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Building an Indigenous City Also: Pohnpei Culture Portrait of a Rama Environmentalist Global Response Honduras Alert Volume 35 Issue 2 us $7.50/CAN $9

On the island of Pohnpei, a brother and sister enjoy a bath in a bucket on a main street in Kolonia. As night closes in, it is seldom cool enough that tap water is not warm enough to bath in. (See page 22 for the related photo essay.) Photo by John Amato.

Cultural Survival

Indigenous Empowerment

Education and Outreach

Before the day is over, an Indigenous person will be killed or displaced. Before the month is over, an Indigenous homeland will be clear-cut, strip-mined, or flooded. Before the year is over, dozens of Indigenous languages will vanish forever. Governments and powerful economic interests perpetuate this human and cultural devastation. Cultural Survival works to reverse it. We partner with Indigenous Peoples to protect their lands, languages, and cultures and fight against their marginalization, discrimination, exploitation, and abuse.

Among Cultural Survival’s programs, we are working with a coalition of Native American organizations to save critically endangered Native American languages, and are reinforcing a network of community radio stations in Guatemala to help Mayans rebuild their cultures after 36 years of civil war. Our Global Response program helps Indigenous communities defend their threatened environments by mounting international letterwriting campaigns. We are also pursuing legal actions and more ambitious advocacy with Indigenous communities in Panama, Kenya, and Brazil.

Cultural Survival’s publications raise public understanding of and support for Indigenous Peoples and their concerns. In addition to this magazine and our digital newsletter, we maintain a website that includes the largest source of information on Indigenous Peoples anywhere and is visited by millions of people each year. We are also launching a website for Native American nations to share information on rescuing their endangered languages. Our fair-trade bazaars introduce more than 30,000 people a year to Indigenous artisans and provide money that directly supports Indigenous communities around the world.

Become a Part of Cultural Survival Cultural Survival’s work is only possible because of our members. Join us in making Indigenous Peoples’ rights matter. See the inside back cover for a membership form or join online at www.cs.org.

UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples Cultural Survival’s work is predicated on the principles set out in the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples.

SUMMER 2011 VOLUME 35 ISSUE 2

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A LETTER FROMTHE EDITOR

DEPARTMENTS 4

Women the World Must Hear:

KEEPING AUSTRALIAN LANGUAGES ALIVE

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Indigenous Arts:

VISUAL PROTEST

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Spirituality:

THE PATH OF PEACE

12

FeaTUReS

Food for Life:

NEW OLD HUNTERS

A man finishes the roof of his new home in the land invasion of Las Brisas del Paranapura, Yurimaguas, Loreto, Perú. See page 34 for the related story. Photo by Matthew Reamer.

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What Were Doing With Your Money

GLOBAL RESPONSE CAMPAIGN 14 Safe Harbor

By Will MeadoWS a portrait of a Rama environmentalist who is working to protect his community off the coast of Nicaragua.

22 Not in our Name TexT By RiNgleN WolpHageN, pHoTogRapHS By JoHN aMaTo a photo essay on daily life in pohnpei—a cultural continuity that is threatened by a proposed new casino.

34 The New Urban Jungle

By BaRTHoloMeW deaN aNd SydNey SilveRSTeiN, WiTH JoSHUa HoMaN For many indigenous people in peru, the best way to keep their land is to move to the city and keep a foothold in both worlds. it’s homesteading in reverse, giving indigenous people new options and creating a new kind of city, one built on their terms. .

ediToR’S NoTe: Cultural Survival recognizes that indigenous peoples have long been exploited by photographers and publications. This publication does not pay photographers for images and makes no money from publishing them. We also make a tremendous effort to identify every indigenous individual in the images that appear here. From time to time, however, such identification is not possible. We apologize to the subjects of those photos and to any reader offended by the omission.

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DON’T DAM THE PATUCA RIVER IN HONDURAS!

BoaRd oF diReCToRS pReSideNT aNd CHaiRMaN Sarah Fuller viCe CHaiRMaN Richard grounds (euchee) TReaSUReR Jeff Wallace CleRK Jean Jackson Karmen Ramírez Boscán (Wayuu) Marcus Briggs-Cloud (Miccosukke) Westy egmont laura graham James Howe Cecilia lenk pia Maybury-lewis les Malezer (gabi gabi) p. Ranganath Nayak vincent Nmehielle (ikwerre) Ramona peters (Wampanoag) Stella Tamang (Tamang) Martha Claire Tompkins Roy young FoUNdeRS david and pia Maybury-lewis

STaFF Suzanne Benally (Navajo/Santa Clara Tewa), Executive Director Mark Camp, Deputy Executive Director and Guatemala Radio Project Manager Mark Cherrington, Director of Communications and Editor Danielle DeLuca, Guatemala Radio Program Officer Kristen Dorsey (Chickasaw), Donor Relations Officer David Michael Favreau, Marketing Director Sofia Flynn, Financial Officer Cesar Gomez (Pocomam), Guatemala Radio Project Content and Training Coordinator Polly Laurelchild-Hertig, Director of Program Resources Jamie Malcolm-Brown, Graphic Design Jacob Manatowa-Bailey (Sauk) Language Apprentice, Team Leader, Endangered Languages Jason Moore, Membership Officer Paula Palmer, Director of Global Response Program Agnes Portalewska, Program Officer Rosendo Pablo Ramirez (Mam), Guatemala Radio Project Assistant Coordinator Alberto Recinos, Guatemala Radio Project Legislative Coordinator Jennifer Weston (Hunkpapa Lakota/Standing Rock Sioux), Program Officer, Endangered Languages Ancelmo Xunic (Kaqchikel), Guatemala Radio Project Bookkeeper Phoebe Farris (Powhatan-Renape), Contributing Editor, Arts

SeNioR ediToRial adviSoRS Kris Allen Duane Champagne (Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa) Louis Fox Lotte Hughes Kelly Matheson Bird Runningwater (Cheyenne/Mescalero Apache) Cultural Survival 215 prospect Street Cambridge, Ma 02139 t 617.441.5400 f 617.441.5417 www.cs.org p.o. Box 7490 Boulder, Co 80306 t 303.444.0306 f 303.449.9794 7 avenida Norte #51 antigua guatemala, Sacatepequez, guatemala

pRogRaM adviSoRS jessie little doe (Wampanoag) Theodore Macdonald, Jr. Ava Berinstein

iNTeRNS aNd volUNTeeRS Elissa Bolt, Aileen Charleston, Emily Clayton, Curtis Cline, Monique Dorian, Aisha Farley, Sunny Fitzgerald, David Gagne, Talia Katz-Watson, Quinn Lockwood, Salamo Manetti-Lax, Ali Mitchell, Derek Smallwood, Amanda Stephenson, Paula Svaton, Maggie Tallmadge, Tina Thesia geNeRal iNFoRMaTioN Copyright 2010 by Cultural Survival, Inc. Cultural Survival Quarterly (ISSN 0740-3291) is published quarterly by Cultural Survival, Inc. at 215 Prospect St., Cambridge, MA 02139. Periodical postage paid at Boston, MA 02205 and additional mailing offices. Postmaster: Send address changes to Cultural Survival, 215 Prospect St., Cambridge, MA 02139.

Printed on recycled paper in the U.S.A. Please note that the views in this magazine are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent the views of Cultural Survival.

WRiTeRS’ gUideliNeS View writers’ guidelines at our website (www.cs.org) or send a self-addressed, stamped envelope to Cultural Survival, Writer’s Guidelines, 215 Prospect St., Cambridge, MA 02139.

Cultural Survival Quarterly is printed on paper that is a combination of post-consumer recycled fiber and fiber from sustainably managed nonpublic forests certified by the Forest Stewardship Council, the Sustainable Forestry Initiative, and the Program for the Endorsement of Forest Certification. The printer exclusively uses inks, chemicals, and solvents that are biodegradable and recyclable.

on the cover: gustavo stands on a stump in the newly cleared city being formed by indigenous settlers next to yurimaguas, peru. He goes to school in the city and hopes to be come a teacher. See page 34 for the related story. photo by Matthew Reamer.

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The Tough get going I

f you’ve been reading Cultural Survival Quarterly magazine for any length of time, you will have been exposed to what must seem like an endless stream of outrages committed against Indigenous Peoples.

And it’s easy, reading about these situations, to feel sorry for the Indigenous communities affected, particularly if you are not Indigenous yourself. But pity is actually an inappropriate response. Indigenous communities are far from helpless victims—you don’t survive 500 years of colonialism without being tough, resilient, self-reliant, and innovative.

This issue of Cultural Survival Quarterly is a good example of that idea. The article “The New Urban Jungle” that begins on page 34 presents the case of Peruvian Indigenous people who are creating a new city on the outskirts of an existing city. The migration to urban areas is partly the result of economic pressures on their rural communities, but these people are not refugees: they are creating this new city on their own terms, to give themselves a foothold in markets where they can sell their produce, to give their children access to better educations and services. They are creating their own legal and administrative structures there, and they are negotiating with the government for recognition of their rights. And they’re doing this while maintaining a presence in their rural communities.

Their houses in the city are outposts of convenience, not desperate refuges.

The Rama people of Nicaragua’s Caribbean coast offer another example. “Safe Harbor,” which begins on page 14, introduces us to Ervin Hodgson, a Rama man who trained as an ecologist and is now training and recruiting his community members to address the issues faced by their community. Those issues include the deforestation of their lands and an impending freight canal that would run right through their territory. The canal, particularly, is a massive and urgent issue, and one in which the opposing parties could not be more sharply contrasted. On one side you have international governments that want to finance the billion-dollar project (South Korea is the latest backer); on the other, you have Ervin and his fishing community. But Ervin is undeterred, and he is working to organize and educate his community and recruit outside aid. The Rama may not win the struggle, but it won’t be for lack of trying.

Our Women the World Must Hear department in this issue profiles an Australian Aboriginal linguist who is working to revive that country’s Indigenous lan-

guages, which were decimated by government programs. And our Indigenous Food department describes the efforts of a group of Inupiaq people who are working to replace their community’s dependence on convenience store food with traditional methods of hunting, fishing, and gathering wild foods. These are not initiatives set up by outside aid agencies or governments; they are conceived, launched, and run by Indigenous communities acting as the sovereign nations they are.

Clearly, then, there is no reason for pity here or in the hundreds of other similar situations in Indigenous communities around the world. There is only cause for admiration—and support. As you can see from these examples, Indigenous communities are taking on very large economic interests and social forces, and they usually are working with very limited resources. That’s why Cultural Survival is here: to reinforce Indigenous Peoples’ own efforts to defend their rights to their lands, languages, and cultures. And that’s why the support of Cultural Survival members like you is so essential. Thank you for lending a hand.

An Indigenous man builds a house in the new city of Las Brisas, created overnight by Indigenous settlers. Photo by Matthew Reamer.

Mark Cherrington, Editor Cultural Survival Quarterly

Summer 2011

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WOMEN THE WORLD MUST HEAR

Bringing Back language

By Derek Smallwood

Jeanie Bell at an international language conference in 2009.

Photo courtesy of the Batchelor Institute.

ative languages are threatened to the point of extinction all over the world, and nowhere is this more apparent than on the Australian continent. Of the 500 to 600 dialects and 250 to 300 different language groups spoken within the past 100 years, only 20 have more then 1,000 speakers today, and local dialects are being lost at an even quicker rate. This, combined with the prevalence of “Aboriginal English,” a creole hybrid of Native languages and English, has resulted in a situation where the only strong Australian Aboriginal languages left are found in the most remote and least urbanized areas of the continent, such as Kimberley, Arnhem Land, and central Australia. To help combat this loss, linguists have partnered with Aboriginal communities to help revitalize and perpetuate their Native languages. At the forefront of that effort is Jeanie Bell, a senior lecturer at the Batchelor Center for Australian Languages and Linguistics.

