Camilo Ballena lives in Sip’ohi (El Sauzalito), Chaco Province, Argentina. He was raised in a community where the Wichí language and ancestral traditions formed an essential part of daily life, and the Wichí elders taught values of respect, work, and balance with nature. Camilo is a researcher of the Wichí language and a bilingual educator. In 2012, he founded the Wichi Lhomet publishing house: a collective whose purpose is to promote Wichi authors, musicians and illustrators. The project also produces educational materials. Camilo has contributed to the development of an intercultural Wichí pedagogy that is based on the principles of “hacer juntos” / Tonufweshu (“doing it together.”) Camilo Ballena is a poet, musician, and singer-songwriter whose compositions can be heard on three albums such as “Sip’ohi” and “Matojh.”
The following poems come from the bi-lingual edition (Wichí-Spanish) of Tañhi iyahinpho / Cuando despierta el monte (“When the Forest Awakens.”) This book is the winner of Argentina’s first Indigenous Poetry Prize, 2026.
In order to make way for the Wichí vision, Tañhi iyahinpho / Cuando despierta el monte questions the vision about the forest by the Western mixed-raced [Latin American]. The poet begins with the question, “Hat’ehap n’wuye tojh n’yomey tañhi, tojhmhe nintowflayej? / How do I speak the forest to someone who has never traversed it?” He then sets upon this task, undertaking a poetic response-translation. To write poetry in two tongues, in both the Wichí and Spanish languages, is a work that surpasses episteme-phylosophical translation. As Camilo Ballena puts it, “Words which are linked to the forest, the spirits, the natural cycles and emotions, have more ample meanings than the ones conveyed in Spanish.” Respect for intercultural diversity and the rights of the people should begin in these translations. Therefore, the poet assumes the necessity of giving voice and making heard the memory of the forest, which is to listen to what the forest is saying in the Wichí language. With feet on the ground, the experience of inhabiting the territories in a new way opens the possibility of traversing the path between two languages. Everything that is buried in the forest, in the shadows and swirls, knows the sensitive worlds that converse, that ask for respect and offer reciprocity. This collection of poems centers around life in the forest, where it is understood that no one is alone and “every root is an ancient relative.” This is not a merely metaphorical or figurative expression, but one that conveys a different consciousness of life within (and with) a forest, a consciousness that not only pulsates, but also speaks and thinks throughout the generations. The forest is the guardian life, protector of the life of women and men. If that life withdraws or extinguishes, humans are left without a destiny. To speak the Gran Chaco forest in the Wichí languages is to understand and make heard the forms of future life.
This collection of poems arrives in an era when forests and ecosystems are increasingly threatened due to the deepening model of extractivism and privatization of the Earth, a model which worsens environmental injustice while endangering and suffocating life in the communities. Tañhi iyahinpho / When the Forest Awakens beckons us, “in the coming and going between languages,” to think about other possible worlds, to open a different sensibility regarding occupation of the territories and, in doing so, to produce, through poetic imagination, another subjectivity.
TAÑHI WEHEY
TAÑHI LHELE
HOPE TOJH HULU I’PE T’OJH
WIT ILOTCHE LAFWELTSI
HOPE ELH TOJH PAJHCHE KAMAJH
ICHEFWEN
LHAWLHACHE TOJH YIK
IHI TOJH IHI MAK TOJH ICHE
T’IYALH
WIT TOJHMHE LHAY’AJHPHO
HAL’OY T’ISAN INOMETPHO LACHUWEJ
HOPE MAK TOJH HOTEHEN HAN’ONHI
LAPAK TEMCHE HAL’OY KAHEPELH
TAÑHI LHELE
LAT’UTLE TIPOTSINPE
TOIHONA OLETSJH TS’ILEY
TAK’EFWIPE WIT T’ESEY
TEMLO MAK TOJH ICHE
TEJCHE OYTAJH MAK TOJH TEMEJ
TAÑHI LHELE
TAMENEJ TONTICHENCHE MAK TOJH ILOY
MOLHYEJ INWOK
MOLHYEJ INOT
MOLHYEJ HEPEL
MOLHYEJ MAK TOJH TONTIKNA
↳ LISTEN TO THE POET READING IN THE WICHÍ LANGUAGE
TO BELONG TO THE FOREST
To belong to the forest
is to carry the trail’s dust upon your skin
and to feel that every root
is an old kin who still teaches you.
It is to walk slowly,
for here, time does not race
but breathes.
And in each gasp,
the spirit of the trees speaks—
the invisible guardians,
the voices dwelling in the cool shade.
To belong to the forest
is to have a heart woven
from chaguar fibers—
firm yet flexible,
capable of sustaining life
even when it’s painful.
To belong to the forest
is to remember that everything is alive:
air,
water,
darkness,
dreams.
HAWESIFWAS
THA ICHOJHLHAMCHE LAKHAJHÑHAYAJH
HOTE TOTTEY HIW’ENHI
TOJH ILOTA HOPE TOJHMHE LHAJH LATESA.
LHAMIL T’EYA MAK TOJH TOKNIT’EYAYA
Y’ITPE TOJH INATHAJH HAL’OWULEY
FWENCHEY INEKWEPHO TOJH LHAM N’OLA
MAK HANA ITSEPYENCHE TOW’ATSHANCHEYAJH
.
ICHEKFWI HEPELH TOJH IS
HAL’OY TOJH WEWFPE
INWOK HAPITSAJHICHE WIT HAT’ENHICHE
TEJCHE NIPITAJHA TOJH N’OLA
NICHOTLO INWOKMHE TOLHCHE TAÑHI
MATTOJH TAKHAJHAY
W’ENHI LHAMEJ PELHAYMHE.
TOWEHEY TOJH LALEMSAS
LHAMIL LACHEFWENYAJH
HIN’OLTEJ LATETNHAY
ICHE TOJH IHI NOTMHE
WIT HAN’ONHICHE LAN’OYIJ
THA IWU CHUWESHA
TUK HOPE NILOWKYALHI
T’EYA TOJH T’IWINLHI
TOJHMHE TACH’AWHIYA
LHICHEFWENEJ MAK TOJH ICHE
TUK HOPE HIP’ETHAT
ISTAKEJ LAN’OYIJ
TOJH IYEJ T’ISAN
WIT LHOY’A LACHUWEJ
LITTLE GUARDIANS MASTERS
Inadvertently
Invisible
They carry an ancient nobility
that is heard with the heart.
They take care of all the world forgets.
The brilliance of dawn on the leaves
presence of the wakening birds
balance that sustains all
lives.
They inhabit soft tree-filled
shadows, thick with leaves
the unheard of glance of the wind.
Light
like a breeze
their spirit is stronger
than any storm.
Tiny grand noblefolk
who teach without words
speak with signs
with movements of water
with subtle steps.
To respect them is to walk protected.
To listen to them is to learn the language of the world.
To forget them, is to lose the way
that unites body
and soul.
INWOK TOJH TOT’IÑNHUPWU
INWOK TOJH YISTHU TAÑHI
ICHOJHLHAMCHE TOWEHEY LHAÑHI
LHOMTES TOJH NIN’OLACHE
TOJH IYEJ, THONHOY HAN’ONHIYA
AHOPE TOLHOMTES, T’ISAN NIN’OLA
APOSET, ACHUS PITSAJHCHE
TOIHANEJ, HAN’ONHI THA LAHESEK IYEJ
TOLHAMIL TOJH INAMEJ
MESSENGER WIND
Wind that passes through the forest
messenger of deities
you bring rumors of the invisible
the secrets of the ancients.
Word without reflection.
Song and whistle.
The invisible remembers
its covenants with us.
PELE TATELHUY
KATETSEL HOTEWUYE TOTTELHUY
ITETSHAN TO’ELH N’OYIJ TOJH HUNATSI
HOTE WICHI ITETSHAN
NITOWFLESHEJ TOJH ISI
ELH TOJH LHUKWE P’ANTE
W’ENTUK HITS’ILAK LHAMEJ
PELEL’IÑNI ITSUK NILHUKEJ LAHANYAJH
THE EYES OF THE SKY
Awake
the stars are eyes
they watch the steps of humans at night.
Wichí people lift their gaze
and recognize in their glow
the presence of those who came before.
No one is alone–
the sky holds our memory.
FOR MORE ABOUT CAMILO BALLENA AND THE WICHÍ LANGUAGE
Listen to Los de SIP’OHI, author’s music band in wichí
FOR MORE ABOUT THE GUEST EDITORS
Violeta Percia is a poet, writer, and audiovisual filmmaker. She holds a PhD in Literature from the University of Buenos Aires. She studied film at the International Film and Television School in San Antonio de los Baños, Cuba. She is a professor at the University of Buenos Aires, and the National University of Tres de Febrero. She was a member of the collective that produced the literary podcast Sin pedir permiso: poéticas de Wallmapu (“Without Asking Permission: Wallmapu Poetics”). She is the organizer and curator for the Indigenous Film Festival of Buenos Aires, “From Wallmapu to Nunatsiavut.” She has published the poetry collections Clínica enferma (2003) y Poesía del Tanti Rao (2019), as well as the novel Como nubes (2021). She has also edited and translated several books, including Traducir poesía: mapa rítmico, partitura y plataforma flotante (2014).
