigenismo Interamericano (1939-1955),” Boletim do Museu do Índio 5 (1996). 5 Freire, “A Criação do Conselho Nacional de Proteção aos Índios e o Indigenismo Interamericano.”

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and its tributaries. The basic units of activity were internments where Indigenous children were to be transformed into “Christians for God and citizens for the Country.” All the Indigenous children and young people were not allowed to speak their languages at boarding schools. Moreover, they were penalised with physical and moral punishments when caught in such a transgression. There was a firm discipline that defined tasks, activities and study schedules, leisure, jobs (handicrafts, agriculture, etc.), meals, rest, and presence in the pews; everything was permeated by prayers, filling daily life with a collection of highly formalised prescriptions. Aside from religious teachings, boys attending boarding schools were encouraged to pursue agricultural studies, considered more appropriate for the Indigenous (as well as music and exercise), and girls were encouraged to develop agricultural and domestic skills. Catechesis and Civilisation in Rio Negro boarding schools was overlooked for a long time–until the military occupation focused on the Calha Norte Project in the middle of the 1980s–Protection and Assistance in the Indian Posts. In this tri-national frontier area (Brazil, Colombia and Venezuela), the State was present through the action of Italian missionaries involved in the task of nationalising the Indigenous masses and at the same time removing them from the “claws of the demon” that imprisoned them in a condition of misery and savagery.6 The gentios lived in infernal captivity, under the yoke of sin and deceived by representatives of the devil–the shamans–, who clouded the reason of the savages through idolatry. The frontiersman’s ideology (sertanismo) was condensed in a Christian/Colonial symbolic economy with nationalist elements. Such iconoclastic obsession placed the missionaries at war with the “Native heresies” expressed in shamanism, marriages between cross cousins, the ingestion of hallucinogenic plants and body ornaments. Above all, the ancestral long houses (maloca) were the target of even fiercer attacks: conceived as temples of evil, the missionaries viewed them as the perfect image of the Native cosmos. Catechesis and Civilisation were used in nationalist language. The Church’s role as guardian of national sovereignty was expressed 6

The Salesians who operated in the Bororo territory of Mato Grosso called themselves trailblazers of Christ. They moved around in the forest (in the back lands) to conquer souls in spite of lands and riches, to civilise by means of spiritual conversion and nationalise and integrate populations through membership in two imaginary communities: the Catholic and the Brazilian: Sylvia Caiuby Novaes, “A épica salvacionista e as artimanhas de resistência: as Missões Salesianas e os Bororo de Mato Grosso,” in Transformando os deuses: os múltiplos sentidos da conversão entre os povos indígenas no Brasil, ed. Robin M. Wright (Campinas, SP: Editora da Unicamp, 1999), 343-362.

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emphatically within the Içana basin, where Salesian hegemony was threatened by the Baniwa’s heightened receptivity to the efforts of the North American Protestant missionaries of the New Tribes Mission. Protestant conferences, led by Baniwa pastors, were represented as disorderly gatherings, favouring all types of disease, fighting and the propagation of murder by poisoning (the local term for sorcery). Similarly, the Salesians looked upon the ancient Indigenous festivities as orgies, temples of moral debauchery. In addition, the Salesians emphatically condemned the state of precariousness and material carelessness of Protestant Indigenous villages, viewed as the obvious result of religious fanaticism inspired by North-American pastors, contrary to the Catholic missionary practice that was aimed at civilising Indians through the imposition of a religious morality that encouraged them to work. In the middle of the 1950s, the Salesians solicited the support of federal authorities (the Ministries of External Relations, War, Justice and the Interior) to prevent those people from poisoning themselves by continuing to drink the “putrid waters” of the Protestant sect. In this situation, native traditions (which the Salesians considered an obstacle to be eradicated through conversion) were elevated to the status of natural and authentic “Brazilianity,” as cultivated in Catholic pastoral practice. In short, missionary ecclesiastic tutelage, progress and civilisation were popularised among the natives, spreading the idea that conversion was the only way to the salvation of their souls, enslaved in savagery, misery and backwardness as a result of subordination to idolatry (considered inherent in Indigenous culture) that prevented them from being transformed into good workers and citizens. During the 1970s and 1980s, the Salesians in the Rio Negro area radically modified their missionary practice and the ecclesiastic tutelage exercised among Indigenous groups, inspired by the theological perspective of Liberation Theology and the pastoral approaches of the Second Vatican Council. During this period, the Brazilian State ended its long-standing partnership with the Salesians. The State had supported missionary activities aimed at occupying and nationalizing the western end of the Amazon. The synergy between catechesis and nationalization was interrupted, because the State began to subjugate directly the region through the construction of roads and barracks, and setting up engineering and frontier platoons. The attacks on Indigenous customs and traditions were replaced by enculturation (inculturação) and by the introduction of elements of Indigenous material culture (ornaments, handicrafts, ritual instruments, chants, dances, etc.) into the Catholic liturgy. The process of enculturation also entailed the discovery of Christian universal values

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within Indigenous cultures and the specific way of experiencing the faith in each society. All the missionaries were to learn native languages and understand different customs and institutions to prevent conversion from generating a superficial Christianity upon a dense substrate of ancestral mentality. And with regard to an ancestral substrate, unknown and overlooked by us, but that remains strong even in the catechists, even in the ministers of the Eucharist, even in our Indigenous aspirants, Christian layers are positioned, that–I doubt–they do not succeed in penetrating.7

Instead of focusing on missionary centers or boarding schools, Indigenous settlements were organised into ecclesial base communities (CEBs), where the itinerancies and the training of lay pastoral agents (catechists, ministers of the Eucharist, etc.) were privileged. However, paradoxically, for a long time Indigenous children and young people at boarding schools were not allowed to communicate in their own languages and submitted to spiritual and physical punishments. Missionaries linked to the Conselho Indigenista Missionário (CIMI) (Missionary Indigenous Council) operated in the region together with the Salesians, who encouraged the Indigenous people to participate in parish life through assemblies and councils–which mobilised the community leaders–and any form of associativism for religious and political aims.8 The community was now conceived as a harmonious, homogeneous and cooperative form of life, where every kind of conflict or dissent (fighting, murder, sorcery, alcoholism, etc.) must be opposed. Under the debt regime,9 community activities (farming and cattle) were privileged while extractivist activities were repudiated. 7

“Relatório das atividades da Prelazia do Rio Negro, Amazonas, 1978” in Peres, “Cultura, Política e Identidade na Amazônia: o associativismo indígena no Baixo Rio Negro,” 80. 8 It is important to note that the Salesians were involved in establishment of the CIMI. For an analysis of the establishment of the CIMI and of the changes of approach in the Catholic Church’s missionary practice: Marcos Pereira Rufino, “A missão calada: pastoral indigenista e a nova evangelização,” in Entre o mito e a história: o V centenário do descobrimento da América, ed. Paula Montero (Petrópolis, RJ: Vozes, 1995), 137-202; and “O código da cultura: o CIMI no debate da inculturação,” in Deus na aldeia: missionários, índios e mediação cultural, ed. Paula Montero (São Paulo: Globo, 2006), 235-275. 9 This is a form of recruitment and compulsory exploitation of the extractivist work force based on debt, whose two fundamental hinge pins are the boss and the customer.

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Salesian activities incorporated key elements taken from missionary indigenism which, using the notion of enculturation, tried to reconcile religious conversion and acknowledgement of difference. The developmentalism promoted by the military faction would lead to the destruction of the Indigenous culture that in its essence–if considered from a missionary point of view–boasted authentic Christian values. Indeed, development at any cost was defined as ethnocide, a crime against humanity and a sin, an offence against God. Culture became the object of political action (an reversed signal compared to the previous iconoclasm), but the retrieval of ancient traditions–restricted to their most tangible aspects–was included in the reformulated logic of ecclesiastic tutelage. Indigenous people were now encouraged to develop signs of their own ethnic authenticity within the dialogical spaces pertaining to Catholics (assemblies, meetings and courses about lay pastoral leadership, etc).10 However, the Salesians became precious allies during the process of inversion of stigma into ethnic pride, a process that was fundamental for the socio-genesis of the movement of public affirmation of Indigenous ancestry in Rio Negro. The salvaging of native culture was inserted in both the language and in the Salesian missionaries’ agenda, but did not correspond to a secular and autonomous program of reinvention of traditions. It provided elements for its appearance during the enforcement of the Projeto Calha Norte (Calha Norte Project) and the establishment of the Federação das Organizações Indígenas do Rio Negro (FOIRN, Federation of Indigenous Organizations of the Rio Negro) in the mid-1980s in the same region. As we can observe, the Indigenous movement emerges as linked to the tutelary action of missionary indigenism. Once Indigenous associativism had not been disseminated, activism was concentrated around great figures or centralised and verticalised organisations, all established around the need to discuss the origin and representation of communities. At last, a deep change in many political and administrative structures and in the 10 Rufino (“O código da cultura”) notes the difference between two distinct pastoral strategies, both originating from the change of approach of missionary practice after the Second Vatican Council (1962-65), the Episcopal Conference of Medellin (1968) and of Puebla (1979). One strategy worked on the notion of incarnation, whose focuses were social promotion and political commitment. The other was based on the notion of enculturation, with the focus on cultural diversity and singularity. During the 70s and 80s, we saw the complex and dynamic articulation of both these strategies in the Rio Negro area: different–sometimes even opposite–principles of pastoral action such as assimilation, incarnation and enculturation.

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symbolic order of religiosity–aimed at greater control of Indigenous Christianity–transformed the Church into an institutional incubator of the Indigenous movement in Rio Negro.11 However, the picture would be incomplete if we did not approach the way the new Catholic pastoral proposal was conceived to solve the specific problems concerning the fight against the so called “Protestant heresy.”

Religious Conflicts and the New Pastoral Offering in Içana The parish of Assunção do Içana contains the Baniwa and Curripaco groups that live around the Içana River and its tributaries Cubaté, Aiari and Cuiari. The vast majority of the people forming these groups are Protestant. The active presence of the Salesians in the Içana basin was discontinuous until the foundation of the first mission on February 11, 1951 by the priest José Schneider, who knew the Nheengatu language. This mission was located on the edge of the Baniwa settlements; the groups living there spoke both Nheengatu and Baniwa. This missionary centre was mainly established because of concern for the activities of Sophia Muller–designated as a “Protestant invasion”–, whose strategies of religious conversion the Salesian authority considered very efficient. In 1955 during a meeting of the Rio Negro missions’ directors, the Protestant expansion in Içana was the most discussed subject. It was decided to form a special delegation to verify the situation and determine if the construction of a school could solve the problems. According to Father João Marchesi, all the Indians in the Icana basin were “contaminated with the Baptist sect.” The diffusion of Protestantism was associated with the image of contagion, a spreading disease. In Upper Içana, the majority of people in the villages became believers (crentes). In Lower Içana, only three villages maintained a chapel–meaning that some people were still Catholic. The commission verified that even in its own headquarters in Assunção do Içana, many Indigenous (reference is made to groups of hundreds) that gathered there were motivated only by their needs (i.e. access to goods). Many of them secretly practised Protestant cults, even inside the mission’s annexes. Salesian hegemony was preserved in Rio Aiari only. The Salesian discourse was presented with strong military tones, in which the Indigenous villages were treated as territories already conquered, conserved or lost by Catholic faith. The 11

About the Church as an institutional incubator of social movements in rural contexts: Peter Houtzager, Os últimos cidadãos: conflito e modernização no Brasil rural (1964-1995) (São Paulo: Globo, 2004).

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mission’s unsuitable location was cited as an important explanation for this situation: a few people lived far from the focus of exposure to Protestantism. A new location was suggested for a mission at the mouth of Rio Cuiari, above the Tunuì waterfall, where there was a Commission of Limits campsite and where Colonel Themistocles Brazil in person had recommended the establishment of a mission.12 Here we can see evidence of the convergence of concerns about the security of Brazilian national frontiers and religious frontiers effectively established by the Salesian Order in the Alto Rio Negro area. This “partnership”–to use a currently fashionable term–between national and ecclesiastical sovereignty was to be one of the conditions of Salesian missionary work until enforcement of the Calha Norte Project. The “outsourcing” of indigenist action was a basic element in the field of interethnic mediation within the northwestern Amazon region. The newly defined profile of priests and the strategy now adopted to realize such an eminent task reveal the belief in the efficacy of missionary action, whose model should be followed. A missionary should master the most spoken languages (Nheengatu and Baniwa) and deliver his sermons and prepare catechism in these languages as requested; moreover, he should frequently and constantly relate with people in the villages. These were to be the bases for a true and deep conversion that would consolidate the Catholic presence in Içana, so precarious at that time. The sound and lasting results of this pastoral perspective were reflected in the enthusiastic and complete religious commitment of Baniwa believers: We saw many temples of worship where they gather daily and remain for hours reading parts of the Bible and singing hymns, translated into the Baniwa dialect and even some into the common language. They show themselves convinced and perform these acts of worship with much seriousness.13

Further evidence of the positive effect of this line of action was the power of mobilisation and persuasion of Protestant leaders. Father Marchesi mentions one specific occasion (February 15, 1955) during which a pastor assembled 680 adults in Tunuí and performed 60 baptisms (the rite of initiation, consecration, full acceptance into the community of 12

Assunção do Içana, where buildings existed to accommodate priests and sisters, would serve as a resting place after the constant trips to small farms and villages made by the Salesians. 13 “Correspondence sent by Father João Marchesi to Dom Pedro Massa. Vaupés, March 1, 1955,” manuscript in Peres, “Cultura, Política e Identidade na Amazônia: o associativismo indígena no Baixo Rio Negro,” 101.