Native languages have helped shape Bell’s own Aboriginal identity, and their preservation has become a lifelong goal, despite her being taught only English in school as a child. Her father, she thinks, came from the Kamilaroi people, and her mother from the Dulingbara, whose language, Gabi-Gabi, has become

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Bell’s specialty. “Language is part of us,” she says.

“Language is our spiritual connection to the earth and to our ancestors, and it’s an important part of who we are. It’s the spiritual connection though our ancestors that determines our identity as Aboriginal people of the land.” Bell feels a “huge sense of urgency” about preserving Aboriginal languages, and she works in the unique position as a bridge between her Native culture and the academic world, which far too often is detached from the communities that they document. She highlights the partnership between Aboriginal communities and Australians as one of mutual respect and understanding, but cites the 50,000 years of her ancestors in Australia as something vital to her character and to all others who identify as Aboriginal Australians. It something that she feels she must “constantly fight for within the bigger Australian context.”

“People say, ‘We’re very connected to the land, too; our families have been here for hundreds of years,’ and sure, I understand that. I’m not saying that other people can’t have that connection, but ours is a deeper one.” She says that for Aboriginal Australians like herself, “It’s about our feeling of several generations, [that] we have that long connection through our ancestors and through our families.” She says that language is a

huge part of this connection, and its marginalization has a tremendous impact on Aboriginal identity.

Growing up during the post-World War II “integration phase” of the government’s efforts to incorporate Aboriginal communities into mainstream Australian society, Bell’s parents were moved off their mission into Brisbane, the capital city of Queensland.

(Missions, an Australian equivalent to North American Indian reservations, were administered primarily by religious groups that offered a Eurocentric education with little to no emphasis on perpetuating Aboriginal languages.) Her grandfather was able to speak five languages, and watching him work closely with English-speaking anthropologists inspired Bell to pursue an undergraduate and master’s degree in linguistics. “I felt very influenced by some of the older people who spoke language,” she says. “I loved to listen to them speak. I didn’t understand a lot of what they said, but we knew lots of words. So we could listen and hear words that we were familiar with and that we used all the time in our English. We mixed the words on a regular basis. That was probably the beginnings of what’s known today as Aboriginal English.

That happened all over the country; it didn’t just happen in southeast Queensland.”

She says there is now great debate about bilingual language programs in Australian schools. Some areas steadfastly support an English-only program, and others, specifically in the Northern Territory where Bell works, have a “first-hours policy,” where Native languages are used only in the afternoon hours. So, Bell says, after four hours of English, exhausted students “won’t come back to school, or they’ll be quite lethargic if they are in school” when Native languages are being used and taught, obviously diminishing the transference of these languages.

“I see a lot of similarities in the language situation here and in North America,” Bell says. “Language preservation isn’t always a priority because there are so many other issues to deal with that are much more urgent and life threatening, and it’s really quite often down low on the priority list.” Publicity around Aboriginal issues is often cast in a negative light, and Bell has to contend with limited federal funding, public apathy, and divides within the Aboriginal community itself. “One of the biggest issues we have is that when [Native] languages are being taught in schools it’s always a little bit of a tricky issue of what language it should be, because Aboriginal people in Australia are very conscious about how the language being taught should be the language of the territory that the

school is located on.”

Oftentimes the decision on what language will be taught simply comes down to a matter of resources, Bell says. “Most times it will be the language that originally belonged to that area, but sometimes it may be a language from just down the road or another region. If there aren’t any materials available for that particular language, a language from a different place may be taught, but it’s usually resolved in some way.”

She says the movement for language revitalization has accelerated across the Australian continent as “people realize that we’re running against the tide in terms of saving languages and bringing them back,” and now is the time to judge if language programs are working.

“I’ve supported the language program for 13 or 14 years [in the Northern Territory], but I think it’s time to assess the progress and to think about what are we achieving, what are the levels of competency of the children who are learning the language on a weekly basis. Are they making progress? It’s not an easy thing to measure. You can measure it in a controlled situation in the classroom, but once the kids are outside in the playground, you can’t really follow kids around and measure those kind of things.”

In many part of Australia, particularly the more remote areas and the Northern Territory where Bell works, Indigenous languages and words are used on a daily basis, but it’s the transferral of these languages to the children, who are being taught English as a first language, that Bell says needs to be emphasized.

Dissimilar experiences with preserving Native languages across the vast continent also makes uniform language programs difficult, with some areas receiving more funding and academic support while others have only a few speakers left alive with no documentation of their language. Most importantly, Bell says that linguists like herself must not only “work with language speakers and record material and publish it, so that the community has access to all that material, [but also that] they have access to some training so when the linguist is gone there’s something left behind and it’s not just a dictionary on a shelf in the language center.”

Happily, her work seems to be paying off, at least in terms of interest. She says that the drive for revitalization and preservation of local dialects has been increasing over the past few years. “People locally started saying, ‘No this isn’t good enough; we want our own language. It’s great to hear those other languages, but we want our own languages.’”

Derek Smallwood is an intern at Cultural Survival.

Cultural Survival Quarterly

Summer 2011

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I NDIGENOUS A RTS

viSUal pRoTeST! aN iNdigeNoUS peRSpeCTive

By Phoebe Farris

In April, the Patti and Rusty Rueff Galleries at Purdue University presented a solo retrospective highlighting my documentary photography of various social protest and cultural events as both an observer and participant. Beginning with the first Longest Walk, which took place in 1978, and culminating with images from 2010, the photographs affirm the many issues affecting Indigenous and other peoples here and abroad.

Some of the works fall into the following themes: “American Indian Longest Walk Series,” “South African Embassy Apartheid Protests,” “The Embassy of Sudan Genocide Protests,” and the “Obama Presidential Primary Campaign.” Some of the more prominent people or symbols of them represented include American Indian Movement activist Leonard Peltier, Coretta Scott King, Arthur Ashe, Harry Belafonte, Attorney General Eric Holder, Congresswoman Eleanor Homes Norton, Reverend Walter Fauntroy, actress Daryl Hannah, producer David Simon, Emmy-winning screen writer and producer David Mills, and Powhatan historian Jack Forbes. Photos were shot in the United States, Canada, Cuba, and Ethiopia. Rather than presenting a traditional artist statement, I printed the words opposite in red and black lettering on a movable wall.

SOCIAL JUSTICE FREEDOM PEACE EQUALITY ENVIRONMENT COLOR BIRTH HUMANITY FOUR SACRED COLORS RED BLACK YELLOW WHITE AMERICAS TURTLE ISLAND RELEVANT ASIA AFRICA TRANSNATIONAL ABORIGINE INDIGENOUS FIRST NATIONS CIVIL HUMAN RIGHTS INDIAN SEXUALITY GENDER FEMINISM NATIVE AMERICAN AFRICAN AMERICAN AMERINDIAN INDIOS MESTIZO SPIRITUALITY RITUAL CEREMONY CREATE RESEARCH INSPIRE DESIGN RAINBOW WATER SING DANCE SHAPE WRITE RESPECT DREAM THINK HELP MARCH PROTEST LAUGH UNITE STRUGGLE SUPPORT UNFOLD WOMAN MAN DEDICATE MENTOR PAINT DRAW PHOTOGRAPH PRINT AHO JOURNALISM SCULPT DIGITIZE DESERT EARTH DOCUMENT BEAD WORK RESERVATION CLAN TOTEM TRIBE NATION LANGUAGE NOMAD HOLY LAND SEER PROPHET SHAMAN VISION QUEST ROCK PAINTING BUDDHISM HINDUISM TAOISM JUDAISM ISLAM CHRISTIANITY SHINTO KIVA RALLY LOVE ARCHITECTURE WAR UNION TEACH EDUCATE MIND BODY YOGA HUMBLE CHILD LOVE SEVEN GENERATIONS FOUR DIRECTIONS SAND PAINTING STRIKE PACIFIST DIASPORA REPATRIATE TREATY CREATOR GREAT

Phoebe Farris (Powhatan-Renape) is the arts editor for Cultural Survival Quarterly. She also is a professor of art and design/women’s studies and a former associate director of the Women's Studies Program at Purdue University.

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SPIRIT MOTHER EARTH FATHER SKY SEARCH SWEAT LODGE CLAY HARMONY EARTH GLOBE UNIVERSE HOPE CHANGE LEAD DIRECT FOLLOW AIR BOUNDARY FIRE LEGACY ASPIRE CULTURE

"Hands of Beauty and Strength窶認annie Mills", 2010, ink-jet print, 20x30 inches.

Cultural Survival Quarterly

Summer 2011

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I NDIGENOUS A RTS

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Tawahka men pole their canoes toward the rising sun on Patuca River near Krausirpi. Photo by Kendra McSweeney.

Honduras

Don’t Dam the Patuca River! Chinese Project Threatens Indigenous Cultures and Biodiversity

T

he Moskitia (mos-KEE-tya): it’s the largest, most magnificent expanse of tropical wilderness north of the Amazon – and the Indigenous Peoples who live there are determined to keep it that way.

For 3,000 years, Indigenous people have plied their dugout canoes up and down the Patuca River, the central artery of Honduras’ vast Moskitia lowland rainforest. On its rich floodplain they grow cocoa, oranges, rice, beans, cassava, and other crops for subsistence and sale, and its fish provide their main source of protein. “The river is our life,” says Lorenzo Tinglas, president of the Tawahka people’s governing council. “Any threat to the Patuca is a threat to four Indigenous Peoples—the Tawahka, Pech, Miskito, and Garifuna—and we will fight to the death to protect it.”

The fight is on. In January, the Honduran congress approved a contract with a Chinese company to build the first of three dams on the Patuca River. In February, the four Indigenous groups and Afro-Hondurans who share the Moskitia formed a united movement to save the river, their livelihoods, and their unique cultures. The Moskitia is a world-class treasure, and it will take international pressure to stop this project.

Please write letters today. Gracias!

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What difference would dams on the Patuca River make?

For Miskito leader Norvin Goff, the answer is stark and clear: “Dams on the Patuca River mean ecocide and homicide.”

Why ecocide? Dams in the Moskitia tropical rainforest would decimate this richly diverse ecosystem both directly and indirectly.

In the river, fish species that migrate upstream from the ocean during part of their life cycle would be blocked Enemecia Sánchez fishes from her dugout near by the dams, threatening Parawasito on the Patuca River.

Photos are by Kendra McSweeney their extinction. Downstream from the dam, the river’s volume, flow, and temperature would change, altering the habitats of shellfish, amphibians, plants and bird species. Upstream, the reservoirs would submerge rainforest vegetation, soils, and organic matter, which would emit greenhouse gases as they rot. Reservoirs in the tropics produce high amounts of methane and carbon dioxide, accelerating global warming. The reservoirs and a network of roads would obstruct the migration patterns of hundreds of rainforest species. In the Moskitia, this includes endangered species like jaguars and tapirs whose survival depends on large territories.

Why homicide? Indigenous villagers who live along the Patuca’s banks depend on the river for their lives and livelihoods. It is their only means of transportation and communication through the vast, roadless Moskitia. Dams would obstruct commerce and trade for thousands of people. On stretches of river between the dams, the flows, currents, and channels would be altered; people whose knowledge of the Patuca has sustained them for centuries would no longer master the river. Fish would disappear. Flood cycles that regularly wash nutrients over their agricultural lands would be changed. And road construction would open their forests to an unstoppable invasion of loggers, poachers, ranchers, and drug smugglers. The government plans to build a military base to protect the construction project. “These impacts will be fatal for the survival of the Tawahka as a unique people,” says their elected leader, Lorenzo Tinglas.

As an endorser of the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples and the International Labor Organization’s Convention #169, Honduras officially recognizes Indigenous Peoples’ right to free, prior, and informed consent for projects that would affect them. But the Indigenous Peoples of the Moskitia have not been consulted and they have not consented to dam construction on the Patuca River. An international outcry is needed to defend their rights and to prevent destruction of a world-renowned tropical rainforest.