Diego Antico is a musician, educator, and holds a degree in Literature from the University of Buenos Aires–UBA. He currently works as a researcher, curator, and cultural manager at the Centro de Estudios sobre Pueblos Originarios at the Mariano Moreno National Library. In 2024, he created and organized the La palabra indígena sessions at the Buenos Aires International Book Fair. In 2025, he co-created and coordinated—alongside Violeta Percia—the Indigenous Poetry Prize of Argentina, with the support of National University Tres de Febrero–UNTREF.
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Shannon Webb-Campbell is of Mi’kmaw and settler heritage. She is a member of Flat Bay First Nation (No’kmaq Village) in Ktaqmkuk/Newfoundland, Canada. Her books include: the forthcoming Feral Mermaids (Book*hug 2027), Re: Wild Her (2025), Lunar Tides (2022), I Am a Body of Land (2019), and Still No Word (2015), which was the recipient of Egale Canada’s Out in Print Award. Shannon holds a PhD in English/Creative Writing from the University of New Brunswick and is the Associate Editor of Muskrat Magazine.
The selected poems offer a representative sample of Shannon Webb-Campbell’s poetics. In these poems, the body cannot be conceived as separated from the land: both are sites where memory, kinship and the history of the Mi’kmaq Nation are inscribed. Through images that intertwine the landscape of Ktagamkuk (Newfoundland), spirituality, and the more-than-human world, the poet moves between contemplative reflection and a critique of the enduring legacy of colonialism, exploring questions of identity, belonging and resistance.
PINK UP PARCHED EARTH
rustic delicacies formed by soft hands
textured mosses become abstract vessels
pink and white earthen echoes
biological formations
waterlogged bark where barnacles grow
reshape stone’s breath
you harness jagged cliffs
dig up frosted forest
foggy lichen under your fingernails
rocks peeling back the ocean floor
a deep philosophy of wabi-sabi
shallows in the tidal pools of your palms
water rushes over cracked earth
you retrace tides through clay
grounding mud with reversing rhythms
you see nature’s aerial view minds algae
an organic process surfaces
what flows in
must flow out
“Pink Up Parched Earth” from Re: Wild Her (Book*hug 2025)
COSMIC WOODLAND GUIDANCE
you came to me as a valley
dreamlike in your twenties
vixen of the hunt
moon spells and birthing
begged me to let go
gather my skirts
dying is not the end
seven generations rallied
you lived out every little onslaught
now you are a new woman
wilder than motherhood
“Cosmic Woodland Guidance” from Re: Wild Her (Book*hug 2025). Recorded “Cosmic Woodland Guidance” at It’s OK Studios in Toronto on Queen Street West 2024 for the forthcoming album Pine, a musical collaboration between Canadian hip hop artist Ice Tha One and rapper Junia-T.
“If I Wasn’t a Fury” from Lunar Tides, Book*hug 2022. Recorded “If I Wasn’t a Fury” in Toronto with Rae Spoon as part of Stewart Legere’s forthcoming album and collaborative theatrical production The Unfamiliar Everything at the Toronto Theatre Centre in 2027.
ECOLOGY OF BEING
in this thinner air
there is no need to ingest crystals
we are surrounded by the boreal forest
at the breakdown of natural order
within the great chain of chaos
we exist as intervention
between land and sky
only to return from a journey
to a place of familiarization
forgot the power of selfhood
paint is singular –
it triggers memorable experiences
if you embody new occult poetics
between the self and this other thing
we make a clearing to find meaning
travel to trembling aspens
and come upon medicines
we remember this leaf
make connections
experience seasons at their breaking point
and reinvent our skin cells
“Ecology of Being” from Lunar Tides (Book*hug 2022.) Duo Concertante, Ecology of Being, Marquis/Amazon, released March 22, 2022. Duo Concertante plays the works inspired by the climate emergency by Melissa Hui, Dawn Avery, Carmen Braden, Ian Cusson, Randolph Peters, and Bekah Simms. Poetry by Shannon Webb-Campbell. Listen in Spotify. Duo Concertante also released Ecology of Being in 2019, a short-film directed by Nicola Hawkins.
Macedonio Villafán Broncano (Peru, 1949) is a Peruvian writer and educator recognized for his contributions to contemporary Andean literature and for his work in revitalizing the Quechua narrative tradition. Born in the region of Áncash, his writing draws deeply on the Andean cultural world, oral memory, and the historical tensions shaped by colonization and extractivism in the Peruvian highlands.
Villafán’s work is distinguished by its ability to bring Western narrative forms into dialogue with structures rooted in the Andean worldview, particularly the centrality of community, orality, and a living relationship with the land. In his novel Apu Kolki Hirka (1997), he gives voice to a mountain that recounts centuries of mining exploitation, offering an Andean perspective in which nature is understood not as a resource, but as a living subject. His writing thus emerges at the intersection of memory, territory, and historical conflict, constituting a powerful literary intervention that invites us to rethink the relationship between community, spirituality, and modernity in the contemporary Andes. Below are selected excerpts from Apu Kolki Hirka. In this bilingual narrative in Quechua and Spanish, the apu—a mountain-deity—recounts centuries of history through a non-linear temporality, revealing the sacred bond between Quechua communities and the land, as well as the progressive devastation brought about by colonial invasion and its ongoing expression in contemporary extractive capitalism.
“I am the old Colquijirka, the mountain or hill of silver, inhabitant of these immense cordilleras of the serpent god Amaru. I am the venerated one of ancient ayllus, their great Apu or Mountain God. For good or ill, for fortune or misfortune, I have offered the mineral of my entrails to all who came to ask for it in good spirit. Since when? Since how many pachacutis or great changes? As if it were only today, I remember it despite the passage of time. And now that they have exhausted the mineral I could offer, seeing how the mining workers leave with their children and their poverty; hearing the voices of the dead in the wind flooding me with their nostalgia, within me I remember… “(p. 5-6)
~~~
Tsaymi noqaqa achka qellayniita pashtaratsipurqaa. Kushikuymi urya kaq tsay patsachaw. Kallpankunawan yanapanakur, kushikuypa uryarmi qellayta raslla aylluriyarqan. Tsaypitanam takiraakun apakuyarqan qellayniita, Qanchis Qochapeq yarqoq Tampu mayu uranpa. Markanman chaarirnam wayra tullpankunachoo ñanpuyaaratsir, ichikllallan qellaypeq shumaq murukunata, waatakunata ruraykur, Mama Pachapaq, noqakuna apukunapaq, Qanchis Qochapaq, churayaamurqan, tamya kananpaq, mikuy achka kananpaq, waatankuna mirananpaq; ari paykunaqa Tampu mayu aywaqchoo quñu patsapita rara punakamam murupakuyaq, waatapakuyaq. Tsaynoo llapanta rurayarmi shumaq kawakuychoo kakuyaq: Mama Pachata kuyashpa, apukunata kuyashpa, Qanchis Qochata kuyashpa; llapan imaykachoopis yanapanakushpa, kushiypa uryashpa… (p.8) Tsay patsachawpis kushikuymi urya kaq llapanpaq (p.10)
Then I made my silver spring forth abundantly. Work was a joy in those times. Joining their forces and working joyfully, they gathered my silver. Then, dancing, they carried the metal to their ayllu, descending along the banks of the Tampu River that flows from the Qanchis Qocha lagoons. Upon reaching their village, smelting it in their wind furnaces, they made fruits and little animals of silver that they placed as offerings to Mother Earth, to us their gods, to their Qanchis Qocha, so that there would be rains, so that their cultivated fields would bear fruit, so that their animals would multiply. For in that Tampu River basin they cultivated and raised their animals from the warm lowlands to the cold high punas. By doing everything in this way, they had achieved good living; venerating Mother Earth, Qanchis Qocha, the mountain gods, helping one another, working with joy… (p.8)
All the peoples kept my great mandate in mind. They never forgot it. (p.10)
Everyone was astonished by how the Spaniards coveted gold and silver. The ransom that the Inca Atahualpa gave them in Cajamarca, filling a room so that they would grant him freedom, had meant nothing to them. Because immediately, without showing respect to the gods, they began to take the gold and silver from the temples; they even began to destroy the temple of the ancient Chavín gods; from the great temple of Qoricancha they took all the gold and silver of the gods. They said that the ambition of those bearded wiracochas for gold and silver was so great that they even killed one another. (p.12)
~~~
Chaykaayarqan pasaypa hatun kaq vetaaman. Hina kutipaykuryanmi, Toruupis, Mukiipis, runaakunapis capatazninkunata, willapaq: Achka mineraltam apakuykaayanki; Tayta Kolki Hirkapaq achka qaraynin churayay, nishpa. Tsay shumaq wayinkunachoo, asikuyaqmi mandakuqninkuna, imayka asikuypaqnoo niyanqan kanqantanoopis. Allaapam piñaykurqaa shunquuchoo. “-Tayta, kaykunata kallpaykita musyaratsishun...” (p. 40)
They were already reaching my greatest veins. Reiterating many times, my bull, my muki, my runas warned their overseers saying: they are taking large quantities of mineral; make great offerings to Father Kolkijirka. But their bosses laughed in their luxurious offices as if the warnings were a joke. An immense rage grew in my spirit.