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believers). He suggested to Dom Pedro Massa to intervene with the inspector to recommend Father Galli for the Içana area–according to the requirements mentioned above–instead of Father Guilherme Galibinelli, who would be posted at São Gabriel da Cachoeira. He proposed to preside over construction of the new mission that was supposed to be operational in 1956, at the mouth of the Rio Cuiari. Despite being proposed by a commission of respectable Salesians working in the Rio Negro area, this missionary centre, located at the mouth of the Rio Cuiari, was never established. Many years later, commission member Fr. Carlos Galli attributed the failure to the interference of an SPI employee, Atayde Cardoso, who had commercial interests with the Protestants. The solution considered at first to be insufficient, i.e. the construction of a school, ended up prevailing: “the boarding school, marvellous workshop, transformer of mentality and customs.”14 Father Galli affirmed that mission was synonymous with boarding school, and that more recently the itinerancy brought the mission to the Catholic families of upper Içana, thus showing the limitation of the purpose of evangelisation represented by boarding schools. Even during the 1970s, when the idea of enculturation first appeared in Salesian discourse, boarding schools were still an object of veneration, seen as an amazing and almost magical force of moral transfiguration, promoting a true religious conversion that is inherent in urban life and opposed to the harmful customs spread by Protestantism: The feminine is submitted to care and neatness; they determine–even in a moral transformation–an adhesion to everything concerning the mission. This is a form of “communicative happiness”–good manners, cleaning, respect–that seems to educate young women in the city, which represents certainly the opposite of a Protestant environment–introverted, sad, insecure, secluded, dirty, hurting–where nobody dares to stare someone straight in the eyes.15

In this instance, the term “to civilise” means to develop the ability of relating to others, to expand civilisation, a good life together, mutual respect in contrast with the hostility and dirtiness fostered by both the Indigenous and Protestant cultures. It is interesting to observe the 14

“Correspondence sent by Father João Marchesi to Dom Pedro Massa. Vaupés, March 1, 1955,” manuscript in Peres, “Cultura, Política e Identidade na Amazônia: o associativismo indígena no Baixo Rio Negro,” 101. 15 “Chronicle resumed of the Assunção do Içana Mission - 1974” in Peres, “Cultura, Política e Identidade na Amazônia: o associativismo indígena no Baixo Rio Negro,” 102.

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importance assigned to personal hygiene in the process of formation of this Catholic lifestyle. Father Galli described the state of “religious ignorance” that spread in Rio Negro before the visit of Bishop Lourenço Giordano, who pointed out the “deplorable moral and intellectual situation of the Indians” that led to religious missionary action in the region. The bishop considered ancient Indigenous celebrations to be real orgies, where hundreds of half-naked Indians–including women and children–crowded in the maloca (an ancestral long house) for many days consuming drink and drugs, dancing and chanting in an environment filled with smoke and bad smells. Let us look at the semantic elements found in the register of Father Galli and concerning the 1916 trip of Bishop Jordano to Taracuá, Lower Vaupés. The trip was to an old Arapaço maloca where the missionaries wanted to establish a mission: They arrived there in the afternoon–then, only one maloca existed, of enormous proportions [...] upon coming to the only entrance, we saw more than 400 people inside–dressed with coeio only; men, women, children– some lying down, others singing, others chortling, others crying, all of it characterised by vast smoke from multiple fires, an intolerable fetid smell offended the nostrils. Immediately the Tuchaua approached, all ornate, with the big men, in the same conditions, inviting us to come in and pass the night with them. [...] From the third day on, the drink and the drugs flowed at your convenience. All matters related to the tribe were decided at these meetings. Then, men, women, young men, young women, and even children, everybody was drunk–for the unrestrained dancing, for the dissoluteness–; many could not stand up so they did not go out of the maloca, not even for their primary needs; everything was released right there.16

The way in which the Salesians represented Protestant Conferences was also highly negative: disorderly gatherings favouring the propagation of diseases, fights and murder by poisoning. At the same time, Father Galli lamented the return to the “ancient orgies” which the Indigenous believers who abandoned Protestantism indulged in. He states his preference for the “parties of the mixed-race Brazilians” who, even if they have many vices, have an opportunity to prove their devotion and faith. In 1957, the boarding school for girls was inaugurated and 50 girls enrolled. Five years later, the boarding school for boys was opened, and 29 students enrolled. However, the nuns’ transfer to the newly-opened 16

“Chronicle resumed of the Missão de Assunção do Içana - 1974. Padre Carlos Galli,” in Peres, “Cultura, Política e Identidade na Amazônia: o associativismo indígena no Baixo Rio Negro,” 102-103.

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mission in Cucuí (1967) was the reason for the closure of the boarding school. The nuns returned in 1976, but the boarding school never opened again. The pupils of Içana that completed the fourth grade were sent to the boarding school in Taracuá, where the absolute majority of pupils were from the Tukano tribe. Bishop Pedro Massa agreed to maintain the traditional yet unsuccessful method of missionary action, instead of the one that presupposed self-criticism–shaped by comparison with Protestant conversion strategies. Içana was a laboratory for testing the efficacy of Salesian pastoral practice; it was a sort of arena of religious struggle where there was no Catholic monopoly sponsored by the Brazilian State. Dom José Domitrovics specified that, from a Salesian viewpoint, the situation in the region was painful, shameful and humiliating. It pointed out the ineffectiveness of the newly established missionary structure in said locations. The deep religiosity of the Protestant Indians contradicted the opinion that prevailed among the Salesians regarding Indigenous involvement in Catholicism, considered as superficial and nothing more than for appearance. Mention is made of the existence of 40 houses of prayer “that were full every day for worship, without any foreign element in their midst”;17 they do not care about material well-being and flee to the garden or to the bush when they see priests arriving. At any rate, the faith would then have been so firmly rooted in the spirit and daily life of the Indians–so full of addictions and sins in the past–that it would eliminate the need for the constant presence of any external agent of evangelisation to keep them in the “right and safe way of Christian virtues and eternal salvation.”18 According to discourse, there was a division between the geopolitical interests of the State and missionary politics. In this sense, we can see a 17 “Correspondence sent by Dom José Domitrovics to the Elmo. Senior Bishop Dom Pedro Massa. Vaupés, 02 de março de 1955,” in Peres, “Cultura, Política e Identidade na Amazônia: o associativismo indígena no Baixo Rio Negro,” 104. 18 At the end of the 1960s, the Içana Mission of was a centre of much criticism. Attention was focused on the Salesian pastoral model–based on comparison with the effective Protestant missionary action–, where the situation is basically as follows: limited action at the headquarters, while the pastor tours the Indigenous settlements, organising them into small groups and training Indigenous pastoral agents to evangelise, speaking their own language, to provide health and agricultural education. The mission received huge government resources, and other resources from some international organizations. The benefits were only for Indians that kept in contact with the headquarters. Thus there was a remarkable waste of medicines due to the fact that they were not distributed among the small farms in the hinterland.

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challenging of the arguments that sought the State’s support in the elimination of the “Protestant invasion,” as if it were a foreign threat to the country’s territorial integrity. Some perplexity emerges about these priests–a veiled criticism of the expensive and unproductive methods that mobilised extensive institutional paraphernalia–if compared to the results obtained by the isolated actions of one person, Sophie Muller, who was provided with few financial, material and human resources.19 This mystery becomes even more depressing if we take into account that the Indians from the Içana area were the ones who got drunk, stole and caused disorder. The dabucuris of the Içana were famous as far as the Lower Rio Negro. All this was done by a woman who did not even give the Indians a needle. Now, we also worked in the Içana area for six years. We already spent too much money, and now the commission that I sent there reports that the men of most intimate trust and confidence of the priest, who worked months and even years with him, are Protestant chiefs who would secretly indulge in Protestant worship in the mission’s outbuildings, while the priest was celebrating Mass in the Chapel. Who can understand all of this?20

However, we should not overly stress such suspension of all Salesian certainties, because the need for a new mission was justified in order to “prevent those people from poisoning themselves by going to drink the putrid waters of the Protestants errors.”21 The rival missionary methodology had its merits, but it ended up being condemnable. Many of the certainties of the ecclesiastic order were placed in doubt, transformed into an object of debate inside the community of the heads of the missions. However, during the following year (1956), the mission of Father José Leão Schneider (the head of Assumption of Icana), invested heavily against the “abuses and disorders practiced by the American Sect.” The symbiosis between Catechesis and Nationality, State and Church, both axes of the hegemonic missionary structure in Rio Negro, managed to re-conquer a 19

For an anthropological analysis of the work of the missionary Sophia Muller among the Baniwa people: Robin M. Wright, “O tempo de Sophie: história e cosmologia da conversão Baniwa,” in Transformando os deuses: os múltiplos sentidos da conversão entre os povos indígenas no Brasil, ed. Robin M. Wright (Campinas, SP: Ed. Unicamp, 1999), 155-216. 20 “Correspondence sent by Dom José Domitrovics to the Elmo. Senior Bishop Dom Pedro Massa. Vaupés, 02 de março de 1955,” in Peres, “Cultura, Política e Identidade na Amazônia: o associativismo indígena no Baixo Rio Negro,” 104. 21 “Correspondence sent by Dom José Domitrovics to the Elmo. Senior Bishop Dom Pedro Massa. Vaupés, 02 de março de 1955,” in Peres, “Cultura, Política e Identidade na Amazônia: o associativismo indígena no Baixo Rio Negro,” 105.

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territory lost by the Salesians in Içana. The precarious material conditions came to be regarded as the fruit of fanaticism, conceived of as mental defacement, inoculated by the American pastors, generating in the Baniwa a dislike for work, contrary both to their Indigenous condition and their genuine “Brazilianity”: The Banivas [sic] are clever Indians and known as intrepid agricultural workers, supplying, in past years, all the commerce of the Upper Rio Negro and the numerous boarding schools of the Salesian missions with manioc flour, highly expert people in the extraction of products, in the textile cottage industry of Arumâ and of Tucun. A great part of these real Brazilians, baptized in the Catholic religion, became victims of a pernicious American Protestant sect that transformed their mentality, inoculating a crazy religious fanaticism, disregarding all Brazilianity, drifting away from productive and progressive work.22

If Indians were previously known for their addictions (drunkenness, thefts and disorders), all of which were extirpated through the benevolent action of a heroic missionary, they are now described as enthusiastic, courageous workers who are involved in economic and regional progress, as well as the material support of the missions. Their contribution as skilled extractivists and flour producers–very important for commerce in the Rio Negro area–is never associated with the aviamento system: a cruel system of submission of the workforce based on indebtedness, a mechanism of change that runs through a completely hierarchized web of relationships between bosses and customers. Violated by the malignant influence of a “foreign sect,” they are deprived of the virtues that are considered characteristic of their aboriginal traditions (symbolised here by their handicraft talents) and their authentic “Brazilianity,” reinforced by Catholic catechesis. The performance of missions is conceived as an instrument to stimulate and develop civic spirit, already previously existent in its early state in Indigenous culture. The “foreign pastors” were said to be undermining the success of said patriotic task by disseminating “hate and scorn of the country’s official religion,” bringing social chaos (including the spreading of diseases like tuberculosis through their conferences, where the murder of priests was planned in order to form “a revolutionary army of Americanised Indians” to definitively push the Salesians out of Içana), profaning Catholic 22

“Serious disorder at the Brazilian frontier. Father José Leão Schneider. Assunção do Içana, 27 de janeiro de 1956,” in Peres, “Cultura, Política e Identidade na Amazônia: o associativismo indígena no Baixo Rio Negro,” 105106.

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symbols and disrespecting national authorities, thus threatening national sovereignty in these far-flung frontiers of Brazil.23 In short, the task of rectifying the hard blow struck to Salesian hegemony by Protestant expansion in the Rio Içana area was assigned to the Brazilian State through its civil and military authorities in Rio Negro.24 Some months later, in a letter sent to the Minister of Exterior Relations,25 Don Pedro Massa suggested that the question was no longer one of religion, but rather of national sovereignty. Some years later (1960), the Bishop pressed the Conselho de Segurança Nacional (Council of National Security) into taking action by expelling “Brazil’s enemy” and denouncing the conflicts generated between Catholics and believers, the threats of invasion of the missionary centres and the murder of many priests, the burning of the national flag and a plan for annexation of the entire Rio Negro to North America.26 Repressive measures were taken as a result of such serious accusations. For example, in December 1960 during a conference in the village of Pupunha-Rupitá, American pastors were imprisoned by a patrol of the Pelotão de Fronteira de Cucuí (Cucuí Frontier Platoon) and were taken to Manaus to answer the charges they were accused of. However, eight months later the judicial process was 23

“In Tunuí, I came across a very nice image of Santo Antônio, patron saint of that village and of the Brazilian Army, covered in filth and mud; higher up, above this village, in the Rio Cuiari area, the dogs with Our Lady medals around their necks, facts that not only filled the heart of the Catholic missionaries with deep grief and sorrow, but revolted the innermost soul of any Brazilian. [...] The Indians followers of this sect are called non-Brazilians, more American, holding our authority in little consideration.” (“Serious disorder at the Brazilian frontiers. Father José Leão Schneider. Assunção do Içana, January 27, 1956,” in Peres, “Cultura, Política e Identidade na Amazônia: o associativismo indígena no Baixo Rio Negro,” 106. 24 This appeal was not unprecedented since some years earlier Sophia Muller had received a prison order from the local authorities for solicitation of the SPI Inspector, taking shelter in Colombia and Venezuela where she operated through her closer and devoted Curripaco followers from the village of Seringa-Ruptá, in the Upper Içana. She began to preach in the region in 1945 (Peres, “Cultura, Política e Identidade na Amazônia: o associativismo indígena no Baixo Rio Negro,” 105-106). 25 “Correspondence sent by Bishop Prelado of the Rio Negro, Don Pedro Massa, to the Minister of Exterior Relations Anbassador Macedo Soares. Rio de Janeiro, March 19, 1956. This document lists the other two recipients of the Salesian Bishop’s appeal to the Minister of War, Marshal Henrique Teixeira; and to the Minister of Justice and the Interior, Dr. Nereu Ramos. 26 “Correspondence sent by the Bishop Prelate of the Rio Negro, Don Pedro Massa, to the Secretary General of the Conselho de Segurança Nacional General Nelson de Melo. Don Pedro Massa. Rio de Janeiro, October 24, 1960.”