You Can Help Write a Letter for this Campaign The Tawahka and Miskito organizations, FITH and MASTA, and the Black People’s Fraternal Organization, OFRANEH, ask us to write to Honduras’ president and send copies to the officials listed below. In your letter, please: Commend Honduras for endorsing the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples and the International Labor Organization’s Convention 169, which recognize Indigenous Peoples’ right to free, prior, and informed consent for projects that would affect them.

Tell the president that the Patuca III dam project is a test of Honduras’ commitment to Indigenous Peoples’ rights, and that his government must not approve construction unless they obtain the free, prior, and informed consent of the Tawahka, Pech, Miskito and Garifuna peoples.

Express deep concern that damming the Patuca River will accelerate the impacts of global warming, threaten food security and the cultural survival of the Tawahka people, disrupt transportation and commerce for all the peoples of the Moskitia, alter a vital river ecosystem, and put at risk the invaluable biological diversity of Patuca National Park, the Tawahka Asangni Biosphere Reserve, and the Río Plátano Biosphere Reserve.

Please send a polite letter to: Sr. Porfirio Lobo Sosa Presidente de la República de Honduras Edif. José Cecilio del Valle Boulevard Juan Pablo II Tegucigalpa, Honduras Email: info@presidencia.gob.hn and daysi_2005hn@yahoo.com Send a copy of your letter to: Juan Orlando Hernández, Presidente Congreso Nacional Barrio La Hoya Tegucigalpa, Honduras Email: angasaor@gmail.com Dr. Santiago Cantón, Executive Secretary Inter-American Commission on Human Rights 17th St. & Constitution Avenue N.W. Washington, D.C. 20006 USA Email: cidhoea@oas.org Tips: US Postage to Honduras is 98 cents.

A model letter is available at www.cs.org Personal, mailed letters have highest impact!

For more information, please see: www.cs.org Thank you for joining in this campaign! Kaparcawa, Tinki Pali, and Seremei! Gracias!

Please answer the call of the united Indigenous Peoples of the Moskitia : tell the Honduran government you stand with them against construction of the Patuca III dam.

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TO Indigenous children of the Moskitia rainforest. Photo by Silvia Carreno.

Honduras

Save a river, a rainforest, and Indigenous communities

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ultural Survival encourages children and teens to learn about Indigenous Peoples, especially how they organize to defend their rights and protect their lands. Sometimes, when governments and companies are not respecting their rights, Indigenous people ask us to help them by writing letters.

Right now, deep in Central America’s largest tropical rainforest, Indigenous people are trying to stop construction of dams on the Patuca River.The Tawahka (ta-WA-ka) people have lived along the banks of the Patuca for 3,000 years, growing oranges, cocoa, cassava, rice, and beans in the fertile soil.There are no roads in this vast jungle called the Moskitia (mos-KEE-tya).The river is the only way the Tawahka people can travel. Dams would block their canoes and threaten the survival of many kinds of fish and forest animals—even jaguars.The Tawahka and other Indigenous Peoples of the Moskitia keep protesting against the dams, but the Honduran government isn’t listening. Let’s write letters to the president and see if we can get his attention! w w w. c u l t u r a l s u r v i v a l . o r g

YOUTH ACTION Save a River, a Rainforest, and Indigenous Peoples!

No one knows how many species of frogs and other animals and plants live in the Moskitia because most of this rainforest is still unexplored.

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ometimes people just need to be reminded.

In the Central American country of Honduras, the government seems to have forgotten some things. They know the value of their tropical rainforest—the second largest tropical rainforest in the Western Hemisphere, after the Amazon. They created the Patuca National Park, the Tawahka Asangni Biosphere Reserve, and the Rio Platano Biosphere Reserve to protect the forest ecosystem, which includes rivers like the Patuca and endangered species like the jaguar and tapir.

The Honduran government also knows that Indigenous Peoples have rights. They signed the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples.

But now the Honduran government is doing something that could destroy the tropical rainforest and violate the rights of the Indigenous Peoples. They signed a contract with a Chinese company to build dams on the Patuca River.

A Tawahka leader named Lorenzo Tinglas says that if these dams are built, it will be the end of the tropical forest and the end of the Tawahka people.

How would dams destroy the forest? Thousands of acres of forest will be flooded when the reservoirs behind the dams are filled. As the submerged vegetation rots, it releases methane and other gases that accelerate global warming. Global warming changes the climate, and climate change affects all the plants and animals in the forest.

To build the dams, first they will have to build roads through the rainforest.

The roads and the reservoirs will block the age-old migration routes of rainforest animals, from the smallest frogs to the largest jaguars. The roads will make it possible for people to get into the forest to hunt, to cut trees, to make farms. How would the Tawahka people, who depend on the river and the forest, survive?

The Tawahka people and their Pech, Moskito, and Garifuna neighbors want to stop construction of the dams before it starts, and they are asking us to help.

Please write a letter to Honduras’ president today. Remind him of the value of his country’s rainforests and the rights of its Indigenous Peoples.

Please write a polite letter to the president of Honduras. Tell him why you care about protecting the tropical rainforest, rivers, and Indigenous Peoples of the Moskitia. Remind him that Indigenous Peoples have rights, and that they don’t want dams to be built on the Patuca River. Ask him what he will do to recognize their rights and protect the Moskitia’s rivers and rainforests.

SEnD youR LETTER To: Sr. Porfirio Lobo Sosa Presidente de la República de Honduras Edif. José Cecilio del Valle Boulevard Juan Pablo II Tegucigalpa, Honduras Email: info@presidencia.gob.hn

LETTER WRITIng TIPS: Start your letter with this salutation: Dear Mr. President, Make sure your letter is polite and respectful.

At the end of your letter, ask the president for a reply.

Include your name, your age, and your address on your letter.You might get a letter back from the president of Honduras!

Postage from the US is 98 cents.

The Indigenous people of the Moskitia say Kaparcawa,Tinki Pali, and Seremei! Thank you!

Top: Cruziohyla calcarifer, photographed in 2003 at Rus Rus Biological Reserve, Honduras, by Josiah Townsend. Left: A jaguar walks through the rainforest. Photo courtesy Smithsonian Institution.

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I NDIGENOUS A RTS

Upper left: “Free Leonard Peltier Banner—Cleveland Indians Anti-Mascot Event,” Cleveland, Ohio, 2000, inkjet print.

Upper right: “Floyd Westerman—AIM Big Mountain Protest,” Washington, D.C., 1980s, ink-jet print.

Lower right: “Taino Cuban Drummer,” Havana, Cuba, 1991, ink-jet print.

Lower left: “Dr.Jack D. Forbes at the Returning the Gift Native Writers Festival,” British Columbia, Canada, 1998, black and white ink-jet print.

Cultural Survival Quarterly

Fall 2009

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S PIRITUALITY

The path of peace Maria Alice Campos-Freire is one of the Council of 13 Indigenous Grandmothers, a group of women dedicated to promoting peace and understanding through Indigenous wisdom. Campos-Freire is from Brazil, where she is a madrinha (spiritual leader) of the Santo Daime community Céu do Mapia and the founder of Centro Medicina do Floresta (Forest Medicine Center).

She spoke in November 2010 at the Earth and Spirit Council in Portland Oregon, a talk from which this article is adapted. hen I look inside my heart and think about the next generations, I ask myself, “What is the main seed that I can plant on their behalf?” That seed is peace. This is also what moves us grandmothers to cross the planet in all directions.

When we met, we had never seen each other before, and we came from the four directions. We were talking about everything that concerns us in the world: destruction of nature, persecution, oppression of the tra-

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By Maria Alice Campos-Freire

ditions, and the sacred medicines and sacred lands.

Through those things we discovered that although we speak nine different languages, we had only one voice.

Humanity is full of deep wounds, and everybody feels more comfortable thinking that someone else is responsible for the wounds they carry. That’s a wheel that never finishes rolling: if nobody takes responsibility, then it will continue rolling forever. So that’s what we are doing.

We really need to stop that wheel, that karma, because this is the time for the accomplishment of the prophecies. We say prophecies, but there is only one: it’s all about peace, because of what happened in the very long past that broke this harmony that the Creator planted. It was an imbalance, all about one person wanting to be more than the other, wanting to have more than the other. It’s very ancient, and we are not to blame someone else for the sorrows we carry, because all of us, we have been rolling through so many different lives: we have been in so many differ-

ent places, tribes, cultures; we have been the one that kills and the one that is murdered; we have been all that. Now it’s the end. Now we need to agree. We need to forgive ourselves first of all and forgive each other and get rid of this baggage, because this is very old, and this is not what we want to leave to our children, to our grandchildren.

We want them to repair what we have done, all the damage that we human beings have caused to nature, to our own nature. When I speak about nature you think that is something else, but we are nature: we are water, we are fire, we are air, we are earth. I look at the nature that surrounds me, at the plant kingdom, the fungus kingdom, the waters, the sea, the rivers, the forest, the winds, the birds, the animals. When I look at nature like this, I can see in the mirror, I can see that same beauty exists within me and within all my brothers and sisters, and that we really need to overcome the impediment that blocks us to embrace all. That’s the only really good seed that we can plant for the future, for our children.

Native people are being displaced, but still you find that the forest is there, the traditional medicines are there that can heal all those terrible diseases that peoples have. Those diseases were created by this imbalance, this imbalance that is within people. They lost their memories, their connections with their purpose.

They don’t know what they are doing on the earth, and they are transforming all that into wounds: the environment is being damaged by all kinds of stuff, including chemicals and bombs.

The seed of war is there also, each time you want to judge your neighbor, to accuse someone, to blame the other one, to put responsibility on others about what’s going wrong in our lives. It’s because we don’t take responsibly.

When the forest is destroyed, within a day or two a new forest grows spontaneously. That’s a big teaching for us, that nature has this capacity of recovering from any destruction. That’s the message of life. You cannot kill life, you cannot kill the spirit; the spirit is eternal.

The memory is eternal, we just need to go back and search and we will find it.

These are simple things, basic stories, but we live from basic things: we eat, we drink, we breathe. That’s the way we live; we can’t live any other way.

So that’s why we are here: We are all the same tribe.

That’s beautiful, but also very serious—when we give this seed to our children, we have to do it the right way.

We need to heal our hearts and the differences that we still carry. The time is very advanced. Nature is show-

ing us through typhoons, climate change, and the other things that are happening. So when are we going to find that direction? This is not very difficult, because the Native ancient traditions, they carried the ways, and they are very similar all over the world. They carried the prayers, so we just need to come back to our source, because all of us have that source. There is nobody who is an orphan before the Creator; everybody has this father/mother Creator. So we just need to search within us in our image, that’s what the sacred medicines of the traditions protected. And now they became available because of that accomplishment of the prophecies. Now peoples are meeting each other, to achieve the last details of this accomplishment. The time is here.

This article was produced with the generous partnership of the Earth and Spirit Council.

Cultural Survival Quarterly

Left: The Thirteen Indigenous Grandmothers with the Dalai Lama Below: Maria Alice Campos-Freire Photographs by Marisol Villanueva, courtesy of the International Council of Thirteen Indigenous Grandmothers

Summer 2011

11

F OOD FOR L IFE

New old Hunters inupiaq people organize to revive subsistence food culture

By Bonney Hartley, Gilberto Daniel Rodriguez, and Namgyal Tsepak

Midge Schaeffer, co-founder of IA and Bert Griest, a Selawik volunteer, prepare chum salmon at Camp Qalhaq to smoke with alder branches for iyamaaqluq (half dried salmon). In keeping with the Inupiaq spirit of sharing, these will be distributed among village elders at the Kotzebue Senior Center.

Photo courtesy Seva Foundation.