“Show them your power, father.” (p. 40)
For more about Indigenous Literatures and extractivism
Andrea Echeverría Langsdorf is an Associate Professor at Wake Forest University. She earned her doctoral degree in Latin American Literature and Cultural Studies at Georgetown University. She is the author of Yeyipun en la ciudad. Representación ritual y memoria en la poesía mapuche (Editorial Universidad de Guadalajara, 2021) and El despertar de los awquis: migración y utopía en la poesía de Boris Espezúa y Gloria Mendoza (Paracaídas Editores & UNMSM, 2016), as well as of several academic articles published in journals such as Latin American and Caribbean Ethnic Studies, Latin American Research Review and the Canadian Journal of Hispanic Studies. She is currently working on a book that studies Mapuche visual art.
Danilo Vásquez (b. 1960) is a Lenca poet and teacher who was born in San Miguel, El Salvador. He received a Bachelor’s in Literature from the University of El Salvador. He resides in Santa Rosa de Lima where he teaches language and literature at Centro Escolar Centroamericana. His published writings include: El diablo en Santa Rosa de Lima (1987), Náuseas de Lemas y Dilemas (1988), Adiós a un ideal (1989), Cuentos de Santa Rosa de Lima (1989), Mamá abuela (1990), Cuando la luna llena (1992), Fragmentos de un sueño (1998), Cuba…una sílaba tras otra (1999), and Cuadernos lencas taulepas (2016).
The poems I have chosen to translate come from various places, such as his poemario Cuando la luna llena (1992) and Cuadernos lencas Taulepa (2016). For this reason, I have decided to “name” the following group of translated work “Poems from Lenca lands.” I have included the original poems in Spanish so readers are able to consult either the original or my translations into English. In his poems, readers will find an array of themes and ideals, many of which speak to a trans-American and Lenca experience.
Danilo Vásquez’s work has gone unnoticed by many readers and writers, which is of no surprise given the peripheral status that Central American authors have been afforded within Latin American literary and publishing spaces, as well as World Literature more generally. Amidst this reality, many Indigenous writers from Central America and Abya Yala have found ways to disperse their work in and outside of Latin America, particularly through Indigenous-led writing collectives and the Internet’s ability to connect millions of people across time and space. In Danilo’s case, much of his work is no longer under (physical) circulation, so the Internet has been an important avenue for the circulation of his poems from Lenca lands. He has turned to sites such as Instagram, Facebook, Scribd, and Twitter, among many others, in order to share his poetics with readers like us.
In Danilo’s work, readers will find the maneuvers and beauty that he deploys through his use of the Spanish language. As many Indigenous scholars and artists have pointed out, even though we produce in colonial languages, such as Spanish and English, we have made them our own, ultimately Indigenizing the languages. In deploying Spanish, Danilo is able to capture the tensions and beauty found currently in Lenca lands in order to advocate for and to convey the contributions Lenca writers have to the world of literature. In the poems I have included, Danilo’s words speak historically and culturally to a post-bellum El Salvador and the legacy of colonial violence found on Lenca lands, lands that are divided by what today are known as El Salvador and Honduras. The poems the reader will find below are filled with Lenca cosmovisions as well as preoccupations with international and transnational struggles and solidarity efforts. These culminate in a tapestry of Lenca words that seek to build connections across time and space with non-Lenca and Lenca peoples alike.
Lastly, I would like to dedicate these translations to Berta Cáceres, a Lenca activist who was murdered in Honduras for advocating for Mother Earth and for Lenca and Indigenous rights and autonomy. She was taken from us too soon, a decade ago on March 3, 2016. Danilo Vásquez has a poem on her power and sacrifice, titled “A Bertha Cáceres,” where he recounts how the Lenka people will keep fighting against the material injustices perpetrated by the nation-states that occupy Lenka lands (Honduras and El Salvador). In conversation with Danilo, he told me the following about her: “La magia y el amor de una incansable luchadora manifestado en su aguerrida lucha. Berta es el atavismo genealógico de las guerreras Comizahuales” (25 Jan 2026 via Whatsapp). Abrazos.
A Poem for Berta Cáceres
March 3, 2016
From Cuadernos lencas Taulepa (2016)
English translation originally published in Latin American Literature Today (2026)
We grieve for Honduras
Like the twin sister
Who suffers at the same time as the heart
We grieve
Because we carry a sea of blood that unifies us
Because for every thorn that wounds us
Grandparents
parents
And siblings bleed.
It breaks our soul
To know that foreign gunpowder
Keeps exploding in our mountains
Cowards
Murderers
How dare they spill our blood
Murderers
Forever dammed
The blood that dyed red
Our rivers wasn’t enough for them
Did they really think that the children of Manawana Lempira
won’t raise their spears?
Our arrows will be poisoned with dignity
With decorum
To combat the grim and crude invader
All the fury of the confederation
All the strategy and tactics
Will be felt in the vengeance for our spilled blood
Our fallen, heroic siblings
will be avenged one by one
The fight begins
The combativeness of the glorious Lenca will be felt
Even in the rotten and dirty bones of the transnationals.
From Cuando la luna llena (1992)
MONDAY
The rain has already washed the horizon
The night covers the earth with her cloth
A cricket sings desperate songs
An out-of-tune rooster plays along with him
Slowly the moon walks
Without knowing where to.
THURSDAY
And I will keep living
In each of the sun’s marimbazos *
Picking up the lost lights
Shaping the faces of the past
Walking hand in hand
With my existential dread
Crashing my full moon voice
Spilling the aged wine
On the comal of a dark town. **
~~~
* The Central-American marimba is a melodic percussion wooden instrument.
** The comal is a Central-American rounded earthenwear griddle where tortillas are cooked.
Christián González Reyes (b. 1997) (They/he) is a scholar and writer. Chrisitán is finishing a PhD in Comparative Literature at UC Berkeley, where they focus on Post-Civil War Central American, Mesoamerican, and diasporic literature and film. They are interested in the impact Marxism has had on these cultural archives. Christián is also a writer of short stories in Spanish, and they are currently finishing a book of short stories.
shalan joudry is an award-winning Mi’kmaw writer, oral storyteller, podcast producer, drummer/singer, and ecologist. Using her theatrical background, shalan brings Mi’kmaw stories to a new generation of listeners, as well as recounting personally-crafted narratives that follow Indigenous storying methodologies. shalan has published two books of poetry, Generations Re-merging (Gaspereau Press 2014) and Waking Ground (Gaspereau Press (2020). Waking Ground was shortlisted for numerous poetry awards. Her next poetic book, Kmitkinu (our homeland), is one poem in five parts, describing the need for communal healing from colonial histories. This poem was translated 12 times and all together will be published in a limited run by Running the Goat Books and Broadsides. shalan lives with her family in their community of L’sitkuk (Bear River First Nation), Nova Scotia, where she is reclaiming her Indigenous language.
“Regrowing” is from Generations Re-merging (Gaspereau Press, 2014) while the two other poems are from Waking Ground (Gaspereau Press, 2020).
Regrowing
after a great devastation
when the land is singing itself back
it is sometimes the unfortunate fate of the red spruce
to know two worlds
having been born into a system
when white birches and aspens blanket
where it had been broken or burned
an orchestra of sprouting and falling
competing for light
but they held together underground
everything was known
had its place
those red spruce who survived
dropped branches
reached up
grew harder
everything became renamed
re-spaced among the hemlocks and us still redding
how my father will tell stories of those days
when being Mi’kmaw was a dreaded fate
now everything’s grown damp
new scents to tell the weather by
who’s reaching for the light, daughter?
we don’t mind the shade now, father
though i know how he laboured for light
when there wasn’t any room
it is sometimes the unfortunate fate of the red spruce
to have grown up in a known land
cycled through to something else
Where were you then?
you are remembering
when alliances were baptized
before the war spilled across the atlantic
landing on our shores to navigate
the barricades and trenches of faith
the first set of quakes held some together
tied knots, hid children
sent snipers in for each other’s return
yet the decades of strife quivered the mind
fatigued the fingers
from holding
to letting go
when forced to abandon the land
which you had learned to entangle yourselves with
you left us staring down the barrels
alone
when we had nowhere else to run to
roped onto rocky hills, outlawed
and severed from coast and territory
where were you then?
as you trickled back
were granted other lands to start anew
ours was repeatedly shrunk
our voices denied
our children kidnapped
but where were you then?
now that we finally have a footing
stitching the seams of possibility
reclaiming a livelihood
returning voice to our children
here you are
wanting to be in-lawed, re-membered
then show us what it means to be come-unity
be here when the novel fan-fare ends
Ceremony for the end of the day
when the herons fly home-bound at dusk
lifting the last current of warm air
the river route is long and arduous
when the hardship of flight has peaked and tempered
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The crickets and cicadas awake in the night, the rattle follows the rhythm of the jungle, and suddenly a sweet flute, a human blow vibrating within a reed; music born from the longing to follow the vibration of the earth, the percussion of the Amazonian forest. These are some of the images that traverse those who listen for the first time to “La llamada” (The Call), the first track of the album “Copoazú” by Hombre de barro (Mud Man), by the Colombian musicians Ernesto “Teto” Ocampo, Urián Sarmiento, and Juan Manuel Toro. There is no sheet music to follow this paleo-futuristic rhythm, only improvisation, whistling, intermittence, and blowing.