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archived and the pastors involved returned to the upper Içana and proceeded to act in a more cautious and discreet manner. During the 1960s, according to Father Galli, many Indigenous–both Catholic and Protestant–travelled the country to go to work in the piaçabais (extractive area of the Piaçava) in Colombia and Venezuela. In the case of Catholics, said emigration was due to the change in the pastoral attitude adopted by the Salesians, now inspired by the Second Vatican Council. The Salesians wanted an immediate union with the Protestants and repressed all acts–such as drunkenness, smoking and dancing–that were previously tolerated. On the other hand, as the mission refused to provide any products to the Indians, they went looking for another source: they found it in Colombian and Venezuelan patrons. When they returned to their small farms, they went back to their old way of life, renewing those “sad antiquities, reverting to the ancient pagan practices.” As has been said, Catholics and Protestants lived together in a “primitive state of sin.” There are many comments about the bad reputation acquired by Içaneiros in Venezuelan and Colombian piaçabais, avoiding the payment of debts acquired under the regime of good will. In this period, the mission relied on only a resident priest, a daily school, a surgery at the headquarters, six chapels and six schools in the hinterland (Iaucanã and Assunção, in Lower Içana; Tapira-Ponta, in Upper Içana; Loiro, Camarão, Uapuí and Jerusalém, in Aiari). The total of pupils at these establishments was 197. From 1974, an assistant and two nuns residing in São Gabriel da Cachoeira visited the Indigenous settlements periodically. They completed the framework of available human resources: two nurses, ten teachers and eight catechists. There were still two outboard engines and an inboard engine. Despite the uncertainty of material and human resources, Father Galli was optimistic. He was sure that the frequent changes and constant relocation that obliged the missionaries to get to know the villages, the Indigenous languages and different customs allowed every single missionary to “engraft the Gospel in the basic beliefs conserved by the Baniwa.” However, the wide difference between the languages spoken in Içana (Baniwa and Nheengatu) made the promotion of a unified pastoral and liturgical action quite difficult. Despite the respect for the different cultures that the missionaries considered to be a growth factor and a point of renovation, cultural and ethnic heterogeneity was still viewed as an obstacle to any ecclesiastic action. The discourse of Father Carlos Galli is rather contradictory. In his Chronicle he tried to argue his case using a logical and coherent register. His discourse forms a part of the Salesian

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practice in the 1970s and 1980s in Rio Negro, at the time when the Catholic Church started to reformulate its postulates. The same ambiguity that characterises Father Galli can be found in Father Afonso Casasnovas, who was the director of the mission at that time. He describes the condition of the religious field in Içana during the 1980s. His main preoccupation was related to the change of religious direction and the abandonment of Christianity. He did not support the Jesuit thesis of the “unstable soul of the savage”; he pointed out the “deep religiosity of the Baniwa,” considering it to be incompatible with religious pluralism, and more an obstacle for the coexistence of different beliefs among followers. The Baniva [sic] are deeply religious; everything that they do has a religious meaning; they do not have the dichotomy of the profane-religious white men. Therefore at the beginning of the Protestant discourse there were many cases of death due to poisoning. How can Indians from different religions manage to live together in the same village–and even worse, in the same family?27

The inability to live together in spite of differences explains the frequent changes of religion observed among the Baniwa. The expressed hypothesis of a non-dichotomy between the profane and religious sphere is interesting, but unfounded. Religion was included in the practical matters of daily life. The consequence was that the Baniwa did not conceive of religion as a relatively autonomous social field whose axis was constituted by voluntary and conscious embracing of a system of beliefs. Conversion was looked on by missionaries as a solitary and definitive act of choice (even when it involved many people altogether, it was considered to be the sum of many isolated decisions), a personal evaluation resulting from the messages spread by the speakers of God’s Word. It was all villages that due to religious discussions were separated and went on to live far away, in the Rio Negro area, in a place named Ipadú. There I met them in the half-breed environment, yet speaking in their Baniva language, religiously broken, neither believers nor Catholics, remembering and wishing to revive their friends’ religion. There is still a relative frequency of change of religion; the causes are many, but the main one is marriage. The boy marries a girl of a different religion and brings her to live in her village, where all are of the husband’s religion. Ipso facto the girl takes the religion of her husband and of her new community. 27 Peres, “Cultura, Política e Identidade na Amazônia: o associativismo indígena no Baixo Rio Negro,” 109.

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Chapter Ten Sometimes, the half-breeds will visit their family who are believers and stay for many months in the midst of them. In that place, they worship every day, repeating the same things: we believers are better than the Catholics because we do not drink, we do not smoke nor dance, we are safe; then they carry out brain washing until the Catholic is baptised by the old man (religious leader), a family member. There are also many believers that became Catholic or stayed without any religion due to discussions that often arise during their meetings.28

This perspective also implies the possibility of someone being a victim of “misleading advertising,” that is to say of being influenced by speaking skills, by ability, by the rhetoric of “false prophets.” In this case, the consideration is not steered by the use of reason or by genuine evangelisation. Consciousness is confused through wrong arguments, formulated with the aim of provoking error. According to the specific Salesian interpretation, in some cases the abandonment of Christian faith is due to the use of some techniques of mental manipulation (of consciousness and intent) based on intense repetition of the same proposition that gradually undermines judgement, causing the individual to adopt a mechanical conduct and way of thinking. In the Salesians’ records, we can read that the “deep Baniwa religiosity” is closely linked to the relevant social networks (formed by the exogamic and patrilocal kinship), with their symbolic dynamics and structure (such as shamanism). The relationship patterns that support sociability cannot be threatened by acute religious divergences when these occur. The community rejects them, as is the case when conflicts are intensified and the possibility of witchcraft is accentuated. Prior to this situation, intensified through frequent changes of religion, the Salesians decided to incentivise pastoral action among their own followers. The aim was to induce them to stimulate the authentic way of living religion among other Catholic people. Therefore they tried to intensify their pastoral action among Catholics in order to extend it to believers and prevent conversion to Protestantism. Thus, it was necessary to urgently evaluate the situation in Içana in order to adopt a new pastoral approach in Rio Negro as a whole: enculturation. The difficulty that we experience is how to present the liberation of the Good News so they can understand it and confront their values through the practice of the prism of Christ’s message. They are entitled to receive the Word in their mental categories so they can live faith in their own cultural 28 Peres, “Cultura, Política e Identidade na Amazônia: o associativismo indígena no Baixo Rio Negro,” 109-110.

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contexts in a communitarian manner; therefore, they feel the need for the lay Indian in evangelisation. We feel the need of the lay Indian in evangelisation. We are always studying the culture through language, legends, mythology and personal contact. We believe that they, the Banivas, are the ones who will give us their liturgy and the way of transmitting and living the liberating message of Christ who lives incarnated in their culture.29

If the universal values of Christianity are present in all cultures, it is necessary to understand the categories through which each person confers specific content on said values. In addition, it is important to describe the more suitable meanings; in order to lead people to experience true faith in them it opposes any planned cultural domination, any political ethnocide: “the ferment of the Gospel, penetrating in the culture, not to destroy it, but to purify and elevate it” because guilt exists in all cultures. The new missionary must have the capacity to perceive (contemplate, hear, feel) any singular form by means of which God is present in any society. Instead of privileging speech, instead of spreading messages by speaking a foreign, ordained language, he should be open to new possibilities of translation of the Good News by learning the native codes of a symbolic construction of the world. Because they confer some strategic value to enable Indigenous pastoral agents, the catechists are the element that allows dialogue between the Christian and Indigenous world in this new missionary model. Father Afonso Casanovas confers more importance upon catechists’ training than upon parish councils and itinerancies (visits of the priests and sisters to the villages to administer the sacraments and stimulate aggregation, in order to perform religious and community activities), as ways of increasing the layman’s participation in parochial life and solving any problems in evangelisation.

Conclusion The Salesians established a field of mediation, the repercussions of which on the processes of social and symbolic construction of ethnicity in Rio Negro are to be considered notable. A constant flux of messages and images characterised the interaction between Indians and missionaries, and meanings were formulated and re-formulated during transit. “Culture” became the focus of calculated action, resolved and planned by religious action. From the Catholic viewpoint, during many decades of this century, 29 Peres, “Cultura, Política e Identidade na Amazônia: o associativismo indígena no Baixo Rio Negro,” 111.

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“culture” was conceived of as a malignant spiritual substrate, a diabolic instrument to enslave Indigenous souls and confine them to a reign of misery. The field of missionary mediation in Rio Negro did not remain extraneous to the transformation of the Catholic Church in Latin America after the Second Vatican Council. We also saw how these changes were conceived of as a solution after the Second Vatican Council. And moreover, we saw how these changes were investigated in order to solve the specific problems of the Içana basin, where the Salesians did not have a monopoly on salvation. The change in missionary action was also aimed at greater ecclesiastical control of Indigenous Catholicism. Enculturation focused mainly on the more tangible dimension of native imagery (handmade objects, musical instruments, chants, dances, language, etc.), isolated from the historical context and from the complex semantic field of objects and behaviours selected to serve as icons of “ancestrality” and “otherness.” The Salesians called the Indians to participate in formulation of these signs of ethnic authenticity in Catholic areas of interlocution (parish assemblies, meetings and trainings, etc.). The elements of memory inscribed mythically and historically in practical conscience–for example, Shamanism or worship of the patron saints of villages–were banished to a zone of religious obscurity or became the focus of pastors’ attacks. Indigenous culture plays a key role in the missionaries’ agenda and language. It is not committed to an autonomous and secular program of re-invention of traditions, or to a (relatively) articulated program of ethnic politics, but it will guide them in a specific historical conjuncture.30 At first, a context of strong pressures on natural resources and access to the earth in the Upper Rio Negro was created, monitored and encouraged by the Brazilian State through the militarisation of social and geographical spaces. Moreover, this process combined with the rise of a nationally developed Indigenous movement, characterised by a vertical and central 30

Indigenous millenarism occurred in Rio Negro during the nineteenth century. It appeared in some movements against the control of priests over the instruments of salvation. These instruments implied the use and redefinition of the meanings of Christian imagery, and a reflective consciousness of ethnicity based on the fight against colonial power in defence of traditions: Robin M. Wright, “Uma conspiração contra os civilizados: história, política e ideologia dos movimentos milenaristas dos Arawak e Tukano do Noroeste da Amazônia,” Anuário Antropológico 89 (1992): 191-234. The historical context analysed in this paper refers to the initiative of Catholic priests–with the aforementioned ambiguities and shortcomings–in the sense of reformulation of ecclesiastic control of Indigenous Catholicism.

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approach. Subsequently, the Federal Constitution of 1988, which provided a favourable legal situation for organisation of the Indigenous movement on horizontal and decentralised bases, given the visibility achieved by the Indigenous demands and rights in transnational public spheres, provided an appropriate framework for the proliferation of Indigenous associativism in Rio Negro.

The process of territorialisation of missionary power finally ended up stating that progress and salvation are conditions to be achieved through the fight against the State, as well as against misery and savagery, both conditions inherent in “Indianness.” This concept diverges from the idea of State tutelage that conceives of progress and civilisation as an inevitable destiny, whose perverse effects have to be diminished when possible. On the one hand, every single Indian must be sustained (protected and assisted) until he becomes a Brazilian citizen. On the other hand, he must be liberated from sin in order to become a Brazilian Christian. The formation of an Indigenous activism–both Catholic and ethnic–had to face the image of Indigenous “ancestrality,” considered to be morally corrupted, and actively intervene in the field of symbolic fights and identity negotiation strategies. The Salesian missionary practice contributed to the objectivation of Indigenous culture and identity in Rio Negro.

Bibliography Arruti, José Maurício. “A produção da alteridade: o Toré e as conversões missionárias e indígenas.” In Deus na aldeia: missionários, índios e mediação cultural, edited by Paula Montero, 381-426. São Paulo: Globo, 2006. Freire, Carlos Augusto da Rocha. “A Criação do Conselho Nacional de Proteção aos Índios e o Indigenismo Interamericano (1939-1955).” Boletim do Museu do Índio 5 (1996). Houtzager, Peter. Os últimos cidadãos: conflito e modernização no Brasil rural (1964-1995). São Paulo: Globo, 2004. Lima, Antonio Carlos de Souza. “Aos fetichistas, ordem e progresso: um estudo do campo indigenista no seu estado de formação.” Master’s thesis, PPGAS/MN, 1985. Novaes, Sylvia Caiuby. “A épica salvacionista e as artimanhas de resistência: as Missões Salesianas e os Bororo de Mato Grosso.” In Transformando os deuses: os múltiplos sentidos da conversão entre os povos indígenas no Brasil, edited by Robin M. Wright, 343-362. Campinas, SP: Editora da Unicamp, 1999.

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Peres, Sidnei. “Cultura, Política e Identidade na Amazônia: o associativismo indígena no Baixo Rio Negro.” PhD diss., Universidade Estadual de Campinas, 2003. —. “A formação do associativismo indígena no Rio Negro: perspectivas de construção da democracia e do diálogo intercultural na Amazônia.” In Movimentos sociais, políticas sociais e questão social: elementos para uma análise da realidade no Brasil e na América Latina, edited by Lucí Faria Pinheiro, 55-71. Rio de Janeiro: Gramma, 2011. Rufino, Marcos Pereira. “A missão calada: pastoral indigenista e a nova evangelização.” In Entre o mito e a história: o V centenário do descobrimento da América, edited by Paula Montero, 137-202. Petrópolis, RJ: Vozes, 1995. —. “O código da cultura: o CIMI no debate da inculturação.” In Deus na aldeia: missionários, índios e mediação cultural, edited by Paula Montero, 235-275. São Paulo: Globo, 2006. Wright, Robin M.. “Uma conspiração contra os civilizados: história, política e ideologia dos movimentos milenaristas dos Arawak e Tukano do Noroeste da Amazônia.” Anuário Antropológico 89 (1992): 191-234. —. “O tempo de Sophie: história e cosmologia da conversão Baniwa.” In Transformando os deuses: os múltiplos sentidos da conversão entre os povos indígenas no Brasil, edited by Robin M. Wright, 155-216. Campinas, SP: Unicamp, 1999.