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he Inupiaq people of Northwest Alaska have maintained a close connection with the creatures found on land, in freshwater rivers, and at sea for thousands of years. The seasonal relationship with berry picking, seal hunting, fishing, and other subsistence ways of life kept communities nourished. Mattresses, mittens, and clothing are made from these animals.

Intertribal trading of foods and other items kept Inupiaq culture healthy.

Today, though Alaska still conjures for many an image of a magnificent, undisturbed “wilderness” lush in subsistence wildlife, barriers for Indigenous Peoples like the Inupiaq exist just like food deserts in the Lower 48. It is true that Inupiaq lands are abundant, home to beaver, caribou, bearded seal, beluga whale, salmon, berries, and so much more, and it might seem as if Native people would be feasting on the freshest, most nutrient-rich foods one could imagine. In reality, Inupiaq communities now settled in villages are fighting a battle for health and survival. A major barrier to gaining access to traditional food staples is the high cost of gas—nearly $10 per gallon in most villages. As a result, for most people in this region, the main source of food has become the one convenience store or pricey market in the village. The produce the markets do stock is often spoiled from being thawed out after being in frozen airplane cargo holds.

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In recent decades, diabetes, obesity, and cardiovascular diseases in the Northwest Arctic Borough are staggering issues that confront the 11 villages. The Center for Alaska Native Health Research attributes this rise to an unstable food supply, lack of physical activity, and a diet high in trans-fatty acids and nutrient-poor liquids high in sugar.

Community members say they feel frustrated by the common, romanticized vision of happy, healthy Inupiaq subsistence life. Pop culture and policymakers often project this image, but do little to make this wish a reality.

With little or no support forthcoming, a group of determined community members came together in 2006 to discuss these issues. Midge Schaeffer, a longtime community advocate, breathed life into the efforts by donating 80 acres of her own land to be built into an educational facility, Camp Qalhaq, on the Noatak River.

Midge recalls,“People kept coming up to me, over and over, and saying, ‘I wonder who can help us. We have this poster saying “Learn from our elders, do our subsistence,” but we’re not doing all those things. We’re losing all our ways. We’re not making mukluks.’ Finally, it dawned on me: ‘Nobody’s doing anything, so we we’ll just do it ourselves.’”

Today, Midge is president of an all-volunteer group that has solidified into an official nonprofit organization

called Ilinniagvik Attautchikun (IA), Inupiaq for “learning together.” IA strives to restore traditional trading ties by preparing and distributing healthful Native food staples from 11 saltwater and freshwater villages in the Northwest Arctic Borough. Their efforts have somewhat unexpectedly become a focal point for community organizing, and people from across the 11 villages are now increasingly banding together to bring back the old ways and restore health.

IA has found an ally some 2,000 miles south, in Berkeley, California, with Seva Foundation, an international health service organization. Seva has been working to provide funds and technical assistance to build capacity of IA’s efforts.

Seva worked on the ground with IA last summer and had the chance to listen deeply to IA volunteer members.

Bert Griest from the village of Selawik, in his early 60s, prides himself of having been taught to live in the wild.

While meandering through his childhood experiences, he described how, “Living out in the wild was a real freedom.” He also lamented how Alaska’s admission to the union resulted in thousands of laws and created unnecessary burdens for the people who once owned and protected the land. He is also quick to point out that people with obesity and diabetes were unheard of in the old days.

“When someone went into a clinic or a hospital (in the past),” he said, “it became the biggest news in town. Now everyone goes to the hospitals, and the biggest news would be if somebody doesn’t need the hospital.”

As an elder and master skinner who lived and experienced these health changes taking place in Alaska in the past half century, Bert sees IA’s commitment to revival of subsistence life as essential to the preservation of culture and key to the restoration of self-esteem among youths and combating deteriorating health issues prevalent in Alaska Native communities.

Through seemingly simple acts of providing fuel allocations for hunters and distributing the meat from the hunts to community members—especially the elderly— IA’s volunteers have in many ways sown the seeds for a self-reliant Inupiaq health movement on their own terms.

Seva reported that last year, because of IA, more than 43,000 pounds of subsistence foods were distributed, involving 1,045 community members.

The perspective of health in these efforts clearly promotes all-around wellbeing: “It’s spiritual when you share

seal oil, when you gather,” says Midge. “You know you are eating healthy food, and you are surrounded by your Inupiaq family and friends. Your insides are filled.”

In addition to restoring long-held traditions like hunting and distribution, IA is working in new ways to champion climate-change observation to better respond to detrimental impacts on subsistence activities, such as the thawing of the permafrost in food-storage ice cellars and the changing caribou migration routes.

“I love this program because we build on the strength of our people,” says Bert Griest. “When I delivered the ugruk (bearded seal blubber) we had hunted for IA to Selawik, everyone was real happy. People were all over the CB radio—about 20 families, one right after another— saying ‘thank you.’ When it happens that way it’s a whole community uplifting!”

IA’s cultural activities are fostering a new hunter who is aware of his surroundings through direct involvement, bridging new institutional partnerships, and even speaking before groups of people when it’s uncomfortable at first. IA’s efforts are daring to bring the old ways back and break a cycle of dependency. “We are keeping the spirit alive,” Bert says. “No one else from the outside can come in and do it. We’re the only ones.”

Dolly Smith, an elder from the village of Kiana, sits with a bowl of fresh blueberries. Once combined with seal blubber to make a traditional and healthful Inupiaq recipe, this experience is increasingly harder to come by.

Photo courtesy of the Seva Foundation.

Bonney Hartley (Mohican), Gilberto Daniel Rodriguez (Mexica/Nahuatl), and Namgyal Tsepak (Tibetan) are program staff members at Seva Foundation. See www.seva.org/nach for more information. This article is third of a three-part series from Seva’s program, spotlighting Indigenous communities in Alaska, South Dakota, and California as they recover ancestral food systems that promote self-reliance and prevent chronic disease such as diabetes.

Cultural Survival Quarterly

Summer 2011

13

SAFE HARBOR

A portrait of an Indigenous environmentalist and his community Text and Photos by Will Meadows

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rvin Hogdson leaned forward in the dóri (dugout canoe) his father handcrafted from a massive rainforest tree. Grown and made on community lands, the prow of the boat rose and fell pointing toward the island village of Rama Cay (pronounced “Key”), the figure-eight-shaped sanctuary in the center of the lagoon, which is the Rama capital island, officially Caribbean Nicaragua. Ervin’s people, the Rama, are struggling to protect and keep sovereignty over their land and survive as a unique culture, but the young Rama environmentalist and teacher was hopeful.

The Sunday sun moved through an ancient forest, and shafts of light shone on his round, stern face.

Sergio, Ervin’s brother, directed the engine and spoke gently in English Creole to his teenage son, scooping water out of the boat.

“We need to plaster the sides,” Ervin said calmly, looking around the boat for improvements. “I like sails better” he explained, always examining. “They are quieter.” Sergio responded with a deep, browneyed smile. Their mother was silent, patiently holding some market goods acquired by the trade of fish. In all directions, the colorful sails of fishermen’s dóris soared across the water, saying, “This is Rama territory; this is Rama identity.”

Ervin had made the journey from the old pirate town of Bluefields to Rama Cay much more frequently since his enrollment at University of the Autonomous Regions of the Caribbean Coast of Nicaragua, which offers training and education for the Indigenous Peoples of the region. “I have been a student, a teacher, and doing social programs for many years now,” Ervin explained modestly. As one of only two Rama seeking a master’s degree, Ervin feels great responsibility in giving a voice to his people.

Much of their rainforest land has been divided into preserves and parks, and the Rama have little power.

Violence, theft, and ecological devastation have all been the agents of Rama marginalization, pushing their culture and way of life toward the edge. To avoid human rights atrocity, conservation refugee status, and cultural assimilation, Rama need “education for

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life,” Ervin said, approaching the island. “My father went to a Mestizo school and learned how to do nothing, and it killed our language,” Ervin explained, waving to community members who waited patiently on the dock. The most critical aspect of Rama culture, ecological knowledge, is the one that Ervin is most focused on. Deforestation is rampant, the agricultural frontier is expanding, and climate change has swallowed a third of the neighboring Pearl Keys. All of them threaten Rama lands and ways of life. “That’s why environmental education is so good for the Rama,” he said. He listed all the benefits: it preserves the Rama cultural value of ecology in such relevant ways; it engages all Rama in world issues and helps them take hold of the reins; it is communication; and it is Rama led.

“There’s an old Rama tradition,” Ervin explained, looking up at the clear blue sky, “that if visitors come in good weather, they bring good luck to the whole community.” We were greeted on the island by nieces and nephews, Ervin’s father, and a few chickens pecking at the sand. The dozens of Rama houses appeared woven into the two hills of Rama Cay, with the primaryschool building crowning the near hill. A Moravian church sat atop the hill across the commons.

The Rama, who number a few thousand, are seminomadic, shifting seasonally with agricultural subsistence intricately tied with the surrounding rainforest and a base of skilled fishing throughout the lagoon.

“We live entirely with our land,” Ervin explained. “I farm just over there,” he said, pointing eastward to the Cultural Survival Quarterly

Opposite: The boat docks of Rama Cay look idyllic, but the community faces significant challenges, from illegal logging to a proposed frieght canal through their territory.

Above: Ervin Hodgson is the second person from his community to get a graduate degree, and he’s using his education to protect his community’s environment.

Summer 2011

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Members of the Hodgson family relax on a dóri. The dugouts are an essential part of Rama culture.

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rainforest across a majestic lagoon. “Most men fish, but I do not fish.” He explained that he is one of the community’s high school teachers.

Rama villages along the rivers and on islands are within a territory called the Southern Atlantic Autonomous Region. This region is governed in part by the Indigenous Peoples, but with all the exploitative interest in the area, the path to full autonomy and real protection of community lands will be, and has been, a long one.

Ervin explained that the community has a tribal council of elders who communicate with the mestizos and Nicaraguan government, “but we still lack a voice.” There was a land demarcation in October, a huge political step toward granting official land titles.

However, just like so-called paper parks, illegal use of the Rama territory and government disregard make “paper property” a sensible term to use in describing their territorial integrity.

The history of Rama lands and outside interaction is a bloody one. “The war was hard for us all,” Ervin reflected, sitting with his father, a lifelong fisherman, looking out over the water. The Contra/Sandanista war of the 1980s much about land reform. There has been a lot of recent violence against the Rama over their lands, and many people have died. “I’ve been threatened by loggers myself,” Ervin said, describing a time when he was tending his forest plot and found people on his land. The Rama live in one of the largest remaining chunks of rainforest anywhere in the

world, and everyone wants a piece of their territory.

Those most knowledgeable about it, the Rama themselves, are the first to be silenced.

In the afternoon, Ervin walked with one of his students, Edwin, to the top of the hill where the primary school sits. Edwin, now a high school student, is tall and skinny, wearing long black hair, as is traditional for the Rama. In front of the building he touched the red hibiscus flower he planted when he was a student there. “We are going to do many things for environmental education,” Ervin said. He talked about the possibilities for an office of the environment for Rama Cay. “I am teaching environmental education in sciences classes now. I am having students do projects where they can educate the entire community.” One such example is elementary-age students visiting the homes of community members and parents, making sure there’s no trash on the ground. The recent coming of waste items such as plastic wrappers and bottles has created a problem for the community, particularly where there is no infrastructure that might allow for its removal. Ervin explained how students study topics like pollution, climate change, and sustainable energy (the school has a few photovoltaic solar panels, and Ervin talks excitedly about wind energy), but most importantly natural resource management and conservation.

A new program within the Rama community has been the integration of Indigenous patrolmen to protect the land officially from loggers, poachers,

outside farmers, and corporations that, among other things, have been trying to build a canal freight corridor right through Rama lands. The success of the programs rests largely on the Rama ability to keep them organized and to stay educated “for life” in changing times. As many outsiders look greedily toward their land, the Rama are rapidly taking up arms. Their weapons of choice: pencils, books, and good teachers.