The Hombre de barro album was what led us to interview Teto, at his home in La Candelaria neighborhood of Bogotá in mid-June 2015. Our intention at that time was to publish the interview the same year along with a review of the album, but we never sat down to organize the material. Perhaps, we did not fully understand the ideas that Teto was sharing with us. Years passed, and Teto passed away in 2023. Today, we recover the recording of the interview and share and comment on some excerpts in this tribute by Siwar Mayu to Teto Ocampo and Hombre de barro.
Teto was a composer, arranger, guitarist, and sharu flute improviser. Whether for the reader who is just discovering Teto Ocampo’s work or for those who have been enjoying his projects for years, in the end, it is his music that best explains who this musician from Río de Oro, César (Colombia), was; from the Colombian folk music of “La Tierra del Olvido” (The Land of Forgetfulness) by Carlos Vives to the paleo futuristic jazz of Hombre de Barro and Mucho Indio, passing through the tropical rock of Bloque de Búsqueda and the electronic cumbia of Sidestepper.
↳ “Farewell Teto” is a tribute from Carlos Vives to his friend.
Teto Ocampo was also, or above all, an improviser, as he emphasized in our interview: “When one improvises, one can only play what one plays, what one knows how to play.” For Teto, in the art of improvisation, the sound is free, it connects with the moment as if a voice were dictating to the musician what comes next. Teto improvised, as he explained to us, not only on notes but also on musical modes and phrases; he improvised as if being carried away by a river, “playing music,” not “touching music” (from the Spanish “tocar música”.)
It is precisely improvisation that inspires the album “Copoazú” by Hombre de Barro: “Basically, we are a group of friends who are musicians,” Teto told us, “good musicians who enjoy playing together (…) We are musicians of music. We are improvisers. That comes in large part from jazz.” In 2013, Ernesto “Teto” Ocampo, Urián Sarmiento, and Juan Manuel Toro gathered to play together in the Amazonian forest: “We went for a week, we stayed in a Maloca [ceremonial house], that’s like the civilization (…) Then we went to the middle of the forest where there is nothing, and we set up a camp there with a solar-powered studio, so we could record and we recorded many takes of many things, many hours, every day, for a week.”
↳ HERE you can listen to the album “Copoazú” by Hombre de Barro
The album was recorded with the assistance of Wuapapura Music Stream Earth, who have a solar-powered mobile studio for recording in natural spaces, and with the Fundación Raíces Vivas –a project that works with Indigenous communities in the Amazonian region– who facilitated the intercultural dialogue and the permits for the meeting with the Tikuna community of Puerto Nariño (Amazonas, Colombia). Reflecting on the result, Teto remarked: “We are surprised by what sounds there. We do not even remember playing that. Many were improvisations, let’s say, inspired by the surrounding (…) More than an exchange, it is the musicians finding themselves with the forest (…) The fact of being there and playing was a spiritual performance.”
When one listens to “Copoazú,” one is left with many questions, such as how the decision to undertake this project was made, or what the motivations of the musicians were. This is what Teto shared with us: “It is interesting to go and make music with the jaguar. To make music with the guacharaca and all those birds and insects. It was beautiful. When we entered into a trance with them, it was incredible. At night it was difficult.” The immersion in the Amazon was precisely an encounter with the music that is part of the daily life of the jungle communities. In addition to the flapping of wings or the friction of cicada legs, some songs from “Copoazú” feature the counterpoint of Tikuna songs, performed by Doña Alba Lucía, specifically related to the harvest of the chontaduro (when it is sought out, when it is cut, when it is prepared), and with the seed of the huito, from which body paint is extracted.
As seen in the video prepared by Wuapapura (see below), before venturing into the forest, the musicians worked all night shredding the huito. With its juice, the Tikuna elder painted their bodies and gave them their clans. “It’s like smearing on a mango,” Teto said, laughing. Teto’s clan was the ant, he told us. As the day passes, the paint becomes darker, until it’s “black black” at night: “This is done to enter the jungle. This is done to protect yourself from pests, and so the jungle recognizes you. If one does not have a spiritual attitude and respect, the forest can kill you, spit you out…”
↳ This video was produced by Wuapapura, and gathers some images during the recording of Copoazú in Puerto Nariño.
How does life change after a week in the middle of the Amazonian forest? What remains, what images, what sounds, what thoughts? This is what Teto told us:
“Life changes… all that’s left is gratitude. To be nothing, just an ant in that green sea. Here [in Bogotá] everything is so independent, wandering alone, not caring about friends. But no, not there, if you get lost, you are left alone, no…, there the best thing is to be able to be with your friends. Fire, for example, becomes very important. Many lessons learned.”
Teto Ocampo
“Was there any existing concept before recording?” was another question we asked, to which Teto clarified that the music we hear on the album is the product of what emerged along with the soundscape of the forest. Some songs were born there, and others were built with arrangements and notes brought from the city. In both cases, the sounds of “Copoazú” seem to mimic the sounds of the forest or, at least, to enter the same rhythm. This is how Teto explained it:
“That was the exercise we were going to do. We are aware that the universe is making music all the time. Every minute there is music, and one can catch it. Music is passing through here, through life, through everything, a man hammering, the church bell, the dog that passed by. Some things are louder than others, the hammer is louder, the dog has pads on its feet and walks on them, but it’s also making sound, it’s just that one does not hear it all at once, but the dog has a rhythm it needs because there’s something over there, another person has a rhythm he needs because who knows what is calling him there, here the minibus stopped and then the guy on the other side honked, and just like this everything is connected. And besides that, it is not just the sound, it’s everything, it’s peace, love, light, tranquility, insecurity, they are cosmic waves that are not only on earth, right? And that is a tremendous power of healing if one manages to enter this rhythm. Music is that capability of healing oneself and of healing others. And that’s the way, making it possible for oneself to enter, and for people to enter into that universal jam.”
Teto Ocampo
The day we interviewed Teto, he received the remastered file of the second album of Mucho Indio, another of his collective projects. At the end of the interview, he left us with his music; and now that we think about it, perhaps we were some of the first ones to listen to the album. It is inspired by the ancestral music of the Ikv, Wayuu, and Nasa peoples, accompanied by paleo futuristic notes and scriptures, which was the methodology Teto used. This is what he shared with us in 2015:
“I have a group called Mucho Indio. (…) (…) Here in Mucho Indio, I’m searching for the spirituality of this music, and I am not so much jazz-oriented, it is more minimalist, much more simple harmonically, less complex. I am looking for the brightness, that does not lose the brightness, because that is music that makes you glow. So there are no solos, very few improvisation solos because that is full of ego, right? It does not have to be like that, but it bothered me, in the end, I ended up discarding the solos.”
Teto Ocampo
↳ Listen HERE to the complete album from Mucho Indio.
While we were listening to his music, we told Teto that some tracks by Hombre de Barro and Mucho Indio reminded us of India, and that perhaps there was wordplay precisely between “indio” (as Indigenous) and “India” (the country) to which he responded: “What Hombre de Barro or Mucho Indio have most in common with Indian music it is not the music, not the melody, not the rhythm, but the purpose, they resemble each other in purpose, which is not like Western music, whose purpose is blurrier, its purpose doesn’t seem to be spiritual (…) The songs of the Indians [Indigenous peoples] are for making invocations, not for playing just anything, so in that way they resemble each other.”
At this point of our interview, Teto told us that, in addition to his cumbia heritage, seventy percent of his personal archive consisted of music from Africa, India, Turkey, and Mongolia; non-Western sounds. And amidst all of this: jazz. For him, it was essential to emphasize that Bogotá was an avant-garde jazz city: “a lot of people making very unique music, something terrific is happening here and people do not know.” For him, Bogotá had a jazz scene far superior to what can be found in other jazz cities in the world: “Every time I give an interview I say that because I am interested in people knowing. There’s an education problem here.” Bogotá jazz musicians perform alchemy with their music through experimentation with Indigenous or folk songs, producing or “liberating” creative paths. In this urban crosscultural space, minimalism and spiritual quests serve as the bridge between diverse musical traditions. Beyond harmony, rhythms, styles, and genres, Hombre de Barro and Mucho Indio demand from the listener an experience that surpasses mere listening, a sensory experience that speaks to us of non-human languages. As Teto told us:
“The music of powerful plants, for example, that’s not in the books, that can only be created by making music and ingesting plants. I think there are many people who are making new music, incredible music here, that I believe are making that music because they have taken yagé, like Toro, Urián, Héctor Buitrago, people who are in the ceremony, who know what a ceremony is and why people are in the ceremony ingesting plants. One ingests plants to heal, and the music one makes after healing is to share that healing and heal others as well. So that’s the thing, at the end of the day, it is healing. That’s it. Music can heal, and if music can heal, music must heal. I mean, I do not want to make music that makes people sick, why would I want to… So I do my best to make music that heals.”
Teto Ocampo
Throughout the musical legacy that Ernesto “Teto” Ocampo left, we can travel around the world and perceive how everything is connected through sound. One of the musician’s pleasures was precisely to record the soundscapes he encountered on his travels: “Sunrise is great because the birds sing, and you realize the tremendous difference between one place and another.” Thus, through the music of life, we learn to perceive and recognize the territory we inhabit as humans; the pleasure lies in making music that resonates with these soundscapes.