CHAPTER ELEVEN SEEING IS BELIEVING? VISION AND INDIGENOUS AGENCY IN THE ANGLICAN EVANGELISATION OF THE PARAGUAYAN CHACO ALEJANDRO MARTÍNEZ

Introduction The relations between Christian missionaries and Indigenous peoples in South America have been tackled both by historians and anthropologists from different perspectives and focusing on different cases, though not all the areas of this continent where these contacts occurred have been studied in the same depth. Thus, in spite of the fact that Jesuit missions are one of the favourite subjects in Paraguayan historiography, these studies turn out scarce compared with the historiography of other South American regions.1 Even less attention has been paid to the Anglican missions established by the South American Missionary Society in the Paraguayan Chaco at the end of the nineteenth century, especially by lay scholars.2 1

Ignacio Telesca, “Escribir la historia en Paraguay. Modos y lugares de producción,” Papeles de trabajo 3, no. 6 (2010): 1-14. 2 We should not forget here, in spite of its hagiographic tone, the accounts written by Anglican missionaries themselves and dealing with the origins and trajectory of this association and its principal figures: Wilfrid Barbrooke Grubb, Among the Indians of the Paraguayan Chaco: A story of missionary work in south America (London; Charles Murray & Co., 1904); An unknown people in an unknown land. An account of the life and customs of the Lengua Indians of the Paraguayan Chaco, with adventures and experiences during twenty years’ pioneering and exploration among them (London: Seeley, Service & Co., 19112); and A church in the wilds. The remarkable story of the establishment of the South American Mission amongst the hitherto savage and intractable natives of the Paraguayan Chaco (New York: Dutton and Company, 1914); Robert Young, From Cape Horn

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In fact, a key moment in the process of the evangelisation of the Paraguayan Chaco began towards the end of the nineteenth century, when those Anglican missionaries entered into contact with the Enxet people, inhabitants of the central part of that region. From the beginning, one of the main concerns of these missionaries was to establish significant channels of communication with the Indigenous. In this respect, visual aids played a key role, for the Anglicans used the visual resources available at the time as a means of evangelisation, in an effort to avoid the difficulties related to the large cultural and religious distance that separated them from the Enxet. As we will remark here, this relationship between Indigenous peoples and missionaries, mediated by visual aids, cannot be characterised, nevertheless, as a simple imposition of a set of cultural values and ways of seeing on others. On the contrary, as we intend to discuss here, both in the accounts as in the images produced and used by the missionaries themselves is possible to trace gestures of resistance and cultural negotiation. Thus, we will understand that the characterisation of visual images–and imaginaries–as agents for a so-called policy of religious domination is just one side of the story, for it may also give place to an Indigenous agency responding to that policy. Considering that the objectives of propaganda and proselytism are frequently emphasised by scholars studying the use of photographic images in missionary contexts,3 we seek to stress in this paper an aspect that has not been much explored up to the present, which is the use of different technologies and visual aids as a tool for evangelising Indigenous peoples, paying special attention to the case of Anglicans who settled down in the Paraguayan Chaco towards the end of the nineteenth century. We will seek to point out the agency observed among the Enxet both when facing the camera and when they were shown the images by the missionaries. Focusing on the images and texts associated with them, we will here look for signs of Indigenous presence in the sense proposed by Comaroff & Comaroff who argue, referring in particular to colonial missionaries’ texts, that some emerging subtexts can be identified in them where “the voice of the silent other becomes audible through the to Panamá: A narrative missionary enterprise among the neglected races of South America by the South American Missionary Society (London: Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent, 1905); Richard Hunt, The Livingstone of South America (London: Seely Service, 1933). 3 See for example Peter Pels, “Africa Christo! The Use of Photographs in Dutch Catholic Mission Propaganda, 1946-1960,” Critique of Anthropology 9, no. 1 (1989): 33-47.

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disconcerting reports of their ‘irrational’ behaviour, their mockery or their resistance.”4

Enxet and Anglicans in the Paraguayan Chaco English captain Allen Gardiner5 founded the Patagonian Missionary Society in 1844, a society with the declared objective of evangelising Indigenous peoples in South America, in particular those in Patagonia. Between 1845 and 1848, Gardiner undertook two expeditions, one to the Bolivian Chaco and the other to Patagonia. Both failed in their intent to come into contact with Indigenous peoples in the region. There was a new expedition to Tierra del Fuego between 1850 and 1852. On that occasion, Gardiner died, as well as the six people with him. However, the Society continued his task and settled down in Keppel Island (Falkland Islands) in 1856 and in Lota (Chile) in 1860. As they did not intend to confine their work only to Patagonian Indigenous people but to “preach the Gospel” to all South American Indigenous peoples, the Patagonian Missionary Society changed its name in 1864 to the South American Missionary Society (hereafter SAMS). In this sense, and in spite of Gardiner’s vain attempt to settle a mission within the Tobas in the Bolivian Chaco, establishing in that region was still one of the aims of this Missionary Society which, towards the end of 1880s was making its way to fulfilling its founder’s yearning,6 but this time in the Paraguayan Chaco. Therefore, in mid-1888 the first Anglican mission was founded on the mouth of Riacho Fernández, a creek some kilometres north of Villa Concepción (Paraguay) and on the right bank of the Paraguay River in the Chaco (see map 11.1). A short time after their settling there, the missionaries became interested in the “Indians of the interior” living towards the west, the Enxet,7 a people of hunters, fishermen and gatherers, 4 Jean Comaroff, and John Comaroff, Of Revelation and Revolution, Vol.1: Christianity, Colonialism, and Consciousness in Southern Africa (Chicago: University Press, Chicago, 1991), 37. 5 Allen Gardiner (1794-1851) was an English sailor and missionary who gave up the Royal Navy in 1834 to seek an appropriate place worldwide in order to establish a mission among “heathens”: Paula Seiguer, “¿Son los anglicanos argentinos? Un primer debate sobre la evangelización protestante y la nación,” Revista Escuela de Historia 5-1, no. 5 (2006): 59-90. 6 Gardiner himself wrote a letter to Toba chiefs in his last days in Tierra del Fuego, encouraging them to accept the Gospel: Young, From Cape Horn to Panamá. 7 In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries these Indigenous peoples were commonly known as “Lengua” or “Lengua-Maskoy,” a term which originated in

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who lived in groups of varying sizes, between 20 and 70 individuals, towards the end of the nineteenth century. They lived near water sources and moved about the Chaco territory according to resource availability, deaths or celebrations.

Map 11.1. The main locations of Anglican stations and Indigenous settlements can be seen in the Paraguayan Chaco towards the beginning of the twentieth century. Extracted from Hunt, The Livingstone of South America.

These people did not have a fluent contact with Paraguayan society; this was seen as a positive aspect by the missionaries, who viewed such contact as the cause of “corruption” among coastal Indigenous peoples,8 as colonial times. As the name Lengua (tongue) is considered by them to be pejorative, we will from now on use the term Enxet to refer to this people, following Stephen Kidd, “Land, Politics and Benevolent Shamanism: The Enxet Indians in a Democratic Paraguay,” Journal of Latin American Studies 27, no. 1 (1995): 43-75. 8 Missionaries are constantly referring to the negative consequences of the “vices” transmitted by Paraguayan society to Indigenous people–and to their own missionary work. They tried by various means to prevent the contact of the Indigenous people under their protection with Paraguayan society.

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well as an important obstacle for preaching the Gospel. They had been quite isolated from Spanish colonial society, with which they started a relationship only towards the end of the eighteenth century. Even so, they kept their independence up to post-colonial times and took advantage from Paraguay’s weakened situation after their defeat in the Triple Alliance War to raid Paraguayan settlements.9 Ever since their arrival in the Chaco, SAMS missionaries strived to record, both in written and visual ways, the course of their undertaking. A great deal of these records–letters, reports, maps and photographs–was spread by the South American Missionary Society’s monthly journal. In that periodical–which was meant to reach sponsors and supporters–, as well as in lectures given by this society, visual aids were soon adopted and used as a means of publicising missionary action, not only to give testimony of the presence and “improvements” accomplished in the mission field but also to achieve political and financial support,10 so as to continue and deepen their work among Indigenous peoples.

Using Visual Aids in the Evangelisation Process: Illustrated Religious Books Although the usefulness of photography in its distinct forms was largely employed by the Anglicans, it was with certainty not the only visual media utilised. In 1887, the SAMS committee requested the services of Adolph Henriksen, a British and Foreign Bible Society agent settled in Santa Fe, Argentina, to inform on the likelihood of starting a mission in Paraguayan territory.11 In his report on his expedition to Paraguay, Henriksen concluded: “there is a good opportunity for your Society to see to these tribes’ spiritual, moral and physical education,” referring to the “‘Lenguas,’ ‘Angaite’ and ‘Sanapagas […] Indians, apparently three main divisions of the same race […] speaking the same language,”12 with whom he had been staying around October 1887 (see fig. 11.1). SAMS would finally decide to settle in among these Indigenous peoples according to the organisation plan proposed by Henriksen. 9

Kidd, “Land, Politics and Benevolent Shamanism.” With subscription to the journal, SAMS offered the sale of photograph albums and postcards showing portraits of Chaco Indians as well as the life and development of the Mission. They also organised lectures using magic lanterns to project illustrations on these matters, where they asked for contributions to the missionary cause. 11 SAMM, Vol. XXI, 1887: 248-249. 12 SAMM, Vol. XXII, 1888: 11-14, translated by the author. 10

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Therefore, in September 1888, the first station of the Anglican mission was established in the Chaco, on the mouth of the Fernández creek, on the left bank of the Paraguay River, north of the city of Villa Concepción. Adolph Henriksen was the missionary in charge of this station and he had two assistants, B. O. Bartlett and J. C. Robins. In the first months, missionaries found it difficult to attract the Enxet to the mission, which turned the need of establishing a fluent way of communicating with them into their main concern. The Enxet language was quite unknown in those times, and the missionaries had no references about it. In a letter of March 2, 1889, Henriksen enclosed a list of 70 words in “our Indian language,” and at the same time asked for some linguistics scholar to “give him a lead or find any resemblance with other South American aboriginal languages or dialects.”13

Figure 11.1. “Indians of Paraguay” (SAMM, Vol. XXII, 1888).

In this context, the Anglicans had no scruples about using some alternative communication strategies, such as religious books illustrated with images or the modern audio technology they had at the moment, to face communication obstacles with a people whose language, culture and

13

SAMM, Vol. XXIII, 1889: 107, translated by the author.

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religion were so different from theirs.14 Apart from resorting to these nonconventional tools, Henriksen had taken a photograph camera, with which he obtained the first images of Anglicans in the Chaco territory. These first images of Anglicans in Paraguay were published as lithographs in the SAMS journal (see fig. 11.2). However, this early use of visual technologies in the Paraguayan Chaco was soon interrupted. After working during one year, Henriksen died of pleurisy on September 23, 1889, and was replaced by Wilfrid Barbrooke Grubb, who worked practically on his own for a few years. Grubb decided to change the direction of the missionary efforts, away from the riverbank and towards Indigenous settlements in the west, trying to follow the Enxet in their constant movements around the Chaco territory. Moreover, this missionary did not seem to have any special interest in or inclination to photography practice or the use of visual technologies in general, which may have been favoured by the fact that he had no company during the first stage of his work in Paraguay.15 Besides, there were no permanent photographers in Villa Concepción, the nearest Paraguayan city to the Anglican area. Towards the mid-1890s, this situation started to change. In those years, Anglicans were more strongly settled in Enxet territory and had several missionaries and different stations in the Chaco. We should point out that among Grubb’s new coworkers, Andrew Pride and William Mark were the ones who acted as the mission’s “photographers,” while Richard Hunt devoted himself to learning the Enxet language and translated the Gospel into it, using different visual technologies for this purpose.

14

“They often come to my tent door during their midday break and we show them images and we make them listen to a tune in the Ariston, which has become their greatest favorite. We have even heard them whistle a couple of tunes of the hymns. We also hope to learn their language through this way of relating to them and we have already obtained some words.” (SAMM, Vol. XXII 1888: 270, translated by the author). 15 After Henriksen’s death, both Robins and Barttlet went back to England. Therefore, Barbrooke Grubb was the only SAMS missionary in the Paraguayan Chaco for a few years.

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Figure 11.2. “Riacho Fernández, mission station in Gran Chaco, Paraguay” (SAMM, Vol. XXIII, 1889).

The Anglicans soon noticed the importance of images for their purpose of evangelising, as these turned out to be a significant alternative for communicating with Indigenous people.16 Actually, in spite of the great commitment of missionaries in translation and linguistic training, the results were not immediate. The value of images in evangelising the Enxet was first mentioned in a report by Hunt who, towards the end of 1894, pointed out: Advancement has been achieved with the language, but it has been slow, hard work, for the people are slow to grasp ideas, and at times not too willing to communicate, so that they have had be taken when they are in the humour […]. Scripture pictures, either plain or colored ones, will be of great help, as they enable one to introduce a subject where it would otherwise be difficult.17

After this phrase, there is a reference mark from the editor noting to the readers that these images had already been sent to Paraguay. From that 16

Anglicans found the Enxet language quite difficult to learn. It took them about 10 years to start mastering it: Grubb, The Remarkable Story of the Establishment of the South American Mission. 17 SAMM, Vol. XXIX, 1895: 38-39.

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moment on there are recurrent references to the use of images in the process of evangelisation, remarking on their value in catching the Enxet’s attention as they–according to missionaries’ testimony–listened with great interest to the explanations they gave them while going through the pages of old illustrated religious books. As Hunt tells us: Some nights it was very wet and miserable in the toldo and the whole crowd of them would gather into our room [...] it afforded an opportunity of exhibiting some pictures and explaining to them the general narrative of the representation. They listened with great attention to Mr Grubb’s short explanation and brief application of such pictures as the Prodigal Son, Good Samaritan, Raising of Widow’s son, Phillipian Jailor, &c. Pictures of all kinds they are delighted to gaze at. They would turn over the leaves of old picture books repeatedly.18

These examples give us a first approach to understand the role of visual resources in the evangelisation process of the Paraguayan Chaco, as an efficient means to hold Indigenous people’s interest and introduce them to the religious topics the missionaries were interested in passing on. Thus, by means of the images in illustrated books, the missionaries were able to lead the Enxet’s gaze and attention according to their will. Apparently, the Enxet did so in quite a naïve way, meekly and without any resistance. However, it will be shown in the following paragraphs that this was not the case and, both in reference to the use of the camera and to the “luminous projections” of the magic lantern, the Enxet showed some resistance and had a critical view that might have led the Anglicans to give their use of visual devices with their Indigenous interlocutors a previous, thorough assessment.

The Camera in the Context of the Mission The more the Anglican mission expanded and consolidated itself in Enxet territory, the more necessary it became to document the process. This increased the use of photography, greatly valued for its “mimetic”19 capacity. In this sense, it was no longer enough to rely on the services of a

18

SAMM, Vol. XXIX, 1895: 52. According to Philippe Dubois, El acto fotográfico. De la representación a la recepción (Barcelona: Paidós, 1986), 20, this term refers to the earliest uses of photography, when it was percieved as analogous to a real object, as a mirror of reality. 19

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commercial photographer living several days’ trip from the mission,20 and whose results were not so satisfactory for the missionaries’ expectances. In 1896, Sr. William Mark joined the mission to act as photographer. He did so until 1899, when he had to return to England because of a health matter. In July 1898, he said: I had much pleasure in sending you another packet of photographs. They are illustrative of our work here in the Chaco, and include several of our individual Indian friends. I am delighted today that I am now getting on splendidly with my photography, having profited by the experience gained during the first year, and as soon as I get some more paper, which I have sent for, I shall be able to send you a lot more, from negatives that I have ready, both illustrative of our life in the Chaco and also of our run into Paraguay last February with Mr Grubb, most of which have come out well.21

Andrew Pride, who had been a missionary for several years and would stay until the first years of the twentieth century, also engaged in taking photographs with Mark (see fig. 11.3). But he was apparently more careful in the use of the camera than the latter. He himself said that dealing with the Enxet he tried “not to give any alarm, and for that reason have never attempted to photograph one of them, often as I should have liked to do so.”22 The accounts of other SAMS members who practiced photography in the Paraguayan Chaco, Archdeacon Shimield and Reverend Cachemaille,23 follow the same lines. The latter, clerical secretary of the society, who visited the mission in 1900, fulfilled a meaningful task as a missionary photographer and we could point him out as having been responsible for the improvement in quality of the photographs that were published towards the beginning of the twentieth century.