Ervin and Edwin walked toward the commons, where the church congregation was beginning to assemble. An elderly woman in the village had passed away the previous day, and the church bells were echoing on the opposite hill as the village children ran to the area outside the woman’s home. Ervin talked softly in Creole with Jimi, the town electrician, who just came from collecting monthly electricity bills.

Jimi, a relative of the dead woman, runs a generator on diesel fuel bought in Bluefields, enough to give lighting to some houses and enough to power the nighttime lights that were recently installed on the island. Ervin made a joke about the roosters who crow all night now, confused by the “street lights” lining two or three dirt paths on the island. Jimi explained

that it is expensive to buy fossil fuels from outside, but the village has come to demand it more and more.

Everyone slowly gathered in a small hamlet courtyard as Ervin’s grandfather played a piano with a Rama groove, and a Rama preacher gave a sermon.

There was respectful silence as gifts were given to the family and the woman was remembered. Her coffin was hand carved by village men using the same tools they use to carve fishing dóris.

At sunset, Ervin and his family shared a pot of coconut rice and shrimp harvested and grown by Rama rainforest farmers and Rama fisherman. A young boy behind Ervin’s house climbed up a breadfruit tree to cast a large tasty prize down to his father in the twilight. “I always ask my students, ‘Why is it important for Indigenous Peoples to protect natural resources?’”

Ervin said. “My teacher in college always asked me that because I am Indigenous. My mother always asked me why I wanted to be different; I always told her, ‘You do not need to be different to make a difference.’”

In the morning, Ervin’s sister was preparing Rama coffee and drum fish in wooden bowls in the common kitchen downstairs, when Ervin’s niece Anne-Linny poked her head around the corner of the upstairs room

Cultural Survival Quarterly

Sergio Hodgson leans out a window in the house that he and his brother, Ervin, built.

Summer 2011

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Ervin's nieces (Anne-Linny on left) play games on an outcrop on the west side of the island.

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to tell him he had a call from blueEnergy, a sustainable energy and environmental nonprofit organization. The person on the phone said that three blueEnergy representatives would be there that afternoon to do a health assessment, asking their friend Ervin for a place to sleep. Ervin opened his laptop, leaning against his second-floor stilt-house wall, which he and his father built and painted light blue. “Just imagine,” he said, thinking about his students. “Rama could be leaders for healing the global environment.” His eyes followed Anne-Linny and her bright colors as she disappeared behind his sister’s house.

Ervin laughed when I called him innovative. He said that his days are very busy, even though he follows a different pattern, a different type of busy, than that of his community. “I am the only Rama with a

computer,” he said. “Many people think it is strange, wondering ‘What is Ervin doing up there?’ But the Internet opens many opportunities. I am a Rama, but I am doing many things new to us.”

Ervin has been able to connect with people all over the world, build the first Rama website, be a point-man for researchers and for national newspapers such as La Prensa, present at Indigenous rights conferences across the region, show the world Rama language successes, work with NGOs, house travelers, and achieve higher education. He has grown a voice for the Rama, and most importantly, Ervin has become a role model for his students, particularly in environmental education.

“The Rama need to know how to deal with big companies, governments, nonprofits, everyone,” he said.

“Our efforts in environmental education need to be

successful like our efforts to save the Rama language,” Ervin said. Once thought dead, the Rama language, a crucial piece of Rama relationship to their universe, has come back with the internal efforts of community members. “Miss Norah Rigby was an elder here who saved our language,” he said. “Now over 60 people know at least some Rama; children, too.”

To save the Rama land, just like the Rama language, the role of culture is at the center. “Language is observation about the environment,” Ervin said, “and identity is observation turned into a way of life. These things are all tied together.” Ervin held up a 2010 calendar that he and other community members had made. Each month uses a different Rama phrase to describe a Rama cultural activity in relation to the ecosystem. November, for example, has a picture of a rainbow-colored fishing dóri. Under the picture it says “Ning tukan ki nsut aakarngi yaabra pulkat ki an tuali kaali tataara.” The phrase is translated into English, Creole, and Spanish: “In this month we sail in the north wind and the waves are big.”

We took a walk to Ervin’s brother’s house, just over the hill beyond the schoolhouse. It was a school-less

Monday, a day to celebrate and respect the elder who had just died. Ervin slipped into the shade of his brother’s thatched home and greeted Sergio. “My brother is doing many good things,” Sergio said as he walked into the open room to pick up some fishing net. He held the net examining it in the light coming through the open window. His body is tall and lean, worked by the sun. Sergio, who has been fishing all of his life, is very aware of the dangers creeping into the waters his people have lived with for millennia. “My territory is what I observe and use,” he said in broken English. He explained that his territory has been increasingly encroached upon by commercial fisherman who are taking more from the lagoon than the Rama know is sustainable.

Alexander, Sergio’s teenage son, walked into the room to talk to his father. Sergio looked at his son hopefully, knowing that Alexander, a bright and peaceful young boy, will carry his knowledge of the land and waters into the Rama future.

Next door, smoke rose softly out of the house of Ervin’s sister, Cordillia. She was cooking rice grown by her husband and fish caught by him, throwing ba-

Cultural Survival Quarterly

Ervin relaxes at the community’s commons, as one of his students runs by.

Summer 2011

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nana peels to the chickens that pecked below. AnneLinny handed her mother a dead rabbit to be cooked over a wood fire. Pigeons watched from above, sitting calmly on the roof as a pig meandered over the rocks by the water and a small white and black monkey fiddled with the rope around its body on the neighbor’s porch. Cordillia sat down to do the hard work of shaving coconuts and Great-Grandmother came over to joke and help in the work. As Ervin and Sergio talked, a “Spaniard” (the Rama term for nonIndigenous Nicaraguans) who had come onto the island with cameramen, took a picture, saying nothing to the men, and walked away, his shirt saying, “Travel Nicaragua!” Even if it were offensive, Ervin said nothing; he simply smiled at Sergio.

“We are resilient,” Ervin laughed, as Anne-Linny worked hard to draw a map of the world on a piece of paper from his notebook, using the smooth rainforest wood of the fishing dock as a support. “My grandmother reminded me of a time,” Ervin said, “when I was eight years old (about the same age as Anne-

Linny), and a terrible hurricane came through the land. While the forests were shaken and the island was ravaged, a group of villagers stayed on the island to protect the animals, running from one side of the island to the other, trying to get away from the wind.

It was crazy, but everyone lived.”

At the water, the family of the woman who died prepared to carry her over the waves. “They will take her to a sacred place in the rainforest, and they will put her to rest in the Rama way,” Ervin said. The next day school would be in session and Ervin would be teaching. And from there, the Rama will be fighting to protect this place. “Our identity is our land,” he said. Walking to the dock, he pushed his dóri into the water, at home.

Opposite: Ervin's grandmother looks on with a great-grandaughter behind.

Photo by Lauren Greubel, Fellow at the Center for Universal Education, Brookings Institute.

Above: In a dori, Ervin travels back to Bluefields, across the lagoon.

Will Meadows is an environmental steward and activist, based in Chicago and Washington, D.C. He’s currently finishing a degree at Lawrence University in Wisconsin. This is his first piece for Cultural Survival Quarterly.

Cultural Survival Quarterly

Summer 2011

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NOT

IN

OUR NAME

Text by Ringlen Wolphagen, photographs by John Amato

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Editor’s Note: Pohnpei is one of the four Federated States of Micronesia, along with Yap, Chuuk, and Kosrae. The people of Pohnpei are mostly Micronesian, with their own language and unique traditions, and the government of Pohnpei has an unusual structure, in which familiar elected representatives in a legislature coexist with the state’s five traditional kingdoms and their respective kings and chiefs. This combined system can lead to difficulties. The current challenge is the state government’s plan to build a casino in the village of Lukop in the kingdom of Madolenihmw, a plan opposed by the kingdom’s people and king. In December, Cultural Survival received an impassioned letter from a Pohnpeian about the casino, along with photographs of the Pohnpei culture and people who are involved. We present both here. ow would you feel if someone threw a party at your house, charged admission, and didn’t invite you, much less inform you? Well that, in a nutshell is what the administration of Pohnpei is attempting to do with its “top priority” plan to establish a 1,000-room hotel-casino resort on our island.

The state governor argues that a casino would generate millions of dollars in revenue and hundreds of jobs.

This may well be true. But going back to the analogy above, what good would the profits be if, in the course of the party, your house was trashed? And, since you weren’t told there’d be a party and you weren’t even invited, chances are you wouldn’t even get a cut of the sales.

For all the hype about revenues and jobs, one very crucial point—indeed, we daresay this is the crux of the whole matter—has been totally ignored. Did anyone ever ask us, Pohnpeians, if we want a casino on our island? For that matter, has anyone ever asked the people of Lukop Village in Madolenihmw Municipality, who stand to be displaced, if they are willing to give up their homes so that high rollers from who knows where can try their luck at the baccarat and roulette tables?

Has anyone even considered the sentiments of His Majesty, the Hon. Kerpet Hebel, Isipahu the Nahnmwarki of Madolenihmw (the highest traditional king on Pohnpei), who has publicly expressed his opposition to the casino?

If there is one thing Pohnpei takes pride in, it is in the preservation of our culture and traditions. So precious are these to us that we have even enshrined our traditional laws as part of our legal statutes. Part of that tradition is that no major decisions are ever undertaken without consulting and getting the consensus of the traditional leaders and the people of Pohnpei.

And yet we have members of the Pohnpei legislature crowing that the bill to establish the casino is on the verge of garnering the full support of the chamber.

This administration talks only of revenues and jobs, as if the casino’s presence on Pohnpei would usher us into a golden age of prosperity and happiness. Have we heard anyone in this administration ever discuss the potential social costs of opening a casino on Pohnpei?

Has anyone in this administration even told us that Guam, the most advanced island in the Micronesian region, has refused to have anything to do with casinos?

Has anyone in this administration ever discussed how gambling can become an addiction like drugs? Or of the other problems associated with habitual gambling,

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like racking up huge debts one is unable to pay? Or that states where casinos operate have the highest rates of home foreclosures and bankruptcies? Or that, very often, pathological gamblers turn to crime—fraud, embezzlement, drug dealing, theft—to come up with the money to pay their debts? Or that the criminal activities associated with gambling eventually cost the taxpayers, who have to dish out more for police, courts, probation officers, and the costs of keeping offenders in jail? Or of the economic losses that habitual gamblers cause not only their employers but the state and society itself?

This administration is trying to blind us with bright lights and promises of prosperity, proclaiming that they are bringing in the casino because they care for us.

Nothing can be further from the truth. If they truly care for Pohnpei and the Pohnpeians, they would be honest with us. They would consult us, openly discuss the matter with us and, most important, abide by what we, Pohnpeians, believe is right for Pohnpei. It is our democratic right to be informed.

Alas, we do not see this happening here. All we see are lies, subterfuge and hypocrisy. All we see are narrow political, financial, and personal interests being advanced in the guise of the people’s interests.

But the people of Pohnpei are not blind, and we certainly are not fools. We say no, you will not run roughshod over our rights and our lives. No, you will not make a mockery of our laws and of governance.

And no, we will not allow you to get away with this, not in our name.

Ringlen Wolphagen served as public information officer for Pohnpei Govenor Johnny P. David, and curerently holds several positions, including administrative officer for the Pohnpei Economic Development Authority.

John Amato is a professional photographer and register nurse working in critical care. He began working with Indigenous Peoples in the 1990s and among other projects has photographed Native Americans in the southwest, Aymarra communities in Chile, and Kam communities in China.