From music to territory and identity, at the end of our interview, Teto gifted us a reflection beyond music, one that touches creativity in all its directions, as well as Colombian and Latin American identity in all its wounds and futurities. Speaking about the struggle of the Indigenous peoples of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, and how they have known how to resist, but also dialogue with the settler, he told us:
“…I committed myself about ten years ago to reclaiming the sacred territory, not only that of the Sierra, but now meditating on what sacred territory is. It is not just the Sierra Nevada of Santa Marta and those farms. Sacred territory is music, it is sound, or not just sound, but what lies behind the sound, I mean that spiritual purpose. What is the spiritual purpose if we don’t know? Ah, well, it might restore many things, languages, concepts, weaving, food, medicine, natural law, rights, family, life in the community, the maloca, the mamo [the elder], and his political leadership. That’s where music was left with its fair share. So the music I make does that, because I am committed to that cause, which is political, philosophical, historical, and music is its language. So I make music that is political even though it does not have to speak. That politics is the new mestizaje. It is the reverse of the mestizaje. Here, there was a biological mestizaje, but there was no cultural mestizaje. The Spanish raped the Indigenous women, and they forced their children to live as Spaniards, but second-class Spaniards, they did not let them into their house, so I am creating the new mestizaje, based on respect, on the power of coming together, of bringing two things together…”
Teto Ocampo
We are left with that invitation, Teto, to reclaim the spiritual territory; to create music, fabrics, poems, films, and dialogues that help us remember who we are and who we can be. That is a great political act. Thank you, brother, and have a good journey towards the brightness.
For more about Teto Campo, Hombre de barro, and Mucho Indio
Sara Ríos Pérez studied literature at the Javeriana University, and currently works as a reading and writing promoter. She is a collaborator for the digital publication Columna Abierta. She accompanies the processes experienced by public and rural libraries in different parts of Colombia. She is the author of De lo Imaginario a lo Real: Cuentos y leyendas de Montes de María (“From the Imaginary to the Real: Tales and legends of Montes de María”), and co-author of Voces que caminan territorios (“Voices that walk territories”,) an investigation on the right to communication in the Colombian Southwest.
Juan Guillermo Sánchez Martínez was born in Bakatá/Bogotá, in the Colombian Andes. He coordinates the online multilingual anthology and exhibition Siwar Mayu, A River of Hummingbirds. He has published several books of poetry, including Uranium/Uranio (Japan 2023). He works on the crossroads between Indigenous art, literature, and science. He recently co-edited the open-access volume Abiayalan Pluriverses. Bridging Indigenous Studies and Hispanic Studies with Gloria E. Chacón and Lauren Beck (Amherst College, 2024.) He is an Associate Professor in the Department of Indigenous Learning at Lakehead University (Thunder Bay, Canada).
About the Translator
Jocelyn Montalban was born in Ontario, Canada, where she currently resides. Her parents immigrated to Canada from Guatemala City in 1997. In 2023, she obtained a bachelor’s degree in criminology from Lakehead University (Ontario, Canada). She is currently studying to obtain a master’s degree in Social Justice Studies. Her research focuses on Indigenous issues in Canada. In her free time, you can find her traveling or hiking in the mountains.
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Joseph Lane Nindiznikaaz (Nin-Di-Shni-Cause) is an Ojibwe artist from Thunder Bay, Ontario Nindoonjibaa (Nin-Dough-n-ji-Baa). Joseph attended the Visual College of Art and Design (VCAD) in Vancouver, British Columbia where he was able to explore various art mediums including traditional 2D animation, storyboarding, sculpting, 3-D modelling, and life drawing. Joseph graduated as a rigger in 2016. A rigger is a professional in charge of creating and configuring the control systems that allow characters and objects to be animated in an animated production. A rigger is essential to bringing characters and objects to life in the animated world, ensuring they can move expressively and believably. Today, Joseph creates art pieces digitally using the ProCreate graphic design software. Throughout his journey, Joseph has discovered the power of art as a critical tool for personal expression, healing, bridging cultures, and as a catalyst for community engagement.
“I am a 32-year-old Ojibwe artist. When I was young, I never thought that my doodles in my school notebooks would turn into me becoming an artist selling my work. I grew up as an urban youth born in Brampton, ON, and moved back and forth from Thunder Bay, until I moved here at the age of 12, so I had very little exposure to my Indigenous culture growing up. Growing up we didn’t have much, my mom was always working, my father was always working but was in and out of my life for the first 15 years. My Kookum (Grandmother) on my father’s side was MaryJane Mainvillle, she was a survivor of the Residential school system.”
I met Joseph in February via a video conversation, during which he discussed the life experiences that brought him to where he is now in his creative path. He eloquently expressed how digital art has become an integral part of his life and has helped him deepen his connection with his Indigenous culture, something that was not always prevalent growing up as an Indigenous youth in an urban environment. It was not until Joseph began this journey of growth by way of art that he started to unearth the buried parts of his trauma, thus gradually crafting together the mosaic of his healing process.
“My family has struggled with generational trauma due to the residential schools; this caused a lot of issues with my cultural identity at a young age, especially growing up in an area like Brampton where there are multiple cultures. When I was younger, I was always taught “Someone has it worse than you”. Although this is true in certain circumstances, it reinforces minimization of personal struggles, suppressed emotions, perpetual comparison, and self-criticism. It wasn’t until I started this art journey that I began to heal from all my trauma.”
As countries worldwide confronted the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, a period of uncertainty and disarray, life for Joseph underwent an unexpected turn, marked by great loss and personal anguish. Amid the backdrop of global upheaval, Joseph was presented with two harrowing events that would alter his trajectory.
“Fast forward to the beginning of the pandemic, I had two major events happen in my life. My cousin Eddie ended up going missing, we spent two weeks searching through the bush. His remains were found the following spring only 10 km from where we were looking but in the opposite direction. During this time, we had an elder with us (for me, what I learned is that an elder is someone in the community with a great spiritual connection with A-ki [the land] and the creator). We had found what we believed to be a sasquatch (Sabe – “Saw-bay”) footprint. I’m a size 13 foot and this was at least 1 inch longer than my shoe. The elder wanted to see the print, he offered a song that he said he was gifted from Sabe in a dream. This was an incredible experience, the trees and wind just carried the elder’s voice. When the elder first began to sing, you could hear something big walking in the bush line, it walked until it got to just out of sight, sat down. It listened to the elder’s song, got up, and walked further into the bush.
This experience is what started my art journey, but at this point, I was still unaware how much this would really ignite the artistic side of me.
During the first year of the pandemic, I suffered a ruptured disc in my back, this caused me to be bedridden for almost a full year. While still dealing with what had just happened the summer before, this caused me to fall into a very deep depression. I was put onto medication, but this only made my situation worse. I missed a dosage, and it caused me to reach that ledge of making a choice. It was during that split second I decided I wasn’t done, I ended up weaning myself off the medication and started to draw. This was when I started to see how healing art can be, and it doesn’t even have to be good art, that will come with time.”
Reflecting on the progression of his artistic journey, Joseph recalls the humble beginnings of his artistic endeavours with humility and appreciation. The distinction between his early pieces and his present array of creations serves as a moving reminder of the transformational power of perseverance and fervour. While revealing the continual hurdles caused by recurring back problems, Joseph finds consolation and strength in his capacity to overcome hardship and has since rediscovered his enthusiasm for sports and physical fitness. Emboldened by his artistic development, Joseph has ventured into new creative worlds, shifting from digital art to the tactile medium of painting, while also pursuing further education to become a teacher.
Concentrating on the influence of his creative journey, Joseph acknowledges its dual purpose as a catalyst for personal healing and a channel for building meaningful connections within the community. Joseph considers his art as a passport to inquiry, which allows him to go to different regions and immerse himself in the vast tapestry of world cultures and artistic traditions. Driven by a genuine desire to elevate and empower others, Joseph sees his art not just as a form of personal expression, but also as a platform for advocacy and social change, hoping to leave an everlasting mark of kindness and compassion behind.
“My art has not only allowed me to start my healing journey, but it has also been able to make so many connections in my life and allow me to become a humbler person. My aspirations for my art are to travel, I would love to be able to travel to different communities and learn about other cultures and art forms. I enjoy being able to make money off my art, but it is not my goal, I enjoy meeting people and sharing stories. Having people come back to my booth and tell me how much they enjoy my art is an amazing experience. I also want to become a voice and advocate for people, my overall goal with my life is to help others succeed and make life better for all.”
Joseph Lane’s story serves as a poignant reminder of the transformational power that comes from embracing one’s artistic path. As he continues to navigate the complexity of life and artistry, Joseph encourages others to follow their artistic pursuits, believing that each person possesses the capacity to weave beauty and significance into the fabric of existence. With this philosophy as his guiding light, Joseph encourages everyone to find their medium, explore freely, and revel in the delight of the artistic experience.
Joseph reminds us…
“Art is all around us, EVERYONE is an artist. If you want to get into any art form, just do it. Don’t be afraid to “fail.” It’s through our failures that we learn. Even the greatest artists in the world all started from stick figures. You just need to find your medium. Explore, and enjoy the journey.”