20 By 1897 it took missionaries about 5 days to get from Waikthlatingmayalwa, Chaco’s central station, to Concepción. 21 SAMM, Vol. XXXII, 1898: 172. 22 SAMM, Vol. XXXV, 1901: 178. 23 Some of the images obtained by these priests (especially those by Rev. Cachemaille) were used in the journal as well as in different books, postcards and calendars edited by SAMS.

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Figure 11.3. “Boy” by Andrew Pride, around 1900 (Courtesy Pitt Rivers Museum, University of Oxford).

Several photos of the Enxet taken by Reverend Cachemaille were included in the missionary journal during 1901 (see fig. 11.4). Those photos may well be regarded as “ethnographic,” as they seek mainly to represent the “ways and habits” of the Enxet, their culture, and not only

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their physical types, their nature. Here we must recall that it was not unusual to observe some influence of typological or anthropometric photography in the photos taken by the missionaries (see fig. 11.3) as the conventions of this photographic genre and the kind of language used to characterise “the Native” also influenced many photographers in the colonies who did not seem to have any anthropological interests.24

Figure 11.4. “Sports at feast, Chaco,” Rev. Cachemaille (SAMM, Vol. XXXV, 1901).

During Cachemaille’s sojourn in the mission, the Anglicans received the visit of a group of Sanapaná Indians and, as this group was considered to be “very ignorant and superstitious,” the reverend was especially requested not to carry his camera.25 Archdeacon Shimield, who visited the mission in 1897, in turn pointed out: The Indians did not seem to mind my using the Kodak, but they had a dread of a more pretentious camera on a stand, with black cover for the head of the operator. A little while ago, an Indian visitor, with others, was

24

Christaud Geary, “Photographs as Materials for African History: Some Methodological Considerations,” History in Africa 13 (1986): 89-116. 25 SAMM, Vol. XXXV, 1901: 11.

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being photographed, and the man straightway left the village, saying: “He was not going to let that man shoot little devils into him.”26

From these accounts, we can note that, although photographic practice–and therefore its production–had considerably increased among the Anglicans, the camera was only used with certain precaution and care. Though Indigenous people were in everyday contact with missionaries– “our Indian friends,” as Mark called them–and they were, in a way, used to the camera, there were many others who did not trust the photographic device. In this sense, we can categorise these “minor resistances” in front of the camera within a wider framework of dispute between missionaries and Indians. Although, around the turn of the century, the Anglican mission had made good progress among the Enxet, it was still far from achieving its goals. A report by Reverend Westgate from October 1900 referred to the Enxet’s attitude towards work in the mission as follows: It is rather painful at times to observe how callous and indifferent many of the Natives are, some still avoiding as much as possible the pathway of the Missionary, while others continue to come in order to obtain commodities of which they see the usefulness, and to learn only those things which tend to secular advantage, treating with ridicule and contempt all our best efforts to rouse them to a conviction of sin, or to teach them anything of the life of the world to come.27

The Magic Lantern in Religious Services Towards the middle of the 1890s, “old illustrated books” which, as we have seen, had been so useful for the communication between missionaries and Indians, started to be left aside due to the introduction of the magic lantern, whose luminous projections were very effective at attracting any audience’s attention. This machine, whose basic working principle–light transmission through an image and onto a screen–dates back to the midseventeenth century, is attributed to a Jesuit father, Athanasius Kircher. From then on, and for almost three centuries–until the emergence of films towards the end of the nineteenth century and beginning of the twentieth century–the magic lantern was one of the most widely used tools for mass entertainment. In England, at the beginning of the 1890s, activists for abstinence and other initiatives of social reform started to capitalise on the potential of those lectures that used magic lanterns to attract large 26 27

SAMM, Vol. XXXI, 1897: 194. SAMM, Vol. XXXV, 1901:95.

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audiences.28 Additionally, missionary societies used the device, not only abroad but also in the promotion of their work at home.29 Towards March 1895, Mr. Hay informed on the arrival of a magic lantern at the missionary station, together with several slides, a screen and a series of slides.30 Richard Hunt vividly remembers the first time the magic lantern was used in the Paraguayan Chaco: It was at this time [1895] that Grubb took out a lantern and slides. It was a great event, and marked a new stage in teaching. Hitherto instruction had been given by means of pictures shown to little groups of people. Short informal religious services had been held in the house or near the village. Now came the novelty of the lantern; the young folks were curious and expectant, while the older people were dubious and fearful. On the first occasion the sheet was nicely stretched, the lantern in position, and the audience squatting on the ground in front waiting for something to happen. When the first picture appeared on the screen, they were startled, and promptly covered their faces to ward off the impeding calamity, for as they put it, “they were afraid of the little devil that lived in the black box, and jumped out to the white blanket.” The pictures were exhibited frequently, so that the people could get accustomed to them. In this simple way, the Bible stories were told to visitors.31

Elizabeth Hartrick, referring to English Protestant missionaries working around the same time in Australia, points out that they “quickly adopted any means that could help them reach their audience, making liberal use of the lantern and photography to fulfil their goals, to entertain and educate and to illustrate the advantages of Western civilisation and Christianity.”32 For these missionaries, the rhetoric of salvation was easily combined with the image of a lamp projecting light in the dark: the light of truth of the Gospel, and the light of European reason and civilisation over the

28 Steve Humpries, Victorian Britain through the Magic Lantern (London: Sidgwick and Jackson, 1989). 29 Donald Simpson, “Missions and the Magic Lantern,” International Bulletin of Missionary Research 21 (1997): 13-15. 30 Along with the slides they received “large Scripture cartoons” (SAMM, Vol. XXIX, 1895: 81). 31 Hunt, The Livingstone of South America, 125. 32 Elizabeth Hartrick, “Consuming Illusions: The Magic Lantern in Australia and Aotearoa/New Zealand 1850-1910” (PhD diss., The Australian Centre, The University of Melbourne, 2003), 188.

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apparently complete darkness of “paganism” and “superstition.”33 In this sense, SAMS often referred to its own work in the Chaco as a source of light counteracting the darkness of Indigenous paganism.34 The kind of images projected differed according to whether the intention was to attract the attention of an English or Indigenous audience. In the former case, when missionaries went back home, they gave lectures on the work done in the missions so as to draw the attention of philanthropists and sympathisers for the society in order to obtain political and financial support for their project. In these lectures, the slides used were made mainly from photographs whose subject matter was not very different from that published in missionary journals. Among those subjects we can find some images meant to operate as evidence not only of the improvement of the spiritual level achieved by the mission (photographs of baptisms, communions, weddings, etc.), but also of their material development (photographs of the different buildings made by the mission, such as churches, dwellings, storehouses, as well as roads, etc.) Within this group we can also identify those aiming to show the work done by missionaries in order to lead Indigenous people to perform different productive activities or “industrial works” in an attempt to “civilise them.” As for the images used by Anglican missionaries in their lectures to the Enxet, they were, almost exclusively, reproductions of European artists’ paintings depicting certain passages of the Bible.35 In the case of the missions in Australia, Hartrick36 points out that this kind of images greatly contributed to their success, which witnesses this technology’s extended use among Protestant missionaries. We can therefore understand what was happening at the Anglican mission in the Paraguayan Chaco where, around 1898, the magic lantern was used during the Sunday service and missionaries requested a new one from England as well as new sets of slides to be projected.37

33

John Peffer, “Snap of the Whip/Crossroads of Shame: Flogging, Photography, and the Representation of Atrocity in the Congo Reform Campaign,” Visual Anthropology Review 24, no. 1 (2008): 55-77. 34 Gastón Gordillo, Landscapes of Devils. Tensions of Place and Memory in the Argentinean Chaco (Durham-London: Duke University Press, 2004), 83. 35 In the case of the missionaries in Australia, among the reproductions prepared to be projected by the magic lantern were pictures belonging to contemporary artists (late nineteenth century), as well as those of “old masters”: Raphael, Rubens, Albrecht Dürer, and Guido Reni: Hartrick, “Consuming Illusions,” 176. 36 Hartrick, “Consuming Illusions.” 37 SAMM, Vol. XXXII, 1898: 61.

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Nevertheless, although the Enxet had not been exposed to this kind of images before, they did not have a naïve attitude towards them and they looked at them with a certain criticism. This is how Mr. Hunt described the situation in 1898: The Indians are most critical and really good pictures are a necessity. Accustomed as the Indians are to observe minute words [sic] and details of their surroundings, they criticise every picture in a way that an English audience would not. Might I advise that, if possible, every set of pictures are made by the same artist? If they see Adam and Eve with fair hair in one picture and dark in the next, they wonder what cause it. […] We have two pictures of St. Peter wherein the details differ; and Mr Grubb was once explaining these, and the Indians took great objection to it. Such fancy pictures as Christ rising from the dead with a banner are entirely misleading and objectionable.38

Therefore, we can see that the Enxet’s attention to the images projected by the magic lantern could turn out to be in favour of the Anglicans’ preaching, provided they were very careful about the images they projected, bearing in mind the sharpness of the Indigenous eye. As we have demonstrated, they were not simple passive recipients of the images but they actively participated in the projections, so that the usefulness of the latter was not guaranteed but greatly depended on how reliably they could excite the Enxet, a people that, according to missionaries, was sunk in “superstition” and “witchcraft,” that believed the camera could instil “demons” into their spirit could, nevertheless, have a sceptical view of the Bible readings they received from the Anglicans. The Indigenous ways of seeing alongside with the agency they display in the “lantern services” becomes evident if we recall they could even doubt the truthfulness of the pictures representing fundamental Christian concepts such as Christ’s resurrection itself.

Conclusion Along the second half of the nineteenth century we witnessed a period of great development of visual technologies, a great part of it consisting in the development of photography in all its forms and possibilities. As we have seen, these modern visual tools were put into practice with almost no major objections by Anglican missionaries to replace old illustrated books. Although these missionaries resorted to images produced both by visual 38

SAMM, Vol. XXXII, 1898: 61-62.

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artists and photographers outside the mission during the first years of SAMS presence in Enxet territory, they soon became aware, thanks to the technological changes produced in the field of photography and their own improvement in Enxet territory, of the value of producing these visual representations themselves. As Long points out when referring to Protestant missions in North America in the first decades of the twentieth century, photographic cameras were almost as common to see in the mission field as were Bibles. Therefore, churches and their sponsors were flooded with photographs from the missions.39 Although the practice of photography and the use of visual media was led by these missionaries’ interests and expectancies and in spite of the fact that it was developed in the context of an asymmetric power relationship–between photographer/missionary and photographed/Indigenous person–, it was observed that neither photography production nor the reception of images projected by the magic lantern took place in a context of a simple imposition of Anglican interests. According to the arguments posed by Jean and John Comaroff40 for the South African case, we support the idea that the Anglican “missionisation” of the Paraguayan Chaco was not about British missionaries imposing the culture of European modernity or the ways of industrial capitalism on passive South American Indians. In this sense, it is interesting to recount the words by Ana Teruel when she points out, referring to Franciscans who acted in the Argentinian Chaco, that: Although missionary relationships with their political and social environment were complex, those with subdued Indians were not less complex. In spite of being in a clear situation of subordination due to the fact that they had been defeated, aborigines were not a malleable mass for the missionaries. The mission was, then, also a field of negotiation, or “interaction” or “conversation.41

Considering both the production and the use and reception of images in the Anglican missionary context in the Paraguayan Chaco, we were able to identify traces of active Indigenous presence. Thus, we can understand that, although modern visual media used in the Paraguayan Chaco acted in 39

Kathryn T. Long, “Cameras ‘never lie’: The Role of Photography in Telling the Story of American Evangelical Missions,” Church History 72, no. 4 (2003): 825. 40 Comaroff and Comaroff, Of Revelation and Revolution. 41 Ana Teruel, Misiones, economía y sociedad. La frontera chaqueña del Noroeste argentino en el siglo XIX (Buenos Aires: Universidad Nacional de Quilmes, 2005), 85, translated by the author.

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many cases as a mediator between the Anglicans and the Enxet, relationships with the latter were not established, as it could be thought, in a one-sided way, as a simple imposition of Anglican religious culture. As we have shown in this paper, the Enxet did not easily agree to be portrayed and they often showed a defensive attitude when facing a camera. The missionaries, in turn, having been warned and being respectful of these reservations, did not hesitate to refrain from taking photographs so as to avoid unnecessary tension that would endanger their mutual relationship and thus become an undesirable threat to their broader purposes. In this sense, we have stressed the Indigenous agency, in the form of their critical view on magic lantern projections. Thus, if we understand the different visual media, devices and technologies used by missionary societies as tools at the service of a policy of religious domination in a context of cultural imperialism, we will not be able to identify Indigenous reactions to it. An Indigenous agency that represents their response to that domination policy in their own terms and would, on the other hand, deprive us of achieving a more nuanced and complex knowledge of the relationships established between Indians and missionaries in the context of the evangelisation process.

Bibliography SAMM: The South American Missionary Magazine. Barbrooke Grubb, Wilfrid. Among the Indians of the Paraguayan Chaco: A Story of Missionary Work in South America. London: Charles Murray & Co., 1904. —. An unknown people in an unknown land. An account of the life and customs of the Lengua Indians of the Paraguayan Chaco, with adventures and experiences during twenty years’ pioneering and exploration among them. London: Seeley, Service & Co., 19112. —. A church in the wilds. The remarkable story of the establishment of the South American Mission amongst the hitherto savage and intractable Natives of the Paraguayan Chaco. New York: Dutton and Company, 1914. Comaroff, Jean and John Comaroff. Of Revelation and Revolution, Vol.1: Christianity, Colonialism, and Consciousness in Southern Africa. Chicago: University Press, Chicago, 1991. Dubois, Philippe. El acto fotográfico. De la representación a la recepción. Barcelona: Paidós, 1986.