John currently resides in Pohnpei, Micronesia. He is documenting natural history and life on Pohnpei. He has also started a program to help restore close vision by testing and providing reading glasses to those in need with donations from the nurses and staff of ICU at Santa Rosa Memorial Hospital, Santa Rosa, CA. John is a professional photographer and a registered nurse working in critical care/ICU. www.pbase.com/jamato8 Cultural Survival Quarterly

At 77 years old, Santa Edwin, at left, has seen many changes on Pohnpei. She remembers World War II and the impact the Japanese had on the island. She also remembers how the Japanese would have the young Pohnpei students fill baskets with the African snails that had been imported by the Japanese as a food source, before attending school in the morning.

With the garden she maintains, Santa has fresh vegetables daily and is very active. Her healthy and active life style has served her well, as many people on Pohnpei die in their late 40s and mid 50s due to heart disease and diabetes, with diet and lack of exercise being the main contributors.

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Left: Cathleen Andrew, a mother in Kapinga, holds her child. There are about 34,000 people on the islands of Pohnpei, and the birth rate is essentially level.

Above: At the local state campus of Pohnpei College, a student uses his computer in a large enclosure on the campus where a single electrical outlet is available for the room. Most of the high schools and elementary schools on Pohnpei have computers but not Internet access, which robs the students of a valuable tool. The state and national campus on Pohnpei do have Internet access, which affords the opportunity to finally get access to the larger world of information.

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In one of the main bays of Pohnpei near Kolonia, Nett Point is a favorite spot to swim. As the sun sets, hours of swimming was capped with great rope swing dives into the bay. The pier where the kids are swimming is one of two deep water piers on Pohnpei. It isn't used much now but was before and during World War II by the Japanese. About 200 yards from where the image was taken behind the swimmers are oyster cages being used for culturing pearls, which has become a very marketable industry on Pohnpei.

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Left: A husband and wife spend the late afternoon chatting with passersby.

Right: Many of the men from Kapinga carve for a livelihood, with a high degree of skill and artistry. Here Linson Head works on a shark. He has lived on Pohnpei most of his life but originally came from Kapingamarangi, which lies to the southwest of Pohnpei by about 500 miles and lies within the municipality of Pohnpei. The population of this atoll is around 300.

The shark is often the subject of carvers, and carvings range in size from inches to a few feet. Evaluating the time spent carving a particular piece, it is estimated they sometimes make 25 to 50 cents an hour.

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Above: This newly planted farm was first used by the Japanese before World War II for growing potatoes. Piles of rocks at one end of this area show past use as well as remnants of furrows. Even with the past use, though, many rocks remain. Farming on Pohnpei is difficult in many areas due to poor soil. The rainfall, which can exceed 230 inches a year, can rapidly deplete the soil of nutrients that are needed for good crop production.

Many farmers are exploring methods to retain nutrients in the soil and turn a decent profit. Most of the vegetables eaten on Pohnpei are imported from the United States, arriving by ship. There are often periods when no vegetables are available, which has created many problems for good nutrition. It is hoped that more government support will be forthcoming to promote more local agriculture, which would create a healthier life style and, hopefully, lower food prices.

Opposite: Giant taro, called Mwahng in the Pohnpeian language, has been a very important food crop on Pohnpei for as long as can be remembered.

Giant swamp taro can tolerate a significant amount of salt, and it thrives in the difficult soils of atolls. There are eight commonly grown varieties of taro on Pohnpei.

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Left: Korpit Hebel is the Isipahu, the king of Madolenihmw, one of five kings on Pohnpei, one for each municipality. Part of his territory includes Nan Madol, where this picture was taken. Nan Madol was built around 1200 A.D. as an administrative center on 100 artificial islets off the coast of Pohnpei. The islets are intersected by canals, and the buildings were constructed of large basalt cylinders. Nan Madol, which covers about seven square miles, is often called the Venice of the Pacific.

Right: As the sun sets to the west and the moon rises in the east, a fishing boat heads out for night fishing.

Night fishing is ruining the reef fish stock because the fish are easy prey, as they are often motionless and are easily speared. As reef fish are depopulated, algae covers the coral in a suffocating blanket.

Pohnpei is one of the larger islands of the western Pacific, about 13 miles across, with mountain peaks as high as 2,900 feet. It’s one of four of states in the Federated States of Micronesia, and each state is largely autonomous.

Opposite: Aron Tonga, a Kapinga carver, roughs out a turtle carving with a locally made adze.

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Above: Sakau (kava) has a long tradition on Pohnpei. Formerly reserved for the kings and people of higher stature, it is now used on a day-to-day basis by anyone who wants to drink it.

The sakau root is crushed with large round rocks, with a small amount of water added to the crushed roots. The inner bark of the hibiscus, which is very strong and used for many purposes, is layed out flat, with the sakau placed on top of the bark. The bark is then folded around the sakau and twisted, which squeezes out the fluid. This is caught in a coconut shell and ceremonial passed around to be drunk. There is a mild narcotic effect from the sakau, causing both a numbness in the mouth and a relaxing of the muscles of the body.

If the roots are not washed carefully, pathogens on the roots will be taken internally and gastrointestinal problems can occur.

Opposite: A worker on Sei's farm takes a break during work with the island’s black pepper, for which Pohnpei has become famous because the unique flavor is unlike any other pepper in the world. There was a heavy rain this day.

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THE NEW URBAN JUNGLE

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By Bartholomew Dean and Sydney Silverstein, with Joshua Homan Photos by Matthew Reamer

For many Indigenous people in Peru, the best way to keep their land is to move to the city and keep a foothold in both worlds. It’s homesteading in reverse, giving Indigenous people new options and creating a new kind of city, one built on their terms.

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My people, we are fighters for the Amazon, warriors who have long struggled for our territory. Finally, yes, finally, we now have lands in the city that are our own. My people know how to care for the land; we know how to value the forest, our animals, our plants, our medicines…all the natural resources we have on our earth. Here in the city [of Yurimaguas] it’s important to have a home. In the past, we came here from our communities, and we didn’t have anyplace to stay. We couldn’t live in the city. That’s why when there are opportunities here, like this invasion, we must take advantage of them.

—Nixon Pisango Tangoa raversing roadways and riverbanks in the sweltering Amazonian sun, Spanish, Kechwa, Shawi, and Awajún languages drift above the din of construction ubiquitous to the growing community of Las Brisas del Paranapura. Wearing black rubber rain boots, Western garb, or customary traje, people gather to construct houses and municipal buildings, plant food crops, dig wells, and set up shops in a burgeoning urban settlement hacked out of the rainforests of the Peruvian Amazon on the outskirts of Yurimaguas, a teeming city of 80,000 people. Yurimaguas’ newest community, a so-called “land invasion,” was born the night of October 8, 2010, when approximately 50 Indigenous and mestizo families gathered in the shelter of night to claim a large tract of land that lay “abandoned” along the banks of the Paranapura River. The land reclaimed in Yurimaguas was at one time part of a sprawling private estate whose ownership is now in dispute.

Many of the Indigenous participants in the invasion were driven by the desire to have a place in town to sell their goods from their chacras (rainforest food gardens), as well as food from their kitchens and their labor power. Many were also motivated by a desire to secure a permanent urban base as a way to defend their claims to rural homelands. The first arrivals to Las Brisas built lean-tos or improvised houses out of rudimentary materials: sheets of plastic, corrugated tin, cardboard, scrap metal, wood, and items scavenged from abandoned buildings around the city.

When we visited the community roughly two months after its creation, many of the “houses” appeared not to have progressed much from their initial construction. The landscape was dotted with

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shelters fashioned from torn sheets of plastic flapping in the wind, secured to wooden poles with only staples and string. Other dwellings, however, had four finished walls and a door and openings for windows, constructed out of industrially manufactured, store-purchased materials. The open doors of these more well-constructed houses revealed semifurnished interiors and families busily putting the finishing touches on a residence that holds the promise of a stable future home. This vitality contrasted with other, seemingly completed structures that visibly lacked a human presence. During the course of more than a dozen visits to Las Brisas, these structures remained phantom homes, devoid of occupants but clearly constructed to mark a person or group’s desire to stake a claim to a tract of land in the new community.

On one late Saturday afternoon walk towards the Paranapura, we passed Zein, an older man living with his daughter’s family in a marshy tract downhill from the banks of the river. Wearing the customary rubber boots and a pressed, button-down khaki shirt, he sat in front of one of the many seemingly abandoned shelters and lean-tos peppering Las Brisas’ emerging cityscape. Zein’s toothless smile greeted us as we approached, while his arms and work-worn hands graciously motioned us to take refuge in the partial shade of a lone tree that served as a reminder that the Amazon jungle was once thriving in this now-muddy urban sprawl. When asked what he was doing, Zein reluctantly admitted, “I am guarding this parcel of land claimed by a family who lives in the center of Yurimaguas.” As he talked about the absentee owners, it became clear that they were among those who want “in” on the

Preceding pages, the new barrio takes shape virtually overnight, as rural people like the man at left set up an urban foothold where they can get goods and services and sell their own produce and other goods. The arrangement lets them maintain their rural communities.

potential investment opportunity of owning a lot in the new urban barriada, but were unwilling to bear the hardships of initial settlement living, with its lack of rudimentary facilities, such as electricity, water, and toilets. So, after claiming their tract with an initial construction, the family retreated to the more developed part of the city and hired a huachiman (improvised guard) to hold their place.

Zein, who is of Kechwa-Lamista origin, asked the owners to pay him for his guard services in carne del monte (forest game). “I can’t get carne del monte

ever since my move from the Cainarachi River to Yurimaguas,” he mournfully said,. “Look at me: I am just a huachiman for someone else’s tract of land. I don’t really want to be doing this. I would rather be out hunting for my own carne del monte back in the forests of the Bajo Huallaga. But I’m old: I am 78, and my health is failing. All I can do now is pass my time guarding someone else’s land claim. I am not the only one in Las Brisas doing guard work. You know, even though it was founded with the vision of giving land to those who had none, let’s face it, Las Cultural Survival Quarterly

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Brisas is a place where people can make money [in land speculation].” While his kin struggled a few yards away to construct the walls of their new home, Zein stood guard over a cardboard enclosure for an owner whose primary residence is a 10-minute moto-taxi ride away, located in the relatively more affluent center of Yurimaguas.

While many Indigenous families have flocked to this riverbank settlement to gain access to the opportunities of the city, such as education and medical services, not to mention jobs, other “residents” have laid claim to their square of earth in Las Brisas del Paranapura in an effort to advance their lot through land speculation. This last group includes agents for the wealthy, such as the proprietors of the river transport services (lanchas), lumbermen (madereros) and extractive entrepreneurs of various ilk, as well as others of more modest means, purvey-

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ors of cane alcohol and building supplies, and the vendors of bureaucracy.

Land invasions like Las Brisas have long been characteristic of the urbanization process throughout Peru, bringing together Indigenous migrants from the countryside and long-term urban residents, vying to own land and to get access to urban opportunities. While the term “invasion” may suggest a hostile takeover, the creation of Las Brisas del Paranapura was from the outset rather peaceful.

Established in the wake of local elections, the community has been shaped by promises of communal assistance by various politicians and NGOs alike.

Although pledges of assistance have not been in short supply, the reality of entrenched poverty and pervasive cultural marginalization means that Indigenous residents must rely on one another for their basic needs—something they know all too well.

Las Brisas’ 12-member Junta Directiva, or Leadership Council, has met with both residents and local officials to disseminate information about their efforts to secure legal title to the invasion land and as a way to manage the challenges of urban planning policy and implementation. A November 2010 meeting established regulations on land ownership within the settlement. In addition to the 50 sol ($18) cost of registering their parcels, residents would be required to pay 2.80 soles per square meter, or roughly 500 to 700 soles ($180-250) for each family parcel.