Jocelyn Montalban was born in Ontario, Canada, where she currently resides. Her parents immigrated to Canada from Guatemala City in 1997. In 2023, she obtained a bachelor’s degree in criminology from Lakehead University (Ontario, Canada). She is currently studying to obtain a master’s degree in Social Justice Studies. Her research focuses on Indigenous issues in Canada. In her free time, you can find her traveling or hiking in the mountains.
During the Pre-hispanic period, the Mè’phàà language was known as Yopi, and its speakers were called Yopes or Tlapanecos, a name derived from the cacicazgo or chiefdom where they lived. Tlapaneco became the most important name for official histories, given that the name Yope became associated with a group of rebels whose Yopitzingo chiefdom was able to maintain its independence during the era of Mexica expansion and staged numerous bloody rebellions in the defense of its territory during the colonial period.
These cultures were named from how they were known: their economic activity, the characteristics of where they lived, and important events that happened to them. This is how they became toponyms that understand their territorialization. Following this logic, the place where the Yopes lived was called Yopitzingo, and Tlappan-Tlachinollan was where the Tlapanecos lived.
In his Historia general de la Nueva España, Fray Bernardino de Sahagún states that the Tlapanecos and the Yopes are one in the same:
The Yopes and the Tlapenecos are from the region of Yopitzinco; they are called Yopes because their land is called Yopitzinco, but they are also referred to as Tlapanecos, which means, “rusted men,” because they are that color. Their idol is called Tótec Tlatlauhqui Tezcatlipuca, which means, “colored idol,” because the clothing it wears is red. The idol’s priests wear the same color, as does everyone else in the region. They in particular are rich, and speak a different language than the one spoken in México. (Sahagún, 1830, p 135).
En Mè’pàà, mbúinùù means “rust,” which is surely what they used to paint their faces, as in the representation of several Yope people seen in the Tudela Codex1. Painting one’s face also held a religious meaning, but we don’t know if this was widely practiced, as in the two volumes of the Azoyú Codex Tlapanec people are not represented as being painted. In other codices dealing with Nahua history, a mask covering one’s eyes symbolizes the morning star (Venus), which coincidentally is associated with the oldest lineage of Tlapanecos: “called Quahiscalera or Tlahuiscalera (lords of the “dawn” or “sunrise”) that probably goes back in timbrine to the rulers of Temixlican…that lineage adopted the name Temilitzin” (Dehouve Op. in Gutierrez and Brito, 2014, p. 36).
Within this logic of naming according to “doing” or “being in a place,” the Yopes were known for rituals that were related to skin, which they performed in ceremonial centers they had established, such as Tehualco or “House of the Sacred Water,”2 where they performed rituals to Xtóaya’ “water skin,” one of the most important deities in their culture. Today Xtóaya’ symbolizes fertility and abundance, and rituals associated with her are related to the earth changing its skin, the dry season, and the rainy season. The dry season is represented by the deity Àkùùn èwè or “Lady Hunger,” who is expelled in a rite that consists of making a doll, binding its feet and hands, and taking it to the river, where it is drowned in the mouth of Xtóaya’. In the creation story, Xtóaya’ is who cared for and brought up À’khà “the sun” and Gùn’ “the moon,” who in turn generated the movement that gave rise to time and made life possible. Xtóaya’ also cures the sick, calms people’s tempers, and brings the rains for planting. The Xtámbaa “Skin of Earth” ceremonies are made to her.
1 A pictographic manuscript made by Indigenous people in the Colonial Period during the 16th Century.
2 Today this is the most important archeological site in the state of Guerrero.
The contemporary Náhuatl word xipeua means “to peel” or “to skin,” and yopejtle or yopeuhtli means, “to remove.” We can thus infer that Yopitzingo, the town of the Yopes, is related to ceremonies of flaying.
It is feasible that the word “yopi” or “yopime” is a synonym of “xipe” (flayed) and that it is made from the contraction of the Mexican verb “yopehua,” which means “to skin something,” and which can be translated by those who have something flayed from them, i.e. the flayed. It is likely that the Mexica baptized populations in the South as the “Yopi,” those who “remove the skin,” and this may be one of the reasons why they have such respect for them, to the point that they feel that a marriage between their daughters and the Yopis elevates their social standing. (Vidal, 1987, p 11)
Historians mention that the origin story of the god Xipe Ttotec takes place in the territory of the Yope people and that he was worshiped in a number of different cultures, each one reinterpreting Xipe Totec according to its vision of being and doing in the world. For the Mè’phàà the skin is the heart of everything that exists.
However, the group that lives in what today is known as Tlapa de Comonfort, Guerrero, is known as Tlapanecos, a term that comes from Náhuatl. The root of the word has two possible interpretations: the first is that tla comes from tlalli or “earth,” pan is a locative indicating place, and neco, which translates as “dirty” (the origin of the word “neco” is related to chichimeco, which means dirty dog or painted dog); the second definition is that tlapan means “back,” with the word tlapaneco meaning “with a dirty back” or “burned back.” Both words were used and evolved as a pejorative way to refer to the Tlapanecos as “the people with painted faces,” “the people with dirty faces,” “those with filthy faces.”
The ancient glyph for Tlapa appears on the obverse of folio 3 of the Azoyú Codex, with its toponym represented as a red circle that can be interpreted as “red earth” or “russet-colored earth.” One of the names by which Tlapa is known is “place of the red earth,” and can refer to the activity carried out by its inhabitants, that is, “the place of the dyers.”
In the Mè’phàà language Tlapa is known as A’phàà, a word associated with terms such as A’phàà or “wide” and màtha A’phàà or “wide river,” which can be the origin of this word given that Tlapa is crossed by two large rivers which are today known as the Tlapanec River and the Jale River. From this, we can deduce that the demonym of mbo mè’phàà “the one who is from Tlapa,” can mean, “people of the wide river,” which would be a name that reflects the characteristics of where they live.
Linguists from the region affirm that mè’phàà may also be derived from the word mix’bàà, which they translate as “dirty,” “painted,” or “blackened,” a characterization of the Mè’phàà that appears in the majority of old documents and which, as previously stated, would correspond to the toponym Tlapa. In oral memory, it is said that the ancient Mè’phàà had the ability to pass through the earth itself.
The three possible meanings of the word mè’phàà, whether “painted people,” “people who paint,” or “people of the large river,” correspond to the demonym of the place (Tlapa), which given its importance was applied to the people there, the same as Yopitzingo. Through our research here we propose that in the nickname “skin people” which is used for us Mè’phàà, the word xtá “skin” is the origin of the philosophy that unites all the dialectical variants of our language.
In our region today the place where we live defines the dialectal variant of mè’phàà, as the people who create names for where they live, for example: mbo wí’ììn is the demonym of the municipality of Acatepec, with wí’ììn meaning “place of reeds.” In Náhuatl, on the other hand, Acatepec means, “hill of the reeds.” People in the municipality of Tlacoapa call it mbo míwíí, which means, “place of chiles,” and which comes from the planting of chiles as an economic activity, such that the demonym corresponds to, “gente of the land of chiles.” In Náhuatl Tlacoapa means, “half of the great cliff,” tlajko-apan “half-canal,” or “place in the middle of the woods,” tlakotl-apan “stick-forest.”
In the same way, Malinaltepec is where the mbo mañuwìín live, with mañuwìín meaning “place where cords are twisted,” making reference to an economic activity from the past, and so the demonym means, “people from the land of the twisted cord.” In Náhuatl Malinaltepec means, “twisted hill” or “twisted grass.”
On the other hand, Tlapa has a long history of being under siege. Take the actions of the Mexica army in 1447, for example:
After 1462, the state of things underwent a qualitative change, as it appears that its leaders negotiated a pact of cooperation with the Mexica, which avoided open war with the Triple Alliance for 25 years and helped double the size of Tlapa-Tlachinollan’s political space. Finally, owing to factional infighting and conflicts surrounding succession, Tlapa-Tlachinollan’s internal cohesion and political unity were weakened, and it was conquered militarily by the Mexica in 1486. (Gutiérrez and Brito, 2014, p. 27)
Following the death of the ruler “Rain” of Tlapa-Tlachinollan, who had diplomatic relations with the Mexica, in 1477, Mexica military incursions intensified. Sources such as the Tlapa-Tlachinollan codices indicate that the conquest of this territory was achieved in the year 7 Deer, or 1486. For their part, according to Sosa and Michel (2012), Mexica sources mention, “the sacrifice of Tlapaneco captives in the temple of Huitzilopochtli.” In addition, “The Annals of Cuauhtitlán state that on the date 7 Rabbit, said captives were taken during the conquest of Tlapa. The Mexica year 7 Rabbit would correspond to the Tlapaneco year 7 Deer or, as said before, 1486” (pg 14).
Mè’phàà, Náhuatl, and Ñuu Savi cultures all converged in Tlapa, each one with its own political system, confronted by expansionist conflicts and constituting a “large, highly complex political unit […] that extended across some 4000 to 6000 square kilometers” (Gutiérrez and Brito, 2014, p. 27). At the time of the Mexica invasion, Tlapa could not unite politically and militarily to defend itself. By comparison, Yopitzingo was distinctly Mè’phàà and was able to remain an independent kingdom.