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Geary, Christaud. “Photographs as Materials for African History: Some Methodological Considerations.” History in Africa 13 (1986): 89-116. Gordillo, Gastón. Landscapes of Devils. Tensions of Place and Memory in the Argentinean Chaco. Durham-London: Duke University Press, 2004. Hartrick, Elizabeth. “Consuming Illusions: The Magic Lantern in Australia and Aotearoa/New Zealand 1850-1910.” PhD diss., The Australian Centre, The University of Melbourne, 2003. Hawtrey, Seymour. “The Lengua Indians of the Paraguayan Chaco.” Journal of the Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland 31 (1901): 280-299. Humphries, Steve. Victorian Britain through the Magic Lantern. London: Sidgwick and Jackson, 1989. Hunt, Richard. The Livingstone of South America. London: Seely Service, 1933. Kidd, Stephen. “Land, Politics and Benevolent Shamanism: The Enxet Indians in a Democratic Paraguay.” Journal of Latin American Studies 27, no. 1 (1995): 43-75. Long, Kathryn T. “Cameras ‘never lie’: The Role of Photography in Telling the Story of American Evangelical Missions.” Church History 72, no. 4 (2003): 820-851. Peffer, John. “Snap of the Whip/Crossroads of Shame: Flogging, Photography, and the Representation of Atrocity in the Congo Reform Campaign.” Visual Anthropology Review 24, no. 1 (2008): 55-77. Pels, Peter. “Africa Christo! The Use of Photographs in Dutch Catholic Mission Propaganda, 1946-1960.” Critique of Anthropology 9, no. 1 (1989): 33-47. Ryan, James. “Exhibición de atrocidades. La fotografía, los misioneros cristianos y la cultura de protesta imperial a principios del siglo XX.” In Culturas Imperiales. Experiencia y representación en América, Asia y Africa, edited by Riccardo Salvatore, 243-267. Buenos Aires: Beatriz Viterbo Editora, 2005. Seiguer, Paula. “¿Son los anglicanos argentinos? Un primer debate sobre la evangelización protestante y la nación.” Revista Escuela de Historia 5-1, no. 5 (2006): 59-90. Simpson, Donald. “Missions and the Magic Lantern.” International Bulletin of Missionary Research 21 (1997): 13-15. Telesca, Ignacio. “Escribir la historia en Paraguay. Modos y lugares de producción.” Papeles de trabajo 3 (Dossier: “Paraguay: reflexiones mediterráneas”), no. 6 (2010): 1-14.

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Teruel, Ana. Misiones, economía y sociedad. La frontera chaqueña del Noroeste argentino en el siglo XIX. Buenos Aires: Universidad Nacional de Quilmes, 2005. Young, Robert. From Cape Horn to Panamá: A Narrative Missionary Enterprise among the Neglected Races of South America by the South American Missionary Society. London: Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent, 1905.

CHAPTER TWELVE THE HIDDEN HERITAGE VALÉRIA NELY CÉZAR DE CARVALHO*

The mask of Juruparì, or Macacaraua, as it is known in língua-geral,1 entered the Americas collection of the Museo Pigorini in the 1880s. It was acquired together with other objects coming from the peoples of the Tariana, Kubeo, Tukano, and Desana, all of whom inhabit the basin of the upper Rio Negro and its tributaries in northwestern Amazonia. This collection had been assembled by the Franciscan missionary Father Giuseppe Illuminato Coppi. His method of evangelisation is described in a manuscript that he himself composed and which is now in the possession of the Museo Preistorico ed Etnografico Luigi Pigorini (Luigi Pigorini Prehistoric and Ethnographic Museum), in Rome. Together with the objects and the manuscript, wherein the missionary made some sketches of the Amerindians, there are also a couple of photographs taken by the Count Ermano Stradelli. Father Coppi identified some of the objects as sacred objects that the Tariana used specially in their ceremonies to celebrate male coming of age. The Coppi collection provides us with a number of pieces that provoke discussion and invite to reflection. This is particularly the case with the Tariana mask, which in many aspects displays its special nature as a cultural object that is universally widespread, as an emblematic metaphor

*

This article was originally delivered at the workshop “La maschera, il Museo e la Diaspora” - Museo Nazionale Preistorico Etnografico “Luigi Pigorini”; Rome, 5-7 June 2008. My thanks to the organisers of the event, particularly Donattela Salviola and Vito Lattanzi. My sincere thanks to Rodolfo Calpini and Sergio Botta for critical reading of this article, and Richard Westall for its careful translation. 1 Based upon the language of the Tupi Indios, the língua-geral was invented by the Jesuits in order to furnish a common tongue for use within the Indian villages, which usually brought together various ethnic groups. Even though its use was prohibited by the government because it impeded the spread of Portuguese, the língua-geral spread throughout the whole of Brazil.

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for colonialism, and as an example of the never-ending attempts to eliminate “otherness,” such as that in which Father Coppi was engaged. Obviously the powers of the mask or those acquired by the person wearing it lead us to reflect upon its potential as the polysemous object par excellence. As such, reference is made to the attitude that each person has towards the differing realities of life, to the metaphorical significance of the mask for the outsider, to the feeling of being a foreigner in one’s own world, and to the dynamics involved in inter-cultural relations. In the cosmology of the various Indigenous groups of Amazonia, as described by Viveiros de Castro, the act of the pajé2 in putting on a mask is not merely an attempt to use an object to hide one’s humanity, but rather an attempt to acquire the power of another body. When he puts on the mask, the pajé does not seek to acquire for himself the powers given by the symbolism of disguising his face, but uses the mask as an instrument for movement through the universe. Hence, the mask is something “more akin to a diving-suit or a space-suit, and quite different from the masks of Carnival.”3 In its allegorical function, the mask is both a receptacle and a projector of meaning. An object-clothing or object-taboo, it is an aesthetic representation that translates the cultural context by means of the choice of materials and colours that make up its decoration. The spread of the mask within a cultural area and its metaphorical recurrence, according to the studies of Lévi-Strauss, allow us to identify a relationship between the aforementioned symbolisms and the object-pretext of this paper.4 However, in the present piece, I would like to stress the need to revisit the landscape in order to investigate historical memory in Indigenous terms and to examine the social and cultural consequences of the events that were promoted and narrated by Father Coppi. The project “History of the Indios, missionary narratives, and memories of artefacts: the ethnographic collection of Father Giuseppe Illuminato Coppi,” which I am now presenting, is made up of a series of actions that aim, through images and other technological forms of communication, to promote the “virtual” repatriation of these texts and artefacts. Thereby, it should prove possible to evoke and document the reflections of the Tariana regarding the events related by the Coppi collection.

2

The pajé is the shaman. Eduardo Viveiros De Castro, “Os pronomes cosmológicos e o perspectivismo ameríndio,” Maná 2, no. 2 (1996): 133. 4 Claude Lévi-Strauss, La voie des masques (Paris: Librairie Plon, 1979). 3

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The reassessment of this collection, which is deemed to be sufficiently rich to allow for treatment of those themes connected to decolonisation, brings us face to face with the dynamics of missionary and Indigenous policies on the one hand, because of the collection’s relationship with the rights of the Indigenous peoples. On the other hand, through an interweaving of the various points of view possible, it relates the ethnographic collections, the Indigenous groups, and museum visitors to the history of those peoples marginalised by the colonial expansion of the European powers. The Tariana was that group most exposed to the missionary intervention of Father Coppi. Consequently, they furnish a paradigm for the issues of identity involved in the processes of transformation, which are closely tied to the relationship maintained by the ethnographic museums with the cultures whose artefacts they put on display or keep in their storerooms. The Indigenous patrimony is an expression of humanity and culture that needs both to be explained and, undoubtedly, to be translated for its references to the inheritance of cultural patrimony as a tool for preserving memory and identity and as a means for expressing individual and collective agency. In Brazil, the 1988 Constitution defined cultural patrimony as those expressions of material and non-material property that serve as support for the preservation of the identity of the different groups that make up Brazilian society. What has been done subsequently to defend cultural patrimony has been gathered and discussed in the acts of the congress “Cultural Patrimony and Intellectual Property,” which was held at Belém on 13-15 October 2004. Unfortunately, the precise extent of the Indigenous patrimony is not known, and no exhaustive catalogue exists. However, one of the first attempts at such a catalogue has been printed in Brazil and concerns the Indigenous objects preserved in the Pigorini Museum.5 There is widespread agreement, nonetheless, that the non-material and symbolic production is extremely important for making the Indigenous patrimony visible. Thus, the languages, signs and symbols that interpret its cultures are considered relevant. In particular, these are the rites, the songs, the body pictures, and the amalgam of various raw materials that

5

Eliane Moreira, Carla Arouca Belas and Benedita Barros, eds., Anais do seminário “Saber local/Interesse global: propriedade intelectual, biodiversidade e conhecimento tradicional na Amazônia (Belém: CESUPA, MEPG, 2005); Berta Ribeiro, A Itália e o Brasil Indígena (Rio de Janeiro: Index, 1983).

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give meaning to daily life, as well as their social metaphors, the masks, the flutes, the myths, and the stories.6 The process of re-appropriating the heritage of the Indigenous cultures is a project that is still being realised, and it must be defended through its rights in the various national contexts, in the museums, and in the other institutions where documents are kept in a post-colonial perspective. With special reference to the UN Declaration of the Rights of Indigenous Peoples on 13 September 2007, this process has already involved the institutions and Indigenous peoples in various projects aiming at recreating context against the colonial backdrop. Thereby, emphasis has been placed upon the idea that cultural patrimony is a system for the production and transmission of the cultural values of a specific group capable of defending pluralism and diversity.7 In Brazil, various Indigenous communities, and not merely the ethnic groups of Amazonian Northwest, have been involved in establishing an inventory of their patrimony. Several agreements, for example, have already been concluded that allow for reproduction of the colonial collections and make them available to the Indigenous communities. In the 1980s, for example, the Krahò initiated a movement to recover, identify, transfer, and develop the Indigenous patrimony. Today this movement has possibilities that even but a few years ago were unthinkable from the cultural, technological, and economic perspective. Examples are many and significant, as is shown by the agreements reached by the Tikuna and Parintintin peoples. The Maguta Museum of the Tikuna ethnic group is located in the village of Benjamin Constant, which lies upon the frontier between Brazil and Peru in the Amazonia. Its initial collection consisted of the work of Indigenous artists specialising in the creation of masks, various wooden sculptures, paintings on different types of tree-bark, and body decoration. Some of these objects were inspired by artefacts no longer in use, and the technique involved in their creation was recovered with the help of the

6

Berta Ribeiro and Lúcia H. Van Velthem, “Coleções Etnográficas. Documentos materiais para a história indígena e a etnologia,” in História dos Índios no Brasil, ed. Manuela Carneiro Da Cunha (São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1992), 103112. 7 Recommendation on the Safeguarding of Traditional Culture and Folklore (Unesco 1989); Proclamation of the Masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity (Unesco 2001-2005); Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage (Unesco 2003), and the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UN - September 13, 2007).

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village elders and making use of old photographs housed in various ethnographic museums. As a result of this initiative, the International Council of Museums presented the Maguta Museum and the Tikuna indios with an award entitled “Model Museum for the Year 1995.” Other acknowledgements were forthcoming from the Istituto do Patrimonio Historico e Artistico Nacional and from the Ministry for Culture in Brazil. In this museum’s guestbook, there are to be read amongst the very many comments the following remarks of the Indigenous professor Valdomiro da Silvia: “The Maguta Museum is a document... It is a house of joy for the Tikuna.” His friend Liberino Otavio wrote “The Maguta Museum serves to protect our future.” Diodato Aiambro views the museum as “a place that gives colour to our thoughts.”8 We also wish to mention that the Parintintin ethnic group managed to obtain from the Fundação Nacional do Indio (FUNAI) that the reproductions of sound and visual documents relating to their traditions, together with the research notes of the anthropologists Curt Nimuendaju and Josè Carlos Levino, be handed over to their “House of Culture.” As Bessa Freire has written, the use of memory is for this people the main weapon that unites their past to the future: “Pulling the string of the bow back towards the past is the means to casting the arrow into the future.”9 In the upper Rio Negro, in the district of São Gabriel da Cachoeira, the population is 90% native, which is a unique situation in Brazil. There the social and cultural journey of the Tariana and of the other Indigenous groups is proof that the creation of mechanisms providing the Native people with knowledge is the key to their reconstruction of identity. In effect, these Indigenous groups have already made important gains. For instance, they have achieved in practice the legal recognition of their territory, theirs is the administrative unit in Brazil where Indigenous languages were first given official recognition, and they have initiated projects with positive consequences as regards health, education, and community participation. At present, the Tariana are roughly 2000 people. Few of them still use the Tariana language, and nearly all speak at least Portuguese and the Tukano language. In the mid-nineteenth century, the natural historian Spruce had observed that communication with the Natives living along the 8

José Ribamar Bessa Freire, “A descoberta do museu pelos índios,” Terra das Águas - Revista do Núcleo de Estudos Amazônicos da Universidade de Brasília 1, no. 1 (1999): 44-69. 9 José Ribamar Bessa Freire, “O arco e a flecha da memória,” Jornal Diário do Amazonas (2007): 1-4.

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Rio Uaupés required learned Tariana and Tukano because the lingua geral was of little use for communicating with the inhabitants of the upper reaches of this river, even if it was predominant elsewhere. In less than a half-century after this notice, the Tariana language seemed to have lost the status that it had enjoyed with its Native speakers. According to the German ethnologist Koch-Grünberg, who passed through the region in the early twentieth century and had the chance to visit the various settlements along the Rio Uaupés, the Tariana language was becoming a tongue restricted to the older members of the populace, whereas young people did not speak it and clearly did not know many of its words. The changes that took place amongst the Tariana in the course of the nineteenth century were related to Koch-Grünberg by the Tariana chieftain Antonio. It is to be remarked that the ethnologist noted that, whereas the Tariana had previously had only one chieftain, there were at that moment two chieftains at Iauareté and yet others at Ipanoré. This reveals the transformation of the traditional Indigenous conception of politics that occurred in the second half of the nineteenth century. Koch-Grünberg also reports that he had looked into the profanation of the Juruparì mask. Twenty years after the events shaped by Father Coppi, his information confirms the version given by Coppi and Coudreau.10 As regards other aspects, the information related by Coppi and his contemporaries (e.g. Father Canioni, Father Zillochi, and Father Machetti, the latter acting as the prefect of the mission) is filled with contradictions even while providing yet other tesserae for the story told by the missionary.11 The need to learn more about themselves is what drove the Tariana to pass from the passive role of victims to the active role of people engaged in reconstructing a culture and putting into action various social and cultural projects. The series “Native Narrators” is an initiative of the Social-Environmental Institute and Federation of the Natives of the Rio Negro. Under its auspices, a number of mythical narratives have been published. These have been edited by the anthropologists Dominique 10 Richard Spruce, Notes of a Botanist on the Amazon and Andes (London: MacMillan and Co, 1908), 327-329; Theodor Koch-Grünberg, Zwei Jahre Bei Den Indianern Nordwest-Brasiliens (Stuttgart: Strecker und Schröder, 1921), 21, 236237; Henri Coudreau, La France Équinoxiale. Voyage à travers les Guyanes et l’Amazonie (Paris: Challemel Ainé, 1887). 11 Valéria Nely Cézar de Carvalho, Les Fils du Tonnerre et l’expansion coloniale: une ethnohistoire du nord-ouest amazonien (1750 -1889) (PhD diss., Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes, 2006); “Profanazione e trasformazione: la catechesi cattolica tra i Tariana,” in Amazzonia Indigena: 2008 resoconti di ricerca sul campo, ed. Paride Bollettin and Umberto Mondini (Roma: Bulzoni, 2008).