The Junta Directiva is trying to minimize land speculation, including efforts at ensuring “residences” can demonstrate a credible physical presence on their land claim. The council has also continued to agitate for official recognition of the new urban settlement. On January 2, they led a large group of residents, who marched with placards in hand towards the municipal offices of Yurimaguas, and loudly demanded support from the newly inaugurated government to aid in the titling of their lands.

Just a few months old when we visited, Las Brisas del Paranapura has swiftly become a hub of community organizing, Indigenous political activism, market transactions, and sheer human ingenuity, along with conflicts over land rights and economic opportunism. While some residents walk barefoot and are obliged to sleep under a tarp of blue plastic, others are smartly dressed and speed by on new motorcycles and type on laptops in the shade of plywood awnings.

Those people of Las Brisas who were already living in Yurimaguas were thinking mainly of property values and a potential end to paying rent. But Indigenous peoples, who come here by canoe and river ferry, have a more complex set of reasons pushing them to leave their rural communities.

Javier, a bilingual elementary school teacher from an Indigenous Shawi community along the Paranapura, told us he was a temporary resident in Las Brisas. “My wife and eldest daughter will now live in their new home in Las Brisas. By living here in the city they will be able to sell their crops and dry goods in a small bodega (shop). But I will continue living and working in our home community. I am going to travel by river each month to visit my family in Yurimaguas.” As a respected figure among his community, Javier underscored the importance of his work as a bilingual educator. “By teaching in my language, the language of my grandfathers, I am able to teach students of the new generation the important traditions that make people Shawi. The very survival of our Indigenous community depends on the maintenance of bilingual schools, which are the heart of the next generation.” For many, like Javier, who has access to food gardens and forest produce,

having a post in the urban center might provide the extra income necessary to continue a family’s ties to their ancestral community.

Many of the women we spoke with juggled babies and young children while simultaneously laboring with hammers and saws to construct their homes. Bathed in the oppressive heat of the tropical sun, they patiently explained that in establishing a residence within the municipality of Yurimaguas (Alto Amazonas) they were securing educational opportunities for their children, both for the babies that they juggled on their laps, and for the older ones still living in rural Native communities. A residential address in Yurimaguas guarantees a shot at secondary education, something nearly impossible in the rural Indigenous communities strung like beads along the growing network of roads and riverways that connect the Upper Amazon with the outside world. Residence in Yurimaguas allows the few lucky and industrious students to continue with their postsecondary studies at state-run and private technical institutes, or at one of the universities loCultural Survival Quarterly

The first step in creating a city is to build houses. The women opposite are putting finishing touches on their house and the man above is just getting started.

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Lita, Oscar, and their animal friends anticipate starting a bodega in the invasion.

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cated in Yurimaguas.

None of the women we interviewed talked much about any personal motive in their decision to leave their former homes and to stake a claim in the expanding metropolis. Nelly, a middle-aged Kukama mother, said that they had migrated to Las Brisas, “with the hope of providing a better future for their families.” Urban residence gave them, “access to schools, health facilities, and jobs,” opportunities that Nelly noted they had been denied in their former communities. Yet Nelly also reminded us that, “life in Yurimaguas is different from they way I was brought up. Here everything is fast: people are always moving in Yurimaguas. Everything is about money. In Yurimaguas there are more thieves. It’s a city, and there are fumones (“crackheads”), sexual predators; there are so many strangers, people we don’t know. These bad people are not part of our family, but we have to live with them in the city. We didn’t come here to look for fights or for problems.

No, we came to live here so our children could have

a better future. That’s why we moved here.”

Marisol, a Kechwa-Lamista whose husband, Ronaldo, and son Miguel currently spend their time toiling as day laborers in Yurimaguas, busies herself constructing their makeshift home in Las Brisas.

Like Nelly, Marisol says she lives in Las Brisas “because of my children. There is a future for them here in the city.” Marisol says that her second-eldest son, Clever, who is 16, is still “back home” in a KechwaLamista community located three hours away by road. “My son didn’t move here with us. Clever is back in our community working, caring for our land.

My husband and I have 100 acres. When we have more money, we are going to return. But we have to think about our children.” Clever, who occupied the first spot in his class (a position that, if maintained, guaranteed him a scholarship to a state technical institute or university), was now considering moving permanently to Las Brisas. Marisol says, “Clever wants to have access to computers and the Internet so that he could advance himself in his goal of studying computer engineering. He will be the first of the community to leave behind the struggles of an Amazonian campesino.”

To leave the school in his rural community would mean forfeiting the scholarship promised by his rank at the school, but without access to computers and the Internet, Clever was sure to start his postsecondary education behind his peers. Thus, Marisol’s family’s decision to move their primary familial residence from the banks of the Cainarachi River to Las Brisas, in spite of all of the hardship that settlement life entails.

For those coming from rural Indigenous communities, a permanent urban residence is also a means of leverage in the numerous local markets of Yurimaguas. Rather than having to abandon their traditional farming life to get access to urban opportunities, Indigenous settlers to Las Brisas’ riverside location have found that it helps them continue that life. “My family and I have a place to live so we can sell the things we grow in our chacras,” said Oswaldo, a 44-year-old Kukama farmer. “Unlike where we come from, my sons and I can also get jobs here.”

In contrast to the settlers who have migrated from Indigenous communities to Las Brisas, those who hail from a previous residence within the city represent a relatively more socioeconomically diverse group. While most of this group claimed that they participated in the invasion to end paying for a rented room or house in Yurimaguas, there was a visible range of assets and social positions among this category of Las Brisas’ residents. Jose, who sped past us on his Honda motorcycle one day, was a Swiss-educated doctor who spoke fluent English and

traveled, always, with a laptop computer. Like his Indigenous neighbors, Jose asserted his rights to a plot of land at Las Brisas, saying that despite his education and job status, he, too, rented a room and wanted a home of his own.

With the help of nearly $40 million and a yet-tobe-determined private investment firm, construction is slated to begin this year on a new international port in Yurimaguas. Located on the banks of the mighty Huallaga River, this new port will doubtlessly bring new levels of commerce, tourism, and migration to this active port city. Some of the migrants arrived in Las Brisas with this future development on very much on their minds. What may start out as a small business in a thriving, chaotically teeming settlement could, given the influx of the right people and money that accompany a point of international commerce, become a robust, thriving enterprise strategically located in the heart of a major riverway.

In our conversations with Las Brisas’ residents, and especially with some of the emerging commu-

nity leaders, thoughts of the future port were often at hand, as residents expressed both eagerness for economic potential and a fear of exclusion.

Settlement leader Pepe Navarro was anxious about the idea that, as completion of the port got closer, new communities would spring up closer to the port facility, competing to establish a market for shops, bars, and hotels. By allying with the political party of the new municipal government, Pepe hoped to spearhead efforts to include the community of Las Brisas in the activities associated with the construction of the port.

Nixon and his wife, Maria, work with two different Indigenous federations in the area (AIDESEP and a regional one based in Cahuapanas). They helped establish 10 Shawi families in an area of the “invasion” overlooking the river. Nixon and Maria have a house in Yurimaguas, but they recognize the strategic importance of having a specially designated Indigenous section of the settlement. This would provide Nixon and Maria with both political capital and “a way to court the much-needed international

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The rough and ready landscape doesn’t lend itself to roller blading yet, but this boy is determined to enjoy the urban life, even if it isn’t quite in place yet.

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The building may be new, but it already has all the comforts of home. The buildings here range from token shacks holding a claim to a piece of land to permanent residences.

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support for human rights, tourism opportunities, and economic investment.” Nixon is savvy about the politics of international aid. “It’s obvious international allies will be more supportive of our ecological preservation and tourism efforts here in Las Brisas if we emphasize the importance of traditional, Indigenous knowledge for sustainable community development initiatives,” Nixon says. “My wife and I want to establish a Shawi neighborhood within the settlement of Las Brisas. We are prepared to turn to our growing network of international contacts so we can get financial and social support for the community.”

Describing Las Brisas as, “an urban center in the midst of a rich and diverse spread of Indigenous cultures,” Nixon talks about both his Shawi and Awajún heritage, and how it was crucial that Las Brisas, “now as an official extension of Yurimaguas, would recognize and respect its diverse cultural and ethnic makeup, including the Kukama-Kukamiria, Shawi, Awajún, Kechwa-Lamista, and mestizos.” Nixon’s desire for the formal recognition of the rich cultural nature of Upper Amazonian society is gaining traction in regional politics. The new municipal administration that was transitioning into power as we

arrived at Las Brisas includes, for the first time in the history of Alto Amazonas, an Indigenous representative, Bladimiro Tapayuri Murayuri, a prominent Kukama-Kukamiria leader who was elected as a Municipal Regidor (Councilman) late last year.

Tapayuri, who is from a Kukama community on the Lower Huallaga River, took a leading part in the 2009 Indigenous protests that eventually led to the bloodshed in Bagua, and he is appealing a three-year suspended sentence for his involvement there. A year and a half later, he became the first Indigenous representative of Alto Amazonas. In addition to being a provincial councilman, Tapayuri is an active member of CORPI, a regional organization that defends the rights of the Indigenous Peoples of Alto Amazonas and the Marañón (Datem).

With the help of CORPI, he is trying to convince the Concejo Municipal to officially recognize the territoriality of six Indigenous groups in Alto Amazonas, including the Shibilos, CocamaCocamilla, Shawis, Candoshis, Kechwas, and peasant communities. He is also working on an Indigenous Land Management Project, which will soon be presented to the Provincial Municipality of Alto Amazonas for their full approval.

Subject to agreement of the Municipal Council, Tapayuri is hoping Yurimaguas will implement an ordinance or resolution that recognizes the region’s Indigenous People’s territories. “This could provide the basis for the legal recognition of Indigenous lands by the regional government and the national congress,” he said. “Indigenous territories must be respected. Both public and private development plans for Indigenous territory must first involve consulting the people living on the lands. The government has rarely consulted us about the future of our lands and outsiders seldom take into consideration Indigenous cosmologies or our ways or doing things.” In addition to his other efforts, he is trying to establish a separate Division of Indigenous Peoples Affairs within the Municipality of Yurimaguas, and he hopes to create a protected forest area in the city.

Homegrown Justice While Las Brisas remains largely beyond the Yurimaguas police beat (residents noted that no policeman lives in the settlement, nor are they seen very often), crime is not a major concern, as the people have turned to community policing. Roughly 60 community guards, or ronderos, take turns in groups of ten each night, patrolling and providing security for the asentamiento humano. In addition to trying

to establish who lives where in Las Brisas, the ronderos provide night-watch services, including dealing with cases of petty theft, intimate violence, trespassing, drunken debauchery, and assorted disturbances of the peace. According to the secretary of the Brisa’s ronderos, Juan Soria Reategui, the community patrol has captured eight thieves since its inception a few months ago, including a number of fumones (drug addicts). Rather than relying on an ineffective and abusive system of state justice, the ronderos practice community justice, which reflects Indigenous traditions. This often involves the public censure of offenders, who are subjected to moralizing lectures in front of community members. Repeat offenders are detained for a few days and made to do strenuous exercises (inspired by military training) or community service in the way of menial labor.

The ronderos in Las Brisas also act as a form of land control. The declaration that families must stake their claim and continuously occupy their new land is taken very seriously by the residents of Las Brisas. Indeed, there have been accounts of plots being repossessed under the dark of night by ronderos after neighbors report that homes are unoccupied. However, this also leads to problems for those that legitimately intend to live in the land reclamation. Indigenous and mestizo families oscillate between living in their rural communities and Cultural Survival Quarterly

The setting may be urban, but the activities are still largely rural. These children are net fishing on the Paranapura River.

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Below: A man holds his land title, Asuntamiento Humano “Brisas del Paranapura.”

Right, top: A moto-taxi outside a bodega. Commerce and transportation have sprung up just as fast as the houses.