Illustration by Víctor Gally
The Yope, who from oral histories we have referred to as mbo xtá rídà or “skin people,” and the Tlapanecos or Mè’phàà from Tlapa, have diversified their forms of resistance, first in opposition to Nahua expansion and then in opposition to the Spanish:
Ten years after the Conquest, the insurrection of the Tlapanecos certainly did not make life easy for the encomendero of Cacahuatepec, don Diego de Pardo. In March 1531 don Diego wrote to the México’s accountant, Rodrigo Albornoz, to inform him of the rebellion. When he asked the Tlapanecos, “Why they are doing so many terrible things,” “They responded by asking me why I asked them to say anything, that I didn’t know that they had never wanted to serve Moctezuma who was the great Lord of the Indians, so how could I expect them to now serve the Christians; they had always had wars, and they preferred to die in them and so show who they are.3
3 From a document found by Francisco del Paso y Troncoso in the Spanish archives. Published by the National Museum of México on the occasion of the First Congress of Mexican History in 1933. It can be found in Paso y Troncoso (1905) Suma de Visitas de los Pueblos, in Papeles de la Nueva España, Madrid, t.I.
According to the evidence found in the Azoyú codex, we can infer that the Mè’phàà had been engaged in a war of resistance to defend their territory well before the colonial period. There is a sustained memory of the invasion, and the terror and fear have passed from the Prehispanic period down to the present. The war now is for control of the territory on the part of narco-traffickers and extractivist multinationals.
Knowing our history enables us to understand the relations of power that shaped the identity of our People, which is why we are invisibilized and denied by official history. Our history was stigmatized and an alternative narrative was created to divide the Tlapanecos and the Yopes, as if they were distinct cultures, erasing their past and negating the memory of their long history of resistance.
When the priests came to evangelize our culture during the colonial period, the Mè’phàà People who did not convert to Christianity were called devils, cannibals, or people who skinned others, and for this reason, they were killed. Given that they continued their resistance, a narrative of hate was created around them, with the priests feeding this terror to prevent the distinct Mè’phàà communities from allying with one another, and under these Manichean tendencies, they marked the history of the Peoples who rebelled against evangelization.
Memory of the Skin-people
In oral memory, they say that there existed the mbo xtá rídà (from the Mè’phàà: mbo “people,” xtà “skin,” ridáá “hanging” or “intertwined”), who spoke a variant of ancient Mè’phàà and had the ability to stretch out their skin. There are innumerable horror stories about them. For example, they say these people would ask to stay the night in someone’s house and would stretch out one of their ears to make their bed, stretch out the other for a blanket, and when the night was over they’d get up to steal children and eat them.
Oral narratives exist for a reason and have a purpose: to turn memory into action. The hate towards the Yopes that was fomented ended up demonizing their rituals, in which they flayed their enemies in combat. Dressing themselves with that skin gave rise to a number of stories, stories that sought to colonize the collective imagination of the survivors of the town of Yopitzingo such that they would be persecuted and murdered by their own people.
Today mining companies have an interest in the region where the Mè’phàà people live:
Over the past few years, the territories of the Indigenous Peoples of the Mountains and Costa Choca in Guerrero have attracted the interest of the mining industry owing to the 42 mineral deposits found there. The Federal Government has granted around 38 different 50-year concessions to companies to undertake the exploration and exploitation of the Mountain region’s mineral wealth without taking into account the rights of the Nahua, the Mè’phàà, and the Na Savi. According to the mining titles 200,000 hectares have been given over to the mining industry, all of which are currently being explored. (Tlachinollan, 2017, p 6)
And even though some towns have sought relief from these activities, as in the case of San Miguel del Progreso,4 which was the first town to successfully defend itself against the mining industry in México, the problem continues as these mining concessions have not been definitively canceled.
As these mining projects are carried out,5 and as has happened in other parts of the state of Guerrero where the mining industry operates,6 they will displace the region’s inhabitants, introduce organized crime, prohibit forms of worship, agriculture, and hunting, all of which will end up impacting and destroying the knowledge and identity of our communal way of life.
5 Tlachinollan. (28 de enero de 2022). Mapa de proyectos extractivos de minería en Guerrero y en la Costa-Montaña.
6 Mining companies that operate in Guerrero are: Leagold, Gold Corp, Newmont, Minaurum Gold, Newmont Vedome Resources and Hochschild Mining, Torex Gold Resources. Considered until 2015, “The largest gold mine in Latin America and the foremost source of gold on a national level, it is located between the towns of Mezcla and Carrizalillo, Guerrero.” It is one of the zones with the highest rates of violent crime committed by gangs who coexist with the state-sponsored armed groups and are under the protection of the police.
In 2012, on being confronted with the threats of extractivism and the sacking of natural resources, the Consejo Regional de Autoridades Agrarias en Defensa del Territorio (CRAADT; Regional Counsel of Agrarian Authorities in Defense of the Land) was formed in the Mè’phàà community of La Ciénaga, in the municipality of Malinaltepec, and is a model organization in the struggles for land in México.
In the Mountains, you are constantly subjected to harassment by paramilitaries, the military, and criminal groups, who use violence to dispossess people of their land. These groups are employed by the mining companies to displace entire communities, sowing terror and death, so that they can finally take control of the territory. And even though in the Mountains, where Xtóayà’ lives, people continue to resist and control these groups of criminals (which exacerbates the violence along the border), we, the people who live here, ask ourselves, “for how much longer?”
We must add to this context the ruptures and violence that occur within communities, conflicts over boundary lines, violence, machismo, the inequality that gradually leads to femicide, and daily beatings that become embedded illnesses that end the lives of women.
Similarly, the division caused by political parties generates ruptures in communal thought, as each party seeks power and seats in the assembly where relationships of friendship and camaraderie are controlled. This generates tears in the fabric of the community and therefore the common good, which prevents us from confronting collective problems and facilitates the dispossession of our lands and local knowledges.
Illustration by Víctor Gally
We must rethink the relations of power and how we have normalized them within our communities. Our struggle to revindicate and defend our territory requires us to come together in the fact of communal social injustice. To do this, we must understand our history as much as possible and put the official story of colonization on trial, questioning the stories from oral memory to re-educate ourselves, bring evidence against, and denounce the local caciques who have corrupted the power within our communities. It is necessary for us to think from ourselves, as xtá “skin” who care about resolving the problems confronting our community.
Our ancestors survive in each one of us, in every action that we take to dignify life itself, the heart of the mbo xtá rídà still beats in the voices of the mountains, and in the histories of the many Peoples who continue to defend themselves against organized crime and extractivist industries.
For more about Hubert Matiúwàa and the Skin-people
Melissa D. Birkhofer is a settler scholar and Visiting Assistant Professor in the English Department at Appalachian State University where she teaches courses on Latinx and Indigenous Literatures. She co-authored the article “She Said That Saint Augustine is Worth Nothing Compared to her Homeland: Teresa Martín and the Méndez Cancio Account of La Tama (1600)” published in the North Carolina Literary Review with Paul M. Worley. Her article, “Toward a Feminist Latina Mode of Literary Analysis in Julia Alvarez’s How the García Girls Lost Their Accents,” was recently published in Convergences. She was the founding director of the Latinx Studies Program at Western Carolina U and is a co-director of the e-journal Label Me Latina/o.
Paul M. Worley is the Chair of the Department of Languages, Literatures and Cultures at Appalachian State University. He is the author of Telling and Being Told: Storytelling and Cultural Control in Contemporary Yucatec Maya Literatures (2013; oral performances recorded as part of this book project are available at tsikbalichmaya.org), and with Rita M Palacios is co-author of Unwriting Maya Literature: Ts’íib as Recorded Knowledge (2019). He is a Fulbright Scholar, and 2018 winner of the Sturgis Leavitt Award from the Southeastern Council on Latin American Studies. In addition to his academic work, he has translated selected works by Indigenous authors such as Hubert Malina, Adriana López, and Ruperta Bautista, serves as editor-at-large for México for the journal of world literature in English translation, Asymptote, and as poetry editor for the North Dakota Quarterly.
Gloria Cáceres Vargas is an Andean educator, narrator and poet. In Peru, she has worked as consultant for the Intercultural and Bilingual Education Office of the Ministery of Education, and as Dean of the Social Sciences and Humanities at Enrique Guzmán y Valle National University of Education. In Paris–France, she has offered Quechua courses at the National Institute of Languages and Civilizations (INALCO); as well as Spanish and Latin American civilization courses at the University of Paris 3 Nouvelle Sorbonne, and the University of Cergy-Pontoise. She has published Reqsinakusun (1996), Munakuwaptiykiqa (2009), Wiñay susqayki (2010), Yuyaypa k’anchaqnin / Fulgor de mis memorias (2015), and Musqu Awaqlla / Tejedora de Sueños (2021). She translated into Quechua Warma Kuyay and other stories (2011) by José María Arquedas. The following poems from her last two books were selected and translated from Quechua to English by Fredy Amílcar Roncalla. The eroticism of this poetry–attentive to the voices of the wind, the rain and the sacred mountains, Apus–empowers the voice and body of Andean women, and the richness of the Quechua language to sing them.