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Buchillet, Carlos Alberto Ricardo, Robin Wright, Geraldo Andrello, and Marta Azevedo, to name but a few. With the assistance of the linguist Alexandra Aikhenvald, a detailed grammar for the Tariana language has been written. Together with various other studies, this has allowed us to read Father Coppi’s manuscript and learn more about the history of the Tariana. In 2006, the Tariana managed to have the Falls of Iauareté included in the Register of the Brazilian patrimony. They presented a project that involved the Indigenous associations, the non-governmental organizations, and various institutions of the Brazilian government, such as the University and Ministry of Culture. Located in the middle Rio Uaupés, the Falls of Iauareté constitute a reference-point for the Tariana people and their neighbours gathered together in the village where the chieftain Ambrosio lived at the time of Father Coppi. It was this chieftain who handed over the sacred objects of the Tariana to the missionary in response to a threat. Not only the inscriptions upon the rocks, but the layout of the stones, of the islands upon the Uaupés, and of the bushes tell us of episodes of the wars and alliances described in the creation myths and in the historical narratives of the Tariana. Viewed as a vector of culture, the Falls of Iauareté constitute the nonmaterial property to have been listed in the Register of Places and are at the same time the eighth non-material patrimony of Brazil. The first nonmaterial patrimony of Brazil was the Kusiwa Art, i.e. the technique for drawing and graphic art practised by the Wajãpi Indios of the northern Amazon basin. This recognition in 2003 was the reason for the inclusion of the Kusiwa Art in the Unesco list of the non-material properties of humanity.12 As we have already remarked, the “virtual return” of the sacred objects of the Tariana is first and foremost an act of justice that symbolically recognizes the destruction caused by Western expansionism. It is also an act of re-evaluation and re-contextualisation of the objects housed in the Pigorini Museum, through their description by members of the very people that produced them. Moreover, it is a contribution to the effort to analyse 12

Dominique Tilkin Gallois, of the Nucleo de História Indigena e do Indigenismo dell’Università di São Paulo, directed the research that resulted in recognition on the part of Unesco. Dominique Gallois, “O acervo etnográfico como centro de comunicação intercultural,” Ciências em Museus 1, no. 2 (1991): 137-142; Kusiwa: pintura corporal e arte gráfica wajãpi (Rio de Janeiro: Museu do Índio, FUNAI, Núcleo de história indígena e do indigenismo, NHII-USP, 2002); “Arte Iconográfica Waiãpi,” in Grafismo Indígena: Estudos de Antropologia Estética, ed. Lux Boelitz Vidal (São Paulo: EDUSP/Livraria Nobel, 2007), 209-230.

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the missionary work and Native Brazilian policy in the Amazon basin in the course of the nineteenth century. It is important to stress that the many acts of eradication that mark the history of missionary activity have usually not been forgotten by the victims, who in fact wish to remember so as to reconstruct their cultural roots.13 In conclusion, the indios, like immigrants, must decode the symbols that, whether they wish it or not, have been transformed into a code giving access to their rights, and they must perforce participate in the redefinition of the nature of the ethnographic museum in the process of reappropriating their cultural patrimony. In short, the Coppi Collection constitutes a valid subject that allows for discussion of the ideas as to how the colonial encounter with the “other” need not end in the annihilation of the identity of the “other.”

Bibliography Amoroso, Marta Rosa. “A primeira missa: memória e xamanismo na missão Capuchinha de Bacabal (Rio Tapajós, 1872-1882).” In Deus na Aldeia: missionários, índios e mediação cultura, edited by Paula Montero, 209-234. Rio de Janeiro: Globo, 2006. Carvalho, Valéria Nely Cézar de. Les Fils du Tonnerre et l’expansion coloniale: une ethnohistoire du nord-ouest amazonien (1750 -1889). PhD diss., Ecole Pratique des Hautes Etudes, 2006. —. “Profanazione e trasformazione: la catechesi cattolica tra i Tariana.” In Amazzonia Indigena: 2008 resoconti di ricerca sul campo, edited by Paride Bollettin and Umberto Mondini. Roma: Bulzoni, 2008.

13 Marta Rosa Amoroso, “A primeira missa: memória e xamanismo na missão Capuchinha de Bacabal (Rio Tapajós, 1872-1882),” in Deus na Aldeia: missionários, índios e mediação cultura, ed. Paula Montero (Rio de Janeiro: Globo, 2006), 209-234; Carvalho, “Profanazione e trasformazione: la catechesi cattolica tra i Tariana”; Pierre Duviols, La destrucción de las religiones andinas (México: UNAM, 1977); Serge Gruzinski, La pensée métisse (Paris: Fayard, 1999); Patrick Menget, “Notes sur l’ethnographie jésuite de l’Amazonie portugaise (1652-1759),” in Naissance de l’ethnologie? Anthropologie et missions en Amérique XVIe-XVIIIe siècle, ed.Claude Bancklaert, (Paris: Les Editions du Cerf, 1985), 176-192; Patrick Menget and Antoinette Molinié, “Introduction,” in Mémoire de la tradition, ed. Aurore Becquelin and Antoinette Molinié (Nanterre: Société d’Ethnologie, 1993), 9-19; Santiani, “La demonización de las divinidades prehispánicas y su sistemática destrucción en el manual del jesuita Pablo Joseph de Arriaga.”

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Coudreau, Henri. La France Équinoxiale. Voyage à travers les Guyanes et l’Amazonie. Paris: Challemel Ainé, 1887. Duviols, Pierre. La destrucción de las religiones andinas. México: UNAM, 1977. Freire, José Ribamar Bessa. “O Patrimônio Cultural Indígena.” In Um olhar sobre a cultura brasileira, edited by Francisco Weffort and Márcio Souza, 335-350. Rio de Janeiro: FUNARTE, 1998. —. “A descoberta do museu pelos índios.” Terra das Águas - Revista do Núcleo de Estudos Amazônicos da Universidade de Brasília 1, no. 1 (1999): 44-69. —. “O arco e a flecha da memória.” Jornal Diário do Amazonas (2007): 1-4 Gallois, Dominique. “O acervo etnográfico como centro de comunicação intercultural.” Ciências em Museus 1, no. 2 (1991): 137-142. —. Kusiwa : pintura corporal e arte gráfica wajãpi. Rio de Janeiro: Museu do Índio, FUNAI, Núcleo de história indígena e do indigenismo, NHII-USP, 2002. —. “Arte Iconográfica Waiãpi.” In Grafismo Indígena: Estudos de Antropologia Estética, edited by Lux Boelitz Vidal, 209-230. São Paulo: EDUSP/Livraria Nobel, 2007. Gruzinski, Serge. La pensée métisse. Paris: Fayard, 1999. Koch-Grünberg, Theodor. Zwei Jahre Bei Den Indianern NordwestBrasiliens. Stuttgart: Strecker und Schröder, 1921. Lévi-Strauss, Claude. La voie des masques. Paris: Librairie Plon, 1979. Menget, Patrick. “Notes sur l’ethnographie jésuite de l’Amazonie portugaise (1652-1759).” In Naissance de l’ethnologie? Anthropologie et missions en Amérique XVIe-XVIIIe siècle, edited by Claude Bancklaert, 176-192. Paris: Les Editions du Cerf, 1985. Menget, Patrick, and Antoinette Molinié. “Introduction.” In Mémoire de la tradition, edited by Aurore Becquelin and Antoinette Molinié, 9-19. Nanterre: Société d’Ethnologie, 1993. Moreira, Eliane, Carla Arouca Belas and Benedita Barros, eds. Anais do seminário “Saber local/Interesse global: propriedade intelectual, biodiversidade e conhecimento tradicional na Amazônia. Belém: CESUPA, MEPG, 2005. Ribeiro, Berta. A Itália e o Brasil Indígena. Rio de Janeiro: Index, 1983. —. “Museu: veículo comunicador e pedagógico.” Revista Brasileira de Estudos Pedagógicos 66, no. 152 (1985), 77-99. —. “Museu e memória: reflexões sobre o colecionamento.” Ciências em Museus 1, no. 2 (1989): 109-22.

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Ribeiro, Berta and Lúcia H. Van Velthem. “Coleções Etnográficas. Documentos materiais para a história indígena e a etnologia.” In História dos Índios no Brasil, edited by Manuela Carneiro Da Cunha, 103-112. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1992. Santiani, Elia Rosio Otero. “La demonización de las divinidades prehispánicas y su sistemática destrucción en el manual del jesuita Pablo Joseph de Arriaga.” In Quaderni di Thule XXX - Convegno Internazionale di Americanistica, 181-196. Perugia: Argo, 2008. Spruce, Richard. Notes of a Botanist on the Amazon and Andes. London: MacMillan and Co, 1908. Viveiros De Castro, Eduardo. “Os pronomes cosmológicos e o perspectivismo ameríndio.” Maná 2, no. 2 (1996): 115-144.

CONTRIBUTORS

Virginia Battisti Delia is an Independent Researcher in History and Cultural Anthropology. She received a BA in 2006 at Sapienza University of Rome (Italy) and then moved to Lima (Peru) where she attended a Master’s degree program in Andean Anthropology and History at Pontificia Universidad Católica. Her thesis was devoted to the Jesuit mission of Juli (Lake Titicaca). Paride Bollettin received a BA in History at University of Padova (Italy) in 2005, a MA in Anthropology at University of Perugia (Italy) in 2007 and a PhD in Anthropology at University of Siena (Italy) in 2011. He has currently a Postdoctoral Research Fellow at the Centro de Estudos Ameríndios at the University of São Paulo (Brazil). He has written various articles for academic journals and published several books as editor: Amazzonia Indigena (with Gerardo Bamonte. Roma: Bulzoni, 2008), Ricerca sul Campo in Amazzonia (with Umberto Mondini. Roma: Bulzoni, 2009), Lévi-Strauss visto dal Brasile (with Renato Athias. Bologna: Cleup, 2011) and Etnografie Amazzoniche (with Umberto Mondini. Bologna: Cleup, 2001). Sergio Botta (PhD in History of Religions) is Assistant Professor at Sapienza University of Rome (Italy). His research focuses on Indigenous religions and colonial discourses in the Americas, with particular regard to missionary literature. He is also devoted to Method and Theory in the Study of Religions, and to such topics as Religions and the Arts, and Shamanism. The results are published in three monographs and several edited books. He has written articles that have appeared in academic journals. He has given invited talks and colloquia at different institutes. He has spent several periods as a fellow in Mexico, Guatemala, Spain and England. He is the Chief of the Editorial Committee of the academic journal Studi e Materiali di Storia delle Religioni. Valéria Nely Cézar de Carvalho (PhD in Anthropology) is a Researcher in Nucleo de História Indígena e do Indigenismo of the University of São Paulo (Brazil). She has studied History and Anthropology and has been carrying on research on Indigenous societies in different historical

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Contributors

archives, both in Brazil and Europe. Her contributions offer a large view about Brazilian expansion into Indigenous territories, especially in northwestern Amazonia. Maria Leônia Chaves de Resende is Associate Professor of History of the Native peoples of the Americas (University of São João del-Rei Brazil) and Researcher at the Centre for Overseas History (Centro de História de Além-Mar, CHAM) of Universidade Nova de Lisboa and Universidade das Açores (Portugal). Her researches focus on the IberoAmerican Atlantic World (Brazil and Portugal), with an emphasis on its social and cultural history. She received a Postdoctoral Research Fellow in History from Universidade Nova de Lisboa and several grants from prestigious institutions such as the Fulbright Program (University of Texas, 1999), the National Library of Rio de Janeiro (Brazil, 2005), CAPES (Brazil, 2007), Fundação para Ciência e Tecnologia (FCT, Portugal, 2008), CNPq and FAPEMIG (2009-2011). Rafael Gaune is a PhD in Modern History at the Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa (Italy). He gained his undergraduate degree at the Pontifical Catholic University of Chile and completed his MA at the “Roma Tre” University (Italy). He is currently professor at the Andres Bello University (Santiago, Chile). His research interests include the relationship between the global and the local through the Society of Jesus in Early Modern Latin America. He is editor with Martín Lara of Historias de racismo y discriminación en Chile (2009). Vanessa Grotti is Wellcome Fellow at the Wellcome Unit for the History of Medicine, Oxford University. She completed her PhD in Social Anthropology at the University of Cambridge in 2007. She has held a Ville de Paris Fellowship at the Laboratoire d’Anthropologie Sociale in Paris, a Research Fellowship at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine and a British Academy Postdoctoral Fellowship at the University of Oxford. Since 2003, she has been working among Central Carib populations in Suriname, French Guiana and Brazil. Her research focuses mainly on public health, medical anthropology, religion, kinship and change. She is co-editor of Animism in Rainforest and Tundra: Personhood, Animals and Non-Humans in Contemporary Amazonia and Siberia (Berghahn 2012, with M. Brightman and O. Ulturgasheva) and Ownership and Nurture: Studies in Native Amazonian Property Relations (Berghahn, forthcoming, with M. Brightman and C. Fausto). Her monograph entitled Living with the Enemy: First Contacts and the Making