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their urban homesteads. Many newcomers to the city are obliged to return to their home communities, having to leave their urban land holdings either in the hands of a family, friend, or guard, such as Zein. Others, with minimal resources, are forced to leave their land claims unoccupied. Upon returning to the city they must often deal with the ronderos, who may have repossessed their home while they were traveling.

Despite on-going strife and the inevitable insecurity associated with any land invasion, in Las Brisas there is a palpable sense of hope as residents, Indigenous and mestizo, move endlessly about, assembling their new lives, homes, and community.

It’s hard to say whether the community will ultimately reflect the ideals of community members or whether negotiations marred by corruption and greed will triumph. For people with the determination to invade, or rather reclaim, the steamy and overgrown parcels of land that compose the community of Las Brisas, the risk of failure is seldom con-

templated. Indeed, the Indigenous residents of Las Brisas, like Nixon, are not the type to let worries about the future stifle their determination to work hard and prosper in for what is many a novel, urban environment. Yet at the same time, they know very well the stark reality of other asentamientos humanos in Yurimaguas, such as Los Maderos, where, after a number of years, basic services, such as sewage, are still lacking.

On New Year’s Day, 2011, we accepted an invitation to Las Brisas, chatting with our various friends and new acquaintances about what was in store for them in the coming year. As the sun began its slow descent and the sweltering heat of the Amazonian summer subsided, we made our way from the river toward the city center of Yurimaguas, conscious of the fact that neither the hour nor the holiday had diminished the constant buzz of activity and construction that characterized the initial, formative stages of the impressive creation of this rainforest community. Conversations with the new residents

revealed a mix of hopes and anxieties for the coming year, specifically in terms of the Junta Directiva’s negotiations with the bank and the capacity for change signaled by the municipal government’s new political administration. The land that they had claimed and fought for still, at least contractually, belonged to a financial institution, and their trust, for the moment, was with the elected community leaders who would, they hoped, be able to advocate and negotiate a fair price.

Following the violent land clash in Bagua and ongoing uneven economic growth, Indigenous residents of Las Brisas are aware that efforts to reclaim the land may come to nothing, or even worse, lead to more violence. But they have still pushed forward, constructing their homes and business from materials bought and salvaged. Despite the insecurities and anxieties, a sense of buoyant optimism pervaded.

Perhaps Nestor, a wiry young Kukama man of 18 who we met on the banks of the river, said it best when we asked him what his goals were for the coming year. “To work,” he said, barely pausing to think about his response, “I need work to live.”

Bartholomew Dean teaches anthropology at the University of Kansas. He was recently awarded a Fulbright to teach at the Escuela de Posgrado, Universidad Nacional de San Martín (Tarapoto, Peru). Dean's newest book project is dedicated to understanding social trauma associated with the political violence and civil unrest in the Bajo Huallaga Region of Peru. He can be reached at bdean@ku.edu.

Sydney Silverstein is a graduate student in anthropology at the University of Kansas. Her research interests include youth and identity politics, visual anthropology and medical anthropology, and her work is based Peru. She can be reached at sydneymsilverstein@gmail.com.

Matthew Reamer is a freelance photographer based in San Francsico, California. His photo essays have been featured in numerous publications throughout the United States and Europe. He is currently working on a personal project examining the lives of teenagers in American suburbs. You can see more of his work at www.matthewreamer.com.

Joshua Homan is a graduate student in anthropology at the University of Kansas with research interests that include political violence, consciousness, and indigeneity.

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What We’re Doing With Your MoneY 46

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aDvocacY

at the tenth session of the UN permanent Forum on indigenous issues, which took place May 1627 in New york, Cultural Survival and FaiRa co-organized a side session titled: Creating Community dialog around the UN declaration on the Rights of indigenous peoples through the Use of Community Controlled Media. and at this year's conference organized by international Funders for indigenous peoples, Cultural Survival produced two sessions, on grassroots indigenous language Revitalization and Free, prior, and informed Consent.

global response

Samburu families who are suing Kenya’s former president daniel arap Moi celebrated a small but significant victory in a Kenyan courtroom May 12, when their lawyers persuaded a high court judge to allow them more time to prepare their case. The Samburu families were forcibly evicted from a property owned by the former president, and their homes were burned to the ground.The african Wildlife Foundation reportedly was in the process of purchasing the property to develop a “community conservation” project.

The Samburu people’s lawyer, abraham Korir Sing’oei, was joined in court by the well-known constitutional lawyer yash pal ghai. “it is a great and refreshing day for the poor laikipia east Samburu community in the struggle for justice,”said Samburu representative Richard leiyagu. as this issue went to press the next court hearing was scheduled for June 8 and 9 in Nyeri. The UK’s Channel 4 television is soon expected to air a documentary film that chronicles the eviction case as an example of how conservation programs can have negative impacts on indigenous peoples. Cultural Survival raised funds for transportation and lodging so that the evicted families and witnesses can testify at the trial.

Mr. leiyagu wrote, “The community thanks you so much for the timely assistance. The success just achieved [in the May 12 hearing] could not have been possible without such support.” We submitted our Samburu report on police violence to the May 12 Tom lantos Human Rights Commission hearing on indigenous peoples in africa. The U.S. congressional hearing is one of three on how american foreign policy is affecting indigenous peoples.

We arranged for a Wixárkia (Huichol) delegation to meet with the UN Special Rapporteur on indigenous Rights during the UN permanent Forum on indigenous issues in New york in May.We also helped them prepare statements for the forum and some media events. global Response director paula palmer worked with the delegation to help publicize their efforts to prevent a Canadian mining company from destroying their sacred sites in the Wirikuta Natural and Cultural Reserve (see the global Response action alert in the previous issue of Cultural Survival Quarterly or on www.cs.org).

We also arranged travel to the UN forum for Norvin goff of Honduras, the president of MaSTa, the largest Miskitu organization in Honduras. paula palmer worked with him there to publicize and promote the campaign to stop construction of dams on the patuca River on which the Miskitu, Tawahka, pech, and garifuna peoples depend (see the action alert on page 17).

For our ongoing campaign to stop construction of a huge open-pit coal mine that would displace communities and destroy valuable productive farm land in Bangladesh, we translated our gR action alerts into the Bangla language, and arranged to have them printed in Bangladesh and circulated there. local Bangladeshi campaign organizers are especially excited about using the youth action alerts to encourage Bangladeshi students to write letters to their prime minister. They will publish the alerts in their local organizations’ newsletters and websites, too. Huge street protests against the pulbari coal mine continue in Bangladesh. global Response director paula palmer met in panama with Ngöbe leaders Feliciano Santos, enoc Furmin villagra, and Tomás villagra and discussed strategies for negotiating the best possible outcomes for Ngöbe communities that will be affected by construction of the Chan 75 dam. our global Response letters helped Ngöbe people convince the president to revoke a reform to the mining law that would have permitted multinational mining companies to exploit indigenous territories.

The 2009 Native Language Summit at the Smithsonian Insitution, co-organized by Cultural Survival, featured representatives from many tribes associated with the Code Talkers program from World War II. That program used Native languages as an unbreakable code for military communications.

enDangereD languages prograM

one of the important tasks of Cultural Survival’s endangered languages program is to collaborate with our grassroots language program advisors—the euchee language project in Sapulpa, oklahoma; the Northern arapaho language lodges in Wyoming; the Sauk language department of the Sac and Fox Nation in oklahoma; the Wopanaak language Reclamation project in Massachusetts; and the alutiiq Museum language program in alaska— to raise the money they need to revive their languages. We commit to supporting a minimum of five funding proposals or fundraising events, based on the unique needs identified by each community-based program.

Since 2007-2008 these collaborations (from a range of private, federal, and tribal government funders) have yielded nearly $1million in local support—primarily for Native language immersion instruction, master-apprentice teams, preschool and kindergarten classroom equipment, language grammars, teaching books, youth after-school programs, summer camps, and educational language teaching activities and materials. These commitments to grassroots language instructors and students are at the core of our endangered languages program, and we are currently working to expand our circle of language advisors to include another half-dozen tribal communities that are grappling with urgent language reclamation and revitalization efforts with few first-language or fluent speakers. in 2010, Cultural Survival helped the National alliance to Save Native languages in coalition with nearly a dozen other intertribal organizations to craft a proposed executive order on language revitalization for president obama.That order would mandate extensive federal interagency collaboration and support for tribal language programs. our goal throughout 2011 is to collaborate with dozens of tribal, educational, and cultural organizations to pressure president obama to sign this proposed executive order. To to build support for it, we have collaborated with the linguistic Society of america’s Committee on endangered language preservation to provide guidance on their general membership resolution (representing more than 5,000 social scientists), and together we will launch letter-writing campaigns this summer through the fall, to urge both Congress and the president to improve support for Native languages. during June 2011, Cultural Survival will again hold Washington, d.C.-based summer Native language events: a June 21 educational program at the library of Congress, Celebrating Native American Language Revitalization in Practice, and a June 22 language Rights advocacy day on Capitol Hill. our goal throughout the week is to engage more than 60 members of the U.S. House and Senate appropriations Committees in language revitalization success stories through direct constituent visits, letters, and phone calls from tribal language workers and advocates.

The education program at the library of Congress (open to Congress and the general public) will involve film screenings to showcase heroic language revitalization efforts, raise public awareness, and to provide an experiential window into this urgent and important work.The documentary WE STILL LIVE HERE Âs Nutayuneân—which tells an extraordinary story of cultural survival and indigenous language recovery among the Wampanoag Nation of southeastern Massachusetts—will be featured, along with short films on language revitalization efforts throughout indian Country. Âs Nutayuneân, directed by filmmaker anne Makepeace and produced with the assistance of Cultural Survival endangered languages program officer Jennifer Weston, recently received the Full Frame documentary Film Festival’s “inspiration award,” sponsored by the Hartley Film Foundation and presented annually to “the film that best exemplifies the value and relevance of world religions and spirituality.” Âs Nutayuneân also screened recently at film festivals around the world, from Kathmandu to london to amsterdam, and will be broadcast in November on the pBS program Independent Lens. Âs Nutayuneân stars Cultural Survival’s endangered language program advisors from the Wôpanâak language Reclamation project, and a portion of the proceeds from the film will benefit Cultural Survival’s endangered languages program. dvd copies are available for purchase online at www.makepeaceproductions.com and at this summer’s Cultural Survival Bazaar series (www.cs.org/bazaar).

Richard Grounds (Euchee), Vice chair of Cultural Survival’s board of directors.

The People Behind Cultural Survival

Richard grounds directs the euchee language project, in which first-language euchee-speaking elders teach community leaders and youth. euchee is a language isolate, unrelated to any other Native american tongue, and because of the decimation caused by U.S. government boarding school programs, it is now only spoken fluently by four very elderly people. Richard is working to pass that language on to younger generations while there is still time. “What we’re facing now is the biggest loss in the history of our nations,” he says. “if we don’t succeed in keeping alive our original way of speaking the world, of seeing the world, of hearing the world, of understanding the world, we will lose the core of who we are, what makes us unique as cultures, as traditions. it’s the last firewall.” in addition to his language work, he is active in international affairs regarding indigenous peoples’ rights, and is a leading proponent of the international year for endangered languages. He received his doctorate in history of religions from princeton University.

Why he supports Cultural Survival: “in the indigenous world, Cultural Survival has a very good track record. in indigenous communities there isn’t a lot of positive press or positive images. Cultural Survival Quarterly, as the flagship of Cultural Survival’s work, presents the beauty and struggles of indigenous communities. This is an important organization that’s doing wonderful work, and one of the few that was willing to take on in a serious way indigenous language issues.”

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Thousands of Santal and other Indigenous villagers would be forcibly displaced if the Bangladesh government approves construction of one of the world’s largest open-pit coal mines in Phulbari. Your leTTer can helP Them SToP IT. Photo by nasrin Siraj annie.

See page 9.