Puquy mitapa saqaqay rapinkuna
Puquy mitapa saqaqay rapinkuna Vivaldipa musikanman challpuykuwan. Hanaq pachapa waqaynin chay puquy mitapi maypi urmasqa rapikuna llimpisqa pampata awanku yupiyta chaskinanpaq.
kuskasqa chakiywan tusunaypaq chay llimpillasqa pampapi. Sallqa sunquytaq kuyakuyta munapayaspa qiwiykachakun. Hatunkaray tunada puriykunata huk kitiman pusaykun. Chaypim arpapa violinpa miski waqaynin llaqtaypa uchuk paqchanpa musikanwan musquchiwan.
Aysachakuq musikam, Vivaldipa wata mit’ankunawan yuyayniykiwanpas musquchiwan, karumanta hamuspa ama waqaspalla, niñachay sunquyta ninku. Huk puquy mitapa rapinkuna, mawk’ayaspaña wayrawan maymantachá hamunku.
Fall sounds
Gentle sounds of autumn fill me with Vivaldi’s music. Falling leaves of celestial sounds weave a colorful tapestry for my steps.
This realm of color is where my feet dance happily following violin melodies and my wild heart yearns for love beat by beat. This great song brings my path to realms where sweet harp and violin notes1 remind me the sounds of my town’s small waterfall. That uplifting music makes me dream about Vivaldi’s stations while your distant memory comes around and says Don’t cry no more, dear.
Suddenly aged the autumn leaves travel with winds from unknown places.
1 Most indigenous traditional music in Peru is played with harp and violin. It is also said that musicians learn their melodies in sacred waterfalls (translator’s note.)
I am still here waiting for the Gods. They are coming from afar tired of fighting each other. They fought for our dreams our children and our dispossessed memory.
Maybe they can tell if my singing makes them stronger. Maybe they could make me want a loving red rose flower.
At the outer limits of the world I wait for their eternal mandate.
Fredy A. Roncalla was born in Chalhuanca, Apurimac, Peru in 1953. He has studied linguistics and literature, in addition to a long journey in Andean Studies, with a special focus on aesthetic elements. He is also a handcraft artist who works with recycled materials. He has published poetry and essays in diverse online and printed publications. He is the author of Canto de pájaro o invocación a la palabra (Buffon Press, 1984); Escritos Mitimaes: hacia una poética andina postmoderna (Barro Editorial Press, 1998); Hawansuyo Ukun words (Hawansuyo/Pakarina Ediciones, 2015); and Revelación en la senda del manzanar: Homenaje a Juan Ramírez Ruiz (Hawansuyo/ Pakarina, 2016). He is currently working on Llapan llaqtan: narrativa y poesía trilingüe/ Llapan llaqtan: trilingual poetry. His trans-Andean projects can be foundin the virtual ayllu: Hawansuyo Peruvian Bookstore, Churoncalla.com, y Hawansuyo.blogspot.com
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Barbara Kaneratonni Diabo is part of the Kanienkeha:ka nation (Mohawk), and the Kahnawake community, located close to what is today known as Montreal, across the Kaniatarowanenneh river (the big waterway), commonly known by its colonial name “St. Lawrence River.” Barbara is a choreographer, dancer, and director of the A’nó:wara Dance Theatre, where she creates experimental pieces that fuse Indigenous perspectives on Canadian history with powwow and Haudenosaunee dances, contemporary dance, and diverse dance styles such as hip-hop, and ballet. Barbara studied theatre at Concordia University and at the Native Theatre School. In 2015, she was one of eight dancers invited to participate in the first hoop dance competition, as a part of the Gathering of Nations in New Mexico, the largest powwow in all of Turtle Island (North America.) Barbara also collaborates with various organizations, including La Danse sur les routes du Québec and Indigenous Performing Arts Alliance, with whom she facilitates intercultural educational spaces and supports Indigenous artists across all of Canada.
I met Barbara in the Longhouse of Kahnawake in the summer of 2023, while participating in an intercultural gathering with Kanienkeha:ka artists and educators. As part of the guest speakers, Barbara shared one of her hoop dances as well as a short-movie: Smudge, Dancing the Land. In the fall, we met again–this time virtually–to talk a little bit about her perspective on dance, so we could share her experiences with the Siwar Mayu project:
“…dance can touch people on many levels, not just on an intellectual level, you know, as reading an article. It also can touch people on emotional levels. And maybe you can even say spiritual levels (…) Dance is my vocabulary, the vocabulary where I am very comfortable, so the more words, the more moves that I know, and the better I can express things. These different vocabularies can be read by more people as well, you know. So that’s why I like to mix a lot of styles…”
Barbara Kaneratonni Diabo
As we can experience in her 2017 McGill University performance (see above), coordination and technique converge with color and beat in the hoop dance, all together in the midst of a circular movement of both body and story. Before her performance in Kahnawake, Barbara warned us that everybody in the audience would likely weave a different story throughout the dance, or at least would identify different beings or scenes from the natural world. Indeed, hoop dance is highly narrative, and allows simultaneous times and spaces: a butterfly, a canoe, a harvest, a mother carrying her daughter. In this thought-provoking space, there is a connection with the ancestors and with the land, but–as Barbara clarified to me–in the moment of a performance before a cross-cultural audience, her intention distances from the ceremony, although it is inevitable that some aspects of the ceremony slip through her performance.
“I have encountered people who would like to keep powwow dance separate from other kinds of dance, and I respect that. To me, there is a value in keeping a more pure form. I also think it’s important to evolve because I think all these dances came from their environment at the time. And, you know, where did that time start? Where did that time end? Is it just a glimpse of a 100 years or a glimpse of 500 years? Who knows, right? We don’t know. So to me, we’re just continuing what we’ve always done, which is creating our dances from our environment in our experience as Indigenous people.”
Barbara Kaneratonni Diabo
Through the transformation of Indigenous cultural expressions, new generations may find an art form which they can identify with, and then receive “tradition” from this dynamic environment. Furthermore, Barbara’s dance is a powerful tool to break stereotypes that classify “Indigenous art” as “folklore,” since these dances are, at the same time, ancestral and contemporary. This aspect is clear in the short-movie Smudge.
Choreographer and dancer: Barbara Kaneratonni Diabo. Director: Pepper O’Bomsawin. Music: “New Women Song” by Cris Derksen featuring Jennifer Kreisberg. Dancer and additional choreography: Marshall Kahente Diabo. Director of photography and promo photo: François Léger Savard. Editor and colorist: Eric Morel.
In the middle of the global pandemic, during the time of social distancing, Barbara had an idea for Smudge, a piece in-between film, dance, and intergenerational healing. While walking in the forest behind her house, she felt the need to dance with the land and to reconnect with the trees and insects through movement and her body. One location of Smudge is that forest. The other location is the McCord Stewart Museum and its “Wearing Our Identity” exhibition, on which Marshall Kahente Diabo, Barbara’s son, tries to reconnect with the pieces and regalia exhibited, out of reach on the other side of the glass showcases.
“… one of the themes around this film is that when our culture isn’t accessible to us, when the land is no longer accessible to us, what do our beliefs, practices, and ceremonies mean? If you can’t access that, you know, you can go through emotions. But what does that mean? And so to have our clothing, our culture behind glass cases, inside, not outside, I found that was the perfect location.”
Barbara Kaneratonni Diabo
The contrast between the museum and the forest, the son and his mother, the inside and the outside, oblivion and memory, is powerful. Despite this apparent contradiction, both dancers communicate with each other through dance, and build an intergenerational vision: perhaps the certainty that we are all one with nature, and that everything is in a state of movement, the sap of a tree, traditional practices, atoms–as Barbara reminded me. At the end of our short interview, I asked Barbara if she had any advice for the young artists who may one day read this text. In response she said:
“…we’re all born with gifts, and we’re on a journey to discover what our gifts are. So just be your authentic self, and there is a place, an important place for you.”
Juan Guillermo Sánchez Martínez was born in Bakatá/Bogotá, in the Colombian Andes. He coordinates the online multilingual anthology and exhibition Siwar Mayu, A River of Hummingbirds. He has published the following books of poetry: Uranio (2023), Bejuco (2021), Salvia (2014), Río (2010), and Altamar, awarded with the National Prize in Colombia in 2016 (University of Antioquia). He is the author of Memoria e invención en la poesía de Humberto Ak’abal (Abya-Yala, 2012). In 2019, he co-edited the volume Muyurina y el presente profundo with Quechua writer Fredy Roncalla (Pakarina/Hawansuyo), and he is currently co-editing Abiayalan Pluriverses. Bridging Indigenous Studies and Hispanic Studies with Gloria E. Chacón and Lauren Beck (Amherst College, 2024). He is an Associate Professor in the Department of Indigenous Learning at Lakehead University (Thunder Bay, Canada).
The translator
Jocelyn Montalban was born in Ontario, Canada, where she currently lives. Her parents immigrated to Canada from Guatemala City in 1997. In 2023, she obtained a Bachelor’s Degree in Criminology from Lakehead University (Ontario, Canada). She is currently studying to obtain a Master’s degree in Social Justice. Her research focuses on Indigenous issues in Canada. In her free time you can find her traveling or hiking in the mountains.