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of Christian Bodies in Native Amazonia, is due to be published by Berghahn in 2014. Michel Kobelinski is Assistant Professor of History at Universidade Estadual do Paraná (UNESPAR, Brazil). He received his MA and his PhD at Universidade Estadual Paulista (UNESP, Brazil). He has also carried out research in Anthropology and Museology while working for Companhia Paranaense de Energia Elétrica (COPEL). His researches focus on History and Culture, Sensitivities and Nature. He has published the book Ufanismo e Ressentimento: de Minas Gerais aos Sertões de São Paulo (século XVIII) (2012). Alejandro Martínez received his PhD in Social Anthropology at Universidad Nacional de La Plata (Argentina). He is currently Postdoctoral Research Fellow at CONICET (National Council of Research, Argentina). He is Assistant Professor at Facultad de Ciencias Naturales y Museo (Universidad Nacional de La Plata, Argentina). He has published “Evangelization, visual technologies and Indigenous responses,” International Bulletin of Missionary Research 34, no. 2 (2010): 83-86; “Antropología misionera, interculturalidad y colonialidad. Las etnografías anglicanas del Chaco paraguayo (1890-1914),” in Actas electrónicas del IV Simposio Internacional sobre Religiosidad, Cultura y Poder (Buenos Aires: Museo Roca, 2012). Sidnei Clemente Peres received his PhD in Social Sciences at Universidade Estadual de Campinas (Brazil). He is currently Professor of the Programa de Pós-Graduação in Anthropology at Universidade Federal Fluminense (PPGS/UFF). He works academically and professionally with Indigenous groups and organisations in the North-West of Rio Negro (Western Amazonia - Brazil). He is currently project coordinator on identification of Indigenous lands. He has publicshed the book A política da identidade: o movimento indígena no Rio Negro (EDUA/Valer, forthcoming). Nikolai Rakutz received his PhD at the Institute of Ethnology and Anthropology RAS (Russia) with a thesis dedicated to “Corónica Moralizada by P. Antonio de la Calancha as ethnographic source.” He is currently working as Senior Resercher at the Institute for Latin American Studies, RAS. He has been Associate Professor in the Social Anthropology Research and Eduction Centre of Russian State University for the Humanities, Moscow. He is a member of “Circolo Amerindiano”

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Contributors

(Perugia, Italy). His main areas of research are Anthropology and Ethnohistory of Amerindian Peoples of South America. Marcos Pereira Rufino received his PhD in Social Anthropology at the University of São Paulo (Brazil) with a thesis on the current presence of Catholic missionaries among the indigenous peoples in Brazil. He has worked at ISA (Instituto Socioambiental) in a program on Indigenous Peoples in Brazil and on a thematic project about Christian activity with Indigenous people of CEBRAP (Centro Brasileiro de Análise e Planejamento). He taught anthropology at the School of Sociology and Politics of São Paulo he is currently at Universidade Federal de São Paulo as Assistant Professor of Anthropology. Among his interests are the relationship between Catholic missionaries and Indigenous people of Brazil from the 1970s and the ongoing involvement of the Catholic Church with the environmental movement.

INDEX Abranches, José Geraldo, 156 Abud, Kátia, 136 Academy of Happy People, 128 Academy of Select People, 128 Academy of the Forgotten, 128 Academy of the Reborn, 128 Acosta, José de, 25, 40, 64-7, 74, 76, 81, 85, 101-6, 109, 115 Acquaviva, Claudio, 50, 67, 70 Ad Gentes, 213-4 Aganamón, 109 Aikhenvald, Alexandra, 277 Akuriyo, 175, 180-5 Albuquerque Coelho de Carvalho, Antônio de, 127 Almeida Paes Leme, Pedro Taques de, 128, 130, 134, 141 Álvares Pugas, Antônio, 152 Amazon River, 150, 189-92, 22934, 237 Amazonia, 175-9, 231, 271-4 Anchieta Operation (OPAN), 211-2, 216 Andes, 5-6, 69-70, 85 Anglicans, 252-9, 262-3, 266, 268 Arcadia, 130 Argentina, 40, 68, 255 Aristides of Athens, 19 Aristotle, 108 Assunção do Içana, 236-9, 242-3 Augustinians, 42 Aymara, 40-1 Azevedo, Gaspar Teixeira de, 134 Aztecs, 105-6 Bakajá, 189, 192-3, 197, 202-6 Bandeirantes, 72, 128 Baniwa, 233, 236-7, 241-6 Barbosa, Matias, 164 Barbrooke Grubb, Wilfrid, 257

Bep-Komati, 202, 205 Bessa Freire, José Ribamar, 275 Bittencourt, Francisco, 168 Bodin, Jean, 13 Bolaños, Luis, 71 Bolivia, 40-1, 68, 70, 253 Book of Wisdom, 13, 19-20, 22 Borja, Francisco de, 42, 63 Bororo, 231 Brado, João Luís, 152 Brasilia, 210 Brazil, 121-40, 148-52, 157-9, 1689, 175-7, 180-2, 189, 193, 199, 209-226, 229-249, 273-8 Brazilian Geographical and Historical Institute, 122 Brazilian National Bishops Conference, 209, 215 Campanella, Tommaso, 58 Canada, 132 Candide ou l’Optimisme, 132 Castelo Branco, João de Abreu, 169 Caupolicán, 99, 101, 104, 106, 10910 Cayenne, 180 Celso, Affonso, 122 Chaco, 77, 84, 87, 251-68 Charlevoix, Pierre-François-Xavier de, 121, 130-4, 137-41 Chateaubriand, François-René de, 131 Chile, 67-9, 84, 87, 95-115, 253 Chiloé, 67-8, 87 Chimu, 53 Chiquitos, 40, 70, 74, 77, 83, 85, 87 Chucuito, 41, 45, 47, 49 Città del Sole, 58 Clement X, 108 Clement XIX, 132

286 Códice florentino, 22-4 Cohn, Clarice, 193, 202-3, 205 Colegio Imperial de la Santa Cruz de Tlatelolco, 21 Collège de Quebec, 130 Collège Louis-le-Grand, 130 Colombia, 220, 232, 244 Coloquios de los Doce, 21 Comaroff, Jean, 252, 267 Comaroff, John, 252, 267 Comentarios reales de los Incas, 101 Company of Jesus, 130, 139 Conquista espiritual, 83, 97, 99, 110 Conselho de Segurança Nacional, 243 Conselho Indigenista Missionário (CIMI), 209-26, 234 Constitución de los Naturales, 51 Coppi, Giuseppe Illuminato, 271-8 Corema, 161 Costa, Anselmo da, 159 Costa, Cláudio Manuel da, 126-8 Costa, João da, 152 Crollius, Arij Roest, 221, 225 Cuba, 64 Cummins, Thomas B.F., 51 Curripaco, 236 Cuzco, 42, 53 De decalogo, 13, 19 De la Démonomanie des Sorciers, 13 De procuranda indorum salute, 40, 64, 66 Democrates secundus, sive de justis belli causis, 108 Desana, 271 Dominicans, 42, 44, 48-9 Domitrovics, José, 240 Dürer, Albrecht, 54 Enxet, 252-68 Federação das Organizações Indígenas do Rio Negro (FOIRN), 229, 235 Flandes indiano, 99, 106, 109-10 Florida, 64-5

Index Franciscans, 11-30, 42, 65, 72, 75, 267 Freyre, Gilberto, 123 Fundação Nacional do Índio (FUNAI), 275 Galli, Carlos, 238-9, 244-5 García de Castro, Lope, 41 Garcilaso de la Vega, 101 Gardiner, Allen, 253 Geertz, Clifford, 43 Ginzburg, Carlo, 103 Gonçalvez, Nazário, 166 González de Santa Cruz, Roque, 73, 97 Gorotire, 192-3 Gow, Peter, 190 Grão-Pará, 148, 154-5, 159 Guarani, 71-87, 97-8, 150, 224 Guiana, 175-177, 180, 182 Guimarães, Francisco Fernandes, 152 Hartrick, Elizabeth, 264-5 Henriksen, Adolph, 255-7 Histoire des Îles Marianne, 96 Historia de los indios de la Nueva España, 17-20 Historia general de las cosas de la Nueva España, 24 Historia General del Reino de Chile, 99 Historia naturae, maxime peregrinae, 57 Historia natural y moral de las Indias, 101 Holy Office, 147-153, 160-1, 166, 169 Huarochirí, 42, 65, 77 Huguenots, 64 Hume, David, 13 Hunt, Richard, 257-9, 264, 266 Hurtado de Mendoza, García, 110 Ignatius of Loyola, 47, 64 Incans, 68, 96, 101, 105-106 Informação do Estado do Brazil e de suas necesidades, 128

Manufacturing Otherness International Council of Museums, 275 International Worldwide Evangelisation for Christ, 192 Jesuits, 37-59, 63-88, 95-115, 13040, 175, 190, 221 John Paul II, 97 John XXIII, 212-3 Juli, 37-59, 64-6, 68, 75, 106 Juruparì, 271, 276 Kapoto, 192, 194-205 Karangré, 200 Kayapo, 192, 204 Kircher, Athanasius, 263 Koch-Grünberg, Theodor, 276 Krahò, 274 Kubeo, 271 Kwamalasamutu, 179 La Araucana, 101 Lautaro, 99-109 Le Gobien, Charles, 96-8 Lepumante, 112-115 Lettres édifiantes et curieuse, 96 Levino, Josè Carlos, 275 Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 185, 272 Lima, 42, 65, 107 Loayza, Jeronimo, 51 Louis XV, 130 Loyola, Oñez de, 112 Lupacas, 40-1 Macapá, 180 Madre de Deus, Gaspar d, 121, 18, 130, 134-40 Manaus, 199, 243 Manifiesto apologético de los daños de la esclavitud en el Reino de Chile, 106 Mapuche, 101, 110, 113-114 Marchesi, João, 236-8 Mark, William, 257, 260, 263 Marques Pereira, Nuno, 125, 128 Marzal, Manuel, 40, 58 Mebengokré, 189-206 Medellin, 211-5 Melanesia, 178 Meliá, Bartolomeu, 83

287

Mercedarians, 42 Mesoamerica, 15-20, 25, 28 Mexico, 51-2, 101, 132, 220, 223 Minas Gerais, 16, 128, 149, 152-4, 156, 159, 162-4, 166, 169 Missão de Evangelização Mundial, 192 Monarquía indiana, 24-30 Montaigne, Michel de, 103-4, 106, 115 Montesquieu, Charles-Louis de Secondat, Baron de La Brède et de, 135 Morato, Domingos, 162 Motolinía, Toribio de Benavente, 16-23, 26, 28 Moxos, 40, 70, 74, 76-7, 85-7 Mrõtidjam, 192-3, 195, 197-203 Museo Preistorico ed Etnografico “Luigi Pigorini”, 271, 273, 277 Música de Parnasso, 125 Natural History of Religion, 13 Nazaré, Antônio de, 166 Nazca, 53 New Orleans, 130 New Spain, 11-30 Ngab, 194 Nieremberg, Johann Eusebius, 57 Nimuendaju, Curt, 275 Novinsky, Anita, 149 Ocaña, Diego de, 102 Oliveira, Manoel Pinheiro de, 152 Oliveira, Manuel Botelho de, 125 Orinoco, 150 Ouro Preto, 126 Pachacamac, 53 Pachamama, 220 Paraguay, 131-4, 137, 139, 175, 251-68 Paramaribo, 180 Patagonia, 84, 87, 253 Patagonian Missionary Society, 253 Pelantaro, 109 Perlasca, Simone, 57 Pernambuco, 125, 154, 166 Peru, 38-59, 63-88, 101, 175, 274

288 Phillip III, 105 Philo of Alexandria, 13, 19 Pius XII, 216 Pizarro, Francisco, 41 Pizarro, Gonzalo, 41 Pizarro, Hernando, 41 Plutarch, 104 Populo, Henrique de, 151 Pozo, Alonzo del, 112-5 Pride, Andrew, 257, 260-1 Primeros Memoriales, 24 Puebla, 220-1 Pupunha-Rupitá, 243 Quechua, 52, 54-5, 65, 84, 86 Ribera, Alonso de, 105-6 Ricci, Matteo, 97-8 Rio de Janeiro, 125, 134, 137, 153-4 Rio Negro, 229-49 Rio Uaupés, 276-7 Rivière, Peter, 179 Rome, 42, 48, 50, 57, 97, 213, 271 Rosales, Diego de, 95-115 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 131 Royal Academy of Science of Lisbon, 136 Ruiz de Montoya, Antonio, 83, 98 Sahagún, Bernardino de, 16, 21-4, 26-8 Salesians, 231-48 San Ignacio Miní, 39 San Martín, Tomás de, 41 San Miguel, Garci Diéz de, 41 Sanapaná, 262 São Domingo, 130, 168 São Felix do Xingu, 193 São Gabriel da Cachoeira, 231, 238, 244, 275 São José del-Rei, 152 São Paulo, 121-41, 166 Schneider, José, 236, 241 Second General Conference of Latin American Bishops, 211-2 Second Vatican Council, 211-20, 233, 244, 248 Sepp, Antonio, 83 Sepúlveda, Juan Ginés de, 108

Index Serviço de Proteção aos Índios (SPI), 231-2, 238 Seville, 24, 101 Silva, Custódio da, 167 Silvia, Valdomiro da, 275 Sipaliwini River, 177 Soares, Antônio, 153 Society of Jesus, 39, 42, 49, 57-9, 99, 103, 107, 112, 151, 221 South American Missionary Society (SAMS), 253-68 Souza Leal, Antônio de, 160 Strenski, Ivan, 14 Stroumsa, Guy, 14 Suriname, 176-85 Tapanahoni, 177 Tardini, Domenico, 213 Tariana, 271-8 Teixeira, Thomas Luís, 161 Tëpu, 177-84 Tiahuanaco, 53 Tinoco, Diogo Garção, 128 Tiriyó, 180-1 Titicaca, 58, 65 Todorov, Tzvetan, 49 Toledo, Francisco de, 38, 42-5, 645, 68 Torquemada, Juan de, 16, 24-30 Torres Bollo, Diego de, 65, 71, 74 Trio, 175-85, 242 Tukano, 240, 271, 275-6 Unevangelized Fields Mission, 176 Utiariti Mission, 216 Vaissette, D. José, 121-41 Valdivia, Luis de, 107, 110 Valdivia, Pedro de, 101 Vasconcelos, Simão de, 137 Veas, Marcos, 104 Venezuela, 232, 244 Vico, Gianbatista, 135 Vieira, Antônio, 166 Vila Rica, 126 Vilar, João de, 151 Villa Concepción, 253, 256-7 Villagra, Francisco de, 104 Viracocha, 53

Manufacturing Otherness Virgin of Guadalupe, 222 Vitoria, Francisco de, 107, 166 Viveiros de Castro, Eduardo, 190, 272 Voltaire, François Marie Arouet, 131-5 Wadsworth, James, 161

289

Wayana, 176-82 West Indies Mission, 176 Why do I boast about my country, 122 Xavante, 224, 231 Zizola, Giancarlo, 213